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 RARY 
 
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 presented to the 
 
 LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO 
 
 by 
 FRIENDS OF THE LIBRARY 
 
 MR. JOHN C. ROSE 
 
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 SITY LIBRARY 
 
 .S'3
 
 A MATTER - <* - 
 
 - - OF SENTIMENT 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 By JOHN STRANGE WINTER 
 
 " Give me a nook and a book, 
 And let the proud world spin round. 1 
 
 A. L. BURT COMPANY, * * * * 
 * * * PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
 
 Copyright, 1903, 
 BY A. L. BUET COMPANY.
 
 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 LUCK. 
 
 " WHAT are you going to do with it ? " said 
 one. 
 
 " Invest it," replied the other. 
 
 " Out here ? " 
 
 " No, at home. It isn't wanted out here. I 
 don't want to increase my stake in this country. 
 I shall have to go home in the end, and my old 
 dad writes to me that there is a certain farm ad- 
 joining our place that he has coveted ever since 
 I was a little chap in petticoats. It's for sale I 
 don't mean that there is going to be an auction, 
 but it is for sale to any private bidder. I can get 
 it for a bit less than the five thousand pounds 
 that you and I have each got to play with. 'Twill 
 round off the estate, make my old dad deliriously 
 happy and be a perfectly safe investment for the 
 money. As soon as I can get down to the town 
 I shall cable to the dad to secure it within certain 
 limits. What are you going to do with yours ? " 
 
 3
 
 4 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " Mine ? " said the other man, " mine ? " He 
 cast his eyes over the glowing Californian land- 
 scape, looked slowly round over the familiar scene, 
 and then, fixing his eyes on the distant hills, he 
 apparently fell into deep thought. 
 
 The younger of the two men looked at him 
 with an expression of curiosity. They had been 
 companions and partners for more than seven 
 years ; from the time that Dick Vincent had given 
 up life in the Service for the sake of wintering in 
 California. They had met by chance, the young 
 fellow of three-and-twenty, the older one of some 
 five or six and forty years of age. So far as 
 worldly possessions went they were at that mo- 
 ment about equal. Dick's father had put a sum 
 of five hundred pounds into an American bank 
 for his son's use ; Roger Meredith had but a few 
 pounds short of that sum, as the result of a ven- 
 ture to which he had given several years of assid- 
 uous toil. 
 
 What drew the one to the other neither ever 
 knew ; perhaps the fact that both were gentlemen 
 by birth, and that Meredith had been in his 
 youth in the same regiment as Vincent had just 
 left. Anyway, after their first meeting in a small 
 hotel on the way West, they had seemed instinc- 
 tively to chum together, and after a day or two 
 of long talks and mutual inquiries as to the de- 
 tails of the past and hopes of the future, Dick
 
 Luck. 5 
 
 Vincent suggested that they should put their 
 money together and go into partnership. 
 
 The older man was nothing loth. " I like you, 
 my lad," he said, in his bluff and outspoken way, 
 " and I am willing to go in with you if you wish it. 
 We are different ages, and we are different tem- 
 peraments. I have had a rough and tumble ex- 
 istence since I came out here. I was unlucky at 
 home. I fancy you will help me to keep square ; 
 I know I shall keep you from being robbed. 
 Here's my hand ; I'm willing, and something 
 more than willing, to go into partnership with you." 
 
 From that day the pair had been but little 
 apart ; from that day not one single cloud 
 had ever come between them which in any way 
 could mar the simple directness of their friend- 
 ship. Dick, who had great respect for Meredith's 
 opinion in all matters of business, never failed 
 from first to last to give full value for his experi- 
 ence and maturer judgment ; Meredith, on the 
 other hand, never forgot that whatever Dick 
 lacked in experience and judgment he gained in 
 the consciousness of a clean and wholesome life. 
 
 As Meredith had said in the beginning, the 
 partnership was calculated to keep him straight 
 he should have added " if anything could " but 
 there had been times when he had disappeared 
 from the ranche on some flimsy pretext, and Dick 
 Vincent had scoured the country in search of
 
 6 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 him, generally finding him in the most unlikely 
 spot, in a state bordering on delirium tremens. 
 For that was Roger Meredith's let-down drink. 
 Not the steady, soaking drinking which drags its 
 victim into his grave and out of the road, but 
 wild bursts of furious excess which would have 
 wrecked the constitution of a less magnificent 
 physique years before, and which would probably 
 have brought Roger Meredith's turbulent life to 
 a close long ago had it not been for his marvel- 
 ous power of holding off for months at a time. 
 
 " Why," Dick said to him over and over 
 again, " can't you be strong-minded enough to 
 keep off it altogether ? You can go for six or 
 seven months at a stretch and never let a drop of 
 liquor pass your lips. Then you break out. And 
 look at you now a wreck ! your nerves 
 smashed, can't sleep, can't eat, can't do anything. 
 You are a strong man, you are a gentleman, you 
 have a strong will ; why don't you swear off it 
 altogether ? " 
 
 And always the reply was the same. " Yes ; 
 last time, my boy, last time. Never again as long 
 as I live. This has taught me a lesson ; seven- 
 teen days without a wink of sleep. Gad ! it's 
 enough to break down the strongest man that ever 
 God put the breath of life into ! " 
 
 " But is it really a swear-off? " Dick said to 
 him on one occasion.
 
 Luck. 7 
 
 " Yes, old fellow ; really a swear-off this time, 
 damn me if it ain't ! " 
 
 " It will damn you if you don't," said Dick. 
 
 " I know it I know it I know it, old fellow. 
 You can't tell me anything I don't know. I 
 lie awake at night, and I think of the past, and I 
 think of the present, and I think of the future ; 
 and it's all black and dark. It's as if a devil had 
 got hold of me. I never drink for pleasure I 
 don't take the least pleasure in it ; but I go down 
 on business, and I meet some pal that I have 
 known years ago. It looks so churlish to refuse 
 a drink as a sign of good fellowship, and when 
 I've taken one I forget and take two, and when 
 I've taken two I want three, and when I've had 
 three, I must have a fourth, and when I've had 
 four I don't know what happens ; then, I sup- 
 pose I go on. I don't sleep that night, and the 
 next day I go on again, and again, and you come 
 and find me. It's always the same, but it isn't 
 pleasure. However, I've got off it this time, and 
 it shall be the last, I promise you ; I give you 
 my sacred word of honor. And you must help 
 me, Dick. You are a good lad perhaps you 
 don't understand the temptation but you can 
 help me if you will. Don't let me go down to 
 the town ; don't let me out of your sight. If I 
 begin to wander, come after me." 
 
 " I always do," said Dick.
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " Yes, I know. You are a good lad ; it will 
 come home to you one of these days." 
 
 " Besides," Dick went on, " if you have a mind 
 to wander, how am I going to stop you ? You 
 stand five inches taller than I do ; you are like a 
 Hercules compared to me ; I have got no more 
 than a small influence over you, Roger, old fel- 
 low, and when you are determined to go to the 
 bad it's no use preaching to you. If I were you 
 and you me I could take you by the throat and 
 say, c You shan't stir a step !' But what chance 
 should I have against you ? Why, you would 
 just get your finger and thumb on my windpipe, 
 and it would be all U P with me ! " 
 
 From his long arm-chair Roger Meredith 
 laughed. Compared with the mighty volume of 
 sound which usually constituted a laugh from him 
 it was no more than a feeble and cracked cachin- 
 nation. 
 
 " It's the last time, my boy. I've sworn off 
 for good and all. 'Pon my word and honor, as 
 I was once a gentleman." 
 
 a Don't talk rot ! " said Dick. " You are a 
 gentleman still ; you will always be a gentleman. 
 Kings and princes have been befooled with the 
 demon of drink before now." 
 
 " Yes, I know they have. Don't make any 
 excuse for me ; there isn't any excuse for me. 
 It makes me sick when I think of all I've chucked
 
 Luck. 9 
 
 away in the past, just because a devil I put into 
 my mouth steals away my brains and my nerve, 
 and makes a besotted beast of me. Don't talk 
 about it's being rot ; 1 tell you drink's the hell 
 upon earth. When we get to a hell afterwards, 
 it will be a hell where we shall drink and drink 
 and drink, and there will be no sleep ; there will 
 be nothing but drink no food. Ugh ! Ugh ! 
 Ugh ! Keep me from it, Dick. We have been 
 pals for seven years now; keep me from it if you 
 have to tie me down to a chair." 
 
 " All right, old chap ; next time I see you get- 
 ting restless I'll chain a log to your leg, or some- 
 thing of that kind. But you might give me a 
 hint. You see, you always go off with such a 
 deuced amount of secrecy ; and you are so wily 
 that I never know when the fit's coming on. If 
 you would only give me a hint that you are be- 
 ginning to feel like breaking out I could be up- 
 sides with you." 
 
 "I never feel it," Meredith cried; "it comes 
 on me all of a sudden. I go down town on busi- 
 ness ; I meet some fellow I know ; naturally he 
 says, ' Come and have a drink, old chap ! ' I 
 can't say No ' men out here think you such 
 an ass and then I take a glass, swear to myself 
 I won't take a second, and somehow, I always 
 forget. Then the mischief's done." 
 
 " Old fellow," said Dick, " I shouldn't like to
 
 10 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 propose this if you hadn't broached the subject 
 to me yourself, but don't trust yourself down in 
 the town without me. When there's business to 
 be done, let's go together and do it." 
 
 " Right you are, Dick ! I'll not go to town 
 again without you. I can't say fairer than that. 
 I mean it when I say I want to get out of this 
 thraldom. I hate to feel that I am weak-minded 
 and can't trust even myself. I won't go down 
 the town again without you." 
 
 Now it happened that going down the town 
 meant a road journey, I might more correctly say 
 a land journey, of about forty miles. It was not 
 much of a town even at that ; and consisted of no 
 more than a few wooden huts and sheds, and a 
 corrugated iron drinking saloon. Did the friends 
 want to go further afield and take a trip to San 
 Francisco, or in the direction of New York, they 
 had a still further journey of forty miles before 
 they could get aboard the cars of the Great Pacific 
 Railway. 
 
 After Roger Meredith had given the promise 
 that he would not go down into the town without 
 Dick, things had gone much more smoothly. 
 For several months he had not shown any signs 
 of wishing to turn his back, even for a moment, 
 on the ranche. Then they went several times 
 down to Freeman's Rock together, and once took 
 a fortnight's holiday in 'Frisco itself.
 
 Luck. 11 
 
 After that came a great run of luck. Up to 
 that time they had done well enough, but not 
 more than that. Then, one happy day, they 
 made a discovery of oil upon their land not in 
 such quantities as made them or was likely to 
 make them millionaires, but on the evening on 
 which my story opens they had had a great reckon- 
 ing up, and had the pleasure of looking in one 
 another's faces and congratulating each other upon 
 a balance of ten thousand in solid pounds to their 
 credit, over and above their profitable estate. 
 
 Dick Vincent had already given his friend an 
 idea of how he meant to invest his share of the 
 luck. " And now, old fellow," he said, " what 
 are you going to do with yours ? " 
 
 Roger Meredith did not reply for a moment, 
 and Dick sat looking at him in interested expec- 
 tation. " I am going to invest mine, too," he 
 said at last. 
 
 " Here ? " Dick asked. . 
 
 " No ; not here. Over there ! " jerking his 
 thumb in the direction which to both of them 
 meant the old country. " I have been thinking 
 I have been thinking a lot lately. I want you 
 to do something for me when you go home, old 
 fellow. You will be gone three months ? " 
 
 " Well, I think I have earned a three months' 
 holiday, haven't I ? " 
 
 " Yes, you have earned it ; you have earned
 
 i* A Matter of Sentiment/ 
 
 everything that you've got. But, old chap, I 
 wish you weren't going home." 
 
 " Why don't you come with me ? It's per- 
 fectly safe for us both to go over for three months ; 
 everything is in fettle for the autumn, and Jack 
 Frogg is such a splendid fellow we can safely 
 leave it all to him. Come home, Roger, old fel- 
 low ; come home and see my people, who have 
 heard such a lot about you. They'll give you a 
 welcome, no fear of that ! " 
 
 " I am not afraid of that," said Meredith. 
 " I'd like to go home for some things ; I've not 
 set foot in old England since I came out here fif- 
 teen years ago." 
 
 " What are you afraid of ? " 
 
 " What makes you think I am afraid at all ? " 
 
 Dick smiled. " I know you pretty well, old 
 chap." 
 
 " Yes, and you are right. I am afraid of what 
 I might find when I got there. It doesn't do 
 when you've cut yourself adrift to turn up again 
 without knowing what sort of a smash your pres- 
 sence may make." 
 
 " Old fellow ? " said Dick. 
 
 " Yes. I never told you that I had a wife and 
 child in the old country, did I ? " 
 
 " Never breathed it ; never hinted at it." 
 
 " But I have or I had. I might go home 
 later on, when you come back, for three months.
 
 Luck. '3 
 
 I don't feel like going this time. Later on. And 
 besides that I don't feel sure, till you've left me 
 for three months by myself, whether I'm safe to 
 be let loose in ordinary cities among ordinary 
 temptations. 
 
 Dick stretched out a hand and clasped his 
 friend hard upon the shoulder. " Safe as a church, 
 old chap ! Why, you've never had a breakdown 
 for nearly two years ! You will keep it up when 
 I am gone, won't you ? You won't let yourself 
 go?" 
 
 " No, I'll try not. I intend to live the life of 
 a hermit ; and if I weather, the three months when 
 I've not got you to watchdog me, I shall be pretty 
 safe for the rest of my life !"
 
 H A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A REVELATION. 
 
 " DICK," said Roger Meredith, looking out 
 from a great cloud of blue smoke, " were you as- 
 tonished to hear that I am married ? " 
 
 " Yes, I was a bit," said Dick. " Why have 
 you kept so close about it ? " 
 
 " Oh, it was one of the things, I couldn't talk 
 about." 
 
 " Didn't you get on with her ? " Dick asked. 
 
 "Yes, I always used to. But things went 
 wrong somehow. I came out here determined to 
 make a home for her and to get myself pulled 
 straight again. I had a sort of crazy notion that 
 I should find fewer temptations in a new country 
 than I had done in the old one. Never was a 
 greater fallacy ! All countries are full of tempta- 
 tions, and I drank worse out here than I had done 
 over there. I was a handsome man when I came 
 West " 
 
 " Oh, well, I don't know that you are exactly 
 ugly now, old chap." 
 
 " No ; I know exactly what I am like. I was 
 a fine man once. As far as my carcase goes I am
 
 A Revelation. *5 
 
 a fine man now ; I appear as well as ever I did, 
 but I carry the marks of what's gone down my 
 throat on my face. I shall carry them till I die. 
 When you get like that, and your wife is pretty, 
 and dainty, and fastidious, I tell you, old chap, it 
 makes you shirk going home and showing your- 
 self changed so that she might turn from you in 
 disgust. I want to go home ; I've been wanting 
 to go home ever since I came out here ; but I 
 don't want to go home poor. I came out to 
 make a fortune ; I have made a living, and that's 
 all. If she had come with me, as she wanted to, 
 with the child, I should have made a better living 
 perhaps. I might have kept straighter not since 
 1 knew you, old chap, but before that. Remember 
 I had been out here eight years when you came 
 across me ; if I hadn't had a constitution like iron, 
 I should have gone under long before you turned 
 your back on the old regiment." 
 
 " But did your wife want to come out ? " 
 
 " She wanted to come out when I left her. I 
 gave her all the money I could scrape together 
 she had a few pounds of her own, some fifty 
 pounds a year I gave her what I had, I took 
 what would barely carry me into a likely neigh- 
 borhood for work, and I never wrote home 
 again." 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " I didn't. Oh, I'll make a clean breast of it.
 
 16 A Matter of Sentiment 
 
 I acted like a brute I did worse, I acted like a 
 fool. I said to her, ' If I don't succeed, you'll 
 hear nothing of me again.' Ah, how well I re- 
 member the tears coming into her eyes, and how 
 she put her little head back and said, * I shall 
 hear of you again, Roger. You are bound to do 
 well.' But, old fellow, it's taken me fifteen years 
 to do it ; and although five thousand pounds is a 
 decent sum of money, it's nothing to swagger 
 about." 
 
 " Ah, well, we're worth a great deal more than 
 that. We have the ranche to the good ; and 
 where that five thousand pounds came from there 
 will come another five thousand pounds ; and 
 perhaps another, and yet another. Don't be 
 downhearted, Roger, you are in the beginning of 
 better things ; so am I, and it's very pleasant for 
 both of us. Then you are going to invest it in 
 England? " 
 
 " I am going to send it home to England, I 
 want you to be my instrument ; I want you to 
 go and find my wife I will pay the money into 
 the bank to your order and I want you to see 
 whether she wants it ; to find out how she feels 
 towards me, and if she is just the same ; to tell 
 her the kind of life I've lived ; to give her an idea 
 of what I am like to-day ; to let her know that 
 I've never supplanted her or forgotten her. Find 
 out if there is any chance left for me."
 
 A Revelation. 1 7 
 
 " You had better get your photograph taken." 
 
 " My photograph ? " 
 
 " Yes. Come down with me as far as New 
 York and get a first-rate photograph taken ; that 
 will help you better than anything." 
 
 " I might ; I'm looking pretty fit yes, I might. 
 It would take me out of the loneliness that I am 
 dreading, for part of the time at all events." 
 
 " Supposing she wants to come out here ? " 
 
 " The ranche is wide enough," said Meredith, 
 "the house is big enough. We can add to it, if 
 necessary, only you must make her clearly 
 understand that I've had fifteen years of a rough 
 life, a hard life. I am not the Roger Meredith 
 who went away ; my English tailor wouldn't know 
 me." 
 
 " Oh, my dear chap, I don't think, married 
 man that you are, that you understand women. 
 I'll tell her what sort of a fellow you are now ; 
 I'll make her understand the exact situation 
 leave it to me ; and perhaps her first thought 
 will be that her complexion is not what it was, 
 her waist less tiny, and all the rest of it. I sup- 
 pose I can satisfy her on that score ? " 
 
 " Why, yes. There's no fear that she will have 
 altered as I have done. Time works ravages 
 upon us all, but the ravages of time produce one 
 effect, and the ravages of drink another." 
 
 " Well, never mind, old chap, you don't drink 
 2
 
 18 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 now, you've quite given it up ; you've not touched 
 a drop for nearly two years, past. You look as 
 fit as a fiddle, you are as hard as iron and as 
 strong as a horse. Don't get brooding too much 
 over yourself, but leave it to me, old fellow 
 leave it to me." 
 
 " But there's another thing," said Meredith. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " I have been away fifteen years." 
 
 " Yes ; so you say." 
 
 " I have never written home ; she may think 
 me dead. Supposing when you've traced her out 
 you find that she has taken my death for granted, 
 and she is married again ? " 
 
 " Well ? What then ? " 
 
 " I shouldn't feel," Meredith went on in a 
 hard set voice, while his eyes wandered away to 
 the distant hills, " I shouldn't feel justified in dis- 
 closing myself to her. Dick, it cuts me to the 
 very heart to think such a thing ; it makes me 
 sick with fear that it may be so. I have kept 
 silent all these years, even to you, because I'd 
 failed in what I came out to do ; and now that I 
 have done it I can talk more freely. I had bet- 
 ter tell you everything that's in my mind, and 
 then you'll know how to deal with the situation 
 as you find it. If Clara " 
 
 " So that's why you called the ranche ' Santa 
 Clara' ? "
 
 A Revelation. 1 9 
 
 " Of course. If Clara is married again she 
 must be left in ignorance, and I shall stay out 
 here for the rest of my life. I shall never go 
 home again. I always thought that chap, Enoch 
 Arden, was a weak fool to come back and dis- 
 turb that wretched woman's peace and happiness. 
 There were two Enoch Ardens, you know, Dick ; 
 there was one who was a man, and one who was 
 a snivelling sort of a chap that was better out of 
 the way better dead. I don't want to be like 
 him." 
 
 For a moment or two there was silence between 
 the friends. 
 
 " I don't think, somehow, that I shall find her 
 married," said Dick at last. 
 
 " You may do, and it's best to be prepared for 
 any contingency, isn't it, Dick ? I've got a 
 photograph of her here. Would youlike to see it ?" 
 
 " I should." 
 
 Meredith dived down into an inner pocket and 
 brought to view a small leather case bound with 
 silver. 
 
 " Hulio ! " said Dick, " I never saw that be- 
 fore." 
 
 " I know you didn't. I've always had it in 
 my pocket here, so that I could carry it without 
 anyone else being the wiser. There she is. It 
 was taken only a few months before I came away. 
 She was a pretty girl, she must be a pretty woman
 
 20 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 still ; too pretty to have passed unnoticed all these 
 years." 
 
 Dick Vincent stretched out his hand and took 
 the portrait from his chum. I think when one 
 first sees the portrait of a person who has been 
 very much praised by another, one is always con- 
 scious of a feeling of disappointment. Fora mo- 
 ment Dick's only feeling was to hide from his 
 companion the astonishment and blank dismay 
 that he felt. Before him he saw the picture of a 
 young woman, small and inclined to be plump, 
 very fair, with wide-open blue eyes, a perky little 
 nose, and a round innocent-looking face. Not a 
 young woman whom he would at any time have 
 called even passably pretty, and in marked con- 
 trast to the square, heavy, passionate face of the 
 man sitting opposite to him. 
 
 " Is she little ? " he asked, more by way of 
 gaining time than from curiosity. 
 
 " A little tiny thing, barely up to my elbow," 
 said Meredith. " A little soft plump thing with 
 pretty ways. I don't know how I had the heart 
 to leave her ; I have never known ; I was des- 
 perate. It seemed the only thing to do to take 
 my great hulking self out of it and leave her 
 what there was to keep the child alive on." 
 
 " And you are her lover still ? " 
 
 " I have never been anything else," said Mer- 
 edith.
 
 A Revelation. ** 
 
 " And I never even guessed." 
 
 Meredith stretched out his hand to take the 
 picture again. " I am not the kind of man who 
 talks and makes confidences," he said, taking a 
 long satisfied look at the pictured face, " I am a 
 reserved sort of fellow never was one more so. 
 I have tried to tell you all the same, more than 
 once, but until now I never had the heart to 
 speak of her, or the face." 
 
 " I can't see that. I can't think why you 
 didn't send for her to come out." 
 
 " Because I had been out here eight years be- 
 fore I made five hundred pounds. I had kept 
 body and soul together, it's true. When I met 
 you I was about five hundred pounds to the good ; 
 we've done fairly well, old chap, but it's been 
 nothing to boast about until now, nothing to write 
 home about with a flourish of trumpets and say, 
 ' See ! I've made a fortune; I am flourishing! ' 
 No, no ; I had kept silent for eight years, and it 
 was best to go on." 
 
 " Perhaps it wasn't best for her." 
 
 " Perhaps it wasn't ; perhaps it was. Time 
 will show, and you will know before I shall. 
 Then you will do that for me, old fellow ? You 
 will go and look her up ? " 
 
 " But you don't expect she is still in the same 
 place where you left her ? " 
 
 " She might be. I left her in London. Any-
 
 22 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 way, the trustee of her little property is bound to 
 be in the same place, or he'll have left traces be- 
 hind him. I shall give you his address and his 
 name, and you can go and see him and casually 
 find out about her and about the child, without 
 giving me away the least little bit in the world." 
 " 1 don't quite see how." 
 " No, neither do I, but you must." 
 "All right," said Dick, "I'll do my best." 
 " And if you find there's a ' Philip ' in the case, 
 then you just come back as mum as I've been all 
 these years, and I'll go on for the rest of my life 
 at Santa Clara." 
 
 "All right, old fellow. And if there is a 
 c Philip,' what am I to do with the money ? " 
 
 " Oh, the money ? Well, you can use your 
 discretion about that. You see, there was a little 
 kid ; she was just three when I came away ; she 
 may want a dot. Use your discretion, old chap, 
 and you'll satisfy me. You know me well enough 
 by this time to know what I should do if I were 
 there in your shoes." 
 
 " And supposing," said Dick, drawing rather 
 hard at his pipe and speaking in jerks between 
 the puffs, "supposing there's no ' Philip' just 
 supposing, old fellow, on the off chance well, 
 supposing 1 find thatthe little woman has been look- 
 ing for you back all these years more than will- 
 ing to comeout amltouse my discretion then ? "
 
 A Revelation. 2 3 
 
 For a moment Meredith did not speak. 
 " Bring her out here ? " he said at last, " here ? " 
 and he looked round at the corrugated iron hut, 
 for it was little more, with its broad veranda, its 
 rough chairs, its wholly unadorned bachelor ap- 
 pearance, and then he looked back at Dick. 
 " Don't you think," he said slowly, " that it 
 would scare any woman to come out to this ? " 
 
 " No, I don't," said Dick, stoutly ; " not any 
 woman that was worth bringing." 
 
 " But think of this this bare, beggarly place, 
 compared with Frith's place for instance." 
 
 " Well, the house is just as good as Frith's 
 house, and the veranda is wider ; our chairs are 
 bigger. It isn't got up inside as Frith's house 
 is, but then Frith's wife is with him. When your 
 wife has been with you three months, old fellow, 
 you'll not know this hut, and you and I won't 
 know each other. Remember you have got 
 money enough now to bring up any things that 
 are necessary to make the place habitable and fit 
 for a lady ; and then, of course, don't forget that 
 it was only a supposition. Perhaps I shall find a 
 < Philip.' " 
 
 Meredith's square face sank ; his great beetling 
 brows bent themselves down over his fierce eyes, 
 and his huge mustache bristled up on either side 
 of his great hook nose. 
 
 " You are right," he said. " For a minute or
 
 2 4 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 so I let my thoughts run on too fast. I almost 
 fancied that I saw her here already. It only 
 shows," he went on with a reckless kind of laugh, 
 " what havoc a little sentiment can play with a 
 man, even a man as hard, and practical, and 
 commonplace as I am." 
 
 " You are practical, that is perfectly true ; but 
 I have never known you either hard or common- 
 place," said Dick. " I know when I had that go 
 of fever you nursed me like a woman." 
 
 " Oh, stop that ! " cried Meredith. 
 
 " And when Lassie got her foot crushed " 
 
 " Shut up ! " growled the other. 
 
 "Yes, I'll shut up, but you know what I 
 mean." 
 
 A groan from Meredith was the only reply 
 which he vouchsafed to this real Englishman's 
 eulogy. The two puffed away in the gathering 
 darkness for a few minutes. Then Dick Vincent 
 broke the silence. 
 
 " I have a sort of idea, Roger," he said, " that 
 there is going to be a change. I feel it all round 
 me ; not from what you've told me to-night, but 
 for days past. I feel that you and I are both of 
 us on the brink of a change ; things are going to 
 be better with us, old fellow. If we are not mil- 
 lionaires, we are going to be comfortably off; and 
 1 don't know that that isn't the happier position 
 ot the two. I have felt ever so many times lately
 
 A Revelation. 2 5 
 
 that we should be happier and better off if we 
 were both married. Life's a miserable thing for 
 a man without some womenkind. I feel that 
 there are going to be great results from this trip 
 home of mine ; I have conviction of it." 
 
 " My dear Dick," said the other, " you have 
 put new hope and new life into me to-night ; you 
 have given me a new incentive to keep straight 
 while you are away. If it happens that you are 
 able to bring her back again, well and good. 
 She'll come out here, and afterwards when you see 
 somebody that you fancy, we can build another 
 house on the ranche, for there's plenty of room, 
 and there will be plenty of money." 
 
 " But supposing I find a f Philip ' ? " 
 
 " Well, I've told you what will happen to me, 
 therefore you need not let any thoughts of me 
 stop you from bringing a wife out here as soon as 
 you like only in that case let's add to this house. 
 Don't turn out, or turn me out into another ; I 
 couldn't stand living by myself. I shouldn't last 
 three months." 
 
 " Old fellow," said Dick, stretching out his 
 hand towards the glow of the other's pipe, " I 
 understand you perfectly, and I shall never for- 
 get as long as I live how entirely unselfish you 
 are and always have been to me. I don't know," 
 he went on, in a lighter tone, "that I shall ever 
 avail myself of your generosity, for I have never
 
 26 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 seen the girl yet that I would thank you to put 
 in command over me. Still, there's no knowing ; 
 and a ranche with a woman on it is not half as 
 forlorn a business as one that is run only by men. 
 So, for both our sakes, old fellow, you may rest 
 assured that I shall do my level best to bring a 
 mistress home to Santa Clara."
 
 Temptation. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 TEMPTATION. 
 
 A FEW days later Meredith and Dick Vincent 
 turned their backs upon Santa Clara and set off 
 towards the great cities. Both men had discarded 
 the flannel shirts and moleskin trousers which was 
 their habitual wear on the ranche, both were 
 dressed in the ordinary tweed suits of English- 
 men, and if Meredith had looked a magnificent 
 animal, as he did, in his working clothes, he 
 showed to supreme advantage in a rough brown 
 suit of exellent cut which showed off his massive 
 proportions extremely well. 
 
 " Old fellow," said Dick, when he first en- 
 countered him dressed for the journey, " I be- 
 lieve it's worth while to wear moleskins and red 
 flannel shirts as a regular habit, if it is only to see 
 the difference that it makes when one gets into 
 regular clothes. You look as fit as a fiddle in 
 that kit. You had better change your mind and 
 go the whole way with me." 
 
 " No, I can't do that," said Meredith, rather 
 gloomily.
 
 18 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " You can keep out of sight, you know, whilst 
 I prosecute inquiries. You can stay at my place 
 while I go and find out whether there is a ' Philip ' 
 or there isn't." 
 
 " No, I am not fit for civilized society," Mere- 
 dith returned, " and I wish I hadn't promised to 
 go down as far as New York with you indeed, 
 I don't know that I shall." 
 
 " Nonsense, old chap ! You don't know 
 what's good for you. I shan't go down to New 
 York unless you do go. I'm not going to have 
 you brooding alone here. You had much better 
 make up your mind to go all the way, and lie 
 low until I have done all the necessary detective 
 business. 
 
 " No, no ; second thoughts are never best, it's 
 the greatest fallacy in the world to say that they 
 are put forward by some ass who wanted a good 
 excuse for breaking a promise or indulging him- 
 self in something or other." 
 
 " But you have not made a promise that you 
 won't go to England." 
 
 " No, I have not, but I have made up my 
 mind ; and although I don't say my mind is any 
 great shakes as a mind, at the same time, such as 
 it is I am going to stick to it." 
 
 So the two friends went down to Freeman's 
 Rock together, accompanied so far by Jack 
 Frogg, who had various business to do in the
 
 Temptation. 2 9 
 
 little town, and who, after parting with them, 
 would bring the wagon and horses back to Santa 
 Clara. 
 
 " You will be down every week ? " said Mer- 
 edith the last thing to the manager. 
 
 " Yes, every week ; every Saturday," was the 
 reply. 
 
 " Then I shall write to you to Ainslie's to let 
 you know what day I shall come back. Then 
 you can either wait for me or come down again, 
 as it suits you." 
 
 " Right you are, Boss," was the reply. 
 
 " Better change your mind and go on to 
 England with me," put in Dick at this junc- 
 ture. 
 
 " Right you are there," was the free and easy 
 remark of the manager. " There's nothing doing 
 here now, and there won't be anything until early 
 fall. The Boss can be spared perfectly well. 
 And he knows me," Jack Frogg went on, " he 
 knows I am a square man who would look after 
 his interests properly." 
 
 " Yes, I know you are, Jack," rejoined 
 Meredith, promptly," I know you are. You are 
 a good sort, but it don't suit my book to think 
 of going home this trip, so don't either of you 
 say another word about it." 
 
 The three men spent the rest of the day 
 together in Freeman's Rock, and in the early
 
 3 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 morning Jack Frogg saw his two employers off 
 by the coach which runs from Freeman's Rock 
 down to Midas Creek. Frogg himself was going 
 to start on his homeward journey an hour or two 
 later. It was part of the creed of the manage- 
 ment of Santa Clara that unless absolutely neces- 
 sary the animals on the estate, especially the 
 horses, should never be over-pressed. He would 
 drive half-way home, stop for a couple of hours' 
 rest and feed at a house half-way, and arrive at 
 Santa Clara in the early evening. 
 
 The ride from Freeman's Rock to Midas Creek 
 was one of a little over forty miles. The roads 
 were bad, and the coach crowded. Dick soon 
 found that Meredith was not inclined for talk, 
 and suffered him to relapse into silence ; and so 
 he sat in his corner, smoking hard and staring 
 gloomily right ahead of him, taking no notice of 
 the rough fun that was bandied from one to 
 another. One or two of the passengers made 
 efforts to draw him out, but when at last, goaded 
 into speech, he replied to their sallies, it was with 
 such savage brevity that their efforts at cheery 
 friendliness soon ceased, and he was left entirely 
 to himself. 
 
 At last they reached Midas Creek. It was a 
 somewhat larger place than Freeman's Rock, and 
 better worthy of being called a town. The coach 
 drew up at the principal hotel, a long, rambling
 
 Temptation. 3 1 
 
 building which had begun as a shanty and had 
 been added to as the needs of the place grew. 
 The landlord came out to receive the coach and 
 its freight of passengers, an Englishman, cheery, 
 and smooth of voice. He told them collectively 
 that a good dinner was within, and bade them all 
 a genial welcome. 
 
 Meredith swung into the house without a word ; 
 Vincent paused to pass the time of day in return 
 to the landlord's greeting. Ten minutes later 
 they were settled at the table along with all the 
 other passengers. 
 
 " I will take rye whisky," said Meredith. 
 
 Dick looked up. Meredith carefully avoided 
 his eye. 
 
 " Blingee whiskly," said the Chinese boy, who 
 was attending to the wants of the various diners. 
 " Blingee d'lectly." 
 
 " I say, Roger," said Dick in an undertone. 
 
 Meredith took no notice. Dick gave him a 
 vigorous nudge with his knee. 
 
 " Roger ! " 
 
 " What the devil do you want ? " 
 
 " I say, old chap," he muttered into his ear, 
 " don't start on whisky. You are put out." 
 
 " What the is that to you ? " 
 
 " Don't do it, old chap." 
 
 " D it all ! Can't I do as I like ? Am I 
 
 to be kept in leading-strings by a little whipper-
 
 3 2 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 snapper like you ? I'll drink what I like and 
 do what I like." 
 
 " All right. I wasn't thinking of trying to 
 coerce you by physical means. A man of five- 
 foot-ten of my build wouldn't have much of a 
 chance against a giant like you. I speak for your 
 own sake. It won't make much difference to 
 me." 
 
 " Very well, then ; shut up and hold your row. 
 It's my affair, not yours." 
 
 Thus rebuffed, Dick turned his attention to his 
 right-hand neighbor, and began talking to him in 
 cool and measured tones. For a minute or two 
 Meredith sat without turning his head. Then 
 he stealthily glanced in Dick's direction, saw that 
 he was absolutely unruffled, so turned his eyes to 
 his plate again ; but when the Chinese boy brought 
 the whisky he helped himself liberally and dashed 
 in a modicum of cold water. 
 
 Then he pushed the bottle to Dick. " Whisky, 
 Dick ? " 
 
 " Thanks," said Dick, " thanks," and he, too, 
 helped himself, though much more moderately 
 than Meredith had done. 
 
 They were all more or less tired after the long 
 drive, and when the dinner had been cleared 
 away, every one of the men dropped out and took 
 up their positions in various parts of what the 
 landlord, with a remembrance of his English coun-
 
 Temptation. 33 
 
 try home, always spoke of as the " house place." 
 Here Meredith settled himself down in a great 
 rocking-chair. Dick followed him by a sort of 
 protective instinct. Meredith, upon whom the 
 several glasses of rye whisky which he had taken 
 during the course of dinner had begun to tell, 
 looked up suspiciously at him. 
 
 " Are you afraid I can't be trusted, Dick ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " For the matter of that," answered Dick, " I 
 know you can't. Old chap, you are moody and 
 upset at my going away from Santa Clara. Take 
 my advice ; send a line back to Frogg and come 
 on all the way with me. You will be better for it 
 I shall be better for it. But for goodness' sake, 
 don't drink any more whisky to-night." 
 
 " Look here, young 'un," said Meredith, " it 
 strikes me I have been in leading-strings long 
 enough to you. I am sick of it. I have lived 
 the life of a dog these last few months. I am 
 going to end it now for good and all." 
 
 "You are not going to quarrel with me, are 
 you ? " asked Dick. 
 
 " Quarrel with you ? No, I am not going to 
 quarrel with anybody ; but there is too much 
 supervision about you too much superiority." 
 
 " Oh, Roger ! Why, old fellow " 
 
 " Yes, I know, I know. You know what's 
 going to happen as well as I do. I've got another 
 3
 
 34 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 drinking fit coming on. You know it's no good 
 to stop me ; wild horses couldn't do it. I didn't 
 sleep last night. I felt as soon as I got on to 
 that coach that I should start drinking as soon as 
 I got here. Spare your breath. I'm hard on for 
 a regular burst." 
 
 " What about Santa Clara ? " 
 
 " Santa Clara ? " 
 
 "And the mistress that I've got to bring back 
 if I come ? " 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! You'll find another < Philip,' " 
 Meredith cried with a wild sneer. " At all 
 events, a glass or two to-night won't make much 
 difference. If there isn't a c Philip,' you can send 
 me a cable and I'll put myself into training to re- 
 ceive a lady." 
 
 One or two other men came up, and Dick 
 turned away. He knew from old experience that 
 it was perfectly useless to argue the point any 
 further ; on the contrary he stepped straight out in 
 search of the landlord. 
 
 " Look here, landlord," he said, drawing him 
 aside from the rest of the company, " I want you 
 to do me a favor." 
 
 " Why, yes, if I can, sir, of course I will." 
 
 " My friend, Mr. Meredith, I am afraid, is 
 going on the drink. I want to stop it. I have 
 the most urgent reasons for wanting him to keep 
 straight just now. He is perfectly unmanageable
 
 Temptation. 3$ 
 
 when he is drinking ; he hasn't touched a thing 
 for nearly two years until to-night. Can't you 
 help me by watering his whisky or something ? " 
 
 " Yes, I can do that, provided he doesn't help 
 himself to the bottles of any of the others." 
 
 " I wish you would, you'd be such a good 
 chap. He is one of the sort that drink maddens ; 
 it takes away all chance of sleep, and I shan't be 
 able to go forward on my journey if he gets on 
 the rampage here. Do your best, landlord." 
 
 " I will that same, sir. Boy, whose orders are 
 you going for now." 
 
 " Big gen'l'man Meledith," answered the 
 boy. 
 
 " What has he ordered ? " 
 
 " Bottle whiskly. Velly quick." 
 
 " All right, I'll come. I'll make it half-and- 
 half," he added in an undertone to Dick. 
 
 Dick turned back into the more crowded part 
 of the " house place." What would have happened 
 if Meredith had received the bottle of whisky 
 undoctored it is impossible to say ; as it was, he 
 sat drinking far into the night, and when at last he 
 reeled off to bed, he was as royally drunk as ever 
 he had been in his life. 
 
 To Dick he was amiability and apology itself. 
 " Old chap," he said, as Dick helped him up from 
 the rocking-chair, " I've broken out to-night. I'm 
 awfully sorry. To tell you the truth, old fellow,
 
 3 6 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 I I feel at least I felt depressed and morose ; 
 and fact was I dreaded your going away fact 
 was, old chap, you are you are a sort of drag on 
 the wheel. See ? " 
 
 " Yes, I see," said Dick, " but what about 
 Santa Clara and the mistress ? " 
 
 " Oh, well, she won't mind. Just once, you 
 know. Have a cold pump on my head to-mor- 
 fow morning and we'll get on the cars and be out 
 of this. Fact is, old chap, I'm a poor sort of 
 tool, take me all round. You've got the patience 
 of Job with me." 
 
 " Don't take any more to-morrow," said Dick, 
 holding him tight by the arm and looking at him 
 anxiously, " don't do it, old fellow. Every burst 
 you make you slip back years. Promise me you 
 won't take any more." 
 
 " Oh, promise ? Anything anything. Put 
 my name to it if I could see to write." 
 
 " Give me your word that will be quite 
 enough," returned Dick. 
 
 " Give you a hundred and fifty words. Gad, I 
 would do that same ! Haven't enjoyed it feel 
 much worse for it be chippy in the morning. 
 Helpa chap to bed." 
 
 So Dick helped him to bed, and saw him safely 
 asleep. Truth to tell, he was utterly tired him- 
 self. The anxiety and strain of trying to keep 
 his partner straight had taken as much out of him
 
 Temptation. 37 
 
 as a long day's work would have done. As soon 
 as he had seen Meredith safely asleep, he turned 
 in himself, and slept a sound and dreamless sleep 
 until the day was far advanced. 
 
 When he awoke he opened his eyes with a start, 
 glanced across to the other bed, and saw that it 
 was empty. He got up and began hastily dress- 
 ing. 
 
 " By Jove ! " his thoughts ran. " What did I 
 want to sleep like this for ? All because of being 
 so infernally easily knocked up. Now that chap's 
 gone out, and goodness knows what has happened 
 to him." 
 
 He hustled into his clothes, making a very 
 scanty toilet, and hied him in search of Meredith. 
 Alack, and alas, he found him sitting in the bar, 
 a bottle of rye whisky in front of him, his glass 
 three-parts full. It looked to Dick as if it was 
 neat. 
 
 As he perceived his friend standing at the door, 
 Meredith caught up the glass and tossed off the 
 contents at a single gulp. Dick strode up to him. 
 
 " What did you promise me ? " he asked in a 
 furious voice. 
 
 " I don't know," said Meredith, " and I don't 
 care." 
 
 " You promised me you wouldn't touch another 
 drop." 
 
 " Did I ? What a fool I must have been !
 
 38 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 My dear old boy, I've had nearly a bottle full 
 this morning. It's bad whisky, as I've been tell- 
 ing the landlord ; one has to drink quarts of it 
 before it has any effect." 
 " Roger, you promised." 
 " Was I drunk when I promised ? " 
 " Yes, you were drunk." 
 
 " Well, my dear fellow, you couldn't expect a 
 drunken man to keep his promise. I know I 
 went off to bed last night in a good temper with 
 everybody, and I'm pretty good-tempered this 
 morning; but if I'm roused 
 
 " Oh, come, don't give me any of that rot ! 
 You made me a promise, and you've broken it 
 that's the long and the short of it." 
 
 "Yes," said Meredith, "that's the long and 
 the short of it." 
 
 He stretched out his hand and poured out 
 nearly a tumblerful of the raw spirit. 
 
 "I'm d d if you shall drink that," said 
 
 Dick, snatching at the glass. 
 
 In an instant Meredith was on his feet, the 
 bottle in his hand. " You think," he cried, 
 flourishing it around, " that you are going to 
 bully over me over me ? Why, I could squeeze 
 your windpipe forever with a twist of my finger 
 and thumb. Put that glass down ! " 
 " No ! " said Dick. 
 " Put that glass down, I tell you."
 
 Temptation. 39 
 
 " No, not if you brain me ! " said Dick, fixing 
 him with his steady blue eyes. 
 
 Meredith sat down again. " Very well, then, 
 do the other thing. I don't like drinking out of 
 the bottle, it isn't gentlemanly ; but since you 
 drive me to it, there's no choice." And then he 
 raised the bottle to his lips and took a long drink.
 
 4P A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE END OF IT. 
 
 FROM the moment that Roger Meredith raised 
 the bottle to his lips Dick Vincent completely 
 lost control over him. Beyond arranging with 
 the landlord to water the whisky, he was power- 
 less to do more than sit down and wait the issue 
 of events. For one thing Meredith was, as I 
 have said, a man of enormous stature and of im- 
 mensely powerful physique ; it would have been 
 impossible to use force, at all events useless for 
 Dick to do so, and Dick was the only person in 
 the hotel who was deeply interested in keeping 
 Meredith straight. 
 
 He gave up all idea of proceeding further on 
 his journey, and determined to sit down and wait, 
 with what patience he could, the usual issue of 
 the drinking bout. Meredith's drinking bouts 
 had always gone on the same lines a few days 
 of mad drinking, then a period of sleeplessness 
 with fits of uncontrollable frenzy. Between the 
 inability to sleep, and the inability to eat, even 
 Meredith's magnificent strength would break
 
 The End of It. 41 
 
 down in time, and with the helplessness of weak- 
 ness would come the chance to knock off drink 
 entirely and start life again with the diet of a little 
 child. Then Dick would get him back to Santa 
 Clara again, and begin anew the task of building 
 him up into a steady-going reputable character. 
 
 Dick was terribly downcast at the turn which 
 events had taken. He blamed himself for not 
 making some excuses and turning back when he 
 first perceived how gloomy and depressed Mere- 
 dith had become. " He has thrown himself back 
 years ! " his thoughts ran on the second day after 
 they reached Midas Creek, when Meredith was 
 sitting in a corner of the " house place," no longer 
 a man, but a mere whisky-consuming animal. 
 His great frame seemed to have shrunk some- 
 what ; his eyes, fixed on the fire or some part of 
 the room where there were no people, were blood- 
 shot and lack-luster, his hands were shaky, and 
 when he managed to reel from one place to an- 
 other his knees visibly gave under his weight. 
 He was a pitiable object, and Dick determined, as 
 he found that they were strangely enough un- 
 known to any of the people in the hotel, that he 
 would, as far as possible, keep his identity a secret. 
 His friend's name he had already mentioned to 
 the landlord, who was comparatively a newcomer 
 to the neighborhood ; his own he was careful not 
 to tell.
 
 4* A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 Life in the Far West is very free and easy. 
 Those who frequented the hotel kept as much as 
 possible out of the way of Meredith, whom they 
 regarded as a dangerous brute, too far gone in 
 drink even to quarrel with. Some of them had 
 no idea that the two were traveling together ; 
 others, with scarce more than a passing thought, 
 wondered that a smart young fellow like Dick 
 could trouble himself to try to keep such a brute 
 straight. And Meredith, mind you, had degen- 
 erated into a mere brute. Those who had known 
 him in his sober days would hardly have recog- 
 nized the sodden, inert mass which he had now 
 become. 
 
 So three or four days went by. Dick did not 
 keep very closely to the hotel, but prospected 
 the immediate neighborhood thus quite unwit- 
 tingly giving an impression that he was thinking 
 of buying land and establishing himself near by. 
 In truth, Dick was so miserable that he kept as 
 much out of the hotel as possible, in order that 
 he might not see the degrading process which 
 would, he hoped, eventually bring Meredith once 
 more under his control and influence. 
 
 So four days had gone by. It happened on 
 the evening of the fourth day that Dick returned 
 from a prowl round the little town. He was met 
 at the door by the landlord, who wore an anxious 
 face.
 
 The End of It. 43 
 
 "We've had a most awful time," he exclaimed. 
 " Your friend has gone clean off his head. Oh, 
 yes, completely. The fact is he came into the 
 bar for another bottle of whisky, and he had 
 gone through the other so fast, and he came 
 upon me so suddenly for it, that I hadn't time to 
 doctor it. In fact, he took it off the shelf him- 
 self." 
 
 " And of course the raw spirit finished the busi- 
 ness," said Dick, with a groan. " What are you 
 going to do ? " 
 
 " Do ? " said the landlord. "Well, he is like 
 a dangerous lunatic at present. We look to you 
 to do something." 
 
 " I can't do anything," said Dick. " I am a 
 mere thread-paper compared to him. Where is 
 he ? " 
 
 " Oh, he is up in that corner of the * house 
 place ' by the window, jibbering like an ape, and 
 muttering and talking to himself and hurling 
 threats at somebody or other. I wish he was 
 safe out of the place." 
 
 " So do I," said Dick. " He hasn't had a bout 
 of this kind for over two years. I suppose it's 
 something in the atmosphere of the place that has 
 started him on again. Anyway, there is nothing 
 for it now but doing the best we can for him. I 
 will go and see what he says to me ; sometimes 
 he will let me do as I like with him. Anyhow,
 
 44 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 this sort of thing cannot last long, because he 
 never sleeps and he never eats, and of course his 
 strength gets reduced very quickly. He will be 
 all right when once he gets the turn, you know." 
 
 " I hope he will ! " said the landlord ; " I don't 
 like having a wild beast in my place at all. I am 
 not used to it." 
 
 Dick laughed. " You will have to get used to 
 some very queer things if you stay out here long," 
 he returned. 
 
 " Ay," said the landlord ; " poverty makes us 
 acquainted with strange bedfellows." 
 
 Dick turned round and looked at him. " You 
 had a better position in the old country ? " 
 
 " I had that same," said the landlord. " I 
 needn't say that I don't carry the same name here 
 that I did at home. I am doing well enough, I 
 am able to make a living here, and a good one. 
 I was a failure at it over there, but if my people 
 could see me serving out whisky to such fellows 
 as that, well I think those that are dead would 
 turn in their graves, and those that are living 
 would never get their hair to lie straight again." 
 
 "Ah, well, life's a queer riddle," said Dick, 
 " and that poor chap in there has found it as 
 queer a riddle as most people. He's a good sort 
 at the bottom, when he hasn't got these drinking 
 fits," 
 
 " Ah, me, that's the case with a good many
 
 The End of It. 45 
 
 men," said the landlord. " But I do wish you 
 would go in and see what you can make of him." 
 
 Dick turned on his heel and went into the 
 " house place." It was practically deserted, al- 
 though in a very short time dinner would be 
 spread on the long table which ran from end to 
 end of it. In a huge arm-chair near the fireplace 
 a man sat, half-asleep. He was a stranger, who 
 had arrived a short time before by the coach, and 
 had settled himself down to wait until dinner 
 should be ready. At a table further on two men 
 were playing cards, with pipes in their mouths, 
 and each with a glass of rye whisky at his elbow. 
 In the corner, near to the " big window," as it 
 was called, in contradistinction to two small win- 
 dows on the opposite side of the room, sat Roger 
 Meredith. He had turned his chair so that his 
 back was towards the room, and the bottle of 
 whisky which he had seized from the landlord 
 was standing on the table beside him. Standing ? 
 No, I should say lying in such a way as clearly 
 showed that it was empty. His long legs were 
 stretched out in front of him, his chin was sunk- 
 upon his breast, his glaring eyes were fixed on the 
 window, and his helpless hands hung over the 
 arms of his chair. 
 
 " Death ! " he was saying, as Dick softly ap- 
 proached him. " Death ! I will be even with 
 him yet. I have owed him a grudge these nine
 
 46 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 years ; I will pay it with interest. Psalm-singing 
 devil ! He thought to come over me with his 
 Bible quotations. Roger Meredith ain't that 
 sort. Roger Meredith never forgets. Roger 
 Meredith never forgives. Roger Meredith pays 
 his debts. So I will pay this debt. Boy ! Boy, 
 more whisky ! " 
 
 The Chinese boy came running at the sound 
 of his name. " More whiskly ? Blingee d'lectly." 
 He seized the bottle and ran away back to the 
 bar. 
 
 Meredith went on muttering. " I know what 
 it all meant. He wanted her and that was at 
 the bottom of it. He had seen her ; he thought 
 if I could get her out here that he'd get hold of 
 her. The hound ! So he offered to lend me the 
 money ; and now I've plenty of money heaps of 
 it piles of it. I could run my fingers through 
 it like a miser I could let it fall like a shower of 
 golden rain. Boy ! More whisky ! " 
 
 At this moment Dick went forward and laid his 
 hand upon Meredith's shoulder. " Old chap," 
 he said, " don't have any more whisky." 
 
 Meredith looked up. " Who the devil are 
 you ? " he asked with a ludicrous attempt at dig- 
 nity. " What the deuce do you mean by inter- 
 fering with me ? Can't a gentleman staying in 
 an hotel order what hs likes ? I I resent your 
 fir/*
 
 The End of It. 47 
 
 " Meredith ! Meredith ! Roger ! " 
 
 " Do you want to borrow money of me ? " 
 Meredith demanded. " Landlord ! Landlord ! " 
 
 The landlord came hastily across the "house 
 lace." " What is the matter now ? " he asked. 
 
 " The matter is this counterjumper is inter- 
 ring with me. Put him out. Do you hear ? 
 *ut him out. Send me some more whisky." 
 
 Dick shrugged his shoulders and turned 
 way. 
 
 " Am I to give him more whisky ? " said the 
 indlord. 
 
 " Well, there's no keeping him off it till he 
 ;ets to a certain point, and then it will cure itself, 
 iut for God's sake water it." 
 
 " Oh, I'll water it," said the landlord. " But 
 ou know the score is running up pretty much." 
 
 " Oh, I'll come into the bar and settle the 
 core. I'll pay up to to-night, and then you can 
 nake me out a fresh bill in a day or two's time." 
 
 Thus authorized, the Chinese boy carried yet 
 nother bottle of rye whisky, or what purported 
 o be rye whisky, to Roger Meredith. 
 
 " I don't think," said Dick to the landlord, 
 : that he'll go on very much longer. When he 
 ;ets to this stage of talking utter rot he always 
 ollapscs a bit, and then he's in for a good howl 
 nd is amenable enough. If I could give him a 
 trong opiate now I should be glad."
 
 4 8 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 <f Have you got anything with you ? " said the 
 landlord. 
 
 u No, I haven't. I suppose I could get some- 
 thing at the chemist's. Is there a chemist's store 
 in the street ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, there's a chemist's store, and a very 
 good one. There's almost anything." 
 
 " Then I'll go down and get a good dose of 
 the stuff that I usually give him. Now, landlord, 
 that settles both accounts right up to to-night 
 doesn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes, it does that same, sir. Very much 
 obliged to you. You see, when a man has such 
 a vast quantity of stuff he might repudiate it when 
 he comes to." 
 
 " Oh, he wouldn't do that ; he isn't that sort 
 at all. Now I'll be off down the street." 
 
 He left the hotel, and went at a brisk pace down 
 the steep village street for although they called 
 it a town, Midas Creek was no larger than we at 
 home would call a village. About half-way down 
 the street he came to the store of which the land- 
 lord had told him, and there purchased a generous 
 sleeping draught. As he came hurriedly out of 
 the store he cannoned against a man passing by. 
 
 " I'm sure I beg your pardon," said Dick. 
 
 " Don't mention it, stranger ! " said the other. 
 "It was an accident. Am I going right for Rut- 
 ter's Hotel?"
 
 The End of It. 49 
 
 " Yes, I am going back there. We can go up 
 together if you like." 
 
 "Why, certainly. I'll be glad of your com- 
 pany. It seems durned queer for the hotel to be 
 a quarter of a mile from the cars." 
 
 "It is queer," said Dick. " However, there 
 it is. I suppose Rutter took it as he found it." 
 
 " Is it a decent place ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " Well, oddly enough, though I know this part 
 of the country well, I have never been in Midas 
 Creek before," said the stranger. " I've got a 
 pretty important business to come about now that 
 I have come." 
 
 " Have you ? " said Dick. " Well, it's good 
 to hear of important business. I always like to 
 do so. It isn't a bad little place, but, I must say, 
 I would rather be farther up myself." 
 
 " Yes," said the stranger, " there's all sorts of 
 temptations in a town that you don't get on the 
 ranches." 
 
 " That's the hotel," said Dick, as they came in 
 sight of the lights of Rutter's. 
 
 " Oh, that's it, is it ? " said the stranger. " It 
 looks an English enough billet." 
 
 " Oh, it's English enough," said Dick. " He 
 does it very well as an Englishman." 
 
 " Oh, yes, they do it very well in a small way, 
 but if you want to run a big hotel, you must get 
 4
 
 5 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 a Yankee to do it ; but for this sort of little home-by- 
 the-wayside business, Britishers do well enough." 
 
 As they turned into the hotel, Dick piloted his 
 new friend to the bar, where the landlord was 
 generally to be found. 
 
 " Here's a new guest for you, landlord," he 
 said, cheerily. He felt, somehow, with that com- 
 fortable sleeping draught in his pocket, that his 
 troubles with Meredith were fast coming to a 
 close ; indeed, he little thought how fast. 
 
 The landlord came out of the bar and greeted 
 the stranger with his usual cordial geniality, and 
 showed him the door into the " house place." 
 As he crossed the large room, the stranger turned 
 with an astonished air to Dick. 
 
 " Why, said he, " that's Meredith ! I haven't 
 seen him for years and years and years. He's at 
 his old game ! " 
 
 " He's been on the drink for several days," 
 said Dick ; " drinking hard drinking ; raw 
 except when the landlord doctored it." 
 
 " Ah ! I shouldn't have thought that he would 
 have lasted so long, though he had a constitution 
 of iron. I've known him for years. He's a 
 brute ; an unmitigated brute. What a stroke of 
 bad luck for a decent man like Rutter to have 
 Meredith pitch upon his place as a likely spot 
 for a booze. Yes, I call that a stroke of down- 
 right bad luck,"
 
 The End of It. 5' 
 
 " It's bad luck for everybody where drink is 
 concerned," said Dick. " The landlord makes 
 out of drink, but he has had enough of it, and 
 more than enough of it." 
 
 As the words left Dick's lips Meredith lunged 
 out of his chair on to his feet, wheeled round, 
 ind saw the two men crossing the room together. 
 As his eyes fell upon Dick his whole person 
 seemed to be transformed ; his face fairly lighted 
 up with demoniacal rage. He was no longer 
 shrunken and enfeebled, his splendid frame seemed 
 to be swollen with fury to even more than its 
 normal size. 
 
 " Is it you ? " he said. " Is it you ? I've 
 been looking for you these nine years. You 
 devil ! So you have come in my path at last ! " 
 
 " Why, what on earth are you talking about ? " 
 isked Dick. 
 
 " What am I talking about ? You dare to 
 bandy words with me ? I've prayed every time 
 I thought of you, for nine years past, that you 
 might be delivered up into my hands, and now 
 now I've got you, and there's no escape for 
 you ! " 
 
 " Don't talk rot ! " said Dick. 
 
 " Rot ? Is it rot ? Yes it's rot that you'll 
 be presently. You've known all along that when 
 I got you, when I once got my fingers on you, 
 I'd shake the life out of you like a dog ! "
 
 5 2 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 He made a rush forward to seize Dick by the 
 throat. Dick parried the blow and stepped 
 quickly to one side. The next moment Mere- 
 dith had whipped his revolver out of his hip 
 pocket. 
 
 " Look out ! He's got a six-shooter ! " cried 
 the Yankee. 
 
 Up went Dick's arm again in a vain attempt to 
 knock the weapon out of Meredith's hand. The 
 next moment the two men had closed together, 
 Knowing Meredith as well as he did, Dick had 3 
 fair idea of what would be his method, and every 
 moment he expected to feel the muzzle of the 
 revolver against his temple. In a flash he made 
 up his mind that he would sell his life dearly. 
 If only he could knock the weapon out of Mere- 
 dith's hand, he felt that he would not have the 
 strength to continue the struggle very long. 
 
 But, heavens, how strong he was ! He tried 
 time and again to overthrow him, but although 
 Meredith had drunk himself into a frenzy during 
 the past few days, Dick had no more power to 
 move him than he would have had to move the 
 side of a house. The great muscles stood out 
 upon his legs like knots of steel ; the grip upon his 
 right shoulder made Dick sick with pain. His 
 left hand was all that he really had to defend him- 
 self with ; and at last, when he felt his strength 
 going, when he felt Meredith's hot breath upon
 
 The End of It. 53 
 
 his face, and then the touch of the cold steel 
 upon his left cheek, he flung up his arm in a last 
 desperate effort to protect himself. There was a 
 puff of smoke and the sharp crack of a pistol shot, 
 a further onslaught from Meredith, and then, as 
 a last hope, Dick contrived to wrench his right 
 arm free, and get at his own revolver. 
 
 It was the work of a moment. A fresh rush 
 from Meredith, the crack of Dick's revolver, a 
 scream, and then the giant hands relaxed their 
 hold, and Meredith tumbled to the ground with a 
 sickening thud, and lay there absolutely motion- 
 less.
 
 54 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 GOOD ADVICE. 
 
 As Meredith fell to the fioor, the hubbub of 
 voices which had accompanied the struggle died 
 away into silence. 
 
 " He's done for," said the landlord, kneeling 
 down beside the huge prostrate form. 
 
 Dick Vincent stood by, his nerveless hands still 
 holding his revolver, his face filled with horror 
 and dismay. " You don't mean that he is dead ? " 
 he burst out. 
 
 "I do ; dead as a door-nail," answered the 
 landlord. 
 
 " Did I do it ? " 
 
 " Well, it got done. There's little blame at- 
 tached to any one." 
 
 " You don't think it was his revolver that went 
 off? " 
 
 " We can soon settle that point," said the man 
 who had walked up the street with Dick. " Let's 
 have a look at your play-toy. Ah, one shot mis- 
 sing. Was it fully loaded ? " 
 
 " Yes, it was."
 
 Good Advice. 55 
 
 There was no thought in Dick's mind of keep- 
 ing any of the truth back. 
 
 " Let's look at Meredith's six-shooter, land- 
 lord, the stranger went on. 
 
 " Meredith was his name ? " said the landlord, 
 gently disengaging the weapon from Meredith's 
 nerveless ringers. 
 
 " Yes, Meredith. I've not seen him for years. 
 Ah, you see ! Only one shot. That was the 
 shot he fired when you threw his arm up. Well, 
 stranger, I am afraid you must put him down to 
 your account. You have done many a worse 
 deed in your life than putting that chapout of 
 the road." 
 
 " I didn't wilfully put him out of the road," 
 said Vincent. " It was his life or mine." 
 
 " I don't know you, sir, but I'll lay long odds 
 that yours was the better life of the two. It 
 couldn't be worse than his, anyhow. And what- 
 ever country you live in, there's one law that al- 
 ways holds good : when your life's threatened, 
 sell it as dear as you can. The best thing you 
 can do is to clear out." 
 
 " Oh, I can't do that," said Dick. " I must 
 stay and see the inquiry through." 
 
 " Well," said the stranger, " I advise you to 
 clear out. It will be the easiest way for you and 
 for everybody concerned. You don't know any- 
 body here, do you ? "
 
 5 6 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " Not a soul ! " said Dick. 
 
 " Then clear out." 
 
 While this conversation was going on the land- 
 lord, with the help of several men, was busy re- 
 moving the inert mass that had once been Roger 
 Meredith into an outer chamber. It was a room 
 next to the stables that had been used for such a 
 purpose before ; in fact, they called it the " in- 
 quest room." 
 
 " I suppose he is really dead ? " said one of 
 the men, when they had lifted him on to the great 
 table where accidents usually were deposited. 
 
 " Dead as a door-nail ! " answered the land- 
 lord ; " and there's no chance of getting a doctor 
 to him either. Jericho has gone off to Barnes 
 Drift to attend to Barnes's wife. Not the slight- 
 est chance of getting at him under several hours. 
 Besides, he is dead. Look at him." 
 
 The stranger who had foregathered with Dick 
 came in just in time to hear the landlord's words. 
 
 " Well, I'm a doctor myself at least, I was 
 once," he remarked. " The man's dead enough, 
 but if you have any doubt I'll make a regular ex- 
 amination." 
 
 " Yes, I think it would be as well," said the 
 landlord. " We haven't a chance of getting Jer- 
 icho here for some hours. It would be a satisfac- 
 tion to the young gentleman that settled his busi- 
 ness for him."
 
 Good Advice. 57 
 
 " It would be a satisfaction to everybody who 
 has ever had the pleasure or the misfortune to 
 come across Meredith," said the stranger, with 
 uncompromising directness. 
 
 " Do you speak intimately of him ? " said the 
 landlord. " Did you know him well ? " 
 
 " I have known him for years at least, I knew 
 him for years, a long time ago. I haven't seen 
 him for many a long day ; didn't want." 
 
 " Did he always drink ? " 
 
 " Always. Always drunk, always quarrelsome, 
 always getting the horrors badly. I've seen him 
 kill two men when he was on the drink. He was a 
 lucky chap, too. He always slipped out of every- 
 thing. However, he's met his match at last, and 
 a very good job for everybody concerned. If I 
 were you, landlord, I should make as little fuss as 
 I could. So far as I ever knew, Meredith was a 
 man without a friend. Never met anybody that 
 didn't execrate him. He was a coward and a 
 bully ; an out-and-out blackguard that was a det- 
 riment to any part of the world that he happened 
 to be in." 
 
 At this point Dick, who had followed the group 
 of men, by a sort of natural instinct that he would 
 not seem to be trying to sneak out of the respon- 
 sibility of what he had done, opened his mouth 
 to speak. The stranger stopped him. 
 
 " Now, listen to me ! " he said. " I never saw
 
 5 8 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 you until to-day ; I don't know your name, or 
 where you come from ; I don't want to know 
 it." 
 
 " As a matter of fact, none of us know it," said 
 the landlord. 
 
 " Then don't ask it. As for you, stranger, if 
 you know anything about Meredith, keep it dark. 
 The man's dead ; he was killed in a fair fight at 
 least, he was killed in a fight that was obviously 
 unfair to you, for you are half his size. Anyway, 
 fair or unfair, the man's dead, and nothing will 
 bring him back to life again. Take my advice, 
 and clear out of this. You have nothing to gain 
 by remaining ; you have nothing to gain by 
 facing it out. Don't tell your name, or where 
 you have come from, or anything about yourself. 
 Clear out!" 
 
 By this time the other men, who were well used 
 to little accidents of the sort, had all trooped away 
 out of the room, leaving the landlord, Dick and 
 the stranger alone with the dead man. The an- 
 nouncement that he was a doctor, or, as he had 
 put it, " by way of being a doctor," had helped 
 to this end. In spite of the fearful object lesson 
 which they had helped to remove, every man of 
 them felt in immediate need of a drink. 
 
 As the quick, decided words of advice left the 
 stranger's lips, Dick stood irresolute, looking first 
 upon the landlord, and then upon his new friend.
 
 Good Advice. 59 
 
 " It isn't like me to turn my back on a danger," 
 he said at last. 
 
 " Oh, turning your back on a danger fiddle ! 
 It isn't that at all. There's nothing to be gained 
 by facing it out." 
 
 " Look here ! " said the landlord, taking him 
 by the arm and drawing him away towards the 
 door. " The last time a man was shot here the 
 Sheriff swore that he would make an example of 
 the next one. You are the next one. Do you 
 want to be made an example of? If you make a 
 bolt for it in the confusion of the moment well, 
 nobody can blame any of us. I like you ; you 
 squared up his drinks without a word, and they 
 were heavy enough to make most people open 
 their eyes and sit up. I'd like to see you out of 
 this. Take my advice ; take that lantern-jawed 
 chap's advice. Git ! " 
 
 The sound commonsense of this argument ap- 
 pealed to Dick with irresistible force. After all, 
 he had committed no sin. The whole affair had 
 been more or less an accident, entirely an accident 
 so far as he had been concerned. It had been a 
 question of his life or Meredith's. He had hon- 
 estly done his best to keep Meredith straight in- 
 deed, he had kept Meredith straight for years on 
 end ; but this time he had broken out beyond all 
 power of any ordinary man to control. And, 
 after all, why, having killed the man, should he
 
 6o A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 remain to be sacrificed, from a false sense of hon- 
 or ? If he were hanged or lynched twenty times 
 over, that would not bring Meredith back to life 
 again ; and if nothing was to be gained by remain- 
 ing, why should he not go ? " 
 
 " You really think I had better go ? " he said, 
 looking the man fair and square in the eyes. 
 
 " Yes, I really do. You have no very great 
 amount of time to lose. I must send down for 
 the Sheriff I know he happens to be away, but 
 I must send for him all the same and the mo- 
 ment I have done so, I must forbid anybody to 
 leave the house. There's a train," taking out 
 his watch and looking at it, " in a quarter of an 
 hour from now. Don't say a word to anybody. 
 Take your bag, for that might lead to identifica- 
 tion, and go." 
 
 " Thank you, landlord, I will. I see that 
 you are perfectly right, and I am very much 
 obliged to you." 
 
 He turned back to the stranger, who was stand- 
 ing looking down on Meredith's dead face. 
 " Sir," he said, " I don't know your name any 
 more than you know mine, but I am infinitely 
 
 obliged to you for the advice you have given 
 
 
 me. 
 
 " I am sure," said the stranger, " that it is the 
 wisest course for you to take. Look here ! I 
 like you ; I like your nice and generous English
 
 Good Advice. 6l 
 
 face. You will naturally feel some anxiety about 
 the outcome of all this ; here's my name and my 
 home address. Write to me in a week's time, 
 and I'll tell you how things have gone. I'll send 
 you the local paper ; there's sure to be an account in 
 it. Then you can possess your soul in peace, and 
 know whether it is safe to come within a hundred 
 miles of this or not." 
 
 " Thank you a dozen times," said Dick 
 " You are a good friend, if ever a man had one. 
 Perhaps some day I may be able to repay the 
 genuine friendship you have shown me to-day." 
 
 " Don't speak of it," said the stranger. " I 
 am only too glad to have been able to do it. A 
 man might be forgiven for not keeping his head 
 cool under such circumstances as these. By the 
 way, you needn't tell me your name when you 
 write to me ; it isn't in the least necessary. Call 
 yourself Robert Martin ; that name is as good a 
 name as any other, and I can as easily write to 
 Robert Martin at some post-office as I can write 
 to you in your own name and to your home, 
 wherever it is." 
 
 Dick put out his hand and took the stranger's 
 in a mighty grip. " God bless you ! " he said. 
 " You have done me a good turn, and you have 
 done it in a gentlemanly way. I can't thank you 
 any better than I have tried to do already. 
 Good-by ! "
 
 62 A Matter of Sentiment, 
 
 " Good-by ! " said the stranger. 
 
 Then Dick Vincent turned to take a last fare- 
 well of the man who had been his comrade and 
 chum for more than seven years. " Old fellow," 
 he said, " I little thought ever to take a man's 
 life, let alone yours. If you are up there, or 
 anywhere about, you'll know that I didn't mean 
 it." He bent down and touched the nerveless 
 hand. " Good-by, old chap," he whispered, 
 " good-by ! " 
 
 Then, without another word, he turned and 
 went quickly to his room in search of the small 
 bag which was all that he had taken to the hotel 
 with him. It merely contained a change of cloth- 
 ing and his necessary toilet requisites. Clothes 
 were not so plentiful at Santa Clara as to be 
 worth carrying about from place to place. 
 
 Meredith's second coat and waistcoat were ly- 
 ing on his bed. As quick as thought Dick Vin- 
 cent caught up the waistcoat and thrust his hand 
 into the inner pocket. As he expected, in his 
 unhinged state of mind, Meredith, in changing 
 his clothes, had forgotten to transfer the portrait 
 of his wife from one pocket to the other. The 
 little case was there, and Dick thrust it into his 
 own breast pocket. Then he glanced round the 
 room to see that there was nothing of his that he 
 had left behind. No, not a thing ; all that there 
 was belonged to Meredith.
 
 Good Advice. 6 3 
 
 He opened the door quietly, looked out and 
 saw that the coast was clear, ran down the stairs, 
 ind passing the door of the " house place " on 
 tiptoe, he noiselessly left the house and plunged 
 into the fast gathering gloom of evening. He 
 glanced at his watch as he passed the first light in 
 the street. Ten minutes to catch the train ; 
 imple time, provided that nobody came to stop 
 him. He swung steadily along, down the narrow, 
 irregular street, past the different stores with their 
 flaring lights, round the corner, up the narrow 
 dark lane, and under the rough portico of the 
 railway depot. 
 
 A ticket for the next station was soon taken ; 
 be had thought it out while coming down the 
 road, and if inquiries were made for him it would 
 be just as well not to leave behind evidence that 
 be was going straight for New York. He saw with 
 satisfaction as he passed on to the miserable and 
 ill-lighted platform that there were a good many 
 passengers of about his own age and appearance. 
 
 Then a bright thought struck him. He 
 dipped into his great traveling ulster, turned up 
 the collar, pulled his cap well over his eyes, and 
 went back to the ticket office. There he took a 
 ticket for New York. He felt sure that the 
 :lerk had not recognized him as the man who had 
 taken a ticket for the next station a few minutes 
 previously.
 
 6 4 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 Then the train came majestically in, some pas- 
 sengers alighted, and the waiting ones boarded the 
 cars, the whistle sounded, and Dick Vincent had 
 begun the second stage of his flight.
 
 Waiting. 6 5 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 AT first when Dick Vincent found himself 
 speeding away as fast as the cars could take him 
 from Midas Creek, his only feeling was one of re- 
 gret that he had not stayed behind to face out 
 what he had done. 
 
 " Hang it all ! " his thoughts ran, " this is 
 coward's work to run away. I never turned my 
 back on a scrape in my life ; in fact, my scrapes 
 up to now have been few and far between. It is 
 true I shot the poor dear old fellow, but he wasn't 
 himself at the time, and if I hadn't shot him, he 
 would have shot me. Then, perhaps, he would 
 have run amok and taken half-a-dozen other 
 lives. I had to do it. I'd far rather have faced 
 it out. I hate this fugitive kind of business, and 
 it will look awfully bad, and will go hard against 
 me if they take the trouble to trace me out and 
 follow me up. I've a good mind to go back. 
 Yes, I'll get off at the next stopping-place, and 
 I'll take the first train back again." 
 5
 
 66 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 In this frame of mind he traveled for some 
 miles. Then a colored gentleman came round 
 and informed him that supper was ready. Dick 
 thought he might as well have supper, because 
 under any circumstances it was no use going with- 
 out food, and he had, of course, had no supper 
 at the hotel. The exhaustion and excitement 
 through which he had passed, and the awful re- 
 vulsion of feeling which had overcome him on 
 finding that he had taken the life of his greatest 
 friend, had all combined to produce in him a most 
 frantic hunger. So he made his way to the 
 dining car, and put away as good a supper as any 
 man ever sat down to ; and when supper was 
 over and he went off for a smoke, his thoughts 
 naturally reverted to his scheme for getting back 
 again to Midas Creek. 
 
 " It seems rather a tomfool thing to do when 
 I've got clear away, and they do not know my 
 name or anything about me," commonsense said 
 to him. 
 
 " It seems a very cowardly thing to make a 
 bolt of it, as if you were a murderer," said his 
 sense of honor. 
 
 " Go back and see the last of poor old Roger," 
 said sentiment. 
 
 And so his thoughts ran " Pull devil, pull 
 baker " until at last commonsense put an every- 
 day suggestion into kis mind.
 
 Waiting. 67 
 
 " It shall be tails I go back, heads I go for- 
 ward ! " he said to himself. 
 
 So Dick pulled a coin out of his pocket a 
 gold coin, for luck and spun it deftly up, as 
 high as the height of the car would permit. He 
 held it a moment between his palms, before look- 
 ing to see how it had fallen, and so meet his fate. 
 " But whatever it comes, I'll abide by it," he 
 said. Then he opened his hand and looked at 
 the coin as it lay shining in the palm of his left 
 hand. 
 
 It was heads ! 
 
 So he must go forward. He had promised 
 himself that he would abide by the throw of the 
 coin. Chance, blind chance, had told him to go 
 forward, not to turn back. A thought came to 
 him of how Lot's wife had suffered by turning 
 back in the hour of danger. And then a few lines 
 of a poem came into his head, for, let me tell you, 
 it was not very easy to get books of any kind at 
 Santa Clara, and many and many a winter's night 
 Dick had conned over a little collection of thumb- 
 marked and worn books of poetry : 
 
 " Let not him that putteth his hand to the plough look back- 
 wards ; 
 
 Though the ploughshare cut through the flowers of life to its 
 fountains. 
 
 Though it pass o'er the graves of the dead and the hearths of 
 the living. 
 
 It is the will of the Lord ; and His mercy endureth for ever ! "
 
 68 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 Well, he had put his hand to the plough, and 
 it was no use looking back. Practically it had 
 already passed over the "graves of the dead," and 
 it would rest with him whether, in the future, it 
 would pass over the " hearths of the living." 
 
 He was very sad, very dejected, as the train 
 whirled him away from difficulty and danger into 
 safety. Self-preservation is the first instinct of 
 humanity, but now that the excitement was over, 
 now that he had nothing to do but think over the 
 events of that eventful day, his thoughts were all 
 sad. Poor old Roger ! Good friend and chum ; 
 nobody's enemy but his own. How hard he had 
 tried to keep him straight. How full of hope he 
 had been, when they set out together from Santa 
 Clara, that he would succeed in his mission ; that 
 he would find the long-neglected wife, and that 
 she would come back with him to enjoy the good 
 times that had set in for the owners of the Cali- 
 fornian ranche. 
 
 Well, that dream was over and shattered for 
 ever. Popr old Roger was lying in that outer 
 room at the hotel at Midas Creek, his splendid 
 strength brought to an end by the hand of his 
 own friend. Not maliciously, they all held him 
 free of blame, Dick thought wretchedly. " After 
 all," he mused, " if I hadn't done what I did, I 
 should be lying in that outer room instead of him. 
 Life is f Every man for himself it must be so
 
 Waiting. 6 9 
 
 and if poor old Roger knows, he will hold me 
 as free of blame as those that were looking on." 
 
 And yet his friend was gone. The partner- 
 ship had come to an end, a sad, miserable, wretched 
 end, to which he had never looked. The unex- 
 pected always happens, and he had certainly never 
 expected such an end as this. In this life it is 
 the one who stays behind who thinks the most. 
 It is always so. The lover who goes away to the 
 other side of the world is more likely to forget 
 the girl he leaves behind than the girl, who merely 
 continues her ordinary daily round, rendered more 
 blank by the absence of the loved one, is likely 
 to forget him. 
 
 So in the case of Dick Vincent. He passed 
 day after day in the luxurious cars, sleeping, 
 dining, reading, smoking, talking, and with every 
 hour that went by the horror of the scene through 
 which he had passed at Midas Creek seemed to- 
 fade away. He was not callous, far from it ; but 
 he was being taken swiftly and easily away into 
 fresh scenes, and the change of life and movement 
 round about him all tended to blot out from his 
 mind the first vivid impression of Roger Mere- 
 dith's tragic death. 
 
 So by the time he reached New York he had 
 made up his mind that it was no use fretting over 
 what was done and could not be undone. It 
 was no use regarding himself as a murderer, or
 
 7 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 even as a fugitive. If the worst came to the 
 worst, he had taken the advice of those who had 
 seen the whole affray from beginning to end, and 
 doubtless, if necessary, they would back him up to 
 the extent of owning that he had acted by their 
 advice. 
 
 He determined to remain a few days in New 
 York so as to communicate with his unknown 
 friend at Midas Creek. Therefore, as soon as he 
 got settled down in his hotel, he wrote a letter to 
 the friendly stranger. It was a manly letter, tell- 
 ing him that he had more than half repented 
 turning his back on the scrape in which he had 
 found himself. He told him how he had reasoned 
 things out with himself, and how, finally, he had 
 tossed for guidance as to the best line of conduct. 
 Then he thanked him for having so completely 
 stood his friend and begged him to send him 
 the result of the inquest to a certain post-office 
 in New York. He signed the letter, " Robert 
 Martin." 
 
 " I feel rather mean," his thoughts ran, " but 
 it was the chap's own suggestion, after all, and he 
 seemed to have a long head on him. So I dare 
 say he was perfectly right in his suggestion that it 
 is no use exposing my own name. 
 
 When his letter was safely deposited in the post- 
 office, Dick Vincent felt happier. He knew that 
 from Valentine Clegg for such was the stranger's
 
 Waiting. 7 1 
 
 name he would obtain authentic information as 
 to the last details concerning poor Meredith. 
 But he must patiently await a reply, and, as all 
 the world knows, a letter cannot go from New 
 York to California and the reply cover the same 
 distance without a wearisome wait of many days. 
 I am bound to say that the two weeks which 
 followed Dick Vincent's arrival in New York was 
 the most wearisome period that he had ever passed 
 in the whole of his life. He did everything to oc- 
 cupy himself that a stranger in the land could do. 
 He visited the theatres and other places of amuse- 
 ment, he went the round of the best restaurants 
 and feasted royally, like a king, but all the same, 
 it was a miserable hangdog existence. He began 
 to understand how it is that men give themselves 
 up to justice years after they have committed a 
 murder. He began to go over the scene again ; 
 he began to fidget and worry as to whether, if he 
 had done just the opposite of what he had done, 
 he would have exercised a different influence over 
 Roger Meredith. He began to blame himself. 
 He could not sleep at nights for visions of Roger 
 Meredith which visited him. He was all right 
 during the day-time, he could occupy himself; 
 he could keep that worrying brain of his quiet by 
 giving it plenty of other things to think about ; 
 but when it came to the lonely watches of the 
 night, it was another matter altogether. He took
 
 7 2 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 to going to the large public reading rooms, and 
 there he industriously looked over hundreds of 
 newspapers, but without finding any one from the 
 district around Midas Creek which ever mentioned 
 the affair he became haggard and wan and weary. 
 And so the slow days dragged their intermi- 
 nable course along, until at last he received, on 
 application at the post-office, a letter addressed 
 to " Robert Martin." He took it from the clerk 
 with fingers which trembled in spite of his nerve 
 and resolution. He didn't open it until he had 
 seated himself in the restaurant where he was go- 
 ing to eat his lunch ; then, having given his order 
 for the meal, he at last ventured to open the 
 letter. 
 
 " Dear Robert Martin," it began, " I was very 
 pleased to hear from you, and to find by chance 
 I had strengthened my opinion that it was per- 
 fectly useless for you to remain here. Meredith 
 was buried in the little cemetery at the back of 
 the chapel in Midas Creek. A good many peo- 
 ple turned out to give him a last salute, but the 
 manner of his death has not interested many peo- 
 ple, as he was absolutely unknown to everybody 
 but myself, and I had nothing good to say about 
 him. I privately saw some of the jury, and also 
 said a word or two to the coroner, with the result 
 that you will not even be inquired for.
 
 Waiting. 73 
 
 " I hope that you will not allow this wretched 
 affair to weigh on your mind, or in any way over- 
 shadow your life. You looked to me young, 
 straight and honest, and it would indeed be a 
 thousand pities if your life were in any way spoiled 
 for a worthless blackguard such as I well knew 
 Meredith to be. Take my advice, and for the 
 future force yourself to think of the affair as a 
 pure accident, which in truth it was. 
 
 " I am sending you by this mail a newspaper 
 giving an account of the inquest. I can add that 
 the verdict gave universal satisfaction. The ways 
 of juries are very wonderful in all parts of the 
 world at least, that has been my experience, and 
 I have lived in almost all countries. 
 
 " With every good wish, believe me, cordially 
 yours, 
 
 "VALENTINE CLEGG." 
 
 It was with a certain feeling of dismay that 
 Dick Vincent realised that he must go back to 
 the post-office and find out whether there was a 
 newspaper waiting for him. Perhaps it had come 
 by a later mail. 
 
 He finished his lunch, drank his black coffee, 
 and smoked a cigarette before he allowed him- 
 self to think about going back to the post-office. 
 Even then, although he had spun the time out, 
 the clerk told him that there was no other com-
 
 74 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 munication for him. So he must put off yet an- 
 other day ; he must get through another evening 
 and another night. However, he filled in that 
 afternoon by making inquiries about his passage 
 for Liverpool, and buying some few necessaries 
 that he would require for the voyage. Then he 
 dined and went off to a theater, and after that he 
 looked in at another restaurant for some supper, 
 going to bed at last so dogged tired that for the 
 first time since he had reached New York, he 
 slept a sound, dreamless sleep until late in the 
 morning. 
 
 He went twice to the post-ofBce before he re- 
 ceived the paper of which Valentine Clegg had 
 spoken. It was then late in the afternoon, very 
 near to dinner time, and as he walked slowly down 
 the street he tore off the wrapper, being too im- 
 patient to wait until he reached the restaurant 
 where he went to dine. 
 
 Yes, here it was, a full account of the affray, 
 but so garbled in the telling that he, although the 
 principal actor in the scene, could hardly recognize 
 it. It described how Meredith was an irredeem- 
 able blackguard, well-known to persons staying in 
 the hotel, who had drunk himself into a state of 
 delirium, in spite of everything that could be done 
 to stop and even doctor his supply of whisky. 
 Then it went on to say that on the after- 
 noon in question he had made a murderous attack
 
 Waiting. 75 
 
 upon a young man resident in the hotel ; that in 
 endeavoring to save his own life Meredith had 
 been accidentally shot, and that in the opinion of 
 all the onlookers there was not the slightest blame 
 to be attached to anybody but the unfortunate 
 man himself. 
 
 The account then went on to relate that the 
 jury had unanimously agreed on the verdict of 
 " Death by the visitation of God," and that, when 
 mildly remonstrated with by the coroner, had 
 firmly expressed their desire that the verdict 
 should stand. " The man was delirious," the 
 foreman of the jury explained, " and an uninten- 
 tional shot put an end to his existence before he 
 had time to murder the object of his fury or other 
 persons. We consider his career was cut short 
 by the visitation of God." " Gentlemen, it is for 
 you to give what verdict you think best," was the 
 reply of the coroner. And Dick Vincent, as he 
 folded the newspaper and thrust it into his pocket, 
 mentally echoed the words of Valentine Clegg: 
 " Truly the ways of juries are very wonderful." 
 
 So the chapter had come to an end. He was 
 safe. Nobody who knew his name would con- 
 nect him in any way with the tragic end of Roger 
 Meredith. He was free to go on board the great 
 liner which would sail the following day. But 
 before doing so, he felt that a very unpleasant 
 duty lay before him ; he must write to Santa Clara
 
 7 6 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 and apprise the manager, Jack Frogg, that Roger 
 Meredith was dead. He must tell him how, 
 when, and why he died, only suppressing that one 
 little fact, that he had died by the hand of his 
 greatest friend.
 
 Home Again. 77 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 HOME AGAIN. 
 
 EVEN after what he had learned from Valentine 
 Clegg's letter and from the little journal which 
 circulated news in and around the neighborhood 
 of Midas Creek, Dick Vincent did not feel him- 
 self perfectly free to leave New York and take 
 the great steamer which would land him once 
 more on his native shores. In the first place he 
 felt that he must write to Jack Frogg, whom he 
 and Roger Meredith had left in charge of affairs 
 at Santa Clara. 
 
 The letter was easy enough to write. He told 
 the manager that he had just received news from 
 an acquaintance of his in Midas Creek that Roger 
 Meredith had come to an untimely end. " He 
 was, as you know, very moody and gloomy before 
 we left home ; and his depression seemed to in- 
 crease until we got to Midas Creek, from whence 
 I took the cars. I could not induce him to go 
 any further on the journey. He seems to have 
 drunk hard from that time. Eventually he com- 
 pletely lost his head, and drew his revolver on
 
 7 8 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 those who tried to restrain him, with the result 
 that in the scrimmage he was shot dead. I send 
 you herewith a paper which gives an account of 
 the inquest. I am fearfully cut up about the 
 whole business, but as I have got this far, and 
 every arrangement has been made for my going 
 home for a few months, I do not see that I should 
 do any good by coming back before the time 
 originally intended. Let me have a wire as soon 
 as you receive this, to say I can leave everything 
 safely with you. I shall remain here until I hear 
 from you." 
 
 When the letter and the newspaper were safely 
 despatched, Dick felt more easy in his mind, and 
 he set himself down to wait with what patience 
 he could the arrival of Frogg's telegram confirm- 
 ing the arrangement that he had made with him. 
 He also at the same time took steps to provide 
 himself with other copies of the Midas Creek 
 " Free Press," but these he directed to be sent to 
 an address in England. 
 
 It was a weary time of waiting, but Dick Vin- 
 cent was an indomitable young man, who never 
 swerved from a path on which he had once set 
 his feet. Having taken up the burden of a 
 secret, he determined to carry out any work which 
 it might entail to the very end the bitter end if 
 need be ; and as communication with Frogg ne- 
 cessitated a few more wearisome days to be spent
 
 Home Again. 79 
 
 in New York, he set himself to endure them. 
 But as all things, good and bad alike come to an 
 end in time, so did the time of Dick's weary 
 waiting come to an end also, and he one morning 
 received over the telegraph wires a message direct 
 from Jack Frogg. 
 
 " Grieved at news," it said, " and will do my 
 level best during your absence. You know you 
 can trust me. Let me have English address." 
 
 It was as Frogg had said ; Dick knew that he 
 could trust him. He was a rough, untutored 
 man, but honest as the day. Dick recalled with 
 a sigh how poor Roger had said as much when 
 they first proposed leaving the ranche in charge 
 of Frogg during their absence. " And poor old 
 Roger knew them when he saw 'em," was Dick's 
 final thought. I'd back Roger's judgment in the 
 matter of a phiz before anybody I ever knew in 
 my life. Dear old chap ! He had a good 
 opinion of Jack, and Jack's a good fellow all 
 round. I'd trust him with untold gold." 
 
 He therefore wrote again to Frogg, telling him 
 that he was going to start the next day for Eng- 
 land ; and he gave him his address at his father's 
 house. In concluding the second letter he said : 
 
 " I may as well tell you that I am going to 
 England partly on business connected with Mr. 
 Meredith. He placed some money in my hands
 
 8o A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 with instructions as to its disposition in England, 
 and I should like to carry out his wishes before I 
 go into the question of his property and share of 
 Santa Clara. Mr. Meredith made his will just 
 before we left Santa Clara ; it is in safe keeping 
 at Freeman's Rock. The final disposition of his 
 property will depend upon what I arrange in Eng- 
 land." 
 
 He added one or two more instructions as to 
 certain favorite animals on the ranche, and then 
 closed the letter feeling that he was really free 
 at last. And the following day Dick went on 
 board the great steamer which would take him 
 home. 
 
 With the details of the voyage we have noth- 
 ing to do. With every mile that the great steam- 
 er carried Dick Vincent away from the New 
 World to the Old, so did the tragedy of Roger 
 Meredith's death fade into the insignificance of a 
 mere incident. Every day Dick felt more and 
 more that he had been but an instrument of Fate ; 
 that poor Roger had to come to his end, and that 
 he personally was not in any way responsible for 
 what had happened. He regretted him as keenly 
 as ever ; for, mind you, the two men had loved 
 one another with a great and abiding affection, 
 such as neither men nor women often know. 
 
 At times it made him feel sick and cold to
 
 Home Again. 8l 
 
 think that when he returned to Santa Clara there 
 would be no Roger Meredith. But, on the whole, 
 as the days went by he thought about him less and 
 less, and he accepted the inevitable as inevitable. 
 So by the time the shores of his native land came 
 into view he had ceased to have any haunting feel- 
 ing about the fatal shot which had brought Mere- 
 dith's turbulent life to an end. And there was 
 no reason why he should have thought otherwise. 
 He well knew that if Roger could come back he 
 would be the last person on earth to blame him 
 in the smallest degree. There was no reason 
 then, why, once the first shock was over, he should 
 continue to blame himself. 
 
 It was in this eminently comfortable frame of 
 mind that Dick Vincent once more found himself 
 in his native country. It was all very delightful 
 to him ; the smooth and easy life which a man 
 who is not short of money can enjoy in old Eng- 
 land was pleasant and soothing to him. 
 
 From Liverpool he went to London where he 
 stayed long enough only to pay a visit to his tailor's 
 and to lay in a stock of accessories to the mascu- 
 line toilet. Then he went off, without further de- 
 lay, to the old manor house where he had been 
 born. 
 
 How pleasant it was to find himself once more 
 in the old Kentish home which he had not seen 
 for seven years ! There was so much to do, so 
 6
 
 82 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 many people to see ; early in the morning to 
 walk round the place, when the cheery old squire 
 had tight hold of his arm, while he pointed out 
 this little improvement and that little innovation ; 
 then to go through the hothouses, round the 
 stables, to speak a word to each man and woman 
 on the estate who had been there before he went 
 away ; then to go down the village with his hand- 
 some sisters to pay a special visit to his old nurse, 
 married long years now, but with ever a tender 
 spot in her heart for the boy who was the pride 
 of the Vincent family and the joy of every man, 
 woman and child connected with the Vincent es- 
 tate. Then he had to ride over to Foxborough, 
 where his eldest sister, who had during his absence 
 been married to a neighboring squire, lived and 
 had two or three olive branches, who bid fair to 
 be as handsome as herself. Dick had stood god- 
 father to one of these, a young Dick a sturdy 
 fellow who rode about the gardens on the back 
 of a huge St. Bernard, tumbled off half-a-dozen 
 times a day, picked himself up, rubbed the place, 
 and swore that he wasn't hurt. You know the 
 kind of child -just such a boy as Dick had been 
 two-and-twenty years before. Then there were 
 long talks with his mother, and visits to pay all 
 over the neighborhood ; and then Dick carried 
 off his two sisters to town with him, and as they 
 were joined on all occasions by the fiance of
 
 Home Again. 8 3 
 
 the elder one, they made a nice little " parte 
 carree." 
 
 After a gay week in town, during which Dick 
 spent his mornings at his tailor's, and began, in 
 his own words, " to feel and look like a gentle- 
 man once more," he went back to the old Kent- 
 ish home again, and there found awaiting him 
 the copies of the Midas Creek " Free Press," 
 which he had ordered before he left New York. 
 The sight of the limp little newspaper served to 
 bring him back with a jerk once more to a reali- 
 zation of the duty that lay before him. 
 
 His letters had been taken into his mother's 
 own sitting-room, which had always gone by the 
 name of the " Red Parlor." 
 
 " There are ever so many letters for you, Dick," 
 she said, as the four young people tripped into 
 the room, for Winifred's young man had slipped 
 away from his briefs and come down to Holling- 
 ridge for the week-end. " But don't read them 
 now," she said, putting up a warning hand, " be- 
 cause tea will be here in a minute, and cook has 
 made you an immense pile of pikelets. You 
 must eat them while they are hot, or I am sure 
 she will break her heart." 
 
 " My dear mother," said Dick, " in this country 
 one does not fly at letters as one does on a Cali- 
 fornian ranche. There one would let pikelets, or 
 muffins, or foie gras, or an omelet, or anything
 
 8 4 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 else in the eating line go to perdition for the sake 
 of a letter. Here one feels quite different ; and 
 my distinguished correspondence can wait most 
 comfortably until I have demolished cook's pike- 
 
 Jof-O " 
 
 JLIb. 
 
 Winifred's young man looked up in alarm. 
 " Are you not going to let us have any ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Dick. " If you are 
 quick perhaps. But you have been having 
 pikelets on and off all the time I have been doing 
 my own cooking on a Californian ranche." 
 
 " Dick, did you do all the cooking ? " asked 
 Laura. 
 
 " No, not all the cooking ; we turned and 
 turned about." 
 
 " Week in, week out ? " asked Winifred. 
 
 " No, not week in, week out. It depended 
 on what we had to cook and on what work had 
 to be done. 
 
 Some things I could cook and Meredith 
 couldn't ; some things he excelled in that I was 
 a duffer at. And it was the same with work ; 
 and between the two we made it fit." 
 
 " And never quarreled ? " 
 
 " I never quarreled with Meredith," said 
 Dick, rather shortly. 
 
 " Never in seven years ? " put in George 
 Drummond. 
 
 " Never in seven years. I never had a wrong
 
 Home Again. 8 5 
 
 word with the dear old chap in my life, from 
 first to last." 
 
 And then his heart gave a great sick throb as 
 he remembered the last scene, when Roger 
 Meredith's drink-maddened eyes had glared into 
 his with murder in them. 
 
 He sat in his chair and took a cup of tea from 
 his mother's hand, stirring it round and round to 
 the utter neglect of the tempting pile of cook's 
 pikelets which reposed on a little table just in 
 front of him. 
 
 " What is the matter, Dick ? " said Laura in 
 an undertone. 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " You don't look as if nothing were the mat- 
 ter," she persisted. 
 
 " Don't I ? I hate tc think about Meredith ; 
 that's all." 
 
 " You liked him very much ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think I did more than like him ; I am 
 sure I did. He was such a good sort. If it 
 hadn't been for drink, Meredith could have gone 
 anywhere, done anything, filled any place. I 
 tried so hard to keep him from it, and to think 
 he could come to an end like that in a drunken 
 brawl ! Ah, I cannot bear to think about it." 
 
 " I wouldn't think about it if I were you," said 
 Lavra, speaking in a rapid undertone, for the 
 others were all talking nineteen to the dozen,
 
 86 A Matter of Sentiment 
 
 " I wouldn't think about it, Dick, if I were you. 
 It wasn't as if you could help it." 
 
 " No, it wasn't as if I could help it, was it ? " 
 
 " Of course not. And if men do take to 
 drink, it really is their own fault." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose it was his own fault, poor old 
 chap. I can't bear to think about him." 
 
 " I wouldn't think about him if I were you, 
 Dick," she said tenderly, " that I wouldn't." 
 
 All the same, it is one thing to make up your 
 mind that you will follow a certain course, and 
 it is another thing to follow it. 
 
 " Have another pikelet, Dick ? " said his 
 mother, handing him the plate. 
 
 " Not another, thanks, mater." 
 
 " Oh, do, dear, or cook will be so upset if she 
 thinks you do not like them. She will be sure 
 to think there is something wrong with the 
 pikelets. You always used to be so fond of 
 them." 
 
 " Yes, I know, but I don't feel like eating to- 
 day. Oh, well, here I'll take one," he said, im- 
 patiently. 
 
 He took another of the little rich cakes and 
 choked it down with an evident effort. " George," 
 he said, handing him the dish, " here ! You have 
 got a maw like a shark. Get ready, and have a 
 dozen of these, there's a good old chap." 
 
 " So strange," said Mrs. Vincent to Laura, when
 
 Home Again. 8 7 
 
 the others had strolled away, " I never knew Dick 
 refuse pikelets in my life before ! And he seemed 
 so hungry when he came in ; he wouldn't even 
 open his letters and they are not opened now. 
 I wonder if he doesn't feel well. Have you been 
 overdoing it in London ? " 
 
 " Not a bit of it, mother. Something recalled 
 Mr. Meredith to his mind, and it knocked him 
 over completely. I don't think you half realize 
 how fond Dick was of him." 
 
 " No, I dare say not. But still, the poor man 
 is dead and gone, and, after all, he came to a most 
 disreputable end, and it's no use Dick brooding 
 over it. He couldn't help it, poor boy, and 
 pikelets always were " 
 
 " Oh, mother, don't worry about it. After all, 
 it's a very little time ago, and it must have been 
 a dreadful shock to Dick. Hasn't he opened his 
 letters ? " 
 
 " No, he hasn't." 
 
 " Oh, well, I wouldn't bother him with them. 
 Dear old Dick ! I hate to think of him being 
 down in the mouth and miserable." 
 
 " So do I," said her mother. " And it isn't as 
 if he had come home for good. I suppose he's 
 going back to that horrid ranche, where he never 
 gets anything to eat that is fit to eat. It does 
 seem hard that he can't enjoy good things while 
 he has the chance of them."
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " Don't worry, mother," said Laura, " don't 
 worry. Leave Dick to get over it and live his 
 own life." 
 
 " But he's never even opened his letters ! " 
 said Mrs. Vincent, vexedly.
 
 A Spell of Family Life. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A SPELL OF FAMILY LIEE. 
 
 " I WISH," said Mrs. Vincent, half-an-hour 
 later, when Dick had lounged into the " Red 
 Parlor " again, " I wish you wouldn't let your 
 mind dwell on that poor fellow, Dick." 
 
 " What poor fellow ? " said Dick. 
 
 " The poor fellow that was killed," said Mrs. 
 Vincent. 
 
 " Oh, you mean Meredith ? Well, mother, I 
 can't help thinking about him sometimes, and 
 when anything reminds me of him, I can't help 
 getting a fit of the blues. It's all right. I shall 
 get over it after a bit. Don't worry about it." 
 
 " I can't help worrying, my dear boy, when I 
 see you miserable, and you don't eat, and all those 
 good pikelets wasted." 
 
 " No, not wasted, for Drummond had a thun- 
 dering good feed of them." 
 
 " Yes, I know. But George comes contin- 
 ually ; and George is never out of the road of 
 English cooking. I don't put myself out about 
 George, I can assure you."
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " I dare say not. But cook won't know 
 whether George or I ate this particular lot of 
 pikelets." 
 
 " You never opened your letters," Mrs. Vin- 
 cent went on. 
 
 " By Jove ! No more I did. Really, mother, 
 I beg your pardon. You must forgive me this 
 once." 
 
 " Forgive you ? Dear boy, you have come 
 home to enjoy yourself. All that I am anxious 
 for is that you shall have a really good time. It 
 isn't a question of forgiveness. How ridiculous ! 
 Well, here are your letters. I'm sure I do hope 
 there won't be anything disagreeable in them." 
 
 " Not at all likely," said Dick, easily. 
 
 There was indeed a goodly batch of correspon- 
 dence bills, letters, invitations, and communica- 
 tions on business pure and simple but Dick at 
 last got through them all, and there was only a 
 bundle of newspapers to be opened. This bundle 
 contained the copies of the Midas Creek " Free 
 Press." He tore off the wrapper with a sick 
 throb at his heart ; he had already seen a copy 
 of the paper. " Here, mother," he said, when 
 he had turned to the place where he knew the 
 paragraph would be, " there's the account of poor 
 old Roger's death. It was a hideous business." 
 
 o 
 
 Mrs. Vincent took the paper from his hand 
 with a feeling of vexation in her inmost soul, just
 
 A Spell of Family Life. 9* 
 
 glanced over the paragraph, and put the paper 
 down on the table beside her. " My dear Dick," 
 she said, " if a man could drink like that, drink 
 himself mad, I really don't think he could be 
 much loss to anybody. And after you had kept 
 him straight for years, to be tempted the moment 
 you turned your back " 
 
 " Well, mother," said Dick, " we never know, 
 any of us, what we may do until we are tempted. 
 Poor old Roger had been as straight as a die for 
 over two years. Don't let yourself think of him 
 as a besotted beast that had no good in him. He 
 was the kindest, gentlest, best fellow that ever 
 lived. He took me up when I was a mere ten- 
 derfoot a youngster and he stuck to me through 
 thick and thin right down to the very last. I be- 
 lieve it was only the fact of my coming away that 
 made him take to the drink at all. 
 
 " Then why did you go away, Dick ? " 
 
 " Well, for one thing I had made every ar- 
 rangement ; I wanted to come home. I thought 
 you wanted to see me." 
 
 " Of course, we did." 
 
 " I begged him to come." 
 
 " Why didn't he come ? " 
 
 " Well, mother, I can tell you, but keep it to 
 yourself until I have found out all there is to 
 know. Meredith was married." 
 
 " Married ? Where was his wife ? "
 
 9 2 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " That's what we don't know. He didn't 
 know ; he wanted me to find out whether she was 
 alive or not ; whether there was any chance of 
 her coming out to him." 
 
 " He was fond of her then ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; always had been. It was only the 
 demon of drink that ever seems to have caused 
 them any trouble at all." 
 
 " But that needn't have prevented his coming 
 to England." 
 
 " Well, it needn't ; I did my best to persuade 
 him. The truth was he had got it into his head 
 that she might have married again ; and if she 
 had he didn't want to have her disturbed. He 
 knew he had been a failure as her husband, and if 
 she had found another he would have stood aside 
 in silence and remained in America all the rest of 
 his life." 
 
 " There was nobility in him," said Mrs. Vin- 
 cent. 
 
 " Nobility in him ! " echoed Jack. " I couldn't 
 make you or anybody else understand, unless 
 they had known him, that in spite of the drink 
 Meredith was all nobility. I don't believe I shall 
 find her married ; I believe if he had lived she 
 would have gone out there and been as happy as a 
 queen for the rest of the chapter. It's partly 
 that that makes me so sad when I think all 
 about it all. But there I didn't come home
 
 A Spell of Family Life. 93 
 
 to worry you, mother; I won't talk about it 
 again." 
 
 " And you want to discover her ? " 
 
 " I've got to discover her," said Dick. " I've 
 got a large sum of money to hand over to her; 
 and now, if I can find her or the child alive, the 
 half of the ranche will belong to them." 
 
 " And if you don't find them ? " 
 
 " If I don't find them, that is if I find absolute 
 proof of their death, it will all belong to me." 
 
 "He left a will?" 
 
 " Yes, he made a will. He made it himself, 
 only few days before we left Santa Clara. Of 
 course, I shall find them, I've got to find them, 
 alive or dead." 
 
 " But you won't go away just yet ? " said his 
 mother, anxiously. 
 
 "No, not just yet." 
 
 " How will you know where to find them ? " 
 
 " Oh, well, I know where Meredith left them." 
 
 " How long ago is that ? " 
 
 " Some fifteen or sixteen years." 
 
 " Oh, my dear boy, anything may have hap- 
 pened. Has he never written to her ? " 
 
 " I believe not. He left his wife, confident of 
 making a fortune ; he never had a shade of luck 
 until he met me. At first, as you know, we had 
 only the luck of being able to keep body and soul 
 together, I was able to get help from the gover-
 
 24 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 nor ; Meredith had no governor. Indeed, right 
 down to now he never felt that he could write to 
 her as he would like to do. So when I proposed 
 to come home for a holiday he asked me to find 
 her to institute inquiries, you understand." 
 
 " And to take her back with you ? " said Mrs. 
 Vincent. 
 
 " That was his hope, poor old chap. Can't 
 you understand, mother, that I don't like even to 
 think about it ? " 
 
 In her way Mrs. Vincent was a very wise wo- 
 man. From that moment she worried her son 
 with no more strictures on the life and character 
 of his chum, Roger Meredith. More than that, 
 she spoke to her youngest daughter on the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 " If I were you, Laura, she said, " I wouldn't 
 speak to Dick about that unfortunate man, Mere- 
 dith, at all. He has taken his death very much 
 to heart indeed. There seems to have been a 
 great deal of good in him, poor fellow. I'm quite 
 sorry for Dick. He'll get over it after a time, but 
 for the present don't encourage him either to talk 
 about him or think about him. He told me a 
 good deal about it the other day. I quite under- 
 stand Dick feeling a little morbid on the subject. 
 Poor fellow, it's very sad, just when they were 
 getting into smooth water, that things should have 
 gone so wrong. I feel very much for Dick in
 
 A Spell of Family Life. 95 
 
 the whole affair. And Dick was proud of him 
 and kept him straight. It's always the same with 
 drunkards heart-breaking work trying to reclaim 
 them. I feel most sorry for Dick, and if we can 
 do anything to prevent him from even thinking 
 about the unfortunate man again, it will be quite 
 the wisest course we can take." 
 
 " Poor dear Dick ! Oh, I won't say a word, 
 mother," the girl replied. " I saw from the be- 
 ginning, of course, that he was brooding very much 
 over the whole affair, and quite enough to make 
 him. It's a horrible thing to see your friend mur- 
 dered before your very eyes." 
 
 " My dear, Dick didn't see it. Dick was in 
 New York." 
 
 " Oh, was he ? I thought he saw it. How 
 do you know ? " 
 
 " Well, Dick showed me the paper. It is here ; 
 it gives an account of the whole thing. Curious 
 people they are out there. Actually brought it 
 in ' Died by the visitation of God.' Blasphem- 
 ous, I call it." 
 
 " Ah, I suppose," rejoined Laura, " that it was 
 their way of saying that there was no blame at- 
 tached to anybody. But as you say, mother, they 
 are queer people." 
 
 " Juries, my dear, are queer all the world over. 
 One never knows what a jury may or may not do, 
 I'm sure. There was the case of that poor Ed-
 
 9 6 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 ward Brown. They found him in the first spin- 
 ney at the Three-Mile-Bottom with his head 
 literally battered in, and the jury brought it in 
 < Found dead.' " 
 
 " Oh, he was killed by poachers." 
 
 " Ah, but would you imagine," cried Mrs. 
 Vincent, " that respectable jurymen are intimate 
 with poachers ? " 
 
 " It looked rather like it," said Laura, with a 
 laugh. " However, perhaps they'll put women 
 on juries one of these days, and perhaps then we 
 shall get something approaching to commonsense 
 and justice." 
 
 " Oh, my dear, my dear, pray don't allow any 
 such horrible ideas to dwell in your mind for an 
 instant. I hope the day will be far distant when 
 women have any more power than they have 
 now ; married women have all the power they 
 want." 
 
 " And the unmarried women ? " cried Laura, 
 with a laugh. 
 
 " The unmarried women ? Oh, it doesn't mat- 
 ter what becomes of them. All the nice women 
 get married." 
 
 " You had better not tell Aunt Charlotte so," 
 said Laura, with an irrepressible giggle. 
 
 " Aunt Charlotte ? " Mrs. Vincent looked up 
 in a startled kind of way. " Well, rich maiden 
 aunts oh, of course, yes they form a sort of
 
 A Spell of Family Life. 97 
 
 class by themselves, don't they, dear ? That is 
 rather different. But you will remember what I 
 say about poor Dick ? " 
 
 " Oh, I'll remember, mother. I am as sorry 
 for poor old Dick as you are. And from what 
 he says Roger Meredith must have been a good 
 sort, with just that one little weakness to ruin 
 him." 
 
 But in spite of Mrs. Vincent's precautions that 
 nothing should be said to remind Dick of his lost 
 chum, Dick did not recover his natural spirits. 
 Truth to tell, the pilgrimage which he must make 
 in search of Roger Meredith's wife and child had 
 come to weigh upon his spirits like a lump of 
 lead, or a bad dream. Of course, he knew that 
 there was no getting off the quest, that he would 
 have to go, he would have to use every endeavor 
 to find the woman who for fifteen years had been 
 utterly neglected by the man who all the time was 
 pining to see her again. 
 
 In a way he understood Meredith's action. 
 He understood how he had left home in a blaze 
 of triumph and prophecy that in a new world he 
 would easily carve out a new career which should 
 be the means of providing for her and the child 
 as lavishly as the most loving husband could de- 
 sire. But things had gone wrong ; and day after 
 day went by until Meredith's hope had fled, and 
 he had not liked to write ; he had been ashamed 
 7
 
 9 8 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 to write and admit his failure. Then, after fifteen 
 years had passed, it was naturally most difficult 
 to break the long silence. He quite understood, 
 if it were so difficult for him, what it must have 
 been for Meredith himself practically impossible. 
 
 However, he had accepted the trust, and he 
 must carry it through. It was a sacred trust 
 the last request of a dead and gone friend. Yes, 
 he must make up his mind to leave the pleasant 
 Kentish home, the handsome mother and sisters, 
 the cheery father, and the people round about, all 
 keenly interested in the doings of the much- 
 longed-for son and heir to the old place. Yes, 
 he must leave them. He must go down to Blank- 
 hampton, and he must set his wits to work to 
 find some trace of Roger Meredith's wife for 
 when Roger Meredith had crossed the seas in 
 search of a career in the New World, his wife had 
 gone down to Blankhampton, desiring, for some 
 curious motive best known to herself, to cast her 
 lines among strangers. 
 
 " Of course," Meredith had said to her the 
 night before he left England, " of course you will 
 go back and live among your own people ? " 
 
 " No," she said, " I think not. I will write 
 to you in a short time. You had better leave 
 me free ; I shall do better if I am not hampered 
 in any way." 
 
 Then, after a few weeks, the news had reached
 
 A Spell of Family Life. 99 
 
 him that she had settled herself at Blankhamp- 
 ton. 
 
 " I don't know one soul in the place," she 
 wrote to him. " I have enough money, with what 
 you gave me, to establish myself, and although 
 my poor little pittance is not enough to keep us 
 on, yet I am certain that here I shall get some 
 sort of work. I feel convinced that the way will 
 be made open to me. I like Blankhampton 
 very much. It is quiet and dull, except you are 
 in the Cathedral set or the Army set, but the 
 tone of the place is good ; it has an air of sedate- 
 ness and dignity about it which just now to me 
 is very comforting. I shall very contentedly 
 stay here, dearest Roger, until you send for me." 
 
 Was she, Dick wondered, still waiting the 
 summons or had she grown tired? He could 
 not tell which course was the most likely one 
 for her to have taken ; whether she was still on 
 the alert listening for the postman's knock, 
 whether she had dropped by the wayside, or 
 whether she had formed new ties, new interests, 
 a new life. He had written down in his pocket- 
 book the last address from which Meredith had 
 heard from her. He did not know Blankhamp- 
 ton, he had never been there, so that he had 
 not the slightest inkling whether the address was 
 a good or a bad one. It was a very curious- 
 sounding street "Mrs. Roger Meredith, 19,
 
 ioo A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 Ogledal, Blankhampton." Ogledal ! What an 
 extraordinary name for a street! It must be 
 a street, for the number of the house was nineteen. 
 Well, he would go down to Blackhampton, and 
 he would search round the street called Ogledal, 
 and he would prosecute inquiries. 
 
 But day after day went by and still Dick 
 Vincent did not leave Hollingridge, until at last 
 one evening, when he was sitting alone smoking 
 on the western side of the house, it suddenly 
 came upon him like a flash of light that he was 
 grossly neglecting his best friend's last request ; 
 that it was not sufficient to say to himself that he 
 would set about Meredith's business some day. 
 Some day was no day ; and Dick Vincent shook 
 himself out of the atmosphere of doubt and 
 indecision in which he had been lingering for 
 many days, and told himself that he would set 
 off on his quest on the morrow.
 
 A Resolve. * 01 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A RESOLVE. 
 
 " GOING away to-morrow ? " said Mrs. Vincent, 
 in a tone of dismay. " Oh, well, I suppose we 
 could not expect to keep you here all the time." 
 
 She was sitting at the head of the dinner table ; 
 Dick was beside her. She leaned her elbows upon 
 the table and looked at him with her handsome 
 eyes full of regret. 
 
 " It isn't that, mother. 1 would rather stay 
 here altogether, until I have to go back to Santa 
 Clara," Dick replied. " But I have got some 
 very important business to carry through." 
 
 " Oh have you ? Connected with Santa 
 Clara ? " 
 
 " Well, it is and it isn't. It's private business of 
 Meredith's, poor old chap for it's the last thing 
 he asked of me. I didn't see about it before, be- 
 cause, to tell you the truth, I didn't feel equal to 
 it ; but the time is going on now, and the sooner 
 I see it through the better." 
 
 " Then you'll come back here when you're 
 through ? "
 
 io2 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " Oh, yes, mother, of course 1 shall." Then 
 Dick laughed a little laugh. " In a place like 
 Santa Clara, mother, it isn't so lively or so com- 
 fortable that a man neglects a home like this to 
 go gadding about, dining at restaurants and visit- 
 ing theaters." 
 
 " Dear boy ! " said Mrs. Vincent, laying her 
 hand affectionately upon his arm. 
 
 " So as soon as I am through I shall come 
 back again. I must stay a day or two in town, 
 just to see after a few things I want to take out 
 
 with me. I should like to get them ordered in 
 
 ^* > 
 
 time. 
 
 " And Dick, you'll not be seven years before 
 you come back again ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, mother. I shall come back every 
 year now, unless very unforeseen things should 
 happen. You see, I didn't want to come back a 
 pauper, and the governor had lent me a good bit 
 of money, so I didn't feel justified until we really 
 began to make. But now there is not likely to 
 be any lack of money, although it is quite true I 
 may not make millions. But I shall never stay 
 seven years again, especially," he added, "with- 
 out poor old Roger." 
 
 " You will take another partner ? " asked his 
 father from the other end of the table. 
 
 " I don't think so. It isn't likely I shall meet 
 another man I feel just the same to as I did to
 
 A Resolve. I0 3 
 
 Meredith. And a partnership is a very close busi- 
 ness ; it is nearly as close as getting married." 
 
 Mrs. Vincent rose in her place at that moment. 
 " Come, girls," she said, " let us go into the 
 drawing-room." 
 
 So Dick and his father were left alone to- 
 gether, but the conversation did not happen to 
 be about Santa Clara. Mrs. Vincent reverted to 
 the subject, however, when Dick joined them 
 later in the drawing-room. 
 
 " I suppose," she said, in an undertone, as 
 Dick settled himself down on the sofa by her 
 side, a very favorite corner of his, " I suppose 
 you are going to look up Mr. Meredith's wife ? " 
 
 " I am going to try and find her, mother. I 
 am afraid," he added penitently, "that I have 
 neglected it too long." 
 
 " Oh, well, dear, it can make very little differ- 
 ence to her, poor soul, after all these years of 
 waiting. And it was really necessary that you 
 should relax yourself a little after your long 
 strain." 
 
 " Well, it's not a pleasant task, anyhow. But 
 still I must go through with it." 
 
 " You won't be away longer than you can 
 help ? " 
 
 " No, no ; I don't want to go at all." 
 
 " Dear boy ! " said Mrs. Vincent in her most 
 caressing tones.
 
 I0 4 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 So the following day Dick Vincent set off. 
 He did not go straight to Blankhampton, but 
 stayed the rest of the day and night in London ; 
 and the day after that, by a moderately early train, 
 he continued his journey, and in due course of 
 time otherwise about five hours he found him- 
 self in the well-known cathedral city. 
 
 He turned his back upon the gaudy Station 
 Hotel, and inquired of the cabman which was 
 the most comfortable hotel in the city itself. 
 The Jehu, who was ancient and well steeped in 
 the traditions of Blankhampton, told him that at 
 the Golden Swan he would find excellent accom- 
 modation for both man and beast. 
 
 " Well, you see, I haven't got a beast," said 
 Dick, " but the Golden Swan will do me very 
 well. Drive me there." 
 
 And to the Golden Swan he w^s driven. He 
 thought St. Thomas's Street, in which it lay, 
 seemed rather narrow and antiquated ; he did not 
 realize then that in its narrowness lay its chief 
 charm. He found the Golden Swan an old- 
 fashioned hostelry, where he was given a warm 
 welcome and conducted to a large sleeping apart- 
 ment, the furniture of which was very old and 
 solid. The hangings were very white and spot- 
 less, and the room like the rest of the hotel, had 
 an indescribable air of long-established solidity. 
 
 " Will you take anything, sir ? " asked the
 
 A Resolve. I0 5 
 
 chamber-maid, as she stood watching the porter 
 of the hotel unstrap Dick's portmanteau. 
 
 " Yes, I will have a whisky and soda when I 
 come down-stairs." 
 
 " Will you dine here to-night, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes. I suppose there's a table d'hote ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, there's dinner at seven to half- 
 past." 
 
 " Very good. Tell them to keep a place for 
 me." 
 
 It was then nearly six o'clock in the evening. 
 He washed his hands and brushed off the dusty 
 effects of the journey. Then he went down-stairs 
 and had a whisky and soda. After that, he 
 lighted a cigarette and stood on the steps of the 
 hotel watching the rank and fashion of Blank- 
 hampton go up and down the street. He had 
 heard before that Blankhampton was famous for 
 its pretty girls, but he had not been prepared for 
 the panorama of beauty which spread itself out 
 that evening before his astonished eyes. They 
 came past in twos and threes, and each one seemed 
 to be prettier than the last. 
 
 " Gad ! this is the placet o come to," he said 
 to himself. 
 
 He was a singularly uninflammable man ; had 
 he not been so he would certainly never have 
 stayed seven years at Santa Clara with no more 
 than an occasional jaunt down to the western
 
 io6 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 towns, in which beautiful women did not as a rule 
 flourish. 
 
 " Now I come to think of it," his thoughts 
 ran, " St. Aubyn used to say what a jolly billet 
 Blankhampton was. And I remember he raved 
 about the girls. It seems to me that it has kept 
 up its tradition ; these girls are extraordinarily 
 good-looking." 
 
 Then he looked back into the hotel. " What 
 regiment is quartered here now ? " he asked of the 
 barmaid, who was to be found behind a huge 
 glass screen opposite to the door. 
 
 " The Black Horse," the girl replied. 
 
 " The Black Horse ? You don't say so ! By 
 
 Ji " 
 ove ! 
 
 " You seem pretty much astonished," said the 
 girl. 
 
 " Well, I am. It was my old regiment." 
 
 " Really ? " 
 
 " Yes. I must go and call to-morrow." 
 
 Then he turned back and took up his position 
 on the step once more. He did not, however, 
 stay there very long, for just as he was 
 lighting a fresh cigarette, a girl came along the 
 street whose beauty so far outshone all others who 
 had gone before her that Dick was, figuratively 
 speaking, knocked all of a heap. She was very 
 plainly and simply dressed, and she was quite 
 alone. For a moment Dick stood glaring blankly
 
 A Resolve. I0 7 
 
 after her, the match still in his hand. It was 
 not, indeed, until the flame reached his fingers 
 that he realized how completely he had been as- 
 tounded and dumfounded by this vision of 
 beauty. Then, as quick as thought, he de- 
 scended the steps and gave chase up the street. 
 The girl herself was so unconscious of his pres- 
 ence that Dick instinctively was all carefulness 
 not to attract her attention, but he had a good 
 satisfying stare at her ; noted the simple gray 
 coat and skirt, white sailor hat bound with white 
 ribbon, the neat gray gloves, and firm light foot- 
 step. She was evidently out on business of some 
 kind, for she went into several shops and came 
 out of them, and set off down the street carrying 
 some small parcels and a library book under her 
 arm. He followed her no further than the end 
 of the street ; she was not the kind of girl that a 
 man follows for very long. Then he retraced 
 his steps to the hotel, and once more interviewed 
 the pretty barmaid. 
 
 "Is there a street in Blankhampton called 
 Ogledal ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," she replied. 
 
 "Is it far from here ? " 
 
 " Well, you go right up to the top of the street, 
 and then you come to a street which goes straight 
 down to the cathedral. You turn to the right 
 when you get to the bottom of the street, and go
 
 108 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 round the cathedral to the right, and it's the third 
 street you come to leading out of the parish 
 precincts." 
 
 " Oh, I see ; thank you very much. What 
 sort of a street is it ? " 
 
 " Oh, a queer little old-fashioned street with a 
 double turning in it." 
 
 " What sort of people live there ? " 
 
 " Well, lik call the old streets in Blankhamp- 
 ton," the girl replied, " there are some big 
 houses and some little pokey houses. Some of 
 the best people live in houses that lead out of 
 Ogledal." 
 
 " Oh, I see ; thank you very much." And 
 Dick turned on his heel and was soon swinging 
 away up the street at a good rapid pace. 
 
 He found the cathedral easily enough, and by 
 following exactly the directions that had been 
 given to him soon saw the curious name of Ogle- 
 dal put up on a board at the end of a narrow 
 street. So this was where Roger's wife had found 
 a shelter. 
 
 It was a queer street. At the end at which he 
 entered it there was to the right a low, old-fash- 
 ioned house such as you never find except in the 
 neighborhood of a cathedral ; on the other was a 
 long garden wall. Then another wall on either 
 side, evidently the boundary of private gardens ; 
 then a wide old entrance into a great square, with
 
 A Resolve. I0 9 
 
 a splendid house, almost like the houses you see 
 in the older parts of French towns, and half-a- 
 dozen small houses on either side. Then a 
 curious house with " St. Giles's Rectory " written 
 on the door-plate ; then another wretched en- 
 trance into a court. Then half-a-dozen common- 
 place houses, and opposite some kind of manu- 
 factory or rather some kind of works ; then a 
 brewer's yard and several tall chimneys ; then 
 some cottages. This was on the right side of the 
 street. As he walked on the left, with its com- 
 monplace modern houses, he came to two semi- 
 mansions. They were respectively numbers 
 twenty-three and twenty-one. So he was close 
 upon number nineteen. 
 
 Number nineteen was a small, old-fashioned 
 house, with a window full of plants, a framed plate 
 of fashions, and a sheet of blue glass in a gilt 
 frame, on which was written in letters of gold 
 " Miss Beazley, Dress and Mantle Maker." 
 Dick stood still for a moment looking at the 
 fuchsias and geraniums, at the simpering fashion 
 plate, and the blue glass with its gilt letters. 
 
 " Miss Beazley," he muttered. " Well, she 
 might know something. I may as well ask." 
 
 Then he stepped to the door and rapped half- 
 a-dozen times with the little tin-pot knocker. At 
 first there was no response. He waited a few 
 minutes, and then knocked again. Then there
 
 110 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 was a scuffling and a scurrying of feet within, and 
 the door was opened by a snub-nosed girl of about 
 fourteen or fifteen years old. 
 
 " Does Mrs. Meredith live here ? " inquired 
 Dick. 
 
 The girl looked up in a scared kind of way at 
 the tall soldierly young man. " Mrs. Meredith ? 
 No, I don't know that name," she said. " Miss 
 Beazley lives here." 
 
 " Yes, I see she does by the plate in the win- 
 dow. Has she lived here long ? " 
 
 " I don't know, I'm sure. I have not been 
 with her very long." 
 
 "Is Miss Beazley at home ? " 
 
 " No, sir, she isn't at home. She's out." 
 
 " Oh ! When will she be at home ? " 
 
 " Well, she might be home about nine to-night. 
 She's gone up to Water Muggleston to fit on a 
 lady." 
 
 " To fit on a lady ? Oh ! You think she'll 
 be at home about nine ? " 
 
 "Yes, I'm sure she'll be at home about nine, 
 because the train gets in at twenty-five minutes 
 before nine." 
 
 " I see. If I came back at nine you think she 
 would see me ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, she'd see you." 
 
 " Or could I see her in the morning ? Nine 
 o'clock is rather late to answer inquiries."
 
 A Resolve. 
 
 " Yes, I dare say you could see her in the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "Will she be at home at ten o'clock, do you 
 think ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes,. I should think she'd be at home at 
 ten o'clock." 
 
 At this juncture another voice, proceeding 
 from the dim recesses of the little house, spoke 
 to the girl. " What does the gentleman want, 
 Mary Ann ? " 
 
 " He wants Miss Beazley." 
 
 " Well, Miss Beazley is out. Is there anything 
 I can do ? " 
 
 The voice came nearer and nearer, and then a 
 stout elderly person, wiping a pair of wet hands 
 upon a not too clean apron, came round the corner 
 and into view. " I am Miss Beazley's mother," 
 she said to Dick Vincent. " May I ask what 
 you want of her ? " 
 
 " Well, to tell you the truth," answered Dick, 
 " I don't know anything of Miss Beazley at all. 
 I want a Mrs. Meredith who lived here in this 
 house about fifteen years ago. I suppose you 
 haven't been here as long as that ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Meredith ? Would you please walk in, 
 sir ? Come into the parlor." 
 
 So Dick strolled in and stood, looking very tall 
 indeed, in the little parlor with its wax flowers 
 and its crochet antimacassars.
 
 112 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 "Thank you very much. I'm afraid I'm 
 troubling you, but the fact is I want to see Mrs. 
 Meredith on most important business, and with 
 as little delay as possible. If you can give me 
 any information about her I should be most 
 grateful to you." 
 
 " No, I can't," said Mrs. Beazley, still wiping 
 her hands and gazing reflectively through the 
 screen of plants out into the street. " 1 can't. 
 We've been here three years come Michaelmas ; 
 and before us there was a Mr. Johnson used 
 to live here. He was a naturalist ; he used 
 to you know, sir, a naturalist stuff birds, 
 and blow eggs, and mount butterflies and 
 things of that kind. He was here for a many 
 years." 
 
 " Oh ! And where is he ? " 
 
 " Well, Mr. Johnson, he's dead," said the old 
 lady. " Mrs. Johnson, his wife, likewise she's 
 dead." 
 
 " Can't get any information out of them," said 
 Dick. 
 
 " No, that you can't not in this world, at 
 least. But they had a married daughter, and she 
 used to live in Briergate. She was married to a 
 very clever young fellow that sang in the parish 
 choir. He sang alto ; and then his voice cracked 
 and he got a place as organist out in the country 
 somewhere, and took pupils. Now she would
 
 A Resolve. "3 
 
 know, if Mrs. Meredith lodged with her father 
 and mother, she would know all about her." 
 
 " But where does she live ? " asked Dick. 
 
 " Ah, now, that's slipped my memory. But 
 when my daughter comes home she's got a 
 better memory than I have, and she keeps going 
 with people more ; I think young people do. So 
 if you could make it convenient to call round to- 
 morrow, sometime when my daughter would be 
 likely to be in and that will be all the morning 
 I dare say she could give you the information 
 you want." 
 
 " I am sure," said Dick, " I am much obliged 
 to you. If I were to come in between ten and 
 eleven, would that suit Miss Beazley, should you 
 think ? " 
 
 " Well, sir, I should think it would. I've not 
 heard of anything particular that she's got to do 
 at that time. I know she's a lady coming to be 
 fitted at twelve." 
 
 " Well, I'll come before eleven," said Dick, 
 "and I'm extremely obliged to you." 
 
 " I haven't done nothing for you yet, sir," said 
 Mrs. Beazley, following him to the door. 
 
 " Well, you have shown willing," said Dick, 
 taking off his hat with a flourish. 
 8
 
 IJ 4 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE FIRST LINK IN THE CHAIN. 
 
 BETWEEN a very excellent dinner and the feel- 
 ing that he was on the high-road to the discovery 
 of Mrs. Meredith, and the fact that he had seen 
 the most beautiful girl that day that he had ever 
 seen in his life, Dick Vincent passed the evening 
 in a very much happier frame of mind than he 
 had imagined he could possibly be in when he 
 left London that morning. 
 
 He was up betimes for life in California does 
 not tend to the formation of habits of laziness. 
 He had a regular Blankhampton breakfast too 
 and let me tell you that Blankhampton hotels are 
 famous for their good cheer, especially in the 
 earliest meal of the day and then about half- 
 past ten, feeling very well fortified for carrying on 
 his quest, he sauntered up the street, and once 
 more knocked at the door of number nineteen, 
 Ogledal. 
 
 The little maid was ready, and answered his 
 knock promptly. " Yes, sir, Miss Beazley is in. 
 Step this way, please, sir." 
 
 Once more Dick found himself in the little
 
 The First Link in the Chain. "5 
 
 parlor, and almost immediately the old lady whom 
 he had seen the previous evening came beaming 
 in. 
 
 " Good morning ! I knew my daughter would 
 know," she remarked. " She has such a much 
 better memory than I have. I can remember 
 anything as happened when I was a little girl, 
 but when you ask me about last week I'm done. 
 Here she is. Now, honey, this is the gentle- 
 man." 
 
 " My name is Vincent," said Dick, with a very 
 polite bow to the young dressmaker. 
 
 She was a pale, slim girl some three or four- 
 and-twenty, and she addressed herself directly to 
 the visitor. " You wanted to know about Mr. 
 Johnson's daughter married daughter ? " 
 
 " Well, I did and I didn't. Your mother was 
 kind enough to tell me last night that she thought 
 the lady would be able to give me the informa- 
 tion I require. I am really looking for a Mrs. 
 Meredith who lived in this house fifteen years 
 ago. Whether she rented the house, or whether 
 she lodged in it I have not the least idea." 
 
 " Oh, she must have lodged in it," said Miss 
 Beazley, "because the Johnsons lived here for 
 about five-and-twenty years, and we took it of 
 them at least, we took it after they left." 
 
 " Oh, I see. Then you think she must have 
 lodged with the Johnsons ? "
 
 116 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " I think she must have done. I don't know 
 anything about it myself, but I'm sure Mrs. 
 Johnson's daughter would know. She married a 
 gentleman called Pilkington. He was in the 
 choir at the parish ; in fact, he lodged with the 
 Johnsons." 
 
 " Oh, I see. And do you happen to know 
 where they live now ? " 
 
 " Yes. His voice broke, and he got a place 
 as organist at Bensehill, and he teaches music and 
 so on. I think they do very well." 
 
 " And where is Bensehill ? " 
 
 " Well, Bensehill is about three miles from 
 Blankhampton." 
 
 " How does one get there ? You see, I am 
 quite a stranger to this neighborhood." 
 
 " Oh, it's easy enough to get there. You can 
 take a cab, or you can walk," smiling at him, " or 
 you can go by train." 
 
 " Oh, I see. I can go by train. That would 
 be the quickest, wouldn't it ? " 
 
 "Yes. It's on the Rockferry line, and trains 
 are pretty frequent. Anybody in Bensehill will, 
 of course, tell you where the Pilkingtons live." 
 
 " Oh, yes. Well, Miss Beazley, I must thank 
 you, and your mother too, very much indeed for 
 your kindness to a perfect stranger. You per- 
 haps would like to know why I am so anxious to 
 find Mrs. Meredith. The truth is I have just
 
 The First Link in the Chain. "7 
 
 come from California, and some relatives of hers 
 there at least, a relative of hers there asked me 
 to find her out if I could. So you see, I am 
 anxious to find her as quickly as possible." 
 
 " Well, I'm sure," said Miss Beazley, " if any- 
 body can tell you anything about her it will be 
 Mrs. Pilkington." 
 
 " And to Mrs. Pilkington I will go by the first 
 train that will convey me. So good morning, 
 and thank you both a thousand times." 
 
 The old lady stood on the doorstep and 
 watched him go swinging away up the street. 
 " That's a handsome young feller, Jenny," she 
 said. " He's got the same look as the officers 
 have so clean and so smart. Well, I'm sure I 
 hope he'll find his Mrs. Meredith." 
 
 " So do I," said her daughter. " And I hope 
 he's brought good news to her, whoever she is." 
 
 " Hey dear," with a sigh, " it's a hard and 
 weary world." 
 
 " Lor', mother, I wish we had a smart young 
 man coming and inquiring for us." 
 
 " Well, my dear," said Mrs. Beazley, " there's 
 no knowing what fate won't do for you ; but I'm 
 afraid, though you're so genteel, Jenny, with 
 yer nice pale face and yer slim figure, that if any 
 smart young men came after you, and they saw 
 your poor old mother, it would sort of give 'em 
 the cold shivers."
 
 118 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " Go along with you, mother," said Miss 
 Beazley. 
 
 Meantime Dick had gone briskly up the street, 
 across the cathedral precincts, and down St. 
 Thomas's Street to the Golden Swan. A fresh 
 inquiry of the buxom barmaid elicited the fact 
 that there was a train to Bensehill at five minutes 
 to twelve. He determined to go by that. He 
 filled in the time until the train was due by tak- 
 ing a brisk walk round the city walls, and walked 
 into the station with just time to buy a newspaper 
 and take his ticket. 
 
 He found Bensehill the usual little roadside 
 station, with a pompous little station-master and 
 one antiquated porter. 
 
 " How far is the village from here ? " he in- 
 quired of the latter as he took his ticket. 
 
 " The village ? Three-quarters of a mile," was 
 the reply. 
 
 " Can you tell me whether a Mr. Pilkington 
 lives in the village ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. Mr. Pilkington, he lives in the 
 village, to be sure. Plays the music on Sunday, 
 and teaches in the week-day." 
 
 " Yes, that's the man," said Dick, cheerfully. 
 
 " Yes, he lives well, I doubt if I could make 
 you understand, sir. You'd better ask at the 
 post-office. You'll find that right in the center 
 of the village."
 
 The First Link in the Chain. "9 
 
 " All right ; thank you very much. Good 
 morning." 
 
 So Dick left the station with its oyster shells 
 and its glowing red geraniums behind him, and 
 swung steadily away in the direction of the vil- 
 lage. The post-office was easy enough to find. 
 The postmistress was a garrulous old lady, who 
 at once proceeded to give him the proper direc- 
 tions for reaching the Pilkingtons' house, and also 
 as much of the Pilkington history as she could 
 cram into the two or three minutes that Dick 
 remained in the little shop. 
 
 " Ah, yes, sir, a clever man what I may say 
 a genius ; thrown away on this little village, I 
 must confess, although I have lived in Bensehill 
 all my life a clever man -and a genius. We've 
 brilliant services on Sundays ; we never had be- 
 fore Mr. Pilkington came. The rector, he said to 
 me time and again, Miss Jenkins,' said he, c you 
 can play the piano, why can't you play the organ ?' 
 Which, as I told the rector more than once, it isn't 
 an organ but a harmonium. * Then,' said he, c the 
 easier for you to play ; because it's the nearest ap- 
 proach to a piano.' But it's one thing playing 
 the piano for your own pleasure and your friends' 
 amusement, and it's quite another thing playing 
 in public and for the service of the Almighty." 
 
 " That's perfectly true ! " said Dick. " But, 
 still, if one does one's best, you know."
 
 120 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " Ah, yes, yes ; that was the argument the 
 others used particularly the rector. And then 
 by some merciful chance, as far as I was concerned, 
 Mr. Pilkington came along. A first-class musician ! 
 Been years in the parish choir the parish, that 
 is the cathedral, you know, sir, at Blankhampton. 
 Something had happened to his voice ; I don't 
 know what, but he and his wife wanted a country 
 place where the air would be pure, and where he 
 could play the organ and pick up a living in the 
 neighborhood. Oh, they had a trifle. Mrs. Pil- 
 kington was a Miss Johnson. Her father was a 
 very clever man not to say a learned man and 
 she was an only child. Oh, she has a nice little 
 tidy income of her own, and you know a tidy 
 little income makes people independent." 
 
 " I'm sure it does. They showed their good 
 sense in coming here," said Dick. " And which 
 is the way to their house ? " 
 
 " Well, you go down this lane here, and you 
 take the second turning to the right, and you'll 
 find the house like a little bower it is now, all 
 smothered in roses. Mrs. Pilkington is a very 
 ladylike little person, quite genteel." 
 
 " I see," said Dick, " down the lane, and sec- 
 ond turning to the right ? " 
 
 " Yes, that's it." 
 
 " Is there a name on the house ? " 
 
 " Well, there isn't a name on the house that I
 
 The First Link in the Chain. I2T 
 
 ever saw myself, and their letters are simply ad- 
 dressed f Dead Man's Lane ' or just Bensehill ; 
 but there are only three houses in that part of the 
 lane, and the Pilkingtons' house has a mulberry 
 tree right in the middle of the lawn." 
 
 " I shall find it," said Dick. " Thank you a 
 thousand times." 
 
 " Nice pleasant-spoken gentleman. I wonder 
 if he's an old lover of Mrs. Pilkington's come 
 back again ? " said the old romantic old postmis- 
 tress. 
 
 So Dick went down the lane and took the 
 second turning to the right, speedily coming into 
 sight of a small rose-wreathed house which boast- 
 ed of a mulberry tree in the middle of the little 
 lawn which skirted the road. Here he stopped, 
 satisfied himself that it was the house, thrust open 
 the little gate, and strolled up the graveled path- 
 way to the rose-covered porch. 
 
 A little maidservant came to the door in answer 
 to his summons. 
 
 " Does Mrs. Pilkington live here ? " asked 
 Dick. 
 
 " Mrs. Pilkington she do live here," was the 
 reply. 
 
 " Would you give her this card and ask her if 
 she would see me for a few minutes on business ? " 
 said Dick. 
 
 He had been so long in California, and before
 
 122 A. Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 that his life had run in channels well away from 
 suburban London, that it never occurred to him 
 that had he been living in Clapton or East Croy- 
 don, it was the last message he would have sent 
 in to the unknown mistress of a house. Bense- 
 hill was also, presumably, too far removed from 
 the beaten track of ladies and gentlemen who pay 
 visits of a business kind to take fright at his mes- 
 sage. The little maid left him standing at the door, 
 and then came running back saying with an eager 
 gasp that " Mistress would be pleased if you 
 would walk into the parlor." 
 
 So into the parlor Dick walked. It was a neat 
 little room, a shade more refined than the similar 
 apartment in the house of Mrs. Beazley. In one 
 corner there stood a piano ; some blooming plants 
 and some nice green ones stood in the window. 
 There was a broad couch covered with immacu- 
 lately clean chintz, and one or two illustrated 
 papers on the table. Dick decided in his own 
 mind that Mr. or Mrs. Pilkington, or both of 
 them, must be distinctly superior in class to Mrs. 
 Pilkington's original status. He had just arrived 
 at this conclusion when the door opened and Mrs. 
 Pilkington came into the room. In her hand she 
 held his card. 
 
 " You wanted to see me ? " she said. 
 
 " I wanted to ask you a question," he replied, 
 " Did you ever know a Mrs. Meredith ? "
 
 The First Link in the Chain. I2 3 
 
 She looked at him with an air of surprise. 
 "Yes, I did." 
 
 " Is she living ? " 
 
 " I believe she is." 
 
 " Is she married again ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, certainly not. She never had any 
 proof of her husband's death." 
 
 " Can you give me her address ? " 
 
 " I think I can." 
 
 " I don't want it for any unpleasant purpose 
 indeed, rather the contrary," said Dick. " I shall 
 at least have the pleasure of bringing the mystery 
 of her husband's long silence to an end." 
 
 " You knew him ? " 
 
 " I knew him very well. We lived together 
 for seven years." 
 
 "In America?" 
 
 "In California. We were partners. I never 
 knew until quite recently that Mr. Meredith was 
 married. I am looking for his wife on his be- 
 half." 
 
 "Then," said Mrs. Pilkington, " I will give you 
 her address. You will find her at Gatehouses." 
 
 " Gatehouses ? Where is that ? " 
 
 " It is a village about a mile and a half from 
 Blankhampton. Anybody in the town will tell 
 you in which direction." 
 
 " I thank you very much," said Dick. She 
 lives there ? "
 
 I2 4 A Matter of Sentiment 
 
 " Yes, she has lived there for some years. Her 
 daughter is the mistress of the infant school." 
 
 " Oh, I see. Her daughter is not married 
 then ? " 
 
 " No, she is not married. She is young." 
 
 " Yes, she must be young from what Meredith 
 told me," said Dick. " Well, Mrs. Pilkington," 
 holding out his hand, " I am extremely obliged 
 to you more than I can say. I expected to have 
 much more trouble in finding my old friend's wife, 
 and you have made the way very easy for me. 
 Good-bye. Thank you again." 
 
 So he was soon striding away down the lane 
 again. 
 
 He found when he got to the post-office that 
 he would have to wait an hour and a half for the 
 next train back to Blankhampton, so instead of 
 going straight back to the station, there to cool 
 his heels until the train should arrive, he went 
 across the street to the village inn and asked the 
 apple-cheeked landlady what she could do for him 
 in the way of lunch.
 
 Gatehouses. I2 5 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 GATEHOUSES. 
 
 WHEN Dick Vincent found himself once more 
 at Blankhampton, he lost no time inquiring the 
 road to Gatehouses ; in fact, he got into a cab at 
 the station and told the man to drive him to 
 Gatehouses. It was then nearly three o'clock. 
 
 " How far is it ? A mile and a half? " 
 
 " Thereabouts, sir." 
 
 To Dick it seemed a very short mile and a 
 half; but then, although he was determined to 
 find Mrs. Meredith, he was not at all anxious for 
 the interview to begin. " Find out," said he to 
 the cabman, when they approached the village, 
 " where Mrs. Meredith lives." 
 
 " All right, sir." 
 
 The house of Mrs. Meredith was not difficult 
 to find, and before Dick knew where he was the 
 cabman had drawn up at its door. 
 
 " You had better wait for me," he said. He 
 felt somehow as if he would not want to walk back 
 into the city again. 
 
 He knocked at the door. It was opened by a
 
 126 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 lady whom he at once recognized as the original 
 of the portrait which Meredith had shown him. 
 
 " Are you Mrs. Meredith ? " said Dick, taking 
 off his hat. 
 
 " Yes, I am." Her tone was one of slight 
 surprise. 
 
 " May I come in ? " 
 
 " Oh, certainly." 
 
 "My name is Vincent Richard Vincent. I 
 have just come from California." 
 
 Mrs. Meredith, who had preceded him into the 
 dainty little sitting-room, turned with a start and 
 a gasp. " You have come from him ? " she 
 said, sharply. 
 
 " Yes," said Dick, simply, " I have." 
 
 " After all these years after all these years ! " 
 said the little woman with a sob in her breath. 
 " And he hasn't forgotten me ! " 
 
 " He had never forgotten you," said Dick, 
 " although he had not spoken of you until the 
 other day to his best friend." 
 
 " That was you ? " she said. 
 
 Dick's nervous face relaxed into a half smile. 
 u Yes," he said. " For seven years Meredith 
 and I were partners. We lived together ; we 
 were everything to each other." 
 
 " And he spoke of me at last. Sit down, Mr. 
 Vincent. Tell me everything," she entreated in 
 a shaking voice. " This has come upon me very
 
 Gatehouses. I2 7 
 
 suddenly. I had begun to think that he had 
 forgotten me, perhaps, and that he had formed 
 new ties." 
 
 " Never ! " said Dick, " never ! I never knew 
 him look at a woman. It was revelation to me 
 when he told me of your existence, when he 
 showed me your picture." 
 
 " My picture ? " 
 
 " Which he had carried about with him all these 
 years, and of which I never suspected the exist- 
 ence. I'd better begin at the beginning, Mrs. 
 Meredith ; it will make it easier. Meredith went 
 out to there seek his fortune." 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 " He sought, God knows, poor chap, he sought 
 it earnestly enough, but he didn't find it. He 
 had left you in a cock-a-hoop sort of way, pro- 
 phesying that in a few months there would be a 
 palace ready to receive you. There has never 
 been a palace, Mrs. Meredith. There is a cor- 
 rugated iron hut on the ranche which is called 
 Santa Clara but it is no palace." 
 
 " It would have been a palace to me," said Mrs. 
 Meredith, in a broken voice. 
 
 " Well," Dick went on, " he took it to heart. 
 He was ashamed to write and own up that he 
 had been a failure out there as he had been a 
 failure over here. And he drank more than was 
 good for him,"
 
 128 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " My poor Roger ! It was his one failing." 
 
 " Yes, he was his own enemy," said Dick. 
 " So he went on, year after year, and at the end 
 of eight years he had only managed to scrape to- 
 gether, just at the end of that time, a poor little 
 capital, that wouldn't have been of much good to 
 any one unless pure chance had come in and 
 turned it into luck. Then we met. I had been 
 in a cavalry regiment my father is a squire down 
 in Kent my lungs were dickey, the doctors told 
 me if I didn't get into a certain kind of climate I 
 shouldn't live through a second winter. They 
 recommended California, and I was never an idle 
 beggar, and so I left home and went to try a 
 ranche. I was young, I was green. I met your 
 husband. He took a fancy to me, and I took a 
 fancy to him. I put my bit of capital together 
 with his less bit of capital and his experience, and 
 we threw in our lot together. It's very hard 
 work is ranching, Mrs. Meredith, it's a process 
 of disillusionment ; and we only kept body and 
 soul together. I had help once or twice from 
 home, and at last we turned the corner, and we 
 began to think that one day our ranche might be 
 worth having as a ranche, you understand." 
 
 " Yes, yes," eagerly. " Go on." 
 
 " Well, that year we made a profit. It wasn't 
 much any farmer at home would have turned 
 up his nose at it. We didn't ; and next year we
 
 Gatehouses. I2 9 
 
 made a better profit ; and at the end of last year, 
 when we had put six years of hard work into our 
 ranche all the year round work, mind you, not 
 just riding about neatly togged up and giving an 
 order here and an eye there, but hard, laborious, 
 manual, back-breaking labor then Fortune 
 smiled upon us. We discovered oil on our ranche 
 or the oil discovered the ranche, I should say, 
 for it bubbled up one morning, a stink of paraffin, 
 and Meredith knew that our fortunes were made. 
 I don't say that the ranche is worth millions, but 
 at the end of that year we had ten thousand 
 pounds to divide between us." 
 
 " And then he thought of nie ? " 
 
 " Then, Mrs. Meredith, I determined to come 
 home. I had been out seven years, I hadn't seen 
 any of my own people, and the way was perfectly 
 clear for one or both of us to come home for a 
 spell. I begged Meredith to come back and stay 
 with my people, and then he told me about you." 
 
 The little woman shut her eyes and leaned her 
 head back against the chair in which she was sit- 
 ting. " He hadn't forgotten me," she said. 
 
 " No, he hadn't forgotten you. But I couldn't 
 get him to come back." 
 
 "But why not?" 
 
 " I think," said Dick, hesitatingly, " that he 
 felt a certain amount of reluctance or at least, 
 not exactly reluctance, Mrs. Meredith, but a sense 
 9
 
 X 3 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 that he had no right to come home to claim you. 
 You see, he had been away fifteen years ; he hadn't 
 written to you for the greater part of that time, 
 and it was more than possible that you might 
 have married again." 
 
 " I ? " she cried. " Oh, surely Roger knew 
 me better than that." 
 
 " Well, he alternated between hopes and fears. 
 He felt somehow that you would be as he left 
 you, and yet again that you might have been 
 tempted into marrying once more." 
 
 " And if I had ? " 
 
 " If you had, I was to find out if you were 
 happy. He had no wish to be a second Enoch 
 Arden, making things unpleasant after so long a 
 silence. If you had married again and you were 
 quite young enough to have married many times 
 over he would have stayed on the other side 
 of the Atlantic forever." 
 
 " But you see I am not married again," said 
 Mrs. Meredith, looking at him with a triumphant 
 smile. " I am a little older, but then so is he. 
 I have not altered towards him in the very least, 
 and evidently by what you tell me neither has 
 he." 
 
 " He is older," said Dick. He felt that he 
 was getting very near to a disclosure. His heart 
 beat to suffocation. He did not like to look at 
 her. " He is older, Mrs. Meredith. You see,
 
 Gatehouses. I 3 l 
 
 he has lived a hard wild life out there ; not wild 
 in the way of women, but wild in the way of hav- 
 ing no refinements, no comforts. From time to 
 time he drank pretty hard." 
 
 " But the life hasn't told upon you, Mr. Vin- 
 cent," she said, deliberately. 
 
 " No, not much. But then I was only three- 
 and-twenty when I was out there ; Roger was 
 over forty." 
 
 He thought that she would notice he spoke in 
 the past tense, but she did not do so. 
 
 " Then again," he went on, finding that she 
 did not take the cue from him as he had intended, 
 " I have always been a very temperate man ; drink 
 was never a temptation to me. Drink leaves its 
 mark on a man ; it left its mark upon him. Not 
 as it would have done if he had been a steady 
 sort, and it was not as apparent to others as it 
 seemed to me. When he began to think of the 
 possibility of your seeing him again " 
 
 " Then he did think of the possibility ? " 
 
 "He did. He talked it over with me several 
 times." 
 
 " He wanted me ? " said the little woman, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " He always wanted you," said Dick. 
 
 " Then, Mr. Vincent, since my husband is now 
 on the high-road to wealth, there is no reason why 
 I shouldn't sell up my things here and go out to
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 California to join him. I can easily raise the 
 money for the cost of our journey." 
 
 " So far as that goes, Mrs. Meredith," said 
 Dick, " there's no need for you to think twice 
 about the money. I told you that Roger and I 
 had a sum of ten thousand pounds to divide be- 
 tween us. His half he paid over into a bank for 
 transmission to England in my name ; I have 
 come over here empowered to hand it to you 
 that is to say if I found you under circumstances 
 in which I could ; if you were not married 
 again." 
 
 " Roger my husband sent me five thousand 
 pounds ? " 
 
 " He sent you five thousand pounds. I've not 
 got the papers on me, because I don't think it 
 quite safe to carry them about with me ; but I can 
 pay it over into your into any bank you like, 
 in a few hours." 
 
 " I shall certainly go out to what is the place 
 called ? " 
 
 " It is called Santa Clara." 
 
 " Santa Clara ? My name is Clara," she said. 
 
 " Yes, it was called so after you." 
 
 " I shall certainly go out," said Mrs. Mere- 
 dith. " Oh, my dear sir," she burst out, " how 
 am I ever to thank you for the trouble you have 
 taken in finding me out, in coming so delicately 
 to break the news of my great joy ? Do you
 
 Gatehouses. '33 
 
 think you have been so good, I can safely ask 
 you a question I wouldn't put to many others 
 do you think I shall find myself welcome at Santa 
 Clara ? " 
 
 " Meredith lived on the hope of your coming 
 out to him," said Dick. 
 
 Again he spoke in the past tense ; again Mrs. 
 Meredith failed to note the fact. By this time 
 Dick began to feel himself in desperate straits. 
 Here was this little woman, and a right pretty 
 little woman she was, too, ready for any scheme 
 which would result in taking her back to the man 
 who had basely no, not basely, but deliberately 
 deserted her. 
 
 Dick Vincent had not had a very wide expe- 
 rience of women, but he was quite certain that if 
 his own father had abandoned his mother to fifteen 
 years of absolute silence, and had shown himself 
 at the end of that time, his mother would have 
 had none of him. He felt that he might say the 
 same of either of his sisters. This little woman 
 seemed to feel nothing except that she was at one 
 end of a journey and Roger was at the other; 
 that the sooner she could make the two ends meet 
 the better. He had to break it to her somehow 
 or other ; that it was no use her going out to 
 Santa Clara, that the money had come too late, 
 that there was no Meredith at the other end of 
 the journey.
 
 J 34 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " My daughter," Mrs. Meredith said, break- 
 ing in upon his thoughts " I have a daughter, 
 you know ; she is eighteen nearly nineteen, in 
 fact ; she will be in presently. I am perfectly cer- 
 tain that she will be as eager as I am to go out 
 and begin an entirely new life in a new country. 
 We have been very happy here ; I think we have 
 the respect of everybody in Gatehouses. We 
 visit at the vicarage ; we are quite, in a modest 
 way, in society ; but when you have only about 
 three pounds a week, and you have to keep up a 
 decent appearance on that, it is very poor fun 
 being in a kind of society. It's a narrow life a 
 pinching life. I don't say that we haven't been 
 happy together, because my girl is everything 
 that the most exacting mother could desire ; good 
 as gold, and unselfish to a degree. She doesn't 
 remember her father ; she will be so glad to find 
 him almost, I think, as glad as I am." 
 
 " Mrs. Meredith," said Dick, " I haven't quite 
 told you everything." 
 
 " But you have told me enough," she rejoined, 
 "more than enough to make me eager and anx- 
 ious to go out and see my husband in his own 
 home, in the home that he has put together, he 
 and you, with years of hard, almost unrewarded 
 toil." 
 
 " You wouldn't like it," said Dick. " Santa 
 Clara is no place for a lady."
 
 Gatehouses. *35 
 
 His conscience smote him as the words passed 
 his lips, for he remembered how persistently he 
 had buoyed up Roger Meredith with his pictures 
 of the difference that a lady would make to Santa 
 Clara. 
 
 " Oh, I should like it," she exclaimed. " So 
 would my girl. You mustn't misunderstand my 
 life here, we are not like two women who have 
 lived in the lap of luxury. And by all accounts 
 Roger will have plenty of money now from this 
 oil well of yours, so that the place, ( even if it is 
 rather rough, can be improved and made more 
 like a home. I am not a useless fine lady, Mr. 
 Vincent. I can do anything. I can cook, I can 
 carpenter, I can house-paint, I can do anything." 
 
 " I didn't quite mean that," said Dick. 
 " There's money enough and to spare now, but 
 you think it's a wild, free, happy, joyous, devil- 
 may-care sort of life out there. It isn't. It's 
 very sordid ; it's hard work all the time ; even at 
 the best even with an oil well. There's nothing 
 
 D 
 
 romantic about California ; it's the grave of all 
 hopes ! "
 
 X 3 6 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 TOLD AT LAST. 
 
 As Dick uttered the words, " It's the grave of 
 all hopes," Mrs. Meredith looked at him fixedly. 
 
 " The grave of all hopes ! " she repeated. 
 " Why, what do you mean ? I don't say that 
 some of my hopes have not been buried there 
 these fifteen years, it wouldn't be true if I did ; 
 but they are not all buried, Mr. Vincent. Roger 
 is there ; Roger has ( struck ile' ; Roger has sent 
 home a fortune. Don't say that it's the grave of 
 all hopes." 
 
 " I do say it," said Dick. " 1 know that we 
 shan't want money in the future, whatever else we 
 may want." 
 
 " You are keeping something back from me. 
 Is you don't want me to take this journey ? " 
 
 " I don't ! " he said candidly. 
 
 " Why not ? Didn't you tell me Roger wanted 
 me?" 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " Mr. Vincent, did he come with you after all ? 
 Is he in England ? Is he in Blankhampton ? 
 Is he in that cab that is waiting at the door ? "
 
 Told at Last. 137 
 
 " No, Mrs. Meredith, Roger is not in England. 
 Roger is not in California." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I don't quite know how to tell you," he said, 
 very gravely. 
 
 " To tell me ? What ? Not that Roger is 
 dead ? " 
 
 " I am afraid I can't tell you anything else." 
 
 " Dead ! " she repeated the word like one 
 stunned. " After all these years to find him only to 
 lose him again in the same moment. Oh, oh, 
 how hard life is ! When did he die ? Tell me 
 about it. Don't leave out a single detail ; tell 
 me everything." 
 
 " Well, I'll begin at the beginning. As I told 
 you, Roger was most anxious that I should trace 
 you out ; that I should find you, alive or dead. 
 If alive, that I should pay over the five thousand 
 pounds of which I told you. I have told you that 
 on his part he cared as much as he had ever done, 
 but that a sense of shame held him back from 
 coming to seek you out himself. He loved you 
 all these years, but was not sure that he would 
 find a welcome now. I assured him to the con- 
 trary " 
 
 " Oh, you good fellow ! " she cried, stretching 
 out her hand. 
 
 Dick took the hand and held it within his own. 
 " I assured him. One look at your face was
 
 ! 3 8 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 enough when he showed me that portrait of you. 
 I knew that you wouldn't have changed ; you are 
 not the kind of woman that ever changes. I 
 couldn't convince him ; I couldn't persuade him 
 to come home and stay with my people while I 
 made inquiries. And at last I came without him. 
 He saw me part of the way down ; he was very 
 moody, very unlike himself from the time that 
 we left Santa Clara. I thought that he was up- 
 set with the anxiety of not knowing whether you 
 would be the same or not and I believe that I 
 was right. 
 
 " But when we got down to Freeman's Rock 
 he began drinking. I did everything I could to 
 stop it ; I offered to go back, but no, he came on 
 with me to Midas Creek. He Oh, Mrs. Mere- 
 dith, I did everything I could. I took the land- 
 lord into my confidence ; I coaxed and threatened 
 and persuaded ; 1 did everything possible. It 
 was useless. For two years he hadn't touched 
 anything ; he had been living entirely on the 
 square. It might have been the excitement, it 
 might have been the temptation ; anyway, one 
 evening when I was down at the store getting 
 something, he went off his head. He drew his 
 revolver on those that tried to restrain him, 
 and in the scrimmage that followed he was shot 
 dead." 
 
 " And he is dead ? "
 
 Told at Last. '39 
 
 " Mrs. Meredith, he is dead. You you I 
 words cannot express what I feel in having to 
 come and tell you this. I don't know how to 
 break it to you ; I daresay I have bungled it ; we 
 men are such fools." 
 
 " No, you have been everything that is good 
 and kind." 
 
 " I have tried to be," said Dick, " and I have 
 succeeded none too well. It's true that I told Ro- 
 ger himself that if you'd only come out to Santa 
 Clara and I felt that I should find you just the 
 same and that I could easily persuade you to 
 come back with me that you would be the mak- 
 ing of the place, that you would be the making 
 of him and me, that it would be a home, that it 
 would be a totally different place. But now 
 don't you understand ? Santa Clara is no place for 
 you. It would be like going to find the husk 
 when the kernel had been taken out of it." 
 
 He spoke excitedly. The little woman, whose 
 hand he still held, sat like a creature turned to 
 stone, 
 
 " Dead ! " she murmured, " my Roger dead ! 
 And after all these wasted years, when we might 
 have begun life over again been everything to 
 each other ; when the way had been made clear and 
 easy. Oh, it is hard ! Oh, how hard ! Oh, 
 Mr. Vincent, Mr. Vincent, when a woman loves 
 you, have faith in her ; that's the great thing.
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 He hadn't faith enough in me. He thought that 
 I was like the woman of tradition a creature who 
 cared only for the loaves and fishes, for the downy 
 cushion, for the way made smooth and clear. 
 Oh, how mistaken ! Didn't he understand had 
 he lived with me for years not to know how 
 cheerfully I would have baked his bread and 
 cooked his meat, how I would have toiled to make 
 the bare iron hut pretty, how I would have 
 coaxed the flowers to grow, and kept birds, and 
 loved the dogs and the horses and everything 
 that had life in it ? No, he never knew me. 
 You knew me better than he did. And yet 
 he cared." 
 
 " Oh, he cared," said Dick, " there's no doubt 
 about that ; from first to last you need never 
 doubt that he cared. I think that he cared so 
 much that he was afraid his very love made him 
 afraid ; it seemed too great a thing to him that 
 you should ever consent to go half-across the 
 world to find him." 
 
 The widow looked at him with tearless eyes, 
 staring out of her white face. " I would have 
 gone ten times round the world. I would have 
 gone through fire and water, to find my husband 
 at the end of the journey." 
 
 For a moment Dick could not speak. He 
 pressed the hand that he still held within his own, 
 then set it free, and getting up from his chair
 
 Told at Last. 
 
 strode to the window, where he stood looking out 
 over the wide village street, at the shabby cab, 
 the sleepy coachman and still sleepier horse 
 which was awaiting him at the door. 
 
 At last he turned round. " Mrs. Meredith," 
 he said, " after all, isn't it much better that you 
 should know that all the time poor Roger was 
 thinking about you, that he had never forgotten 
 you, that you had never been supplanted in his 
 heart by any one ? It's hard to find it out only 
 when he is dead, but still, it's better than not 
 knowing, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes, it's better than not knowing." 
 
 " Oh, yes. And, of course," he went on, 
 " you needn't live such a narrow life now, because 
 the half of Santa Clara is yours, and there will be 
 plenty of money for all of us as time goes on. 
 You can go away from this, you can travel where 
 you will ; everything will be quite different to you 
 now." 
 
 " I suppose so." She looked round the pretty 
 little room in a scared kind of way. " I wish," 
 she said, " I almost wish that Roger had not sent 
 to me." 
 
 " Oh, but certainty is better than uncertainty 
 any day." 
 
 " Not when the certainty means the end of all 
 your hopes. Oh, Mr. Vincent, you were right 
 when you spoke of California as being the grave
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 of all hopes. It has proved itself the grave of 
 mine. Oh, think of the wives who go on living 
 year after year, tied to men that they have never 
 cared for, men who have ceased to care for them ; 
 think of the husbands and wives fettered to each 
 other like prisoners chained to a log, while we, 
 who only wanted each other, were kept apart by 
 circumstance by Fate. Oh, it's cruel cruel ! 
 And then, when we might be together, and as 
 happy as ever we had been, to find all one's hopes 
 dashed to the ground ; to find the cup of joy 
 held to one's lips, and dashed away before one 
 could taste the draught it contained. Oh, how 
 hard life is ! " 
 
 She broke down and began to sob, with tears 
 that wrung Dick Vincent's heart, with sobs that 
 penetrated his very soul. And then she stretched 
 out her poor trembling little hand and laid it up- 
 on his the hand that had brought Roger Mere- 
 dith's life to a close. 
 
 For a few minutes the little widow sobbed un- 
 restrainedly on, and Dick sat there watching her 
 with fascinated gaze, yet perfectly powerless to 
 say or do anything which would be a comfort to 
 her. Then she sat upright again and began to 
 dab at her eyes fiercely with her handkerchief, 
 which she had made into a ball. 
 
 " I mustn't let Cynthia find me crying when 
 she comes in," she explained, " No, I mustn't
 
 Told at Last. *43 
 
 let her find me crying. Cynthia is such a good 
 girl, and she is always tired when she comes in at 
 tea-time. Won't you send that cab away and 
 stay until she comes ? Won't you stop and have 
 tea with us ? It's what is the time ? " 
 
 " It's nearly four," said he. 
 
 " She will be home in a few minutes then. She 
 comes immediately the school closes. It closes 
 at four. I should like you to see her. It won't 
 be such a blow to her as it has been to me, be- 
 cause she has never really known her father. 
 But you will stop, won't you ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, certainly I will stay. But don't 
 you think, Mrs. Meredith, that if I stay and have 
 a cup of tea with you, you had better come back 
 into the town with me and have some dinner at 
 my hotel ? " 
 
 " I cannot go out merry-making," said she, 
 shrinking back. 
 
 " Oh, it wouldn't be merry-making. And 
 whatever one's griefs, one must eat. I have 
 photographs, of a sort, of Santa Clara ; you would 
 like to see them. The change would be good for 
 you. At all events, I'll keep my old cabman, in 
 case you want to go into Blankhampton later on. 
 I'll tell you what I'll do ; I'll tell him to put up 
 for an hour." 
 
 As soon as said carried into effect. Dick Vin- 
 cent went out and told the old cabman that he
 
 *44 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 was to go to the inn and get himself a drink, and 
 a feed, if necessary, for the horse. 
 
 " Come back at five o'clock," he said. " Come 
 back here. Here's the money for you. At five. 
 Don't be much later." 
 
 "All right, sir," said the old driver. "I'll 
 give my horse a bit of a feed, and, since your 
 honor is so generous, I'll take a bit of a snack 
 myself." 
 
 Then Vincent turned and went back into the 
 house again. As he entered the sitting-room, 
 something reminded him of the newspaper which 
 he had in his breast pocket. 
 
 " You will perhaps like to see this, Mrs. Mere- 
 dith," he said, taking it out and folding it so as 
 to show the account of Meredith's death. " It's 
 the paper that had the account of poor Meredith's 
 end. I thought you would like to see it." 
 
 " Oh, yes, let me see it." She read it eagerly. 
 " Oh, what a verdict ! How strange ! What 
 curious creatures men are when they get on a jury. 
 And they called a death which was brought about 
 by drink the * Visitation of God ' ! Mr. Vincent, 
 somehow I can't think of Roger like that. I 
 have seen him a little merry, you know, just a 
 little, when he had a little too much, but I never 
 saw him drunk, never. By this account he could 
 not have known what he was doing ; he must 
 have been delirious."
 
 Told at Last. H5 
 
 " And so he was delirious. He was mad for 
 the moment he was out of his mind for the 
 time." 
 
 " He must have been. It's dreadful to think 
 of him like that. Do you think, if I had gone 
 out there, that I should have kept him straight ? " 
 
 " For a time," said Dick. " Anybody who 
 devoted herself to him would and could for a 
 time keep him straight. I did as long as I was 
 with him, as long as I watched him, as long as I 
 kept a tight hand over him. So you would have 
 done. But there is a fate in these matters, Mrs. 
 Meredith. I believe myself that Roger's hour 
 was come ; that it had to be ; and it was the fore- 
 shadowing of the end that made him so strange 
 and so unlike himself from the moment that we 
 turned our backs upon Santa Clara." 
 
 The little woman was restless and excited. 
 She wandered about the room, put imaginary un- 
 tidiness into order, went several times to the win- 
 dow, and finally, murmuring something about 
 seeing after tea, departed and left him alone. 
 
 That to Dick was worse than if she had re- 
 mained sobbing and crying ; because alone it sud- 
 denly occurred to him that if Meredith's widow 
 had accepted his story without question, had in- 
 deed put no questions to him beyond the alt-impor- 
 tant one to her of the state of Meredith's heart 
 so far as she was concerned, her daughter might 
 10
 
 X 4*> A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 prove to be a young woman of a very different 
 calibre. What if she were to cross-question him 
 as to the last details of her father's life and the 
 circumstances of his death ? What if she were to 
 put certain point-blank queries to him concerning 
 the fatal scrimmage ? How could he answer ? 
 What could he say ? 
 
 Would the girl never come ? The church 
 clock he could hear it, although he could not 
 see the church struck the quarter after the hour. 
 She was never so late as this. Stay ! what was 
 that ? A step a lifting of the door-latch and 
 Roger Meredith's daughter stood before him.
 
 Cynthia. "47 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 CYNTHIA. 
 
 WHEN the door opened to admit Roger Mere- 
 dith's daughter, Dick Vincent perceived with a 
 great start that she was no other than the girl who 
 had so impressed him the previous day in St. 
 Thomas's Street. 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon," she stammered. 
 
 She, too, was evidently somewhat taken aback, 
 although Dick could not decide whether she had 
 noticed him the previous day or not. 
 
 " I beg your pardon. I am afraid I startled 
 you," said he. 
 
 " Oh, no. Of course I didn't know there was 
 anybody here." 
 
 She paused, looking at him as if expecting him 
 to say something more. 
 
 " I came to see your mother," said Dick ; " and 
 to see you, too." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 At this moment the widow came back. As she 
 caught sight of her daughter she rushed up to her, 
 flung her arms,, not about her neck,, because she
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 could not reach so high but about her shoulders. 
 " Oh, Cynthia, Cynthia, it has come at last ! " she 
 said, sobbing. 
 
 " What has come, mother ? The news about 
 my father ? " 
 
 " Yes, dearest. The best news and the worst 
 news ; the worst news and the best. He is dead, 
 Cynthia dead ! " 
 
 " My father dead ? " The girl's voice was an 
 echo of her mother's. " Poor little mother ! " 
 she said. " How do you know ? Of course," 
 turning to Dick, " you brought the news. Oh, my 
 
 mother has waited so long. Why didn't he 
 
 ? 
 
 " Not for any fault, Cynthia," cried Mrs. 
 Meredith. " Not for any fault, my dear. Mr. 
 Vincent says I was as much to him, to the last 
 day, as I had ever been. And I don't know how 
 to tell you all, but they lived on in a struggle. 
 Dear Mr. Vincent was his partner. They fought 
 and struggled against against hope ; and then, 
 when the good fortune came and there was money, 
 your father didn't know wasn't sure that J 
 should have waited for him." 
 
 The girl put her arm protectingly about her 
 mother's shoulders and turned so as to confront 
 Dick. " Of course my mother waited. He 
 ought to have known that," she said, with a curi- 
 ous protective kind of pity. " My mother is
 
 Cynthia. *49 
 
 one of those women who couldn't forget if she 
 tried fidelity itself. Did he really think that ? " 
 
 "Your father thought," said Dick, " that it was 
 not impossible that your mother might have mar- 
 ried again. You see, so many years had gone by 
 and he had never written, and life isn't very safe 
 in the wild parts where he was. A man might 
 be killed twenty times over, and his relatives hear 
 nothing except by the purest chance. Nobody 
 could have blamed your mother if she had mar- 
 ried again." 
 
 " I had my chances," remarked Mrs. Mere- 
 dith, plaintively. 
 
 " Of course. That was what Meredith felt. 
 He knew you wouldn't be without chances, being 
 what you are." 
 
 " Still," the girl burst out, " it would have 
 been a horrible thing if mother had married again. 
 Of course, you never thought of such a thing, did 
 you, mother ? " 
 
 " Never, my dear never. There was only 
 one man in the world for me, and he loved me 
 when I was little more than a girl. And I shall 
 never see him again never ! " 
 
 The girl held her mother close for a minute or 
 so. " Tell me," she said, turning to Dick ; " how 
 did my father die ? Was he ill long ? " 
 
 " Your father was not ill," said Dick, ff except 
 in a sense. He was well, he was killed."
 
 J 5 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Well I suppose you wish me to tell Miss 
 Meredith everything ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I keep nothing back from Cynthia ; 
 she understands. I told her all that there was to 
 know in the past, and there's no reason why she 
 should not know all that there is to know in the 
 present." 
 
 " Well, Miss Meredith, your father drank a 
 good deal ; not continuously, you know, but at 
 times. When I came away from Santa Clara " 
 
 " Santa Clara ? " said the girl, looking at her 
 mother. 
 
 " Yes. We were partners on a ranche ; it was 
 named after your mother. I fancy that the mere 
 fact of being left alone for a few months, and the 
 fact also that he had commissioned me to make 
 inquiries about your mother and you to find out 
 where you were, if you were living, whether your 
 mother was still Mrs. Meredith, and whether 
 there was any chance of her coming out to join 
 him proved too much for him, for he went in 
 for a fearful bout of heavy drinking, and in spite 
 
 of everything that we could do Well, he ran 
 
 amok ; in short, he tried to kill a man staying in 
 the hotel, who, in sheer self-defense, finding him- 
 self overpowered, shot him." 
 
 " What happened to the man ? " said the girl. 
 
 " Nothing happened to the man," replied Dick.
 
 Cynthia. 
 
 " Nothing could happen ; he was perfectly blame- 
 less in the matter. It was a question of his life 
 or your father's ; and no man could be expected 
 to give up his life at the mad freak of a man de- 
 lirious with drink." 
 
 " No, you are quite right. What is his name ? 
 Who is he ? " 
 
 "He disappeared from the hotel, by the advice 
 of the landlord and several other people. They 
 thought it would be the easiest way out of the 
 difficulty." 
 
 " Had you ever met him before ? Was he a 
 stranger ? Did you know him ? " 
 
 " I never met him," said Dick. " I was down 
 the town when the row began ; I only came in 
 for the tail-end of it. It was horrible !" he said, 
 " horrible ! I brought your mother the paper 
 with what I may call the official account of the 
 affair, and I have also with me a large sum which 
 your father entrusted to my care, to make over 
 to your mother if I should find her. I have also 
 in safe keeping your father's will, by which, in the 
 event of my finding you, he leaves the half of the 
 ranche to your mother. To-morrow I shall be 
 able to transfer this money to your account, Mrs. 
 Meredith ; to-day it is, of course, too late." 
 
 " He has been very kind, Cynthia, most con- 
 siderate. I'm sure if I had known him all his 
 life he could not have broken the news to m
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 more gently and more tenderly. I can't help 
 breaking down a little ; it's a blow to me, 
 although I haven't seen Roger for fifteen weary 
 years fifteen weary years." 
 
 Roger Meredith's daughter made no pretense 
 of being overcome with grief. She held her 
 mother yet closer to her, with the same protec- 
 tive air that had so touched Dick before. 
 Dearest," she said, " I know what this disappoint- 
 ment must be to you, and what a grief; but 
 certainty is better than uncertainty all the world 
 over, and when you have got over it a little 
 you will be comforted to think that all the time, 
 when you thought he had forgotten, he hadn't 
 forgotten at all, that he remembered you to the 
 very last, and that his last reasonable act was to 
 send you part of the good fortune which had 
 come to him." 
 
 " Not a part of it, Cynthia, all of it," sobbed 
 Mrs. Meredith, hiding her face on the girl's 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Yes, dear, all of it. That's twice as happy 
 for you as if he had sent you a part. It would 
 have been very different if he had merely sent 
 you word that he had come into luck and that 
 you could go out and share it. But to send it 
 home, for you to do as you liked, to give you 
 all and leave you free, that's proof that he must 
 have loved you just the same all the time."
 
 Cynthia. '53 
 
 " There was no shadow of doubt about his love, 
 Miss Meredith," said Dick. " It was the fear 
 that your mother wouldn't come out to him that 
 sent him off on that last fatal bout of drinking. 
 Mind you, he didn't drink as a regular 
 thing ; he was a splendid fine man to the end." 
 
 " I'm sure he was," said Cynthia. " If he 
 hadn't some good qualities, my mother wouldn't 
 have loved him as truly and as faithfully as she 
 has done during all these years of silence." 
 
 " Well, I am not so sure of that," said Dick. 
 I have known some charming women who pinned 
 their whole faith to wretches in whom I could 
 see no point of good. And the worse they got 
 the more their women stuck to them and clung 
 to them and bolstered them up. You see a 
 good deal of that sort of thing out there, you 
 know." 
 
 " But my father wasn't like that," said Cynthia, 
 " no, not at all like that." 
 
 " Cynthia," said Mrs. Meredith, suddenly, 
 " I came in to tell Mr. Vincent that tea was 
 ready. It will be over-drawn." 
 
 " Never mind, dear, we'll brew a fresh pot." 
 
 It was perhaps natural that the girl should take 
 the lead in everything. Dick Vincent followed 
 her into the little dining-room, across the passage, 
 with a feeling that she was the dominant power 
 in the house. But he was mistaken. The same
 
 '$4 A 
 
 power and self-control which had enabled a young 
 and pretty woman to remain faithful to the 
 memory of a man who had, to all intents and 
 purposes, deliberately deserted her sufficed to 
 make Mrs. Meredith the most important factor 
 in the little household. At the moment she was 
 overwhelmed, even crushed, by the news of her 
 husband's death, and by the important fact that 
 from that moment her circumstances would be 
 entirely different to what they had been since the 
 beginning of her married life. 
 
 " Cynthia," said Mrs. Meredith, when she had 
 been somewhat pulled together by a good cup of 
 tea, " we will go out to Santa Clara." 
 
 Dick's heart went down to zero, and he waited 
 with no small trepidation to hear what the girl 
 would say. 
 
 " Just as you like, mother. I'd as soon go to 
 Santa Clara as to any other part of the world. 
 We've lived such a quiet life here in Gatehouses," 
 she said, turning to Dick, " that it would be no 
 wrench to us to leave the half-dozen friends who 
 have never been much more than acquaintances." 
 
 " You won't like it," said Dick to the widow. 
 
 " Oh, 1 should love it," she cried. " I should 
 feel as if I had gone to join Roger after all." 
 
 " I don't think you would. It's a ghastly life ; 
 full of hard work, very few recreations, no com- 
 fort."
 
 Cynthia. '55 
 
 " We shall be able to have comfort," said Mrs. 
 Meredith, confidently. 
 
 " Yes, but it is not necessary to go to Santa 
 Clara to get it. As a ranche, it isn't worth 
 having ; as an oil well it doesn't need the pres- 
 ence of ladies to run it. You would hate it. I 
 have not any intention, now that Meredith's gone, 
 of going back permanently." 
 
 " But we should like it," persisted Mrs. Mere- 
 dith. " Cynthia isn't like the ordinary society 
 girl ; she has no society to leave behind here, 
 nothing but a recollection of hard toil, many hu- 
 miliations, and few pleasures. Above all things 
 we should like to go to Santa Clara and carry on 
 the ranche, just as we should have done if my dear 
 Roger had lived and I had gone out there to re- 
 join him." 
 
 " Mrs. Meredith," said Dick, and by this time 
 he was feeling no less than desperate, " it is abso- 
 lutely impossible for you to continue the ranche 
 as my partner. You are not fit for the life, and 
 the life is not fit for you. As Meredith's wife it 
 would have been a different matter altogether ; as 
 my partner it is an impossibility." 
 
 " But I should like to go out," she persisted. 
 
 fc We must leave that for the present," said 
 Dick, " because I am not going back for at least 
 three months. I have left an excellent manager 
 there, a good fellow, who was chosen mainly by
 
 T 5 6 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 your husband, and in whom he had the greatest 
 confidence. It is not necessary for me to hurry 
 back, and I have not been home for seven years. 
 My mother would break her heart if I went back 
 immediately. I shall never stay seven years at 
 Santa Clara again. I may not give the ranche 
 up ; I may come to some arrangement with you 
 by which we can continue it as a property an oil 
 property ; but I shall never make Santa Clara my 
 home again indeed, there will be no need."
 
 The Voice of Reason. 1 S7 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE VOICE OF REASON. 
 
 IT was Cynthia Meredith who brought the dis- 
 cussion concerning the advisability of her mother 
 and herself going to Santa Clara to a close. 
 
 " One thing is very certain, dear mother," she 
 said. " We cannot go to California now ; we 
 have everything to settle up here ; for in any case 
 you will not care to remain in Gatehouses, or 
 even in Blankhampton. You know, Mr. Vin- 
 cent," she went on, " that I am the mistress at 
 the infant school here. The term comes to an 
 end this week, and then I am free. As, naturally, 
 I shall not continue the post, I shall be very 
 busy getting everything ready to leave, and I 
 shall give in my resignation to the Vicar at once." 
 
 " Of course ! of course ! " cried Mrs. Mere- 
 dith. " I always hated your doing it, Cynthia, as 
 you know." 
 
 " There was no reason why you should, dear- 
 est," said Cynthia. " It's not a hard way of mak- 
 ing a decent living at least, darling, not of mak- 
 ing a living, but of supplementing a living."
 
 ! 5 8 A Matter of Sentiment 
 
 " You have been very brave," cried Mrs. 
 Meredith, sobs beginning to rise in her throat. 
 
 "Well, it's all over now, dear," said Cynthia, 
 hurriedly, " and as we've got the half of an oil 
 well to depend upon, it needn't trouble you that 
 I worked for a few months among a lot of nice 
 little children like these Gatehouses mites. It 
 will never trouble me," she cried, looking from 
 one to another with a ringing laugh. 
 
 " I should think not," said Dick, half indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 " But what does trouble me," said the girl, 
 " or at least what does concern me, is that I want 
 to have a long holiday. I want to get used to 
 being well off and to rest myself; to well, I'd 
 like to go to some nice, bright seaside place for a 
 few weeks before I even think about taking a 
 journey half-way across the world." 
 
 " I think you are most wise," said Dick. 
 " And if you will excuse me saying so, Miss 
 Meredith, your mother must need that kind of 
 relaxation much more than you do. So let us 
 consider the question of your going to Santa 
 Clara as shelved for the present." 
 
 " I didn't mean to start to-night," said Mrs. 
 Meredith, with some show of spirit. 
 
 " No, dear, no ; of course we knew that," said 
 Cynthia. She was all tender compunction at 
 having seemed to be unkind to her mother.
 
 The Voice of Reason. T 59 
 
 " To-night," said Dick, " you are coming to 
 dine with me in Blankhampton. You promised, 
 did you not ? " 
 
 " I don't think I promised," said Mrs. Mere- 
 dith. 
 
 "It would be better for you than brooding," 
 said Dick. 
 
 " Well," put in Cynthia, " dear mother, 1 think 
 it might take you out of yourself a little.' 
 
 " After any sort of ill news," said Dick, " there's 
 nothing like a thoroughly good meal ; and no 
 meal taken in one's own house has the same effect 
 upon one as a meal which is taken outside. After 
 all, Mrs. Meredith, it will be a very quiet even- 
 ing, and there can be no more in your coming 
 and dining quite quietly with me at the Golden 
 Swan than by taking a cup of tea with you this 
 afternoon. I have kept the cab at least, I told 
 the driver to come back. If you would rather, I 
 will go up to the inn and tell him to keep his 
 horse in the stable for another hour ; otherwise 
 it will be here in a few minutes." 
 
 " Oh, well, we shall certainly not be ready 
 in a few minutes," said Cynthia. " I con- 
 fess, mother, that I should very much like to 
 dine with Mr. Vincent to-night ; I feel all un- 
 hinged everything turned topsyturvy ; and I 
 am quite sure that it would be the best possible 
 thing for you. And, indeed, I do think it is 
 most kind of Mr. Vincent to ask us."
 
 160 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " Oh, it isn't kind," said Dick. " On the con- 
 trary, the kindness is yours in giving me the 
 pleasure of your society. You forget, Miss 
 Meredith, your father and I lived together for 
 seven years. We were the greatest possible 
 friends regular pals. To me it is the most 
 natural thing in the world that I should see as 
 much of you now as I should have done if he had 
 lived, dear old fellow." 
 
 " I am sure," said Cynthia, simply, " that 
 mother and I are delighted to have your friend- 
 ship. Of course, we have not many friends. I 
 think," she went on, with a wise little air, " that 
 when people are poor they do not have many 
 friends, unless unless they belong to the quite 
 poor classes ! I mean unless they belong quite 
 to the working class. Nobody wants struggling 
 poverty." 
 
 " I don't know," said Dick, " I think it de- 
 pends a good deal on the struggler." 
 
 As he spoke a sudden qualm shot through his 
 heart, a sudden realization that this young girl, 
 with her limpid blue eyes and calm, self-reliant 
 manner, would be desirable to any man, and under 
 any circumstances. A sort of wonder passed 
 through his mind that she could have walked about 
 the streets of Blankhampton, as he had himself 
 seen her the previous day, and have remained un- 
 wooed, or at least unwon, in the little cottage in
 
 The Voice of Reason. 
 
 Gatehouses in which they were now sitting. 
 Then he shook himself free of the dream, and 
 addressed himself once more to the mother. 
 
 " Then you will come and dine with me, Mrs. 
 Meredith ? " 
 
 " Well, since you and Cynthia both wish 
 it, and, as you say, the circumstances are excep- 
 tional," she replied, " I don't mind, but we can- 
 not go just now, can we, Cynthia ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. We must have time to change our 
 dresses. You had better go up to the inn, as 
 you said." 
 
 " Shall I say six o'clock ? " said Dick. 
 
 " Yes, that is nearly an hour. Oh," glancing 
 towards the window, " there he is." 
 
 Dick Vincent got up. " It doesn't in the least 
 matter. I will send him back to the hotel and tell 
 him to order dinner for us." 
 
 It was as quickly done as said. Dick went out, 
 and told the old driver to go back to the Golden 
 Swan and tell the people there that he would be 
 bringing two ladies back to dinner with him. 
 " Tell them," said Dick, " to give us a very nice 
 dinner, the sort of dinner ladies like ; and to 
 get good fruit, and so on. Stay, I'll give you 
 a card. Then come back here about half-past 
 six." 
 
 "Very good, sir," said the cabman. 
 
 " You won't fail to come back ? " 
 II
 
 i62 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " Lor', no, sir." 
 
 " Don't you go taking any other job. I'll pay 
 for your time." 
 
 " Right you are, sir." 
 
 And away he went, and Dick turned and went 
 into the house again. 
 
 If he had admired Cynthia in her little gray frock 
 of the previous day, and in the simple black skirt 
 and cotton blouse that she had been wearing that 
 afternoon, his admiration was increased tenfold 
 when she came down into the little sitting-room 
 dressed in a clean white muslin gown. 
 
 " Mr. Vincent," she said, " I am so glad you 
 have made mother go out to-night. She would 
 only have sat and cried and brooded over the 
 past ; and, after all, what good can it do ? " 
 
 " No good at all," said Dick. 
 
 " It's no use my pretending," the girl went on, 
 " that I am overwhelmed with grief. I am aw- 
 fully sorry for mother, but I don't remember my 
 father at all ; and the fact that one's got a father 
 somewhere makes very little difference to one's 
 state of mind. I am sorry for my poor darling, 
 and yet in one way I am so glad that she should 
 know that she should feel that all the time he was 
 just as fond of her as ever. It seems a queer sort 
 of way for a man to treat his wife, doesn't it ? 
 Everybody treat their wives differently." 
 
 " Or their husbands," said Dick. " I mean
 
 The Voice of Reason. l6 3 
 
 every one of us looks at every situation of life 
 from a different standpoint to everybody else. If 
 I were married now," he went on, " and I fell 
 upon evil days, I should stick to my wife, and I 
 should expect my wife to stick to me ; and if I 
 were obliged to leave her behind, as your father 
 seems to have done, I should write to her every 
 mail ; and as soon as I had scraped the money 
 together to pay for her passage, I should say, 
 f Come along ; share what I have.' But he was 
 different. He had always that dreadful tempta- 
 tion of strong drink. Before I knew him, seven 
 years ago, he drank frightfully hard ; he drank 
 everything that he made : and I think he was 
 ashamed to let her know just how things were. 
 I am quite sure that at the last he was afraid that 
 he had so indelibly written * Drunkard ' on his 
 face that it would turn your mother against him 
 if they met." 
 
 " And was he ? did he look ? I mean " 
 
 " No, he didn't. He was weather-beaten. 
 He was a man who had lived hard. But was a 
 splendid man, and an intensely attractive man to 
 the very last. I don't believe she would have 
 seen a flaw in him, or noticed that he was the 
 least little bit changed not now that I have seen 
 her. I told him so. I went by common-sense. 
 But I couldn't convince him ; no, poor chap, I 
 couldn't convince him,"
 
 l6 4 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " Here's mother," said the girl, in an undertone. 
 
 Mrs. Meredith was dressed in black. For 
 years she had always worn black, as being both 
 economical and in accordance with her uncertainty 
 concerning her husband. She had bathed her 
 eyes, and had made a toilet with care, and it smote 
 Dick to the heart that so fair a little woman 
 should not have had the chance of showing how 
 generous and how forgiving she could be to the 
 man whose heart was filled with her, but to whom 
 the temptation of drink had ever stood as a bar- 
 rier between them. 
 
 The evening passed quietly and pleasantly. 
 As was but natural, they were very quiet and al- 
 most solemn in their conversation, and when the 
 clock struck ten, Dick's old cabman came round 
 and took the ladies home. 
 
 Dick did not offer to go with them until the 
 last minute, when it suddenly occurred to him 
 that perhaps if they went without him they would 
 think it necessary to pay the cabman. He there- 
 fore suggested that he should see them as far as 
 their house. Neither Mrs. Meredith nor Cynthia 
 was unwilling, and when they reached the door of 
 the cottage, Mrs. Meredith turned to Dick with 
 quite the air of an old friend. 
 
 " Shall I see you to-morrow ? " she said. 
 
 " Yes, you must see me to-morrow, Mrs. Mere- 
 dith," he replied. " I must see you, to hand over
 
 The Voice of Reason. l6 5 
 
 the money for one thing, and to arrange various 
 little business matters." 
 
 " Will you come and take lunch with us ? " she 
 inquired, half hesitatingly. 
 
 " I think not to-morrow," he replied, " because 
 I want to go to the cavalry barracks." 
 
 " Do you know any one there? " Mrs. Mere- 
 dith asked. 
 
 " Well, it's my own old regiment, you see ; and 
 I must go and lunch with them, or I am afraid 
 they would be pretty furious with me. Couldn't 
 I come up later in the day ? " 
 
 Perhaps he had an eye to the fact that later in 
 the day Cynthia would be there. 
 
 Mrs. Meredith hesitated yet more. "We 
 don't dine late, Mr. Vincent," she said. " We 
 have supper. I don't like to ask you to come to 
 supper with us." 
 
 " Oh, why not ? " he exclaimed eagerly. " I 
 should be delighted to come to supper with you, if 
 you would put up with me." 
 
 " Put up with you ! " she exclaimed. And 
 Cynthia laughed softly in a way which set Dick's 
 heart beating at double quick speed. " Then it's 
 settled isn't it ? You'll come and eat a bit of 
 supper with us to-morrow night? It will be very 
 simple, very plain." 
 
 " But I've not been accustomed to such ban- 
 quets at Santa Clara, Mrs. Meredith, that the sup-
 
 1 66 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 per you will give me will not be all that I could 
 desire. I can perhaps put you up to a wrinkle or 
 two in the way of cooking a supper." 
 
 " What ? You can cook ? " 
 
 " Ah, can't I ! I don't say that my pastry 
 would be anything to boast of, but my pancakes 
 and my omelettes are perfect ; my curry's a dream. 
 Mrs. Meredith, before 1 go back, let me come and 
 make you a chicken curry. You can buy the 
 oldest chicken, and I'll back myself to make a 
 good curry out of it." 
 
 " Well, you shall ; but not to-morrow. I 
 would like you to try my cooking, and then you 
 will see," she said, " what a very desirable person 
 I shall be at Santa Clara." 
 
 Dick bade the ladies a hurried good-night, and 
 got back into the cab with all his hopes dashed to 
 the ground. That one little sentence of Mrs. 
 Meredith's had served to bring back the events 
 of the immediate past with tenfold force. Here 
 he was already on intimate terms with Meredith's 
 widow and daughter. In all his life he had never 
 known what it was to feel his pulses quicken un- 
 der the touch of a girl's hand as now ; and yet 
 yet it was impossible ; although he had held 
 himself and those on the spot had held him blame- 
 less for the accident of Meredith's death, the cold 
 voice of Reason told him that he must not dare to 
 think of taking Meredith's daughter for his wife.
 
 The Old Regiment. 167 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE OLD REGIMENT. 
 
 IT was just after half-past twelve the following 
 morning when Dick Vincent walked into the cav- 
 alry barracks. He found one or two subalterns 
 gathered in front of the mess rooms, who looked 
 upon him with inquiring eyes in which recogni- 
 tion was wholly lacking. 
 
 " Is Captain Allison here this morning ? " he 
 asked of the first of these young gentlemen. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, in easy tones, " he was here 
 a minute or two ago. He will be in to lunch di- 
 rectly. Are you a friend of his ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am." 
 
 At that moment an extremely handsome man 
 came along the side of the officers' quarters and 
 turned the corner sharply upon the group. The 
 youngsters instinctively straightened themselves a 
 little. 
 
 The newcomer uttered an exclamation of sur- 
 prise as his eyes fell upon Dick. " Why, Dick, 
 my dear fellow, how do you do ? What good 
 wind has blown you this way ? I thought you 
 were on the other side of the world."
 
 1 68 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " California," said Dick. " But I've come 
 home on a few months' leave I mean holiday." 
 
 " And you are staying in Blankhampton ? How 
 awfully jolly. Symonds, let me introduce you 
 to Mr. Vincent whose name you have heard, of 
 course. And this is Mr. St. Aubyn ; this Mr. 
 Paget. Vincent, my dear fellow, you will have 
 lunch with me, of course ? " 
 
 " Why, thank you, Brookes, I will," said Dick, 
 as he shook hands with the last of the three sub- 
 alterns, who were now regarding him with very 
 different expressions of countenance to what they 
 had met him with in the first instance. For, let 
 me tell you, Vincent had left a reputation behind 
 him in the Black Horse, a reputation for being 
 the most good-natured daredevil to be found in 
 the length and breadth of the land. 
 
 Colonel Brookes took him affectionately by the 
 arm. " We missed you very much, Dick," he 
 said ; "far more than you will ever have any idea 
 of. You kept us alive. We've never had any- 
 body to keep us alive as you did." 
 
 Dick laughed outright. " Well, I dare say that 
 if you had stayed where I left you, which was 
 senior captain, you would have found several 
 among the subs, quite capable of throwing me en- 
 tirely into the shade. You see, you have gone 
 up into that exalted region which knows little or 
 nothing about making practical jokes and such
 
 The Old Regiment. l6 9 
 
 like amusements. Well, now tell me ; is there 
 any news in the old regiment ? " 
 
 " News ? Well, I've got the command, of 
 course ; and you know Bethune is senior major, 
 and Cockledon junior to him. Allison comes 
 next. And of those that were here with you 
 well, there's Dawson." 
 
 " Ah, yes. Good old Dawson ! Is he as seri- 
 ous and as musical as ever? " 
 
 " Worse, my dear chap ; he's married." 
 
 " Married ? Worse might happen to a fellow 
 than that. And yourself? " 
 
 " Oh, I'm not married," said Brookes, shak- 
 ing his head. "I didn't get the right woman; if 
 you can't get the right woman you had better go 
 without." 
 
 " I'm with you there," said Dick. 
 
 " And here's Allison," rejoined Lester Brookes. 
 
 " Hullo, Dick ! " cried Allison. " What good 
 wind has blown you to Blankhampton ? " 
 
 " I had to come on business," replied Dick. 
 
 " Business ? Oh, really. Where are you stay- 
 ing?" 
 
 " At the Golden Swan." 
 
 " Oh, really. Well, it's a decent hotel. Come 
 and dine to-night, won't you ? It's guest night." 
 
 " No, not to-night, old fellow. I'm engaged." 
 
 " Oh, dining out ? Anybody I know ? " 
 
 " I don't think so."
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " Somebody I don't know in Blankhampton ? 
 That's funny. Where is it ? Who are they ? " 
 
 " Well, I'm quite sure that it's nobody you 
 know," replied Dick. " The fact is that I came 
 home from California charged with a mission from 
 my partner I took a partner, you know, when I 
 went into ranching, and he died, poor chap ; at 
 least, he was killed. And this is his widow and 
 daughter." 
 
 " Oh ! What is their name ? " 
 
 " Their name is Meredith." 
 
 " Meredith ? Where do they live ? What's 
 the girl like ? " 
 
 " Oh, so so," said Dick. 
 
 " Ah, you never had an eye for a woman, Dick. 
 I see you are not altered in that respect," said 
 Allison. " Meredith ? Where do they live ? I 
 never came across them." 
 
 " Oh, they live at a little village a short way 
 from the town." 
 
 " I know all the little villages a short way from 
 the town," Allison persisted, " which one do they 
 hang out in ? " 
 
 " It's called Gatehouses." 
 
 " Oh ! I thought I knew every girl in Gate- 
 houses." 
 
 " They live very quietly, and they don't want 
 to see anybody." 
 
 "Oh, I wasn't fishing," cried Allison. "I
 
 The Old Regiment. 
 
 wasn't fishing, not a bit of it. It seemed curious, 
 that's all. By Jove ! " Allison went on," there's 
 one pretty girl that lives somewhere on the road 
 to Gatehouses. Gad ! she is pretty ! I've fol- 
 lowed her over and over again, but I've never 
 been able to track her home yet. She always 
 goes into some cottage or other, but when I in- 
 quire they tell me that they don't know who 
 she is." 
 
 " Ah, that wouldn't be Miss Meredith," said 
 Dick, although his heart told him it certainly was. 
 
 " Well, you'll dine to-morrow night won't 
 
 ?M 
 j~~ . 
 
 " Yes, I'll come up and dine to-morrow night 
 with pleasure," Dick replied. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon before he got away 
 out of the cavalry barracks. He had, of course, 
 to make a sort of tour, to see all the colonel's 
 horses, all Allison's horses, and, in fact, to go 
 right through the officers' stables. Then he in- 
 quired for the good lady who had been accus- 
 tomed to tidy his room and wash his shirts, and 
 finding that she was still following the drum, he 
 went round with Allison to pay her a visit. 
 
 Then at a little before five there was a rumor 
 of tea and hot cakes soaked in butter and if you 
 don't believe that they eat hot cakes or muffins 
 soaked in butter in a cavalry barracks, you had 
 better go and find out for yourself, and you will
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 discover that I am perfectly right. And when 
 the tea and cakes had been disposed of, he and 
 Allison went down the town together, and he 
 looked in at the Club, and was introduced to 
 half-a-dozen Blankhampton celebrities, and then 
 into the Winter Gardens, where the band of one 
 of the cavalry battalions was just playing " God 
 Save the Queen ! " 
 
 Allison managed to introduce his old friend to 
 several of the prettiest girls in Blankhampton 
 that region where beautiful women flourish. 
 There was not one of them, however, who came 
 anywhere near to Cynthia Meredith in Dick's 
 estimation ; and at last, at about twenty minutes 
 to seven, he succeeded in shaking himself free of 
 his friend, and got into a cab which would carry 
 him once more to Gatehouses. 
 
 He did not, however, go quite direct. He 
 stopped at a flower shop and bought some lovely 
 cut flowers ; and then he stopped at a book- 
 seller's and purchased three or four of the lead- 
 ing illustrated papers. It was laden with these 
 that he once more found himself in the little sit- 
 ting-room which was stamped with the impress 
 of beautiful Cynthia Meredith. 
 
 He went away that night more hopelessly in 
 love with Cynthia than ever ; and instead of go- 
 ing straight into the hotel and to bed, he tramped 
 about the narrow deserted streets of the old city
 
 The Old Regiment. 
 
 for more than hour, wondering what would be the 
 best course for him to take, wondering whether 
 if he made a clean breast of the whole circum- 
 stances of Roger Meredith's death, his daughter 
 would ever bring herself to regard the fatal shot 
 which brought that ruined life to a close in the 
 light of a pure accident. No, it was not to be 
 thought of. If Cynthia could be made to see 
 that he had merely acted in self-defense, Cynthia's 
 mother would certainly never hear reason on such 
 a point. No, he had begun a system of silence, 
 he had begun by withholding a certain amount 
 of information, and it was impossible now to do 
 anything which would disclose the truth. 
 
 He was standing in the very shadow of the 
 grand old cathedral when he came to the con- 
 clusion that, under no circumstances, could Roger 
 Meredith's daughter be anything more to him 
 than a regret. It was hard, he pondered, that he 
 should have grown to be thirty years old without 
 having before met a woman whom he could love, 
 and, having now met her, that she should be 
 forever barred as one of the unattainable joys of 
 life. 
 
 It would be impossible for him to avoid meet- 
 ing her again ; that was out of the question. He 
 must tread the road to his Gethsemane with un- 
 flinching feet ; he must steel his soul against her. 
 After all, it was early days ; he must school him-
 
 *74 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 self to become no more intimate than he had al- 
 ready become ; to avoid those little familiarities, 
 so sweet and so easily taken up, so impossible to 
 cut off when once acquired. After all, he argued, 
 drawing fiercely at his pipe after all, he had got 
 along very comfortably for thirty years without 
 feeling especially in love, and he would have to 
 get along as comfortably for thirty years more. 
 
 When he had got thus far, he went back 
 through the narrow streets and into his hotel. 
 And then he went to bed and dreamed all night 
 of Cynthia Meredith, waking up in the morning 
 with the conviction that she was everything to 
 him, and that there was very little reason why he 
 should not be everything to her. 
 
 He had promised that he would go up about 
 eleven o'clock that morning and fetch Mrs. 
 Meredith, and that they should go together to 
 the bank, where he would transfer the money to 
 her which he had brought from her husband. 
 
 " It's just as well that dear old Roger did give 
 me the money for you," said he, "because if it 
 came to you by inheritance, or by will even, they'd 
 made mulcted you of some of it. As it is, it was 
 made over to me in Roger's life-time, and there- 
 fore not a soul but you and I know anything 
 about it. To tell you the truth, Mrs. Meredith, 
 I am downright glad to get it out of my hands ; 
 because I couldn't tell any one that I had it until
 
 The Old Regiment. '75 
 
 I found you, for had I done so, and anything had 
 happened to me, it might have frustrated all that 
 Meredith was so anxious to have done. How- 
 ever, now at last, in half an hour, it will be yours 
 to do what you like with." 
 
 When they had settled their business at the 
 bank, he insisted upon Mrs. Meredith walking 
 down as far as Bonner's with him and having 
 some sort of refreshment. At first she refused ; 
 but when he insisted she was persuaded to take 
 a sponge cake and cream and cura9oa. 
 
 " Mr. Vincent," she said, " I have made up my 
 mind that we must go to the seaside for a couple 
 of months, so that Cynthia may have a thorough 
 change before we enter upon any business tasks." 
 
 " I think you are wise," he said promptly. 
 
 " Oh, yes, it is absolutely necessary. We were 
 talking last night. She wants to go to Brigh- 
 ton." 
 
 " You can't go to Brighton at this time of the 
 year." 
 
 " But why ? " 
 
 " My dear lady, it is impossible. Brighton is 
 awful in hot weather, and very Jewish." 
 
 " I don't think they would hurt me," said 
 Mrs. Meredith, "since, you see, I shouldn't 
 know a soul." 
 
 " Well, I wouldn't go to Brighton. Brighton 
 isn't the place for this time of year. Try Folke-
 
 T 7 6 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 stone ; Folkestone is gay enough and smart 
 enough ; not Brighton." 
 
 "You think not?" 
 
 "I don't think, I'm sure about it. Very good 
 shops at Brighton it's true ; but then if you are 
 so near as Folkestone or Brighton, you could 
 easily run up to town if you want a day's shop- 
 ping." 
 
 " I don't think," said Mrs. Meredith, " that 
 shopping will be any particular temptation to us 
 at present. We have got to get used to having 
 money to spend. Up to now we've only shopped 
 from necessity ; never as a luxury, never as a 
 pastime. I should be hopelessly lost in London 
 now," she said pathetically. I should walk into 
 the first shop I came to and let them fleece me 
 how they would." 
 
 " So they would in Brighton just the same." 
 
 " Well, I don't think so. You see, we have 
 been very dull ; we have led such a retired, I may 
 say such a narrow life, that the more busy and 
 crowded the place, the greater change it would be 
 
 n 
 
 to us. 
 
 " Why don't you go abroad ? " 
 
 " No, not at present. You won't think us 
 mad if we go to Brighton, will you ? " 
 
 " No, I shan't think you mad, but I shall 
 think you are very mistaken people." 
 
 " Well, they've got an old proverb up here,
 
 The Old Regiment. *77 
 
 Mr. Vincent, which says, f Everybody knows 
 their own know best.' ' 
 
 Dick drew back instantly. " Oh, Mrs. 
 Meredith, I didn't mean I didn't presume to 
 dictate to you. You know I wouldn't do such a 
 thing." 
 
 " I know you wouldn't. But without dicta- 
 ting, or wishing to dictate, or anything of the kind, 
 you must see that 1 understand my own tempera- 
 ment and my daughter's better than you do ; 
 and I do believe that as Cynthia has set her heart 
 upon going to Brighton, that it will be the wisest 
 if 1 keep to our original plan go down there, 
 take comfortable rooms on the sea front, and stay 
 there just as long as it amuses us or is beneficial 
 to us." 
 
 " That, of course," said Dick, " must be ac- 
 cording to your own judgment; and I dare say 
 you are quite right, Mrs. Meredith. Wherever 
 you are I shall find my way to see you. In- 
 deed, there is so much business to be done in the 
 future between us that we must keep in touch with 
 each other." 
 
 The widow stretched out her little slim hand. 
 " You were Roger's friend," she said softly, " and 
 as long as I live nothing shall ever put you out 
 of touch with me." 
 
 12
 
 J 7 8 A Matter of Sentiment 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE CHARMER. 
 
 FOR a whole fortnight Dick Vincent remained 
 at the Golden swan in Blankhampton. He told 
 himself that he must see poor Roger's widow and 
 child through the difficulties of the move. Wo- 
 men, he argued, needed a man to give them ad- 
 vice and show them which way they were going. 
 He forgot that little Mrs. Meredith had proved 
 herself very capable of keeping her boat upright 
 for fifteen years past. He never admitted to him- 
 self that the little lady, in spite of her soft eyes 
 and pleasant tongue, had never taken his advice 
 in any one particular. She made use of him, oh 
 yes, in a thousand ways but they were her ways, 
 not his. 
 
 " That dear boy ! " she called him to Cynthia. 
 " Oh, if only your father had lived, what a joyful 
 day it would have been for me to go to the place 
 he called after me to take up my broken life 
 to have been a happy, friendly, delightful party. 
 Oh, Cynthia, Cynthia ! It has come too late 
 too late ! " 
 
 Dick was not by any means idle during the
 
 The Voice of the Charmer. 
 
 two weeks which followed the finding of Mrs. 
 Meredith. He had naturally confided to his 
 great friend, Allison, the bit of luck which had 
 come to him in the shape of an oil well, and Al- 
 lison, being of a genial, talkative disposition, had 
 carefully spread the news throughout the better 
 circles of Blankhampton society. Blankhamp- 
 ton mothers were therefore quite in a flutter 
 over the advent of this extremely handsome 
 young man, who had such a satisfactory piece of 
 property as an oil well at his back. 
 
 He had not been three days at the Golden 
 Swan when Allison came in one day whilst he was 
 eating his lunch, and sat himself down, a trim 
 figure in undress uniform. 
 
 " Hullo ! You'll have some lunch, old chap ? " 
 
 " Yes, thanks ; I will." 
 
 " How came you to be about, this hour ? " 
 
 "Why, I came down to see you. Yes, I'll 
 have some soup, please. There's a little woman 
 in town called Manisty. She ain't a bad little 
 sort. She wants you to come to tea this after- 
 noon." 
 
 " Me ? " exclaimed Dick. " Why, what does 
 she know about me ? " 
 
 " Oh, she's seen you about, you know. A 
 chap of your distinction cannot go without notice 
 in a place like this. You always did mash all the 
 women."
 
 i8o A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " Me ? " repeated Dick. " I never mashed 
 anybody in my life." 
 
 " Well, you have this time, anyway ; and Mrs. 
 Manisty is giving a tea-fight this afternoon and 
 she gives rather nice tea-fights and she wants me 
 to bring you." 
 
 "Oh, I'm out of the way of tea-fights. I have 
 been living in the wilds for seven years. I don't 
 think she'll really care for me, you know ; not if 
 she is in her senses." 
 
 " Oh, I'll answer for her, if not her senses. 
 You'd better come, because I said I'd take 
 you." 
 
 " My dear chap, you shouldn't make promises 
 for me. You shouldn't make promises for other 
 people at all." * 
 
 " I know I shouldn't, but I did all the same. 
 You might come. The little woman would be 
 very gratified." 
 
 " Well, I don't know the little woman," said 
 Dick, cold-bloodedly attacking the beef. 
 
 " Well, she's a good sort. And you'll come ? 
 I'll call for you about half-past four. Now don't 
 go and say you're engaged. I know there's some 
 charmer up at Gatehouses, but you can't want to 
 be living there." 
 
 " Oh, no, I'm not living there," said Dick. 
 He went rather red and bent his face down over 
 his plate.
 
 The Voice of the Charmer. 
 
 " You might take me up there," said Allison. 
 
 " Oh, no ; they are quite out of your line." 
 
 " Are they ? Are they ugly ? " 
 
 Oh, no." 
 
 " Then they are good-looking. I know you, 
 I know you inside out, Dick ; nobody ever knew 
 you better. What are you doing to-night ? Will 
 you come and dine ? " 
 
 No, I can't." 
 
 " Why not ? What are you doing ? You are 
 going to Gatehouses." 
 
 " No, I am not." 
 
 " Well, they are coming to dine with you." 
 
 " Yes, they are." 
 
 " Then you can ask me." 
 
 " No, I'd rather not." 
 
 " What ? Are you sweet on the girl ? You 
 don't think I'd go poaching on your preserves, 
 do you ? Don't you know me better than that 
 after all these years ? " 
 
 " It would be a case of cut me out if you could, 
 old boy, if there was a question of cutting out, 
 which there isn't. But Mrs. Meredith has only 
 just heard of the death of her husband, and she 
 mightn't like to meet a perfect stranger." 
 
 "Oh! How long has he been in California? 
 Fifteen years, didn't you tell me the other day ? 
 And you were commissioned to go home and find 
 her. I should think she's about got over the
 
 182 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 parting by this time. I shall come. What time 
 are you dining ? " 
 
 " Never mind." 
 
 " Oh, that's all right. I shall turn up at about 
 a quarter-past seven ; if you are dining at seven, 
 I shall cut in ; if you are dining at half-past, I 
 shall be in plenty of time." 
 
 " Well, you can come if you like," said Dick. 
 
 " I will. Thank you very much. So kind of 
 you to ask me. I am delighted to accept." 
 
 Dick gave a grunt and a laugh. " What a 
 humbug you are ! Never saw a chap so little 
 changed in my life." 
 
 " No, I am not changed, my dear fellow. I 
 have got nothing to change me. Life has gone 
 on in one unbroken round of field days and 
 dances, and a few entertainments thrown in. You 
 can't change on a diet like that." 
 
 " Why do you stick at it ? " 
 
 " Why do I stick at it ? It suits me well 
 enough. I have not the brains for a more ar- 
 duous profession. And after all, if you come to 
 that, I don't know that there is anything elevat- 
 ing about planting vineyards and growing fruit 
 trees, as you have been doing for seven years." 
 
 " Oh, it was a question of lungs with me. I 
 wouldn't have jacked up the old regiment to go and 
 bury myself alive out West, even for an oil well. 
 If a chap's lungs give out, what is he to do ? "
 
 The Voice of the Charmer. l8 3 
 
 " No, true. Yes, waiter, I'll have some more 
 of that salad. It's extremely good. It's the best 
 salad I've eaten for a long time. It's the one 
 thing our cook fails in as I tell the mess presi- 
 dent every day of my life. He mixes a salad as 
 if it were something sour." 
 
 " 1 didn't notice anything wrong with it the 
 other day when I was lunching," said Dick, in- 
 differently. " But seven years on a ranche with- 
 out a cook of any kind doesn't make a man more 
 fastidious. Well now, look here, old chap ; I 
 don't want to go to this party this afternoon." 
 
 " Oh, but you must go. I've kind of staked 
 my professional honor on it ; and the little woman 
 will be furiously disappointed if you don't turn 
 up ; she'd take it as an insult. She hasn't any 
 daughters, so that needn't upset your apple-cart. 
 
 " Oh, all right. Well, I'll go. But since you 
 have been talking about me, I suppose you have 
 thrown in a mention of the oil well in the back- 
 ground. You might spread the information that 
 I'm not by way of being a marrying man." 
 
 " All right, old chap, I'll warn 'em all off. And 
 I'll come for you about four, eh ? " 
 
 " Oh, all right." 
 
 The result of this first plunge into the vortex 
 of Blankhampton society was to make Dick Vin- 
 cent the most sought after young man in the 
 neighborhood ; and this in spite of a frankly
 
 l8 4 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 brutal way in which Captain Allison spread the 
 news far and wide that Dick was a " gone coon " 
 in the direction of his old friend's daughter. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Manisty," he said to the little 
 lady in question, who, although she had no 
 daughters, was reputed to be the cleverest match- 
 maker in the town, " it isn't a bit of use wasting 
 twopennorth of trouble over Vincent, or his books, 
 or his family, or his oil well, or anything else. 
 He's got a partner in the oil well already in the 
 shape of Meredith's daughter ; and if he doesn't 
 end by making her a partner for life, I'll eat my 
 hat." 
 
 " And is she presentable ? " 
 
 " Presentable ! " echoed Allison. " No, Mrs. 
 Manisty, she's not presentable, she's the loveliest 
 thing I ever saw in my life. She's a lady born 
 and bred although she's been poor up to now. 
 Nobody else will have a look in with Vincent, al- 
 though he'd be fit to bite my head off it he could 
 hear me say so. But I tell you, because I know 
 how good-natured you are in arranging these little 
 matters. I am afraid you won't do any business 
 with Vincent." 
 
 " I should like to meet the young lady," said 
 Mrs. Manisty. 
 
 " Oh, I don't think you would at least, I don't 
 think she would. They have lived a very retired 
 life, because they hadn't the money for anything
 
 The Voice of the Charmer. l8 5 
 
 else ; and they are just on the eve of leaving the 
 place. Besides, Mrs. Meredith has only recently 
 heard of her husband's death, and she doesn't 
 want to be visiting or making new acquaintances 
 at present." 
 
 But the Blankhampton matrons who had 
 heard of the oil well, and who had seen Dick, 
 were not thus to be warned off the chase, and 
 Dick, became the recipient of so many invitations 
 and so many smiles and of so much friendliness 
 that he began to think it would be necessary to 
 fly the country before Mrs. Meredith and 
 Cynthia were ready to go to Brighton. Every 
 moment that he could get away from the claims of 
 Society he spent in the little house at Gatehouses ; 
 and when the mother and daughter left it with 
 their few personal belongings, so that the auction- 
 eer's people might take possession, he seemed to 
 be morning, noon, and night in their pleasant 
 lodgings overlooking St. Thomas's Street. 
 
 Once or twice he found himself perilously near 
 to telling Cynthia how completely she had taken 
 possession of him, body and soul. One evening, 
 when Mrs. Meredith was suffering from a head- 
 ache, he had taken her up the street and into the 
 Winter Garden at all hours of the day the most 
 pleasant rendezvous in Blankampton. 
 
 The air of the summer evening was still and 
 warm ; behind them stretched the great glass
 
 1 86 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 houses wherein Blankhampton disported itself 
 during the winter months ; around them lay the 
 lovely lawns, on which Blankhampton took the 
 air during the summer ; above, a golden moon 
 cast its light upon the winding river, which flowed 
 at the end of the terraces. They could hear the 
 sound of a piano floating across the gardens, the 
 sound of a piano and of a girl's fresh voice. It 
 was a night to make the most diffident man speak 
 his mind ; it was a night to make the most 
 difficult girl come like a bird to the hand of the 
 tamer. 
 
 " It's jolly here, isn't it ? " 
 
 Cynthia turned her grave gray eyes upon him. 
 " Should you call it jolly ? " she asked. 
 
 Dick laughed. " It depends on the definition 
 of jolly. Perhaps if I had thought before I spoke, 
 which I didn't I should have put it in another 
 way ; but it's very perfect sitting out here, in this 
 still, tranquil English air." 
 
 " Is it different to Californian air ? " she asked, 
 turning and looking at him. 
 
 Again the mention of California, and a certain 
 look in her eyes, suddenly brought Roger 
 Meredith back to his mind not only Roger 
 Meredith but that last look in his eyes, before he 
 had drawn the trigger of his revolver. 
 
 A cold chill settled down upon Dick, and he 
 shuddered visibly. " There is a great deal of rot
 
 The Voice of the Charmer. l8 7 
 
 talked about California," he said, almost harshly. 
 " People here have an idea that California is 
 literally teeming with milk and honey. It is the 
 greatest mistake in the world. There is nothing 
 like this over there. And, Miss Cynthia, it's 
 very chilly, after all. I think we had better go 
 in." 
 
 He went back to his hotel that night with his 
 whole being in a tumult. He told himself 
 savagely, over and over again, that he was a fool 
 that he was playing with edged tools that he 
 he must get this girl out of his mind before the 
 damage was too late to undo. 
 
 " If she knew," he argued, " if she knew the 
 truth, why, neither she nor her mother would 
 ever bring themselves to look at me. They 
 might in common justice own that I hadn't any 
 choice in the matter, but the fact remains the 
 same, that mine was the hand that sent Roger 
 Meredith out of this world into the next. They 
 are women. They'd never get over it. I must 
 clear out of this, and make up my mind that 
 Roger Meredith's daughter is not for me."
 
 1 88 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 MRS. VINCENT'S FEARS. 
 
 FROM the night when Dick Vincent came to 
 the conclusion that under no circumstances could 
 Roger Meredith's daughter ever become his wife, 
 he kept himself most carefully from any special 
 intercourse with her. He proposed no more 
 evenings in the Winter Gardens, he addressed all 
 his conversation, or at least a good deal of his 
 conversation, to the little widow ; he allowed him- 
 self no familiarities, and he permitted himself to 
 be drawn a little further into the vortex of 
 Blankhampton society than he would have 
 have dreamed of doing under ordinary circum- 
 stances. Indeed, during those few days in which 
 he remained at the Golden Swan, more than one 
 mother in Blankhampton had visions of a propri- 
 etorial interest in the oil well at Santa Clara. 
 
 But eventually Dick went away, leaving behind 
 him no promise of spring. He did not even 
 travel up as far as London with Mrs. Meredith 
 and Cynthia, but told them as an excuse for not 
 doing so that he had promised to dine at the 
 Black Horse mess.
 
 Mrs. Vincent's Fears. l8 9 
 
 Then he went back to London, where he put 
 in a miserable week so miserable that he more 
 than once caught himself wishing that he were 
 back on the ranche again. After that, he went 
 home to Hollingridge, where his mother once 
 more killed the fatted calf in his honor, although 
 the whole house was in a tumult over the prepa- 
 rations for his sister's wedding. 
 
 " Now tell me, dear boy," said Mrs. Vincent, 
 when dinner was over the first evening, and the 
 others had wandered away to various amusements 
 or occupations, " you found poor Mr. Meredith's 
 widow ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I found her," said Dick. 
 
 " Is she nice ? " 
 
 " Very nice." 
 
 "A lady?" 
 
 " Oh, a perfect lady," Dick answered. 
 
 " Was she upset ? Do tell me about it. I am 
 most interested." 
 
 " Well, she was a bit knocked over at first, yes 
 she certainly was knocked over, because she has 
 always clung to the hope that he would turn up 
 again." 
 
 "And the girl?" 
 
 " Oh, well, the girl doesn't remember him ; 
 she was more philosophic about it." 
 
 " Well, dear, one could not expect her to be 
 anything else. Most trying, I consider, to go on
 
 J 9 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 year after year, never sure from one minute to an- 
 other what might turn up or come out. Poor 
 soul ! I have thought about her so much whilst 
 you have been away. You paid over the money ; 
 and what will become of the ranche ?" 
 
 " Well, I shall have to prove Meredith's will 
 as soon as I go back," Dick replied. 
 
 " Wouldn't you like me to ask them here for 
 a little while ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, mother, thank you. I don't think 
 so ; not at present, at all events. You see 
 well, she's had a great shock, and she's in very 
 new mourning ; and they have gone off for a long 
 holiday for one thing," 
 
 " Oh, for a long holiday. What sort of cir- 
 cumstances did you find them in ? " 
 
 " Well, pretty narrow ; what one would call 
 straitened circumstances. And of course Mrs. 
 Meredith's first idea was to give her daughter a 
 complete holiday and change. That was only 
 natural," 
 
 " Oh, it was natural enough, poor woman ; I 
 can quite see that. Had she money ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Meredith had a little money." 
 
 "Yes. And did they live on that exclu- 
 sively ? " 
 
 Mrs. Vincent was insistent. She meant to get 
 to the bottom of the Meredith story, and Dick 
 knew by long experience that it was useless
 
 Mrs. Vincent's Fears. I 9 l 
 
 for him to try to wriggle out of giving the in- 
 formation which she required. 
 
 " No. The girl was teaching." 
 
 " Oh." Mrs. Vincent's tone was comprehen- 
 sion itself. " Teaching, was she ? And you say 
 she's so pretty." 
 
 " Oh, very pretty." 
 
 " And nice ? " 
 
 " Very nice. Charming." 
 
 " And teaching ? Dear me ! Ah, dear, well I 
 suppose there will be no fear of poverty in the 
 future." 
 
 " Not the very smallest," said Dick. " She's 
 an heiress now unless the oil well should dry 
 up, which is most unlikely." 
 
 " Oh, she'll marry, my dear. A pretty girl 
 with half an oil well is sure to marry. Perhaps 
 her mother will marry. 
 
 " I don't think so. She's absolutely faithful 
 to poor old Roger's memory. The only thing 
 that hurt her much was his notion that she might 
 have married somebody else, believing him to be 
 dead." 
 
 " Poor thing ! " said Mrs. Vincent, feelingly. 
 " I can imagine nothing more dreadful than to 
 live like that. And all these years, poor soul, 
 really living on the edge of a razor." 
 
 " Yes, really living on the edge of a razor," 
 said Dick. " Great bore to think yourself free,
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 and then all at once find a husband turn up 
 again." 
 
 " Oh, my dear boy," said Mrs. Vincent, " it 
 was just as well that your poor friend was taken 
 out of it. They would have had a dreadful time 
 together." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " said Dick. 
 
 "Yes, dear; sure of it. It doesn't do for 
 people to go away and be parted like that. 
 They are not the same when they come together 
 again." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. I have been away 
 
 seven years ; you don't find me any different, do 
 
 ? 
 . 
 
 " Well, I do," said Mrs. Vincent. " You have 
 got some queer, old-fashioned, bachelor ways of 
 your own." 
 
 " Have I ? " cried Dick. 
 
 "Well, yes, I must confess that you have." 
 
 " Not really ? " asked Dick. 
 
 " Yes, my dear boy, really," persisted his 
 mother. 
 
 " How horrid ! " was Dick's rejoinder. 
 
 " Well, dear boy, perhaps you will be doing 
 away with your bachelorism." 
 
 " I don't think so," said Dick, shortly. 
 
 " No ? It seems a pity." 
 
 Mrs. Vincent meant that it would be a pity to 
 let somebody else take possession of the oil well ;
 
 Mrs. Vincent's Fears. 1 93 
 
 but Dick, who had once been as simple and open 
 as the day, was sufficiently changed for her to 
 hesitate in putting the thought into plain words. 
 
 " I don't see that there is any particular pity 
 about it," said Dick. 
 
 " Well, dear, it would be a sad thing if the old 
 name should die out." 
 
 " It won't die out," said Dick ; " there's Jack 
 Vincent who can keep up the traditions of the 
 old place far better than I should." 
 
 " Jack Vincent ! " cried his mother, with an air 
 of disgust. " Jack Vincent indeed to rule at 
 Hollingridge ! Why your father would have a 
 fit at the very mention of it." 
 
 " Don't mention it, dearest," said Dick, easily. 
 " If I want to marry later on, I shall marry. If 
 it pleases Providence to send me an heir, well, 
 that will do away with Jack Vincent's chance. 
 But if I don't want to marry, I certainly shall not 
 do so to keep Jack out of the inheritance, to which 
 he has quite as much right as I have." 
 
 " No right in the world," cried Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 " Oh, come, come, you are prejudiced," said 
 Dick. " There's time enough, dear ; and any day 
 the next ten years will do to discuss that contin- 
 gency. I'll bet you the governor never worries 
 his head about it." 
 
 " More than you think," said Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 " Does he ? Poor dear ! I am sorry. I wish 
 '3
 
 X 94 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 he wouldn't, and I wish you wouldn't. To tell 
 you the truth, mother, I hate to think of the 
 time when there will have to be a change of 
 ownership. The governor is in his right place as 
 the squire, and you are in your right place as 
 mistress of Hollingridge. Why you should be 
 anxious to bring somebody else in who would 
 eventually turn you out, I can't think." 
 
 " I hope I am not selfish," cried his mother. 
 
 " Selfish ! Never anybody less so." 
 
 " Then you wouldn't like me to ask Mrs. and 
 Miss Meredith down for a few days ? " 
 
 " No, I don't think so." 
 
 The very thought of Cynthia at Hollingridge 
 was enough to set his pulse beating at double 
 quick time. With an insurmountable barrier 
 between them, it would indeed, his thoughts ran, 
 be foolish if he allowed his mother to foster any 
 greater intimacy than existed between them at 
 present. Of course, he reminded himself, she, 
 poor darling, did not know why it was better he 
 should see as little of Roger Meredith's daughter 
 as possible. 
 
 " I can't think," said Mrs. Vincent to Laura a 
 few hours later, " what has come over Dick." 
 
 " Dick's all right, mother," said Laura. 
 
 " No, he isn't all right. There's something 
 on his mind. He's quite changed from what he 
 was before he went away."
 
 Mrs. Vincent's Fears. 1 9$ 
 
 " Well, dear, seven years of isolation would 
 change any man." 
 
 " Yes ; but he has changed since he came back. 
 I don't know what has happened, but something 
 is weighing on Dick's mind. My dear, I do 
 think we might ask the St. John girls over." 
 
 " The St. John girls ? Why ? " 
 
 " Because they are bright and pretty and Dick 
 might fall in love with one of them." 
 
 " But you don't want Dick to fall in love with 
 oneof them, surely ? " 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 " But why ? " 
 
 " Because I think it would be better for him 
 to be married and have a nice wife of his own, 
 who would go to and fro between England and 
 California, and make life altogether different for 
 Dick." 
 
 " I don't think you had better try interfering 
 with Dick's love affairs," said Laura, wisely. 
 
 " Not interfere, dear, no not for the world ; 
 that I have never done with any of you. But to 
 put nice girls in his way, that is different. I am 
 not like some mothers," she went on, preening 
 herself complacently, " who can't bear to think of 
 their sons marrying. I want him to marry, I 
 want him to have a nice wife one of our own 
 sort, to be one of ourselves. I like the St. John 
 girls,"
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. i 
 
 " Yes. Would you like them as daughters-in- 
 law, do you think ? " 
 
 " Well, only one at a time, dear," said Mrs. 
 Vincent, with dignity. 
 
 " I see. I don't think you would like the St. 
 John girls at all. Dad can't bear them." 
 
 " I never heard him say so," cried Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 " I have, many a time," said Laura. " Oh, 
 don't worry, dear, about Dick. Dick isn't feel- 
 ing very well ; he's bothered about the Meredith 
 affairs. Don't get fancying things about him ; 
 he has quite enough on his mind, poor dear, with- 
 out you worrying. You know, darling mother, 
 you can't worry without showing it." 
 
 " My poor boy ! " said Mrs. Vincent, pathet- 
 ically. " I wish he would confide in me." 
 
 But Dick neither confided in his mother nor in 
 any one else. He passed his time between Hol- 
 lingridge and Foxborough, taking all that was to 
 be had in the way of shooting at either place. 
 Then he received a letter from Mrs. Meredith. 
 
 " We feel quite hurt," she wrote, " that you 
 have not yet been to see us. This isn't keeping 
 your promise, dear Mr. Vincent. Do find time, 
 when you have killed all the poor birds in your 
 neighborhood, to come and see us in our resting- 
 place here. Cynthia is as happy as a child, and 
 and is looking better every day. For my own 
 part, I particularly want to see you, that I may
 
 Mrs. Vincent's Fears. *97 
 
 consult you about various business matters which 
 are too much for me to decide alone. Do make 
 an effort and come down for a few days." 
 
 So she was as happy as a child ; and the little 
 widow could not get on without him any longer. 
 He knew that he had no choice but to go and 
 take up at Brighton the same terms of intimacy 
 that he had been on at Blankhampton. There 
 was no getting out of it ; he had no single excuse 
 that could for a moment hold water with an astute 
 little woman like Cynthia's mother. Yes, he 
 would have to go. 
 
 He broke the news to his mother, half-expect- 
 ing that she would grudge his absence, but Mrs. 
 Vincent still had an eye to the other half of the 
 oil well, and she was instantly all sweet and friend- 
 ly sympathy." 
 
 " Wants to consult you on business, does she ? " 
 she said. " Poor little woman ! Yes, you must 
 go, dear boy. You can't leave her in the lurch. 
 I suppose she wants to know how to invest the 
 money brought over or something of that kind. 
 Poor little soul ! I wish you had let me have 
 them here for a bit." 
 
 " I didn't want them here," said Dick, shortly. 
 
 " No, no ; so you said, dear. But I wish you 
 had. I think it would have been kinder on our 
 part." 
 
 " No kindness at all," said Dick.
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " No ? " queried Mrs. Vincent, and dismissed 
 the subject from the conversation. 
 
 " Oh, how he does dislike that poor girl," she 
 remarked to Laura afterwards. 
 
 " What poor girl ? " asked Laura. 
 
 "Why, the girl Meredith's daughter." 
 
 " I don't think he does." 
 
 " My dear child, I'm perfectly certain of it. I 
 wanted to have them here it seems only a nat- 
 ural thing when Dick was her father's great friend 
 that well, that the first visit should be to Dick's 
 father and mother. Dick wouldn't hear of it." 
 
 " Oh, wouldn't he ? I suppose Dick knows. 
 What makes you think he doesn't like her ? " 
 
 " I don't think about it, my dear child ; I am 
 perfectly certain of it. He shut me up." 
 
 " Dick shut you up, mother ? " 
 
 " Yes, shut me up quite short." 
 
 " Oh, mother, what nonsense ! " 
 
 " It isn't nonsense, dear child ; it's fact." 
 
 " I suppose she's rich ? " said Laura. 
 
 " Rich ? She's got the other half of the oil 
 well," cried Mrs. Vincent, with what was almost 
 a scream. 
 
 "Ah, and you are thinking of the oil well, are 
 you, darling ? Well, if Dick likes her, he wouldn't 
 like her to think that he had an eye to the oil 
 well." 
 
 " This is positively silly ! " cried Mrs. Vincent.
 
 Something Calling. 1 99 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 SOMETHING CALLING. 
 
 PROBABLY a less conceited man than Dick Vin- 
 cent has never been born into the world. Never- 
 theless he could not hide from himself, when he 
 walked into the Merediths' lodgings at Brighton, 
 the fact that Cynthia's grave gray eyes lighted up 
 in a radiant blaze of glory as he entered the room. 
 
 " Now you'll dine with us here to-night ? " 
 said Mrs. Meredith, when they had exchanged 
 greetings and she was pouring out a cup of tea 
 for Dick. 
 
 " No, no. You'll dine with me at my hotel," 
 said he. 
 
 " I don't think that's right." 
 
 " Oh, yes, it is ; most right. I haven't been 
 to Brighton for years ; in fact, I doubt if I have 
 been here more than twice in my life ; and I shall 
 be most hideously disappointed if you don't take 
 me to all the sights and dine with me every night." 
 
 " Oh, but that is not fair." 
 
 " Yes, it is quite fair. You give me your 
 society " 
 
 " And you give us our dinner," laughed Cyn- 
 thia.
 
 200 A Matter of Sentiment 
 
 " Well, if you like to put it that way, Miss 
 Cynthia. I don't in the least care how you put 
 it, so long as I have my own way." 
 
 " Well, well," said Mrs. Meredith, making a 
 great s\ow of yielding, " we won't quarrel over a 
 point like that." 
 
 " We won't quarrel about anything," said Dick. 
 And soinehow, in spite of himself and of his wise 
 resolutions, his eyes sought Cynthia's, and on 
 Cynthia's soft round cheeks there rose a color 
 which turned the faint peach-bloom of her nat- 
 ural tint to a fine roseate hue. In a sense Dick 
 lost his head. He was intoxicated by the charm- 
 ing beauty of her presence, by the charm of her 
 manners, the thrill of her musical voice, the in- 
 effable delight of her presence. 
 
 Then memory pulled him up with a jerk once 
 more, and with a stifled sigh he turned to the lit- 
 tle widow, who looked most dainty in her becom- 
 ing widow's cap. " You wanted to consult me, 
 Mrs. Meredith ? " he said, with quite a change 
 of tone. 
 
 " Ah, yes, but that will keep till to-morrow. 
 We won't talk business to-day. To-morrow mor- 
 ning I will show you the papers that I wanted to 
 consult you about, and we will be as business-like 
 as the most business-like man could desire. To- 
 day we will forget ; we will only be friends to-day." 
 
 " I am only too happy to be your friend," said
 
 Something Calling. 201 
 
 Dick, " and we will leave all the business affairs 
 until the cold and calculating morn. Meantime 
 I see that the theater is on. Shall we go to- 
 night?" 
 
 " It would be pleasant," said Mrs. Meredith. 
 " We have seen so little Cynthia and I." 
 
 " We have seen nothing," put in Cynthia with 
 a gay laugh. " I think, darling mother, that 
 would be nearer the mark. We have seen noth- 
 ing. You see, Mr. Vincent, dear and sweet as 
 our vicar was at home, I think he would have 
 drawn the line at the school-mistress going to the 
 theater. So we never went except sometimes 
 when we were at Rockferry for our summer holi- 
 day. The theater at Rockferry isn't large.'" 
 
 " The theater here at Brighton is a large one," 
 said Dick. " There is always a good company, 
 and on Thursday afternoons always a piece down 
 from town. I shall take tickets on my way back 
 to the hotel ; or stay I can take them in the 
 hotel itself." 
 
 It must be confessed that, even to Dick's mas- 
 culine eyes, Mrs. Meredith and Cynthia had done 
 themselves very well in the matter of mourning. 
 It is true that Mrs. Meredith was wearing weeds, 
 but they were of the most pronouncedly fashion- 
 able type. Her Marie Stuart cap was an airy 
 creation, more like an announcement that its 
 wearer was a widow than any symbol of grief.
 
 202 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 Her crape bodice was cut square, and filled into 
 the throat with white pleated lisse. If she had 
 looked to Dick very young at their first interview, 
 she certainly seemed ten years younger now that 
 he saw her well and fashionably dressed. As for 
 Cynthia, she was adorable. Her simple yet ele- 
 gant morning toilet was cut so as to show a little 
 of the softly rounded throat and her round and 
 slender wrists. 
 
 " She is the image of her mother," Dick's 
 thoughts ran, " but, thank God, not so determined 
 a character." And then he remembered with a 
 pang that he need not thank God that Cynthia 
 Meredith would never be anything to him. 
 
 He thought about her as he walked along the 
 sea front to his hotel. She would never be any- 
 thing to him yes, always, always the one woman 
 in the world to him ; his heart would ever turn 
 to her as the most fair and perfect of her sex ; 
 nothing could take that away. She could never 
 be his wife because of that secret which lay hidden 
 in his heart. She could never be his wife, but 
 she always could and she always would be his 
 ideal. 
 
 He felt comforted as he turned into the hotel, 
 and it was with a cheerful heart after all that he 
 ordered a little table to be reserved for dinner, 
 and then went out to the bureau to see what places 
 he could get for the theater.
 
 Something Calling. 
 
 This done, he went up to his room and dressed 
 with quite a light heart, and when the two ladies 
 arrived he met them with a beaming smile of wel- 
 come. Poor Dick ! It was so hard to remember 
 when in Cynthia's sweet presence that he must 
 keep his heart under lock and key, that he must 
 not let himself go, that he must watch every word 
 that fell from his lips, that he must never forget 
 that between them there was a great gulf fixed, a 
 gulf which could never be bridged over on this 
 side the grave. Left to himself, he might have 
 forgotten nay, it is safe to say he would have 
 forgotten but that curious likeness to her father 
 in Cynthia's eyes brought him up every now and 
 again as if he were a bird tied by the leg to a 
 stone. It was curious, because Cynthia was so 
 absurdly like her mother ; it was only now and 
 again, only when Dick felt the most drawn to- 
 wards her, that that strange look of Roger Mere- 
 dith would step in between them, of Roger Mere- 
 dith as he had seen him last. 
 
 Well, the morning after the dinner and the visit 
 to the theater, Dick went round to the Merediths' 
 pleasant rooms in order to see what was the busi- 
 ness on which Mrs. Meredith desired to consult 
 him. 
 
 " Ah, it is you," she said, in a tone of satisfac- 
 tion. " How good of you to come so early ! 
 Cynthia has gone out for a blow on the front, so
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 we are quite alone. Now, I am going to take 
 you right into my confidence." 
 
 " I hope so," said Dick. 
 
 " I dare say you won't be pleased," said the 
 little woman. 
 
 " Oh, why not ? " 
 
 " Because I am going to tell you what, some- 
 how, I feel will vex you." 
 
 "Oh, no, Mrs. Meredith. Why should any- 
 thing you tell me vex me ? " 
 
 " Well, we like Brighton." 
 
 " You are thinking of taking a house here ? " 
 
 " Not at present. You know, all our treasures 
 - heaven knows they are not many ! " she said, 
 with a sigh and a smile, " I have left in safe keep- 
 ing in London." 
 
 " Yes ? " 
 
 " By and by we shall settle down somewhere, 
 and we shall make ourselves a home ; but not 
 yet." 
 
 " No ? You desire to travel ? " 
 
 " Yes, that's just it. We desire to travel. 
 Now we want to know when you are going back 
 to Santa Clara." 
 
 " I propose to go back in about six weeks' 
 time," he replied. 
 
 " Six weeks' time ? Now, I know you will be 
 vexed at what I am going to say." 
 
 " I will trv not to be, Mrs Meredith."
 
 Something Calling. 20 5 
 
 " Well, we want to go over with you." 
 
 Oh, but " 
 
 " Yes I knew you would say ' but' yes, of 
 course I knew that ; but we want to go, do you 
 see ? And we mean to go." 
 
 "Of course, if you mean to go, if you have set 
 your minds on going," said Dick, " well, I sup- 
 pose you will go." 
 
 " I suppose we shall," said the little widow. 
 
 " I quite understand your wish to see the place, 
 it's a perfectly natural wish ; to you there is 
 something very fine and delightful in the idea, 
 but you won't enjoy it." 
 
 " No, perhaps not. But I shall have satisfied 
 myself." 
 
 " Satisfied yourself! " His heart was beating 
 so that he could scarcely pronounce the words. 
 " Satisfied yourself! " he echoed. 
 
 Mrs. Meredith nodded. " Yes," she said, " I 
 have set my heart on seeing the place where 
 Roger passed the last seven years of his life. I 
 mean to go to his grave. Oh, yes, I mean to go 
 to the place where he died." 
 
 " You must do as you like," said Dick, in a 
 ready, calm voice. 
 
 I am bound to confess that his calmness was 
 the calmness of despair. He felt assured that 
 once Mrs. Meredith found herself at Midas 
 Creek, in the very hotel where Roger had died,
 
 206 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 she would spot yes, that was the word he used, 
 remember gentle reader ; do not think that I, his 
 author, am using so unliterary a word, I am but 
 detailing his thoughts at the moment, and that 
 was the phrase as Dick Vincent put it in his 
 mind she would spot the identity of the 
 man who had fled by the advice of the land- 
 lord and Valentine Clegg ; she would root out 
 Valentine Clegg ; she would do a thousand things 
 that would be inconvenient and tiresome. Well, 
 let her do it. Let the worst come to the worst ; 
 he could but own to it all and explain that his 
 only thought in concealment had been to save 
 her pain. After all, nobody could blame him. 
 It was a mere matter of sentiment, it could be 
 but a mere matter of sentiment that his happened 
 to be the hand on the revolver at the critical 
 moment when Meredith's brain gave out ; there 
 was nothing personal about it. Oh, the woman 
 was determined ; she must do as she pleased. If 
 she chose to go to Santa Clara, she must go. 
 
 " What are you thinking of, Mr. Vincent ? " 
 said Mrs. Meredith, looking at him fixedly. 
 
 " I was wondering how we could manage the 
 journey so that you would be tolerably comfort- 
 able," he replied. 
 
 " Oh, as to that we are no feather-bed creatures, 
 sugar and salt, wrapped in cotton wool. You 
 came down ; where you came down we can go up."
 
 Something Calling. a 7 
 
 " That doesn't follow," said Dick. 
 
 " Well, it doesn't ; but if we suffer, why, we 
 suffer ; and it will be no fault of yours, for I can 
 honestly say that you genuinely tried to scare me 
 off. But I am not to be scared off. I want to 
 see the place that was called after me. I have 
 never had a yard of earth in my life not so 
 much as the freehold of a grave. I have got a 
 fine estate out there ; I want to see it." 
 
 " Yes, well, that is possible enough," said Dick. 
 " All that I am afraid of is that you will be hid- 
 eously disappointed when you do see it. Over 
 here one somehow thinks of California as a gar- 
 den. There is precious little of the garden about 
 it, Mrs. Meredith. However, if you have made 
 up your mind to go, perhaps it is better that you 
 should go and get it done with. You won't 
 want to stay there very long, that's certain. You 
 think of the ranche as a fine estate ; as far as 
 money value goes it is a fine estate ; as far as 
 beauty goes, don't have any idea that you are 
 going to find the counterpart there of what you 
 call a fine estate here. If you go out there, if it 
 is only for a month, you will go out to a rough 
 life, to rough work, to a total want of convenience, 
 to disappointment yes, I am certain to disap- 
 pointment but you will be satisfied. I won't 
 say another word against it." 
 
 " Now I never thought I could bring you
 
 208 A. Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 round to reason like that," said Mrs. Meredith, 
 looking at him with a quizzical air. " 1 told 
 Cynthia to go out and stop out till one o'clock, 
 because I expected it would be a long time before 
 I should bring you to reason." 
 
 " But, my dear lady, there's no bringing me to 
 reason. You are free to do as you choose. You 
 have a perfect right to go out if you wish to do 
 so. I only have tried to dissuade you because I 
 have been there, and I know how beastly it all is 
 to an English mind ; but if you have set your 
 heart upon it, why there's nothing more to be 
 said. I can't stop your going. You won't want 
 to go twice." 
 
 " That's as may be. I am delighted that you 
 have come round, and that you are so sensible. 
 I hate people who are not sensible. Something 
 tells me that I ought to go ; something that's 
 with me by day and most of the night^something 
 that's always about me, says : ( Go to Santa Clara. 
 You will be happy when you have been to Santa 
 Clara.' Now, should I have such a feeling for 
 nothing ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Dick. " You might. I 
 don't feel that you will be any happier for going. 
 But then I am not you, and you must do as you 
 like. Do you think he do you wish me to 
 think that I mean, is it that that Meredith 
 himself is calling you," he asked, in a curious
 
 Something Calling. 
 
 strained voice, " that Meredith is influencing you 
 from where he may be, that he wants you to go 
 is urging you to go ? Do you think Mere- 
 dith wants you to clear up anything connected 
 with his death ? "
 
 210 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A TIME OF INDECISION. 
 
 WHEN Dick Vincent put the question straight 
 to Roger Meredith's widow which asked whether 
 she had any feeling that there might be some mys- 
 tery to clear up connected with his death, he felt 
 exactly as if he were signing his own death war- 
 rant. 
 
 " I don't know," she said. " It might be. I 
 can only tell you that ever since I knew that 
 Roger was dead, I have had the same curious 
 feeling that I must go to Santa Clara, the feeling 
 of somebody calling me. I don't know whether 
 it is Roger, or not. 1 only know that I must 
 
 go-" 
 
 "In that case," said Dick, "I think that you 
 
 are perfectly right to make up your mind and 
 carry it through. So, Mrs. Meredith, we will 
 consider it settled. 1 will do my best to make 
 you feel the journey as little as may be ; it's a 
 very tedious journey, and you will find but little 
 comfort when you get to the end of it; except 
 the comfort of having a mind at ease." 
 
 "You will stay and have lunch with us?"
 
 A Time of Indecision. 2I1 
 
 said Mrs. Meredith presently, when they had 
 finished their business talk. 
 
 " Oh, you are very kind. Yes, I'd like to if 
 it doesn't inconvenience you." 
 
 " Not the least. And Cynthia will be de- 
 lighted. She wanted to see you ; she has some- 
 thing that she wants to ask you. No, I won't 
 tell you what it is, because I hate having things 
 said for me. Oh, Mr. Vincent, I can't tell you 
 how delighted she will be that you have con- 
 sented to our going out with you." 
 
 " Consented ? I wish you wouldn't put it in 
 that way. The world is perfectly free to you, to 
 do as you like, and Miss Cynthia also. I had 
 no business to give an opinion even let alone 
 consent. Surely, Mrs. Meredith, you understood 
 that from the beginning ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; but we shouldn't have gone dead 
 against you. We've too much faith in your 
 judgment for that. We quite see now what you 
 meant about Brighton. Mind, I think it was the 
 best place under the circumstances yes, I think 
 it was quite the best place that we could possibly 
 have come to ; but I quite see why you disap- 
 proved, and I think you were perfectly right. J 
 shouldn't like to live here, except in the winter ; 
 I shouldn't like to come here another year 
 another summer. As it is, I fancy that it has 
 served our turn better than any of us know ; and
 
 212 A 
 
 I think when you see Cynthia you will agree with 
 me." 
 
 When Dick Vincent did see Cynthia Meredith 
 he was convinced of one thing that she was the 
 loveliest girl he had ever seen in his life, and that 
 if" he should live to be a hundred years old, no 
 other woman would ever have quite the same 
 effect upon him as she. She, on her side, was un- 
 mistakably delighted to see him again, but in 
 truth Dick himself was too overwhelmingly in love 
 to be able to read quite accurately what her face 
 ought to have told him. In his self-abasement 
 
 o 
 
 he put down the softly shining eyes, the deli- 
 cately blooming cheeks, the gay insouciant 
 manner to the benefit that she had received from 
 change of air. Without doubt the girl was better 
 for the rest and change and ease which had come 
 into her life ; she was the better for these things, 
 as her mother was indisputably better for being 
 out of anxiety at last ; but it was not change of 
 air or ease of circumstances that had made Cynthia 
 look as she looked at that moment. 
 
 " Now you see her in the daylight," cried 
 Mrs. Meredith, who was as blind in her way as 
 Dick was in his ; " now you see what change has 
 done for this young lady." 
 
 " Ah, change is good for everybody," cried 
 Cynthia. " Well, have you two settled all your 
 wonderful business arrangements ? "
 
 A Time of Indecision. 2I 3 
 
 "Yes, darling, we have settled everything. 
 Mr. Vincent is going to stay to lunch, and I have 
 a great piece of news for you." 
 
 She looked up quickly at Dick, a sudden pallor 
 overspreading her countenance. " Why, what 
 has happened ? " she asked, in a tone of appre- 
 hension. 
 
 " Oh, nothing disagreeable, dearest ; nothing 
 but that Mr. Vincent has come round to my way 
 of thinking. He has quite come to see, darling, 
 that it would be better if we go out to Santa Clara 
 when he does." 
 
 " Oh, really. Why, what magic have you used 
 to make him change his opinion like this ? " 
 
 " I don't know that I have changed my 
 opinion, Miss Cynthia," said Dick. " As I said 
 in the beginning, you will both be woefully dis- 
 appointed with Santa Clara. You will have a 
 very long and tedious journey, and you will suf- 
 fer many and hideous inconveniences, but your 
 mother will satisfy her mind, and, after all, that is 
 an important item." 
 
 Cynthia laughed, the color rushing back to her 
 face again. "Mr. Vincent," she said, "to you 
 who have been half the world over, it must seem 
 very foolish that we should so persistently want 
 this one thing. To you a long journey is a bore ; 
 to us it is a novelty and an experience ; and the 
 longer it is and the more fatiguing, the more
 
 2I 4 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 thoroughly we shall enjoy it. Why, don't you 
 remember the man in c Punch,' in a third-class 
 carriage between Edinburgh and London ? He 
 says, f What a ghastly long drive it is ! ' And his 
 fellow-passenger, a canny Scotchman exclaims, 
 f Mon, the ticket cost one pun, twelve-and- 
 sax-pence. Ye need hae something for your 
 money.' ' 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes," said Dick, " I see your 
 point ; and as long as you are not disappointed, 
 I needn't say that to me the presence of ladies at 
 Santa Clara will be a joy. I told poor Roger, 
 your father, often enough that you would come 
 there and be perfectly happy." He dropped his 
 voice so that Mrs. Meredith, who was speaking 
 to the servant who had just entered, could not 
 hear what he said. 
 
 Cynthia dropped her voice to the same level. 
 " It is my mother's great wish," she said. " I 
 have never known her so entirely set upon any- 
 thing. She would have been wretched if you 
 hadn't given way. Thank you very much, Mr. 
 Vincent. You have been so good to us." 
 
 " Don't say that," he said ; " the goodness is 
 all the other way." 
 
 Then Mrs. Meredith turned her back towards 
 them again, and the conversation passed into other 
 and lighter channels. 
 
 It is hard adequately to convey the state of Dick
 
 A Time of Indecision. 
 
 Vincent's mind at this juncture. What he suf- 
 fered was not less than torture. With every day, 
 every hour, he became more and more hopelessly 
 and passionately in love with Cynthia Meredith. 
 There were times when he made up his mind that 
 he would risk everything ; that he would ask her 
 to marry him ; others when he felt that there was 
 no help for it but making a clean breast of the 
 whole story once for all ; but, strange to say, so 
 surely as he made up his mind that he would risk 
 all and ask Cynthia to marry him, so did always 
 that curious look come into her eyes which re- 
 minded him of her father. Of course it was a 
 natural thing that the girl should resemble her 
 father in some particular, and her deep, gray eyes 
 were almost the only feature in which there was 
 any likeness to Roger Meredith. Sometimes he 
 would make up his mind that he would tell the 
 mother and daughter that his was the hand which 
 had sent Meredith to his last account ; yet when- 
 ever he drew near to the subject, by some chance 
 Cynthia always contrived to check him. That 
 was pure accident, of course, and perhaps some- 
 thing to do with the fact that it was not, naturally, 
 a very palatable confession for a young man to 
 have to make. At such times he would feel that 
 he had been a fool ever to think of upsetting their 
 minds and their confidence in him by saying a 
 single word of what was not actually necessary to
 
 be told. " If I cannot stop her from going to 
 Midas Creek," his thoughts ran, " surely some- 
 thing will happen so that she will not go ferreting 
 everything out there. Perhaps it may not be the 
 same landlord ; perhaps we might go and not a 
 soul recognize me or remember much about Mere- 
 dith's death. It isn't such an uncommon thing 
 for a man to get put out of the way like that. I 
 don't suppose the affair made more than a stir of 
 an hour or two ; and evidently the jury sympa- 
 thized with me, or they never would have brought 
 it in Died by the visitation of God.' It was only 
 their way of acquitting me of blame." 
 
 Then he tore himself away from Brighton, and 
 went back to Hollingridge. That time he was 
 fully determined that, somehow or another, he 
 must break with the Merediths, Yes, he fully 
 made up his mind that life at this rate was not 
 worth living, and that anything would be better 
 than the anguish of mind to which he was now 
 subject. 
 
 " Going down to Brighton again ? " said his 
 mother, when eight or ten days had gone by. 
 
 " Yes, I must go down. I have rather impor- 
 tant business. I shall be back in forty-eight 
 hours." 
 
 He happened to meet Cynthia on his way from 
 his hotel to the Merediths' lodgings, and at the 
 sight of the speaking gray eyes, the quivering of
 
 A Time of Indecision. 2I 7 
 
 the tremulous lips, and the heightening of the 
 lovely rose-bloom on the face, it may as well be 
 confessed that all his good resolutions took unto 
 themselves wings and flew away. 
 
 He stayed two days in Brighton that time, go- 
 ing away more hopelessly in love than ever more 
 convinced that the marriage could not be, and 
 that Cynthia was not for him. 
 
 " I am sure you are not well," said Mrs. Mere- 
 dith to him on the second day. 
 
 " No, I am not very well," he replied. " It's 
 nothing ; don't worry about it, I beg." 
 
 So he went back to Hollingridge, where his 
 mother was much exercised in her mind, and 
 though she did not say a word to him, she 
 several times confided her doubts and fears to 
 Laura. 
 
 " I cannot tell what is the matter with Dick. 
 I never saw anybody so changed in my life. He's 
 like a person who cannot rest." 
 
 " I suppose," said Laura, " that he has been 
 doing laborer's work for the last seven years, and 
 now finds a life of ease and idleness almost intol- 
 erable." 
 
 " I don't think it is that," said Mrs. Vincent, 
 "and yet I don't know what it is. There is 
 something that we do not know anything about." 
 
 "Then, my dear mother, you may be sure that 
 we shall never know," said Laura, wisely.
 
 - l8 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " He's in love ; that's what's the matter with 
 Dick." 
 
 " I don't think so," said Laura. 
 
 " I don't think ; I'm sure of it. Now is it 
 that Meredith girl, or isn't it ? " 
 
 " He says she's very pretty," was Laura's 
 remark. 
 
 " Yes, but I begged him to let me ask them 
 here for a few days. 1 think it would be the only 
 proper thing for me to do. He wouldn't hear of 
 it. He says they are ladies. The girl is very 
 pretty. He seems to like them very much, and 
 _and " 
 
 " Well ? " said Laura. 
 
 " Well, I'm looking ahead at the future a little." 
 
 "As how?" 
 
 " Miss Meredith is the heiress to half the oil 
 well, which last year yielded a little over ten thou- 
 sand pounds. Now it seems a pity to me, as she 
 is young and pretty, and a lady, and Dick is un- 
 / mistakably in love with her, that well, that Dick 
 ' doesn't marry her." 
 
 " Perhaps she won't have Dick." 
 
 " So likely ! " said the mother, with dignified 
 scorn. " Where has she had the chance to meet 
 such a man as Dick? " 
 
 " Well, dear, it isn't quite that. Girls, especially 
 when they are young, have their fancies -just as 
 men have. Perhaps Dick has already asked her.
 
 A Time of Indecision. 2I 9 
 
 He went down to Brighton and stayed two 
 days." 
 
 " Well, he told me he should be back in forty- 
 eight hours." 
 
 " But he wasn't back in forty-eight hours, 
 dearest." 
 
 " He was only there two days. The question 
 is, did Dick propose ? If so, did she refuse 
 him ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " I wish I could see the girl, then I should 
 know in a minute." 
 
 " Well, dearest, perhaps it is just as well that 
 you can't," was Laura's sensible reply. " Look 
 here, mother, take my advice. Don't say a word 
 to Dick." 
 
 As if I should ! " 
 
 "You might. Try not to think about it. 
 Leave Dick to manage his own affairs by himself. 
 If he wants the girl, you may be sure that he will 
 do his best to win her. Meantime, it's no use 
 asking other girls over, because Dick will have 
 none of them." 
 
 " I know that," said Mrs. Vincent, ruefully. 
 
 And it was quite true. Dick absolutely de- 
 clined to be fascinated by any of the young ladies 
 in the neighborhood of Hollingridge. They 
 might be rich, or well born, or pretty, or charm- 
 ing, or possessed of any other desirable quality
 
 A. Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 that young men look for in their wives ; it was all 
 the same to Dick, and before he had been at home 
 a week he again took flight and his way to Brigh- 
 ton, this time fully determined that come what 
 might he would not let " I dare not" wait upon 
 " I will." He would make the horrid plunge, 
 and put himself face to face with the truth, whether 
 when Cynthia knew that her father had died 
 by his hand, she would scorn him or not. He 
 determined that he would break the news first to 
 Cynthia, that if Cynthia took it in the wrong way 
 he could quietly efface himself without paining 
 her mother by the disclosure. He would leave 
 it to Cynthia whether she chose to tell her or 
 not. 
 
 It happened that he had some difficulty in find- 
 ing a suitable opportunity. He did not choose 
 to tell her in the lodgings, because they were 
 never free from the chance of being interrupted 
 by her mother. He planned out a long walk to 
 some point of interest which would offer a feas- 
 ible excuse for such an excursion. Yes, he would 
 tell her then ; and if she was upset, they would 
 be on a quiet country road and nobody would be 
 the wiser if she gave way to emotion. 
 
 But alack and alas ! it poured for the better 
 part of three whole days ; and beyond going to a 
 concert at the pavilion, to the theater, and to one 
 of the hotels to dine, neither Mrs. Meredith nor
 
 A Time of Indecision. 
 
 Cynthia ventured out of doors at all. Then, on 
 the third morning, he received a telegram from 
 his sister Laura : " Father^very ill. Fear hope- 
 less. Come home at once."
 
 222 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE OLD SQUIRE AND THE NEW. 
 
 As fast as rail could take him Dick Vincent 
 sped home to the old house. He was terribly 
 upset by his sister's telegram. He and his father 
 had always been devoted friends, and the news 
 that he was lying ill of what was probably a hope- 
 less malady was very terrible to him. The jour- 
 ney seemed interminable as journeys taken 
 under such circumstances always do. He said to 
 himself, over and over again, that of course in the 
 face of such a message it would have been impo*s- 
 sible for him to continue the confidence which he 
 was about to make to Cynthia Meredith. 
 
 " Perhaps it is a sign that I ought not to tell 
 her ; that it would be better not to tell her," his 
 confused thoughts ran. " If the dear old gover- 
 nor gets over this, I'll take it as a warning that it 
 would be better not to tell Cynthia a single word 
 of that episode. Perhaps it was only sent to me 
 as a means of getting me away. I had better take 
 it as a sign not to think of her any more." 
 
 But he did continue to think of her during all 
 the rest of the journey ; and at last the train 
 steamed into Hollinridge station, and he thrust
 
 The Old Squire and the New. 22 3 
 
 his head out eagerly to see if there was any one 
 who could give him news of his father's state. 
 Almost the first person that he saw his sister Laura, 
 looking anxiously up and down the station. He 
 waved an eager hand to her, and she came swiftly 
 along the platform to meet him. 
 
 " How is he ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh, just the same. Horribly ill." 
 
 " But with what ? " he asked, as he bent and 
 kissed her. 
 
 " Oh, a fit of apoplexy. He was all right this 
 morning at breakfast, in fact he had been all 
 round the stables pottering about just as usual. 
 He came into breakfast as brisk as a bee, and just 
 as he was leaving the table he slipped and fell. 
 Mother called out to him she knew in a moment 
 what it was. He just said, ' I am very ill. Send 
 for Dick.' Of course they got him to bed, but 
 he was unconscious then, and the doctor has been 
 with him most of the day since. Dick, dear, he 
 says it's quite hopeless ; there's nothing to be 
 done." 
 
 Dick turned his head away with a blurred mist 
 in front of his eyes. " Will he know me, do you 
 think ? " 
 
 " I don't think so," Laura replied. " He 
 hasn't taken any notice of anybody. He just lies 
 there, feeling with his hand all over the bed as if 
 he were searching for something ; and now and
 
 22 4 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 then he'll seem to brush a fly off his face. Oh, 
 it's dreadful, Dick it's dreadful ! " 
 
 " And mother ? " Dick asked, in a choking 
 voice. 
 
 " Mother ? Oh, she just sits there holding his 
 hand ; it's heart-breaking." 
 
 " Do you think he'll know me ? " 
 
 " I shouldn't think so." 
 
 It gave Dick a shock as they drove up the 
 avenue to see that the house presented very much 
 its usual appearance. The dogs were lying out on 
 the broad steps, Laura's Persian cat was perched 
 on the balustrade, the flowers all bloomed just 
 as they had been doing for weeks, and the white 
 lace curtains stirred idly in the evening breeze. 
 
 The old butler met him with a shake of the 
 head. " Eh, it's a sad home-coming, Mr. 
 Dick," he said. 
 
 " Yes, Charles. Is there any news ? " 
 
 " No, sir, it's just the same. I was in there 
 just now. If you could persuade the mistress to 
 eat something. Do get her out of the room, 
 Mr. Dick. If it was only a glass of old port and 
 a biscuit, it would be better than nothing. I 
 know cook's made some strong beef-tea. It may 
 be days before the end comes." 
 
 " All right," said Dick. 
 
 " He turned and followed Laura into the 
 dining-room, feeling all at once cold and sick.
 
 The Old Squire and the New. 22 5 
 
 It was horrible to hear Charles speak of the end 
 in that tone of certainty. 
 
 " I'd advise you, Mr. Dick," said old Charles, 
 following him into the room, " to take a nip ot 
 brandy before you go in to see the mistress ; and 
 then do try and bring her out, Mr. Dick." 
 
 " All right," said Dick, " I will." 
 
 He went into his father's room a few minutes 
 later, and although the old man opened his eyes 
 when Dick spoke to him, there was no gleam of 
 any real consciousness in his face. 
 
 An old woman from the village, who had 
 nursed the young Vincents as children, was stand- 
 ing by the bed. " It's no use, Mr. Dick," she 
 said, " he doesn't know you. He hasn't known 
 any one really since half an hour after he was 
 taken. He'll never know any one again." 
 
 " How long have you been in this room 
 mother ? " Dick asked, turning to Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 " I don't know, dear. Ever since " 
 
 " Come out with me for a few minutes ; you 
 can do no good here. Come, just for ten 
 minutes." 
 
 With some difficulty she permitted herself to 
 be persuaded, and Dick got her into the dining- 
 room. 
 
 " I don't really want anything to drink, Dick," 
 she cried. 
 
 " No, dearest, I know you don't want it, but 
 15
 
 226 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 you may have a very long strain before you yet. 
 Don't refuse what will sustain and strengthen you. 
 Charles has got some port up for you ; it will 
 do you so much good." 
 
 " If the mistress would be persuaded to have a 
 cup of strong beef-tea," said Charles. 
 
 " No, I really can't." 
 
 " Well, you've had no lunch, have you ? " 
 
 " Not a mouthful, Mr. Dick," said Charles. 
 
 " I dare say my mother doesn't feel like it, 
 Charles. But she might take a cup of beef-tea. 
 Come, darling, do. Think of us a little ; think 
 what it will mean to us if you are laid up also." 
 
 " Oh, I'll do anything you like, Dick," said 
 his mother. " I never was stupid, and I wouldn't 
 hurt poor dear cook's feelings for the world." 
 She took the cup of beef-tea and drained it. 
 " Yes, that is very good," she said. "It doesn't 
 take an effort to get it down. What, Charles ? 
 A little port ? Oh, I don't mind." 
 
 " Come outside for five minutes," said Dick. 
 "It's such a hot night, scarcely a breath stirring." 
 
 " No, not outside," said his mother, shrinking 
 back. 
 
 " Well, just to the door. Let me put you a 
 chair on the drawing-room veranda for ten min- 
 utes. You must think of yourself, dear." 
 
 " I don't like to leave him," said his mother, 
 weakly.
 
 The Old Squire and the New. 22 7 
 
 " No, not to leave him. But old Goody is 
 there, and if he wanted you or anything, she 
 would come for you in a minute. It isn't like 
 going out of the house. Just you get a breath 
 of air, dear." 
 
 Eventually she suffered herself to be coaxed 
 out into the veranda on to which several of the 
 drawing-room windows opened, and there they 
 sat for a few minutes while the soft summer 
 shadows fell gently around them, and late after- 
 noon wore into evening as softly, almost as im- 
 perceptibly, as the good genial life up-stairs was 
 wearing away to eternity. 
 
 " I must go back," said Mrs. Vincent at last. 
 
 Dick made no effort to detain her. He knew 
 that she would in any case be the better for the 
 change of air, and in truth time proved that he was 
 right. Mrs. Vincent had need of all her strength, 
 for several days went by, during which the squire 
 lay in exactly the same state, breathing stertorously, 
 but taking no notice of any one or anything. Oh, 
 the wretched time it was. Mrs. Vincent spent 
 most of her time at the bedside ; even she, in the 
 end, suffered herself to be drawn away to lie down 
 and rest under a distinct promise that she should 
 be called at the slightest change. 
 
 Dick and the two girls wandered in and out of 
 the house, saw visitors who came to make inquir- 
 ies, and killed time as best they could, not liking
 
 228 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 to speak above a whisper, unable to settle to any 
 occupation. And so the weary days dragged on 
 and on, and on the fifth evening the change for 
 which they had been watching came, and soon the 
 squire was at rest. 
 
 To all it was a relief, although being exces- 
 sively sultry it was terrible to be in a house of 
 which the blinds were closely drawn. Then came 
 four dreadful days ere that of the funeral, and a 
 terrible ordeal in the fact that all sorts and con- 
 ditions of men and women come to pay their last 
 tribute of respect to the dead man. 
 
 There was a great collation after the ceremony, 
 and Dick sat at the head of the table and realized 
 for the first time that henceforth this was his own 
 place. Then he had to bid adieu to every one, to 
 receive countless messages for his mother, and, 
 most frequently of all, to reply to the question 
 would he ever go back to California, or not ? 
 
 " Yes, I must go back," he said several times. 
 " I must go back, if it is only to settle things. 
 Oh, there's no fear of my chest now ; that's 
 mended long ago. I shall be obliged to go back 
 for various reasons ; but of course my mother and 
 sisters will be here." 
 
 " I wonder how long the mother and sisters 
 will be there," said one country gentleman to an- 
 other as they drove away. " He's a fine, likely- 
 looking lad is Dick."
 
 The Old Squire and the New. 
 
 " Oh, yes, a very fine lad. Why, he must be 
 getting on for thirty now." 
 
 " Thirty or odd, my dear chap. Same age as 
 my Tom. I remember his being born as well as 
 yesterday. And poor old Vincent was sixty-five, 
 so he was thirty-five when Dick was born." 
 
 " That's about it. Mrs. Vincent was young, 
 you know. I don't believe she's nineteen years- 
 older than Dick. Never thought the old squire 
 would have gone off like that, did you ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. He was getting very red 
 in the face. He puffed a good bit as he came up 
 the stairs at the Bench. I've noticed it several 
 times." 
 
 " Horrid thing, apoplexy," said the other one. 
 " Somehow or another it always seems to me as if 
 it was in a measure your own fault. Did it ever 
 strike you so ? " 
 
 " Well, yes. You see, the poor old squire 
 never was the same after he gave up hunting." 
 
 " Why did he give up hunting ? " 
 
 " Why, something to do with the veins of his 
 legs. Couldn't ride ; and after being a hard rider 
 to hounds all his life it didn't pay to take to dod- 
 dering about. I'm sorry he is gone ; he was a 
 good sort, never a better." 
 
 Well might relations and friends alike regret 
 the passing of the genial old squire of Holling- 
 ridge ; but regrets, no matter how bitter they are,
 
 2 3 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 are impotent to change one iota of the workings 
 of Nature. The squire was gone ; his place 
 would know him no more ; he had pottered round 
 the stables, and the glass-houses, and the grounds, 
 and the place in which he had been born, and 
 which he loved with all his heart, for the last time. 
 
 " Now, dear boy," said Mrs. Vincent the 
 morning after the funeral, " I want to have a 
 serious talk with you." 
 
 " No, mother ; it is not necessary." 
 
 " It's best," said Mrs. Vincent, briefly, " to 
 begin as we intend to go on." 
 
 " Yes, dearest, but it isn't necessary to discuss 
 that at present," said Dick, firmly. 
 
 ." You are the master of Hollingridge now ; 
 you are the squire." 
 
 "I know it," said Dick. " More's the pity 
 it is so ; but you are the mistress. Please let me 
 hear nothing more about it. I don't want to dis- 
 cuss it there's nothing to discuss." 
 
 " But if you should marry " began his 
 
 mother, tremulously. 
 
 " Well, dearest, if I should want to marry, I'll 
 come and tell you, and things will be made as 
 convenient as possible for you and the girls. Be- 
 lieve me, I shall not spring a marriage on you, or 
 anything else. Don't talk about changes ; we've 
 had one change, that's enough more than 
 enough for the present."
 
 The Old Squire and the New. 2 3* 
 
 " I should like to know," began his mother 
 " I must know," she continued, in a desperate 
 voice. " We must have some scale of expendi- 
 ture agreed upon." 
 
 " Well, dear, I suppose that's necessary. It 
 seems to me that what my father could afford, I 
 can afford. You and the dear Dad have never 
 lived above your income, and there can be no ne- 
 cessity or occasion to make any difference or any 
 radical change now. For the present, what you 
 have been accustomed to spend will be the proper 
 thing to spend. Let everything go on as it has 
 done until some of us want to make a change. 
 Winifred will be getting married by and by ; well, 
 that will be the first change ; possibly Laura." 
 
 " Possibly yourself," said Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 " Well, possibly myself; but I think not. At 
 all events, that is a contingency which has not 
 arisen, or any prospect of it ; so we needn't dis- 
 cuss it as yet." 
 
 " And you will go out to California ? " 
 
 " I must go back, dearest, for a few months. I 
 must arrange either for the proper working of the 
 place, or for selling it. You must see that for 
 yourself." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I see plainly enough. But you 
 won't stop there now ? " 
 
 " No, I shan't stop there. As ranching, it isn't 
 worth it, and an oil well can be worked without
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 personal supervision. Or I can sell. I must be 
 guided by circumstances as to which course I take. 
 But you may be assured of one thing that I shall 
 not stay a day longer than is absolutely necessary. 
 I would not go at all unless it were a necessity." 
 
 " I certainly would not like to feel that you 
 would go out there and remain another seven 
 years." 
 
 " Oh, no, I should not have done if this trouble 
 had not come upon us. After all, the place has 
 served my turn. I went out with an awfully 
 dickey chest, and now it's as strong as any other 
 part of me. I shall never grudge the years I have 
 spent out there ; constitutionally they made a 
 man of me ; but for my pleasure oh, thank you 
 very much, I have had enough of it." 
 
 " If I were you, Dick," said Mrs. Vincent, " I 
 would sell. Supposing your oil well dried up ? " 
 
 " That would be awkward," said Dick. " I 
 don't believe that oil wells ever dry up so soon 
 as this. But I can't settle anything here on this 
 side. I must do what I think is for the best 
 when I get out there, face to face with those who 
 are likely to want to buy." 
 
 " And in any case you mean to spend the 
 greater part of your life at home ? " 
 
 " The rest of my life, mother dear," said Dick.
 
 The Center of the World. 2 33 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE CENTER OF THE WORLD. 
 
 FOR a few days after the squire's funeral Dick 
 Vincent did not set foot outside the estate of 
 which he was now master. On the fourth day 
 his mother came to him in the little room which 
 had been his father's den. 
 
 " Dick,"she said, " I have had such a nice letter 
 from your Mrs. Meredith." 
 
 " Oh, have you ? " He looked up and stretched 
 out an arm to draw her down upon the sofa be- 
 side him, as boys who are on very affectionate 
 terms with their mother often do. " She's a nice 
 little woman," he said, " a dear little woman. 
 And, you see, she's been in trouble herself." 
 
 " Her letter is very sweet," said Mrs. Vincent. 
 " I want you to read it." 
 
 It was a sweet, sympathetic, womanly letter. 
 "Your son," it said, "will have told you all the 
 circumstances in which I lost my husband. How 
 different to your own ! You, who stayed so 
 many hours by your husband's bedside, holding 
 his hand to the last, cannot perhaps understand 
 how I envy you. Bitter as your grief must be,
 
 ^34 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 you were together ; I have always the anguish of 
 remembering that my husband died without know- 
 ing whether I loved him or not even without 
 knowing whether I was faithful or not. Dear lady, 
 we do not know each other, except through your 
 charming son, so good, so kind, so considerate. 
 Indeed, you are blessed in him beyond all things. 
 I hope to meet you one day, that I may tell you 
 just how sweet and good your son has been to 
 me." 
 
 " And you wouldn't let me ask them here, 
 Dick," said Mrs. Vincent, reproachfully. 
 
 For a moment or so Dick did not speak. 
 " Sometimes, mother," he said at last, " one is 
 afraid to do what one is most anxious for." 
 
 "Then," said his mother quickly, and looking 
 away out of the window in order that she might 
 not in any way scare his confidence, " then your 
 old friend's daughter is more to you than an 
 ordinary girl ? " 
 
 " She is everything to me," said Dick, under 
 his breath. 
 
 " I should like to see her," said his mother. 
 " I should like to have her here." 
 
 " No, I would rather you didn't. It is not at 
 all likely, dear mother, that anything more will 
 come will how shall I put it ? will come of 
 our friendship." 
 
 " Do you mean that she doesn't like you ? "
 
 The Center of the World. 2 35 
 
 " No, I believe she thinks I am all right. She 
 has never been other than perfectly charming to 
 me." 
 
 " Ah, well, it's early days," cried his mother. 
 " A pretty girl with a lot of money is not going 
 to give herself away until the man has asked her. 
 You must win her, my dear." 
 
 " We will see," said Dick. And a vision then 
 of Meredith in his last tumultuous moments came 
 before him. " I would like to explain everything. 
 I don't know how to put it," he said, in a rapid 
 undertone ; " I don't feel, somehow, that Mere- 
 dith would approve. I have a very peculiar feel- 
 ing about Meredith. It isn't her I can't have 
 you blame her for a moment she is too sweet 
 for words but I do not feel that she is for me." 
 
 " There is something wrong about her ? " said 
 his mother. 
 
 " No, no. She is everything that is good and 
 beautiful and charming." 
 
 For a moment his mother did not speak. 
 Then, without looking at him, for she was a very 
 wise woman in her way, she put her hand out and 
 laid it over his. " Have faith in time, dearest 
 boy," she said, " have faith in time. It works 
 wonders." 
 
 The letter to Mrs. Vincent was not the only 
 one which came from Brighton to Hollingridge. 
 Both Mrs. Meredith and Cynthia wrote to Dick ;
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 Cynthia only once, it is true a sweet, tender, girl- 
 ish letter, which 1 may as well confess Dick carried 
 next to his heart for many a long day. Mrs. 
 Meredith, however, wrote several times : frank, 
 friendly letters, such as Dick hailed with intensest 
 satisfaction, because they gave him news of Cyn- 
 thia. 
 
 During those few days Dick's mother, without 
 seeming to in any way spy upon him, wormed a 
 good deal of information out of him. She her- 
 self sympathized with Mrs. Meredith's feeling 
 about going out to Santa Clara. 
 
 " Dear boy," she said one day, when they were 
 sitting together on the wide old sofa in the study, 
 " it's a perfectly natural thing she should want to 
 go out, if only for a few weeks." 
 
 " She cannot possibly stay longer than a few 
 weeks," said Dick. 
 
 " I have always heard that California is so 
 lovely." 
 
 " Yes, it is certain parts of it, but not at Santa 
 Clara. It's good enough, interesting enough ; 
 but it's far from civilization, and I think ladies 
 would be very unhappy there. Besides, they 
 couldn't go out there and live with me, and I 
 don't intend to live there any more, and they 
 cannot stop there long. It's ridiculous .and sense- 
 less their going ; I know perfectly well it will be 
 a most dreadful disappointment to both of them."
 
 The Center of the World. 2 37 
 
 " Well, dear boy, let me ask them to come and 
 stay here for a few days. Of course, just now, I 
 couldn't have anybody excepting some one cir- 
 cumstanced as she is, in such deep mourning and 
 your partner's widow and child. It would seem 
 quite natural that they should come and see me 
 before any of you go away. I might be able to 
 persuade her to stop in England." 
 
 " Do you think you could ? " 
 
 " Well, I might. I would try, since you wish 
 it so much ; but, all the same, I do sympathize 
 with her in a way, Dick." 
 
 " Yes, darling, I sympathize with her, too, in a 
 way, but not 'exactly in the same way. It isn't a 
 place for women. If she had gone out to Mere- 
 dith, Meredith would have spent a lot of money 
 in putting things to rights. He would have 
 got up some Chinese servants and a lot of 
 furniture, and added a wing to the house, and so 
 on ; but it wouldn't be worth doing now, and I 
 am afraid she would be thoroughly disillusioned." 
 
 " Well, now, listen to me. I will write and 
 ask her to come and spend a few days here, and if 
 I can persuade her off the scheme, I will do it, 
 
 cause you don't want her to go. I think you 
 
 raid always be glad that we had done the right 
 thing and invited them ; and you would like to 
 see the girl here before anything definite was 
 settled between you ; of that I am quite sure. See
 
 how she strikes you here with your own sisters, 
 in your own home." 
 
 " She will never strike me any differently, 
 mother," said Dick, " but since you wish it so 
 much and are so kind about it, I will write and 
 beg them to come when you ask them." 
 
 " Very well, dear, I'll write at once, because 
 your time is getting within a limit now." 
 
 " Yes, I must start within a month. I ought 
 to go a little sooner than that, if you could spare 
 me." 
 
 " Dear boy, for business I must spare you," 
 said she, quietly. 
 
 Mrs. Vincent went away then, thoroughly 
 gratified at having obtained her own way. In her 
 own mind she was perfectly sure, from the tone 
 of Mrs. Meredith's letters, that she was as keen on 
 keeping the oil well to one ownership as Mrs Vin- 
 cent herself. " Is it likely, a pretty girl with all 
 that money, that she wouldn't feel it a perfect sin 
 to let the other half of the splendid property slip? 
 Of course not. Why, it would be no more nor 
 less than a sin," her thoughts ran. 
 
 So by that evening's post two letters went from 
 Hollingridge to Brighton; one couched in the 
 most kind and friendly terms from Mrs. Vincent 
 to Cynthia's mother. 
 
 " I am sure you will understand how much I 
 desire to see you," she wrote. "It would be a
 
 The Center of the World. 2 39 
 
 great comfort to me if you would come and spend 
 a few days with us here. As we are both in deep 
 mourning, neither of us will feel the retirement 
 of the other. My boy has told me a great deal 
 about you and your charming daughter, and my 
 girls are quite as eager to see her as I am to see 
 you." 
 
 The other letter was from Dick to Cynthia. 
 " I am writing to you because my mother is writ- 
 ing to yours to beg you to come and stay with us 
 for a few days. I need not tell you how much 
 pleasure it will give me if you accept her invita- 
 tion." And as Mrs. Vincent had fully antici- 
 pated, by return of post came back a most pleas- 
 ant letter from the little widow, saying that she 
 and Cynthia would love to pay a visit to Holling- 
 ridge and to make the acquaintance of Dick's 
 people. 
 
 Dick received the news with a certain pang of 
 apprehension and regret, and yet yet every 
 pulse in his body was stirred with a strange joy. 
 He had quite made up his mind that in any case 
 he must disclose the truth to Cynthia. Yes, it 
 must be done sooner or later. Of course, he could 
 not do it in his own house, that was impossible ; 
 but he would tell her, the evening before the day 
 on which they would depart, that he was coming 
 down to Brighton to see her, because he had a very 
 serious communication to make to her. That
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 would prepare her mind for a disclosure ; it would 
 quite prevent his being put offby untoward circum- 
 stances. He would make the appointment to 
 meet Cynthia, say up on the Rottingdean Road, 
 before she left Hollingridge, so that they would 
 not be dependent on any mood or fancy of her 
 mother's. Yes, that was what he would do, and 
 after that would come the deluge. When it was 
 all over he knew that he would be happier, oh, 
 yes. With a firm hand he would have shut down 
 the curtain between himself and happiness ; he 
 would have gained in self-respect. It never oc- 
 curred to him that possibly Cynthia Meredith 
 might take exactly the opposite view to that with 
 which he had accredited her, that she might say, 
 just as the disinterested man who had witnessed 
 the whole affair had said at the time, that he was 
 in reality blameless, because he had only acted from 
 an instinct of self-preservation. To such a con- 
 tingency he never gave the remotest thought, and 
 he drove to the station to meet the mother and 
 daughter very much as a man might have driven 
 to meet his fate upon the scaffold, feeling absolute- 
 ly assured in his mind that the first time they 
 came to visit his ancestral home would be the last. 
 It was naturally not in any sense a gay party 
 that met round the table at dinner that evening, 
 since both hosts and 'guests were in the deepest of 
 deep mourning. To Mrs. Meredith Dick's
 
 The Center of the World. 
 
 mother took at once. She herself was large and 
 fair and commanding, with an inclination to softness 
 which meant that with a little trouble anybody who 
 loved her could easily get round her. She ad- 
 mired with all her soul the tenacity which she rec- 
 ognized in Roger Meredith's widow ; she would 
 really have loved herself to be a soft-voiced, vel- 
 vet-handed woman with a will of iron. There 
 was no iron in Mrs. Vincent's will ; Mrs. Mere- 
 dith's, on the contrary, was cold steel. With 
 Cynthia she was charmed. Even against her 
 own handsome, well-bred, intelligent, interesting 
 daughters Cynthia showed up brilliantly. Her 
 delicate beauty, her sweet, soft, yet direct manner, 
 her dainty little ways, to say nothing of the oil 
 well, all made Mrs. Vincent determined that, if 
 she could help it, Dick should not throw away 
 such an excellent chance of settling himself in life. 
 
 " The girl is over head and ears in love with 
 him," she explained to Laura, when they were 
 chatting the last thing that night. " What can he 
 be hanging about for ? Says he feels Meredith 
 would not like it. Mrs. Meredith would like it, 
 one can see that with half an eye." 
 
 " I shouldn't interfere with Dick's affairs if I 
 were you," said Laura. 
 
 " Oh, I don't mean to interfere, but if a little 
 judicious tact will help it along well, Dick shall 
 not miss a good chance for want of it."
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 She was very tactful and very judicious during 
 the few days which followed. She devoted her- 
 self to Mrs. Meredith, and Mrs. Meredith was 
 more than willing that she should be the recipient 
 of so much attention. 
 
 " I shall call you Cynthia, my dear," Mrs. 
 Vincent said to the girl during the course of the 
 first evening. 
 
 <c Oh, yes, please do." 
 
 " Well, it is rather early days, but you don't 
 look like f Miss Meredith ' to me, and Cynthia 
 is such a charming name." 
 
 " I should love you to call me Cynthia," said 
 the girl, turning a vivid scarlet. 
 
 " You must let Dick take you to this place," 
 Mrs. Vincent would say, or " Dick must show 
 you the other. We old ladies will amuse our- 
 selves very well, shall we not, Mrs. Mere- 
 dith ? " 
 
 "Oh, perfectly." 
 
 And so, having started the young people out 
 on some excursion, the Vincent girls with veiled 
 instructions to judiciously efface or lose them- 
 selves, as was necessary, the two mothers would 
 go out for a stately drive, or sit toying with some 
 bit of fancy work in drawing-room or garden. 
 
 " You like Hollingridge ? " said Dick one day 
 to Cynthia. 
 
 She turned her deep gray eyes, upon him in
 
 The Center of the World. 2 43 
 
 wonderment. "Like it?" she said. "How 
 could I help liking it ? " 
 
 " Oh, you might not. Everybody doesn't. 
 To me it is the center of the world." 
 
 " You are very lucky," said Cynthia.
 
 2 44 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE HAND TO THE PLOUGH. 
 
 IT was the very last day of Mrs. Meredith's 
 and Cynthia's visit to Hollingridge. 
 
 " I am going," announced Mrs. Vincent at 
 breakfast, " to drive Mrs. Meredith over to Fox- 
 borough to lunch. Who is going with us ? " 
 
 " I can't go," said Laura. " I have my sing- 
 ing lesson at three o'clock. And Winifred won't 
 be able to go, since she has such a bad head- 
 ache." 
 
 " Then what about you two ? " said Mrs. Vin- 
 cent, looking vaguely across the table at her son 
 and Cynthia. 
 
 Cynthia said politely that she would do just as 
 Mrs. Vincent liked. Dick, however, distinctly 
 demurred. 
 
 " Oh, do you much want to go ? Do you like 
 babies ? " 
 
 " I don't mind babies," she said with a laugh. 
 
 " No, I don't mind babies in a general way ; I 
 rather like 'em, But Maud's baby the last one 
 is a person that squalls. They ought to give 
 him peppermint or absinthe or something."
 
 The Hand to the Plough. 245 
 
 " Oh, poor little thing, he's after his teeth," 
 cried Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 " Is he ! Well, I don't see why we should be 
 after him. Don't go, Miss Cynthia don't go. 
 Stay at home, and when we have packed Laura 
 off to her singing lesson, I'll take you up to the 
 very top of the woods. You get one of the 
 finest bits of view in the country. You ought not 
 to go away without seeing it." 
 
 " I'll do just what you like." 
 
 " Well, are you really anxious to see babies? " 
 cried Mrs. Vincent. " No ? Then we'll go 
 alone. What do you say ? " 
 
 "Just as you like," replied Mrs. Meredith. 
 " I should certainly like to see your daughter's 
 place. Yes, I should certainly like to see it. 
 And I rather like babies, even when they are 
 after their teeth." 
 
 So it was arranged and definitely settled. At 
 twelve o'clock Mrs. Vincent and her guest drove 
 away in state in the open carriage. 
 
 " I consider," said Dick, as he stood at the 
 great entrance, watching the disappearing vehicle, 
 " I consider that I got you out of that very 
 cleverly." 
 
 " You did, dear boy," cried Laura. " It's the 
 only subject, as we often tell my mother, on which 
 she is absolutely well, how shall I put it ? off 
 her mental balance ; and that's the grandson.
 
 2 4^ A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 He's a nice little kid as kids go, but it does get a 
 little tiresome, I'm fain to admit it. Well, now, 
 I suppose you two don't want me ? You can 
 manage to entertain each other, because I really 
 must try over that new song of mine. I have 
 done shamefully little lately, and Madame gets 
 so cross when I am not up to the mark." 
 
 " Oh, we'll manage to amuse ourselves," cried 
 Dick. " Come along, Miss Cynthia." 
 
 " Where shall we go ? " said Cynthia, as Laura 
 disappeared towards the music-room. 
 
 Dick turned and looked at her rather doubt- 
 fully. " It's blisteringly hot," he remarked. 
 " Don't let us go too far." 
 
 " Well, wait till I get a parasol," she rejoined. 
 " Then let us go just through the shrubbery 
 where that little stream runs by the garden and 
 the park. I always think it's the prettiest bit of 
 your whole domain." 
 
 He flushed up with pleasure at her words. 
 She turned back into the hall and took a large 
 black parasol from its place and announced that 
 she was ready. 
 
 " I never saw any one take so little time as you 
 do." 
 
 " What, in the country ? " Cynthia exclaimed. 
 " I don't say that I should take as little time to 
 get ready if I were in London, or even in Brigh- 
 ton ; but here why, one is always ready."
 
 The Hand to the Plough. 
 
 " Yes, I know ; but not every young lady 
 would think so." 
 
 " Ah ! there are young ladies and young 
 ladies," cried Cynthia ; " and I am afraid my 
 training has been never to waste a moment in un- 
 necessary adornment." 
 
 As she spoke, she passed through the little gate 
 which divided the west garden from the shrub- 
 bery. 
 
 " Few young ladies have so little need of it," 
 said he, as he shut the gate again. 
 
 " Oh, you don't think that? " 
 
 " Indeed, I do think that. I am sure of it." 
 
 " Ah, you shouldn't say so. Flattery is so bad 
 for one." 
 
 " Flattery ? Did you think that I was flatter- 
 ing you ? " 
 
 " I am quite sure that you were." 
 
 " No, no. I was telling you the truth." 
 
 " Ah, well, it isn't often the truth is so very 
 palatable, Mr. Vincent. Now, isn't this deli- 
 cious ? " 
 
 She sank down as she spoke upon the mossy 
 bank of a tiny rippling stream. The park beyond 
 was green and fresh ; the shrubbery behind was 
 cool and still. " I always say this is the prettiest 
 corner of your domain," she said. 
 
 " Wait till you have seen the top of the woods, 
 that's pretty if you like." He settled himself
 
 2 4-8 A Matter of Sentiment 
 
 down beside her on the bank as he spoke. " Do 
 you know, Miss Cynthia, I'm awfully glad you 
 didn't go over to Foxborough to-day." 
 
 " Are you ? Why ? Don't you like your 
 sister ? " 
 
 " My sister ? Oh, yes, she's awfully jolly. 
 But I like better to have you here." 
 
 " Oh, do you ? " It was a trite remark, but it 
 was the best that Cynthia could think of at that 
 moment. " Is there anything like this in Cali- 
 fornia ? " she asked suddenly. 
 
 For a moment Dick did not reply. Then he 
 began picking up bits of sticks, pebbles, and tufts 
 of grass and throwing them down into the quickly 
 running stream at their feet. " There are lovely 
 places in California," he replied, " but none where 
 Santa Clara is. Santa Clara has no beauty to 
 boast of none." 
 
 A sudden impulse came over him that now was 
 the best time and chance he would ever have for 
 telling her the hateful secret that was weighing so 
 heavily upon him. " Miss Meredith," he said. 
 
 She looked up apprehensively. " Yes." 
 
 " I've got something to tell you." 
 
 " What sort of a something ? " Her voice 
 trembled, and so did the hand which was resting 
 idly on her knee. 
 
 " Well, it's a very important matter. I have 
 been wanting to speak to you about it for
 
 The Hand to the Plough. 2 49 
 
 ever so long, and I think as we have got now so 
 near to the time when we must at least, the time 
 when we have settled to take a long journey to- 
 gether it would be better if I told you exactly 
 what is in my mind, and then if you feel any dif- 
 ferently towards me " 
 
 She turned upon him with a delicate little 
 laugh. " Oh, there isn't any fear of that. It's no 
 use my pretending that I don't know what 
 you " 
 
 " Don't know what ? " 
 
 " Well, what you are going to say." 
 
 Her eyes were downcast, a happy blush over- 
 spread her cheeks, and her hand toyed nervously 
 with the fringed trimming of her gown. 
 
 For a moment Dick stared at her in incredu- 
 lous amazement. Then he drew a trifle nearer 
 her. " Cynthia ! " he barely breathed the word. 
 
 " Well ? " There was enough expressed in the 
 word to have move4 the heart of a stone, and 
 Dick Vincent was no stone. 
 
 " Do you mean it ? " he gasped. 
 
 She looked at him at last. " Well, is it so very 
 wonderful ? Have I known so many men like 
 you that it should be wonderful that I well, that 
 you well, that I like you ?" 
 
 " Cynchia ! " 
 
 In a moment he had forgotten everything 
 everything.
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " Oh, my darling, my darling ! " he cried 
 " Do you really mean it ? " 
 
 " I don't know," cried Cynthia, midway be- 
 tween tears and laughter. " I don't know that J 
 said anything, or meant anything but, oh, Dick, 
 I am so happy ! " 
 
 And then, somehow, Dick's arms stole around 
 her and their lips met. 
 
 It was a long time before they came to their 
 ordinary senses again. 
 
 " What will your mother say ? " cried Cyn- 
 thia. 
 
 " What will yours say ? " replied Dick. 
 
 " Oh, well, as to that," with an arch laugh, " I 
 don't think they will say much, because, you 
 know, we are the twin halves of an oil well, aren't 
 we?" 
 
 " Oh, hang the oil well ! " cried Dick. 
 
 " No, no. An oil well must be a most comfort- 
 able thing. I know it has made all the difference 
 in my life." 
 
 " But you would have loved me just the same 
 if I hadn't had a penny ? " 
 
 "Yes, Dick, if you hadn't had a single penny." 
 
 " You are sure ? " 
 
 " Yes. I would have loved you just the same 
 if you hadn't had a farthing." 
 
 " Dearest ! " 
 
 They sat so long by the bank of the little stream
 
 The Hand to the Plough. 251 
 
 that they forgot all mundane things until the 
 sound of the luncheon gong came booming 
 through the still autumn air. 
 
 " That's lunch," cried Cynthia, starting to her 
 feet. 
 
 " Never mind." 
 
 " But we are late." 
 
 " Never mind." 
 
 " Oh, but what will they say ? What will they 
 think ? " 
 
 " Who ? Our respected mothers are gone to 
 lunch at Foxborough." 
 
 " But your sisters ? " she cried. 
 
 " My sisters ? The girls ? What will they 
 think ? I don't know. I don't much care ; I 
 don't care what anybody thinks as long as you are 
 satisfied and content. Besides, what should they 
 think ? It will make very little difference to them. 
 My mother has been worrying me to get married 
 ever since I came home." 
 
 " Not really ? " 
 
 " Of course she has." 
 
 " To somebody in particular ? " asked Cynthia, 
 jealously. 
 
 " Well, no, I can't say that she has. Oh, no, 
 don't worry about any of my people or what they 
 will say. I'm a free agent, if ever there was one. 
 You needn't have the smallest fear of my mother," 
 said he, as they went quickly towards the house.
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " If ever a hostess gave a girl a fair chance, I con- 
 sider that she has done as much for you." 
 
 " But you won't tell anybody ? " 
 
 " We must tell them when they come in." 
 
 " But you won't tell your sisters ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, no. We'll keep it for the mothers, 
 and let them have the first news." 
 
 " That's all right," said Cynthia, with a sigh 
 of relief. 
 
 All the same, the moment that Laura cast her 
 keen eyes upon the pair, she knew instinctively 
 what had happened. 
 
 " Well," she said, as they gathered round the 
 table, " and what do you think of the top of the 
 woods ? " 
 
 " Oh, we've not been to the top of the woods. 
 We've only been down through the shrubbery 
 and round by the Skilpenbeck." 
 
 " Oh, I thought you were going to the top or 
 the woods to see the view." 
 
 " Later on later on," Dick said, " after lunch." 
 
 " I think the little bit by the beck is charming," 
 said Cynthia, carefully avoiding meeting her 
 future sister-in-law's eye. 
 
 " It is isn't it ? " 
 
 At this point Laura shot a meaning glance at 
 Winifred. Winifred failed to understand, and 
 sent a shaft of inquiry back by the same method 
 of wireless telegraphy. Cynthia intercepted both
 
 The Hand to the Plough. 2 53 
 
 looks, and blushed a furiously rosy red, seeing 
 which Laura was wicked enough to laugh outright. 
 She followed Cynthia into the drawing-room after 
 the meal was over. 
 
 " Well," she said, " so you have made up 
 your minds ? " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " asked Cynthia. 
 
 " Oh, the usual thing. You and Dick, of 
 course. You needn't think I didn't see, the 
 moment you came in, my dear the moment 
 you came in." 
 
 " Well ? " said Cynthia. 
 
 " Well, I'm delighted. I think it would have 
 been a great pity to divide the oil well, and you 
 are too charming for any words to express. Not, 
 mind you, that the oil w.ell has had anything to 
 do with Dick. I know Dick, my dear, inside 
 out. I have never seen Dick look at a woman 
 before. He exists for you." 
 
 " You think he does ? You think he really 
 cares for me ? It seems so impossible." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " Oh, I should never make you understand. 
 I have never been in the way of young men, of 
 any sort of young men, to say nothing of their 
 being like Dick. Do you think your mother will 
 mind ? " 
 
 " My mother ? No. I think my mother will 
 make you an excellent mother-in-law, and she
 
 2 54 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 will be very fond of her daughter-in-law and 
 proud of her. But remember I was the first one 
 to wish you happiness. You know Dick and I 
 have always been the chums of the family, far 
 more so than any of the others, and so I shall 
 expect you to be great friends with me, because 
 I'm not going to give up my friendship with 
 Dick because you and he choose to get married. 
 Pray, don't think it for a moment." 
 
 " I should hope not," cried Cynthia, fervently. 
 " I don't want to interfere with Dick's love for 
 his people in any way." 
 
 " You can't help it to a certain extent," cried 
 Laura. " But that is neither here nor there." 
 
 " And you think your mother won't mind ? " 
 
 " I think she won't," said Laura, dryly. " I 
 don't think anybody will mind. It's an ideal 
 marriage, for you are both desperately in love 
 with one another, as anybody can see. I saw it 
 as soon as you got here." 
 
 " What ? Did I give myself away so much ? " 
 
 " Oh, girls know, trust them. What makes it 
 so ideal is that your old oil well is nothing but an 
 adjunct and it might have been the principal 
 factor. Well, I'll leave you to your own devices 
 without any apology. Winifred and I are going 
 to drive into town to-day for various little things. 
 Is there anything you want?" 
 
 " Not a thing, thank you."
 
 " I dare say not. You'll have Dick to look 
 after you. I wonder where he is now ? " 
 
 It happened at that very moment that Dick 
 was sitting in the den which he called his study. 
 He was sitting in his father's great writing-chair 
 at the carved oak desk which was the principal 
 piece of furniture in the apartment. He did not 
 look in all respects like a happy lover. He was 
 resting his elbows on the table and his chin on 
 his hands. 
 
 "There's no turning back now," his sombre 
 thoughts ran. " God knows I had no intention 
 to speak, to betray myself. She spoke out of the 
 innocence of her dear heart ; I can never say a 
 word now. I have done it all unwittingly, and I 
 must keep it up. I have put my hand to the 
 plough ; there can be no looking backwards."
 
 2 5 6 A Matter of Sentiment, 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 AN ENGAGEMENT RING. 
 
 " I DON'T think," said Dick Vincent to 
 Cynthia, when they had seen the girls drive off 
 about their own particular affairs in the little pony 
 cart which they called their own, " I don't think 
 we will go to the woods this afternoon." 
 
 " No ? " said Cynthia. " Why not ? " 
 
 " Well, we've got other fish to fry. The 
 mothers are safe at Foxborough, the girls have 
 gone to Littlebourne ; supposing that you and I, 
 being left to our own devices, drive over to New- 
 borough ? " 
 
 " What is there at Newborough ? " asked 
 Cynthia. 
 
 " Well, there are shops," he replied ; "jewel- 
 lers' shops. I shall want to buy you an engage- 
 ment ring." 
 
 " Oh, I should like to have an engagement 
 ring," said Cynthia, very decidedly. " I don't 
 know that I shall feel that I'm really engaged un- 
 til I've got one. But won't you break it to your 
 mother first ? " 
 
 " I don't think so, I don't think that the
 
 An Engagement Ring. 
 
 occasion will necessitate any particular preparation 
 in that way. Your mother may insist upon your 
 leaving to-morrow, as was originally agreed. We 
 had better make hay while the sun shines, and 
 get our ring whilst we've got a chance." 
 
 " I don't mind," said Cynthia. " I should 
 love it. How shall we go ? " 
 
 " Well, you won't mind the dog-cart, will 
 you ? " 
 
 " Not the least in the world ; it's all one to 
 me. My experience of carriages has been very 
 very limited, I assure you." 
 
 " Well, then, I'll order it at once. You'll put 
 a coat on, won't you ? Because it will be a little 
 chilly coming back, and it is sure to be rather 
 dusty." 
 
 " Yes, I'll put a coat on," she replied. 
 
 She went away to her room then and made 
 some slight addition to her toilette, among them 
 them being a very smart coat of dark gray tweed. 
 
 It was between six and seven ere they turned 
 in again at the lodge gates. Mrs. Vincent saw 
 them come up the avenue, and she knew in a 
 moment what had come about during her absence. 
 She was a good mother, she had no second 
 thought in her mind, none of the traditional 
 " My son is my son till he gets him a wife " 
 feeling, but she genuinely rejoiced that this beau- 
 tiful girl should be bringing the other half of the 
 17
 
 2 5 8 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 oil well into family property. She went along 
 the veranda to the portico to meet them. 
 
 " Ah, -my dears," she said, " no need to ask 
 whether you have had a good time." 
 
 " The best of all times, mother," said Dick ; 
 " for I've brought you back a daughter-in-law." 
 
 " I was hoping that you might do so," said 
 Mrs. Vincent. Then she turned and took the 
 girl's hand in hers. " My dear," she said, " I 
 won't say that I hope you will be happy, because 
 I know that you will. A good son makes a good 
 husband, and a good daughter makes a good wife. 
 You two have always been good to your mothers, 
 and you deserve happiness, and you will certainly 
 have it. Come, your own little mother is sitting 
 round here. Let us go and break the news to her." 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Vincent," cried Cynthia, " how 
 kind you are ! Are you sure that you don't 
 mind ?" 
 
 " Yes, I'm quite sure," said Mrs. Vincent. 
 " I'm positive certain sure. I have been, my 
 dear, so happy in my life here, so pleased in every 
 possible way, that I want my son to have as good 
 a time as I have had. My dear friend," she went 
 on, advancing to where Mrs. Meredith was sitting 
 and laying her hands on the back of that lady's 
 chair, " what you and I were talking of as a very 
 desirable but remote contingency has come about. 
 These young people have made up their minds,
 
 An Engagement Ring. 2 59 
 
 whilst you and I have been given over to baby 
 worship. Come say that you are glad ; Dick 
 and Cynthia are engaged to each other." 
 
 Mrs. Meredith jumped out of her chair, the 
 liveliest expression of surprise upon her still 
 pretty face. " No, you don't mean it ? Oh, my 
 dear children, I didn't dare to hope that you 
 would make up your minds so quickly." 
 
 " Oh, I made up my mind ages since," said 
 Dick. 
 
 " And I," cried Cynthia, " I didn't know that 
 I had any mind to make up. I didn't know that 
 Dick would ever look at me." 
 
 " Ah, my dear," cried Mrs. Vincent, " genuine 
 modesty is a beautiful quality, as rare as it is beau- 
 tiful. But now, my dear Mrs. Meredith, there 
 will of course, be no question of your going away 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," began Mrs. Meredith. 
 
 " But I know ; I know. And Dick's time is 
 getting short now, and I suppose he will want to 
 see as much of his fiancee as possible before he 
 goes out again. Oh, you must stay a few days 
 longer ; I won't hear of any other arrangement." 
 
 Nobody being particularly anxious to suggest 
 any different arrangement, the suggestion was not 
 in any way disputed. The engagement was made 
 public immediately. Mrs. Vincent told some of 
 the elder servants, and intimated that in consc-
 
 a6o A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 quence of the deep mourning of the family no 
 kind of demonstration was to be made. It was 
 astonishing how very soon Cynthia took her place 
 as one of the family, and Mrs. Meredith, who 
 had for years been entirely cut off from association, 
 that is to say, intimate association, with her own 
 kind, found herself making all manner of plans 
 for the future in conjunction with Dick's mother. 
 
 " When we have settled our children," said 
 Mrs. Vincent, " you and I must go off on our 
 travels and see what we can do to amuse our- 
 selves. We are so nearly of an age, dear Mrs. 
 Meredith, and our interests will be so closely 
 joined that we ought to practically cast in our lot 
 together. What do you say ? " 
 
 " In a great measure I think it would be very 
 wise," Mrs. Meredith replied ; " but I shall not 
 expect to be entirely cut off from my daughter." 
 
 " Oh, no, no ; certainly not ; no more than I 
 from my only son. But I do believe in young 
 people having their house to themselves, don't 
 you?" 
 
 " Oh, I certainly do. But I think that I shall 
 go to town and instal myself in a pleasant flat. 
 We might if we each had our pied a terre, spend 
 a great deal of our time together. It would be a 
 most delightful arrangement, unless indeed I 
 should be so enamored of California that I 
 should want to stay out there permanently."
 
 An Engagement Ring. 
 
 Mrs. Vincent's jaw fell. " To stay out in Cali- 
 fornia ? What, alone ? " 
 
 " I might do so ; more impossible things have 
 happened. I have always had a desire to see 
 that part of the world, always ; and since my 
 husband's death, I have longed more than ever 
 to gratify my wish. I feel, somehow, as if it was 
 my fate to go out there." 
 
 " After they are married," breathed Mrs. Vin- 
 cent. 
 
 " I haven't thought about it since there was 
 the idea of their being married. I want to go, 
 and the sooner the better." 
 
 " Dick," said Mrs. Vincent that night, when 
 she was going to bed, " come into my room for 
 ten minutes ; I have somethingtto tell you." 
 
 " All right," was his muttered reply. 
 
 Accordingly, a few minutes later, he demanded 
 admittance at her door. 
 
 " Come in, Dick dear," Mrs. Vincent said, " I 
 want to ask you something. When are you go- 
 ing to be married? " 
 
 " As soon as J come back from California." 
 
 " But do you intend to go out there again ? " 
 
 " Oh, 1 don't think so ; not for ever so long. 
 Why ? " 
 
 " Do you know that Mrs. Meredith intends 
 going out ? " 
 
 No."
 
 262 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " She does." 
 
 " I know she did intend going out," Dick re- 
 plied. 
 
 " Do you want her to go ? " 
 
 " No, I'd rather she didn't. It's no place for 
 a lady. It's a beastly journey, very inconvenient 
 and very fatiguing. I've told her so. 
 
 " But still, you consented to her going." 
 
 " I couldn't help myself, mother. She has a 
 right to go if she chooses." 
 
 " She means to go out with you still." 
 
 " Oh, well, I can't help it. She must do as ' 
 she likes. I'll talk to Cynthia about it. I wish 
 she wouldn't, because I know they'll both hate 
 it. And I should hate it, too as much as I could 
 hate anything connected with Cynthia. However, 
 I'll talk to her about it." 
 
 " What I mean is this," said his mother. "It 
 isn't that I mind whether she chooses to go to 
 California or not ; it's no business of mine, and I 
 don't intend to make it so. Only you talked to 
 me of your marriage coming off as soon as you 
 got back. Now your marriage can't come off as 
 soon as you come back unless you give the poor 
 girl a chance of getting her clothes together. You 
 can't order a trousseau now and trot off to Cali- 
 fornia and find it ready when you come back 
 again." 
 
 " No, exactly. I'll speak to Cynthia about it."
 
 An Engagement Ring. 
 
 Accordingly the next morning he carried Cyn- 
 thia off to the little stream by the corner of the 
 park. 
 
 " I want to ask you something," he said, when 
 they were safely settled down in their favorite 
 hiding place. "Your mother is talking about 
 going out to Santa Clara ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, dear ; nothing will turn her from it," 
 Cynthia replied. 
 
 " Oh, is that so ? Well now, look here. To 
 please me to please me," he repeated, looking 
 straight into his fiancee's lovely eyes " to please 
 me, darling, will you get her to give it up ? " 
 
 " But I want to go," said Cynthia. 
 
 " And I don't want you to go," he said, in 
 masterful tones. 
 
 "But why not?" 
 
 " Because well, you know my old objections. 
 It's a beastly journey ; it'll wear you out ; and if 
 you go our marriage will have to be put off by at 
 least three months." 
 
 " I don't see why." 
 
 " Well, you'll want clothes, won't you ? " 
 
 " I can order them before 1 go." 
 
 " You can't get your frocks fitted and all that 
 sort of thing if you are in California. I don't 
 know what you women want, but I know when 
 my sister was married our house became practically 
 a draper's shop for the time being."
 
 26 4 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 A rejoinder rose to the girl's lips that she was 
 not one of his sisters, and would not require the 
 house in which she might be living to be made 
 into a draper's shop before she was going to be 
 married. Then she suddenly remembered that 
 she would be marrying into exactly the same posi- 
 tion as his sister, and that whatever was necessary 
 for his sister's social status would be necessary for 
 the social position of'Mrs. Richard Vincent. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose it will put off our marriage," 
 she said. 
 
 " I am sure it will. Now we could well go out 
 there at some future time. If I go alone I can 
 scurry through, see to all business arrangements, 
 and be back again in ever so much less time than 
 I can do if I have two ladies with me." 
 
 " I can't understand quite," said Cynthia, " why 
 you should be so averse to our going out to Santa 
 Clara ; you have always been the same. Now if 
 my father had lived you would have used every 
 effort to persuade us to go out there permanently." 
 
 " For a very good reason," replied Dick. " If 
 your father had lived he would have been at 
 Santa Clara, making preparations for your comfort 
 while I escorted you on the journey. He would 
 have spent heaps of money, would have got in 
 all sorts of things, and would have made a perfect 
 bower of the place for you and your mother. As 
 it is, I can't do a thing. I can't very well send
 
 An Engagement Ring. 
 
 out to the manager and say, * Refurnish the house. 
 Mrs. and Miss Meredith are coming out.' His 
 taste is not your taste ; he is a good sort in his 
 way, but he has no idea of what two ladies like 
 yourselves wouldwant. Can't you see that ? " 
 " Yes, yes, I see that plainly enough." 
 "If* I could go out there first, and get every- 
 thing ready for you it wouldn't be so bad ; but 
 then that would entail your coming out alone. 
 As your future husband, I don't like it. Can't 
 you see my standpoint ? " 
 
 " Oh, I see your standpoint right enough ; 
 there's no mistaking it. But I also see mother's 
 standpoint ; and hers is that she has set her heart 
 upon going out to see the place where her hus- 
 band lived I was going to say where he died 
 but that's another idea altogether. She has cer- 
 tainly set her heart upon seeing Santa Clara, and 
 I think, although she hasn't actually said it, that 
 she has also set her heart upon going out to visit 
 my father's grave. My dear Dick, you don't un- 
 derstand women ; it's easy to see that you've 
 never cared for a woman before me. If you had 
 done you would know our ways better. Mother 
 is living to go and see that grave ; nothing else 
 will satisfy her ; even if it puts off our marriage it 
 would be better to put it off a little while and let 
 her gratify her whim her caprice, if you like to 
 call it so."
 
 266 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " Mine," said Dick, " is neither a whim nor a 
 caprice. I don't like the idea of your going out 
 to that wild part without any preparation, as if 
 you were a mere nobody, in utter and entire dis- 
 comfort, as you will do. Let us be married 
 quietly we must be on account of our mourning 
 then let us after a few months, say in the spring, 
 take your mother out with us." 
 
 " Well," Cynthia, " I'll see what I can do to 
 persuade her."
 
 Her Own Way. 26 7 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 HER OWN WAY. 
 
 WHEN Cynthia Meredith broached the idea to 
 her mother that her engagement would, for the 
 present, put a stop to any idea of their going out 
 to Santa Clara, that little lady absolutely shrieked 
 in her dismay and horror. 
 
 " Well," she said, " I've always known that 
 young people in love were selfish, but I never 
 came across anything so barefacedly selfish as for 
 you and Dick to suggest that I should give up 
 the very desire of my life just to please his 
 vagaries. You can tell him that I shall do noth- 
 ing of the kind. He can please himself whether 
 he goes to Santa Clara or not I am not in any 
 way bound to him, of course, and he is not as yet 
 in any way bound to me, excepting as my pooi 
 Roger's great friend but you can make it quite 
 clear to the young gentleman that I intend to 
 carry out my original plan." 
 
 " He doesn't want you to put it off altogether, 
 mother dear." 
 
 " No, he wants to get you safely married first ;
 
 268 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 and then a dozen things might happen which 
 would entirely preclude the possibility of taking a 
 long journey to a country for which Dick himself 
 has no predilection. Stay ! you had better go 
 and send him to me." 
 
 So Cynthia, who was as wax in the hands of 
 her mother, obediently went down-stairs in search 
 of Dick. 
 
 " Dick," she said, " my mother wants to see 
 you." 
 
 " Oh. About what ? " 
 
 " Oh, well, dear, you may as well give up 
 hope. Mother's mind is made up. She's going 
 to Santa Clara, even though the whole world 
 should combine against her. I believe if all the 
 railroads were wrecked and the great lakes over- 
 flowed themselves and made an inland sea between 
 New York and Santa Clara, mother would get to 
 the other side somehow." 
 
 " Where is she ? " asked Dick. 
 
 " She's in the boudoir next to her bedroom." 
 
 " Good. I'll go up." 
 
 Dick did go up. Mrs. Meredith received him 
 with a radiant smile. " I know all you are going 
 to say, my dear boy," she said, " but it isn't a bit 
 of use. I know you are so much in love with 
 Cynthia that you consider her little mother a brute 
 to want her to take a somewhat out-of-the-way 
 journey ; but I was as much in love with my
 
 Her Own Way. 
 
 Roger as you are with Cynthia. You'll have 
 your good time all chance of mine has gone by 
 forever." 
 
 Dick gave in at once. " Very well, Mrs. 
 Meredith," he said, "if you feel like that, of 
 course it's useless for me to say anything. I con- 
 fess I was thinking of your comfort and Cynthia's 
 before anything else believe me as to that." 
 
 " Oh, I believe you, dear boy ; I believe you 
 perfectly ; but life is not entirely a question of 
 comfort. I can promise you one thing," she went 
 on, " I quite see, now that I have seen this charm- 
 ing place of yours, that your Californian property 
 can never be more than a mere source of income 
 to you, and when I have been out and seen the 
 place, I am quite willing to abide by your advice 
 as to what I shall do with it. Surely, too, it will 
 simplify matters for Roger's will if I am on the 
 spot." 
 
 " Possibly it may do so. We won't say any- 
 thing more about it, Mrs. Meredith. And I take 
 it that you and Cynthia will be ready to start 
 with me on the tenth of next month ? " 
 
 Yes." 
 
 When Dick left Mrs. Meredith's presence he 
 went in search of Cynthia. 
 
 " Well ? " she said eagerly. 
 
 " Oh, it's no use," he replied. " Your mother 
 has set her heart upon going, and perhaps, after
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 all, it's just as well that she should do as she 
 pleases. Certainly, when she has once seen the 
 place, she will have no desire to stay longer, or 
 ever to go again." 
 
 " And yet you stayed there seven years." 
 
 " For one thing," he replied, " I went there 
 in bad health at least, if not bad health, I could- 
 n't stand an English winter. And then I put my 
 teeth into the ranche and wanted to make it pay. 
 It did pay before we struck oil, but even then it 
 wasn't much to boast about. You know that we 
 start on the tenth ? " 
 
 " That is a fortnight to-morrow," said Cynthia. 
 
 " Yes. I have told your mother that it would 
 be absurd for you to go back to Brighton. You 
 may as well put in the fortnight here." 
 
 " What does your mother say ? " asked 
 Cynthia. 
 
 " My mother ? Oh, we'll go and talk to her 
 about it presently. I suppose there'll be certain 
 things that you'll want for traveling and for 
 winter use, and you can as easily go to London 
 from here as you can from Brighton." 
 
 Cynthia looked at him searchingly as he sat in 
 the autumn sunlight. " Dick," she said, going 
 closer to him, " are you very much upset that 
 mother won't give way ? " 
 
 " No, I wish she had, for her sake and your 
 own ; but since she is bent upon it, it is better
 
 that she should see for herself how right I am. 
 Ever since she first proposed going out I have 
 had a sort of instinct that not exactly harm would 
 come of the journey, but it would be best that she 
 did not make it. However, I have done my best 
 to dissuade her, and I have not succeeded. So 
 the only thing now is to let it go on." 
 
 " I wish mother had given in," said she, wist- 
 fully. " You know that I would have done so, 
 don't you ? " 
 
 " Yes, you had already done so." 
 
 " I don't think, Dick, that I shall ever want to 
 go dead against you." 
 
 " I hope not. There is no reason why either 
 of us should want to go one against the other." 
 
 " I feel," said she, " as if yqur mother will 
 think us a perfect infliction." 
 
 " Don't feel that my mother thinks anything 
 of the kind. She isn't a selfish woman at any 
 time, and with regard to you and me, she has 
 only a wish for my happiness ; that counts with 
 her first and foremost. Don't worry yourself 
 about my mother, or think that you have worn 
 out your welcome in these few days. Why, 
 that would be a bad beginning. You are going 
 to live all the rest of your life in this old house ; 
 a few days more or less will make no difference 
 to my mother." 
 
 " She is very sweet and kind," said Cynthia,
 
 A Matter ot Sentiment. 
 
 in a trembling voice. " I feel as if I had come 
 along and taken her one ewe lamb from her." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense, nonsense ! The one ewe lamb 
 is on your side of the bargain. I might feel that, 
 but I don't. I am going to make you a just per- 
 fect husband, and you are going to make me a 
 quite perfect wife ; and so our mothers will be 
 happy or ought to be ; in knowing so much." 
 
 An hour later Dick knocked at his mother's 
 bedroom door. " Are you there ? Can I come 
 in ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Oh, certainly, dear. Come in. I was just 
 resting for half-an-hour," she replied. 
 
 "It's a shame to disturb you, mother, but I 
 wanted to have ten minutes' quiet talk with you. 
 You know that Mrs. Meredith and Cynthia pro- 
 pose going out to Santa Clara with me ? " 
 
 " Yes, you told me." 
 
 " Well, I didn't want them to go, and I want 
 them to go even less now that I am engaged to 
 Cynthia." 
 
 " Well ? " Her tone was quite short. 
 
 " Well, it seems I have been talking about 
 it to Cynthia to-day. She is quite willing to 
 forego her wish and to go out with me later on." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " But her mother has set her very heart upon 
 it. Nothing will induce her to change her plans." 
 
 " I suppose (it is natural," said Mrs. Vincent,
 
 Her Own Way. 2 73 
 
 "but I confess I should have thought more of 
 her if she had given in to your wishes." 
 
 " And so should I," said Dick. " But she 
 doesn't seem to look at it in that light at all ; and 
 so I have withdrawn my objection, and they will 
 go with me on the tenth of next month." 
 
 " They will go with you ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I see." 
 
 " Well, naturally, there is no need for them to 
 hurry away to-morrow." 
 
 " Not the least in the world. I hope they are 
 not thinking that I am wanting to get rid of 
 them." 
 
 " I don't think they've thought about it yet. 
 I told Cynthia I knew that they wouldn't be in 
 your way, but will you say as much to-night to 
 Mrs. Meredith ? " 
 
 " I will, dear boy, certainly." 
 
 " You had better not say anything about her 
 having gone against my wishes in doing it. You 
 see, I understand to a certain extent what she 
 feels, poor little woman. She was parted from 
 Meredith all those years, and I think she feels as 
 if by going out to see the place where he lived 
 for the last seven years of his life, she will bring 
 herself nearer to him." 
 
 " I shouldn't dream of interfering in Mrs. 
 Meredith's business, Dick," said his mother, with 
 18
 
 2 74 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 dignity. " I shouldn't expect her to interfere in 
 mine. I think she is rather mistaken, because it 
 is a very long and weary journey ; but in any 
 case it lies between her and you, and has nothing 
 to do with me. I detest interfering in other peo- 
 ple's business, and after all, poor little woman, 
 it's a natural thing that she should want to 
 see the house that was her husband's home so 
 long. Dick, did he really care for her, do you 
 think ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; undoubtedly." 
 
 " But what an odd way he had of showing it. 
 That way wouldn't have done for me, Dick, 
 Fancy your father your dear father staying 
 away from me for fifteen whole years." 
 
 " I couldn!t fancy it," said Dick. " That was 
 one reason why I always felt so horribly sorry for 
 her, because I couldn't fancy it. Why, the dad 
 would have died without you." 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Vincent with a sigh. " he 
 might have lived, dear, but not the kind of life 
 that would have satisfied him. So you will always 
 have to be a little lenient to your mother-in-law, 
 dear boy, because she has missed so much." 
 
 " She is determined that she will miss nothing 
 now," said Dick, with a short laugh. " How- 
 ever, that's neither here nor there. If you will 
 ask them to make this their headquarters until we 
 go, or during most of the time until we go, I shall
 
 Her Own Way. 
 
 take it as a great kindness both to them and to 
 me." 
 
 " That I certainly will. And tell me, dear 
 when do you think your wedding will come off? " 
 
 " Oh, I suppose some time in the New Year 
 when we are back." 
 
 " Why don't you be married quietly in London 
 before you go ? Wouldn't it make things much 
 easier ? " 
 
 " Perhaps. But I don't feel No, it wouldn't 
 do. I'd rather not." 
 
 "Oh, very well, dearest boy. Of course, just 
 as you like. I wouldn't interfere for the world. 
 Trust me, I'll make it all right with Mrs. Mere- 
 dith. And now you ought to go and dress for 
 dinner." 
 
 Dick went off to his own room then. He pic- 
 tured over all that had happened during the pre- 
 vious few hours whilst he was changing his clothes. 
 So in spite of him, in spite of all his good resolu- 
 tions, in spite of all his determination that he 
 would resolutely refrain from saying the words 
 which would tell Cynthia the true state of his 
 feelings, he was engaged to her. It had come 
 about so simply and so naturally that he could 
 not feel any mere surprise. It seemed to him as 
 if he had always been her lover ; as if they had 
 been together from the beginning of the ages ; and 
 yet it was but a few hours since she had made a
 
 2 7 6 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 delicious mistake which had given her to him for 
 all time. 
 
 Of course his mother, so sensible, so affection- 
 ate, so unselfish, had put her finger gently on the 
 crucial spot of the entire situation. She had 
 asked why he did not be married quietly before 
 they left England ? So he would have been at 
 least, so he would have tried to be and he did 
 not feel that either Cynthia or her mother would 
 have gainsayed him had it not been for that grim 
 secret of his which he must bottle up in his own 
 soul now and forever. They say that down in 
 the bottom of every heart still lingers some rem- 
 nant of the original fetish worship to which we 
 were all once addicted. Well, there was a little 
 fetish set up in Dick Vincent's heart, which told 
 him that although he could easily persuade Cyn- 
 thia to become his wife, immediately if he wished, 
 he would not be doing quite honestly by her if 
 he availed himself of that power. 
 
 But supposing that the journey to and from 
 Santa Clara and the sojourn there were accom- 
 plished without any disclosures being made, he 
 felt he might take it as an omen empowering him 
 to go straight forward. He was not especially 
 afraid of the journey either to Santa Clara or home 
 again ; nor was he in the least nervous about the 
 time that they would stay at Santa Clara itself 
 although the ladies would, he knew, suffer a good
 
 Her Own Way. 277 
 
 deal of inconvenience. Still, he would write to 
 Jack Frogg no, he would telegraph to him at 
 once, now that it was finally settled that they were 
 to go, and would give him instructions to buy, 
 beg, borrow or steal a sufficient number of things 
 to make the interior of the house cosy and pre- 
 sentable. 
 
 That was all easy enough. What he was really 
 afraid of was that Meredith's widow might insist 
 upon going down to Midas Creek in order to see 
 Meredith's grave and to have a talk with the land- 
 lord of the hotel in which he had died. If that 
 should come about, Dick would, he knew, be cor- 
 nered, and Cynthia or no Cynthia, he would have 
 little choice but to tell Mrs. Meredith the exact 
 truth, and explain to her all that he had so care- 
 fully been keeping back, both for her sake and his 
 own. Because he could not possibly let a lady, 
 still less a pretty woman, go down from Santa 
 Clara to Midas Creek by herself; and were he 
 to go himself as her escort, he would, to put it 
 in his own language, " immediately give the show 
 away." The question was Would she forego 
 the visit to Meredith's grave or not ?
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 ACROSS THE OCEAN. 
 
 HAVING once made up his mind that Mrs. 
 Meredith was not to be turned from making the 
 journey to Santa Clara, Dick Vincent resigned 
 himself to the inevitable and discussed the various 
 arrangements therefor with as little show of an- 
 noyance as if the idea of their accompanying him 
 had been his own. 
 
 " I very much envy them their trip," said Mrs. 
 Vincent the evening before they left Hollingridge. 
 " I should greatly like to see an oil well myself." 
 
 " My dear mother," said Dick promptly, " you 
 will, if you please, have to do without seeing this 
 oil well. I can't help Mrs. Meredith going, al- 
 though I'd give five hundred pounds this minute 
 if she'd forego the pleasure. It's bad enough to 
 have to take her to know that she's going into 
 the most extreme discomfort that she will be 
 hideously disappointed, and that anything may 
 happen. I couldn't face taking another lady, es- 
 pecially one as little accustomed to roughing it as 
 you are. Mrs. Meredith has had a very different 
 life to yours, you know, dear." 
 
 " Oh, yes, dear boy. I confess I should like
 
 Across the Ocean. 
 
 to go, but I know better than to set my heart upon 
 it, or any nonsense of that kind. And then, of 
 course, my reason would be one of pure curiosity ; 
 hers is one of sentiment which is quite a differ- 
 ent thing." 
 
 " Yes. It makes one almost wish that there 
 wasn't such a thing as sentiment," said Dick, 
 rather savagely. 
 
 He felt when he got safely into his own bed- 
 room that he had done well to, as he put it, 
 "choke his mother off straight." " If I had let 
 them get talking about it," his thoughts ran, 
 " and the mater had made up her mind to see 
 Santa Clara, I should have had a pretty kettle of 
 fish. ' Pon my soul, I begin to think there's 
 nothing like being firm with a woman. I believe 
 if I had been firm with Mrs. Meredith, she 
 would never have insisted upon undertaking this 
 ridiculous journey. However, if it was my fault 
 through over-lenience, I've got to pay the 
 penalty." 
 
 By the time that they left London and em- 
 barked on the great liner at Liverpool, Dick had 
 grown so accustomed to the idea of Meredith's 
 wife and daughter going to Santa Clara that he 
 suffered no uneasiness, excepting when he thought 
 of the possible visit to Midas Creek. Familiarity 
 with danger breeds contempt ; and so it did in 
 this case. .Mrs. Meredith, much to her own
 
 28o A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 disgust and not a little to Cynthia's dismay, 
 proved to be an exceptionally bad sailor. Be- 
 tween Liverpool and New York Dick did not so 
 much as set eyes upon her. He heard from 
 Cynthia that her mother had quite made up her 
 mind that she would never cross the Atlantic 
 again when once she found herself in Old Eng- 
 land. "In fact," she told him, " I feel perfectly 
 certain that if my father had lived, mother would 
 have settled herself down in California and 
 would never have gone back to England at all." 
 
 " That's all very well," said Dick, " but I 
 hope she won't take it into her head that it is a 
 little earthly paradise and that old England is a 
 played-out concern, because if she does I shall 
 quarrel with her which I have no earthly wish 
 to do." 
 
 " Oh, of course, mother knows that you have 
 a stake in the country. It's quite a different 
 situation now," Cynthia exclaimed, " to what it 
 was when poor dear father was living. Why, 
 Dick., how can you be so foolish? Mother said 
 if father had lived if father had lived and you 
 had chosen to marry me just the same, which," 
 looking up at him coquettishly, " I suppose you 
 would have done, it wouldn't have mattered in the 
 least to you whether they chose to go on living in 
 California, or whether they cared to go back to 
 England and settle."
 
 Across the Ocean. *% l 
 
 "No, no, of course not. I fully agree to 
 that." 
 
 "Well, mother said, f if.' " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I quite understand ; yes, yes if. 
 But, of course, poor chap, he isn't living ; and so 
 that's just the difference, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes, that was what mother said. You are so 
 unreasonable, Dick." 
 
 " I don't mean to be unreasonable," said Dick, 
 with a pretty air of begging for forgiveness. 
 " Why should I be ? Only it's rather appalling, 
 when one has brought a lady over here against 
 one's will, to have even the possibility suggested 
 that perhaps she'll never want to go back again." 
 
 " Oh, trust to your luck in that," cried Cyn- 
 thia. " Mother will never want to come out here 
 again. She wishes fervently that she had never 
 come. She says she believes evil will come of it." 
 
 " I shouldn't be a bit surprised," said Dick, 
 gloomily. 
 
 " Oh, wouldn't you ? Do you think that it is 
 possible you may see somebody else you like 
 better than me ? " 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't be so silly. How could 
 I see anybody that I liked better than you ? 
 Haven't I been seven years in America ? Did I 
 ever see anybody I liked better than you ? I 
 wish you wouldn't talk such arrant nonsense." 
 
 " I'll try not to talk arrant nonsense," said
 
 282 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 Cynthia. " You don't know very much about 
 women, Dick. You don't realize that when a 
 woman is utterly and entirely and altogether 
 happy, it seems to be part of her nature to talk 
 arrant nonsense. I assure you, Dick, I never 
 wanted to talk nonsense before. The people at 
 Gatehouses regarded me as a most sensible young 
 woman without a jot of silliness about me. It 
 is you who have made me silly, believe me it is." 
 
 Mrs. Meredith did not come upon deck until 
 they were within sight of New York, and then 
 Dick was horrified to see the ravages which the 
 voyage had made in her. She looked quite old, 
 and very frail and transparent. 
 
 " You see I ought not to have come," was her 
 greeting to him as he rushed forward and offered 
 her his arm that he might steady her tottering 
 steps across the deck. 
 
 " Well, I confess I didn't want you to come," 
 he said very kindly, " but I never thought of 
 this. So many people who are bad sailors in the 
 Channel, think nothing of a trip across the 
 Atlantic." 
 
 " I had always called myself a good sailor," she 
 said. " I wonder whether one could put one's 
 self to sleep to get back again." 
 
 " I am afraid that wouldn't be quite safe." 
 
 " If one took a sleeping draught every three 
 hpurs it ought to keep one going."
 
 Across the Ocean. 
 
 " I hope you won't try it." 
 
 " Oh, I'll do nothing foolish," she said. " But 
 I have felt the heat so much this summer, very 
 much." 
 
 " That was because you would go to Brighton," 
 said Dick, gently. 
 
 " Yes, the heat at Brighton was absolutely in- 
 supportable. If your mother had not invited us 
 to Hollingridge, I believe we could not have 
 stayed our time out. I have always suffered more 
 or less from heat, but never so much as now ; 
 and coming on the top of that, this dreadful voy- 
 age has almost finished me." 
 
 " We ought to stay a few days in New York 
 for you to recruit." 
 
 " I should like to do so if you don't mind," 
 said Mrs. Meredith, quite appealingly. " I sup- 
 pose it is an interesting city enough ? " 
 
 Dick laughed aloud. " Oh, yes ; you can well 
 put in a few weeks in New York if you wish to do 
 so, provided it is not too hot, which it should not 
 be at this time of the year. Sometimes they get 
 a spell of Indian summer which is very trying." 
 
 " I hope not," said Mrs. Meredith. " I be- 
 lieve I shall die if there is anything like a wave 
 of heat." 
 
 "In that case we mustn't stop in New York. 
 We must get you down to Long Island, or some- 
 where where you can breathe. Then you'll find
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 it cold enough afterwards, cold enough to freeze 
 the very marrow in your bones." 
 
 He felt genuinely sorry for the little woman. 
 She seemed so frail and so dependent ; and she 
 so genuinely repented of having gone against his 
 wishes in taking the journey at all. Dick could 
 be very generous, and he was just as kind and 
 considerate then to Mrs. Meredith as he would 
 have been had she made the journey entirely to 
 please him. 
 
 In due course they landed, and thankfully 
 shook themselves free of the big ship ; at least, 
 Mrs. Meredith certainly did. She could not re- 
 press a shudder as she stepped across the gang- 
 way. It was a shudder of disgust to think that 
 before she could reach her native country again 
 she must spend seven more cruel days on that or 
 some other vessel. " Then," her thoughts ran, 
 " old England shall be good enough for me. I 
 wouldn't like to tell Dick so, not for the world ; 
 but oh ! how flattered he or any other man would 
 be if he knew how often and how bitterly I have 
 repented of ever leaving my native shores." 
 
 She would have been considerably surprised if 
 she could have known how thoroughly Dick 
 realized her exact feelings. 
 
 New York proved itself a veritable city of de- 
 lights. Its restless stream of life, its extraord- 
 inary vitality, all appealed to the little woman who
 
 Across the Ocean. 28 5 
 
 had for years been living a life of hated stagna- 
 tion. Nobody but herself knew, not even Cyn- 
 thia, how she had loathed her surroundings in 
 Gatehouses, how she had raged within herself at 
 the kindly and perhaps a little patronizing visits 
 of the vicar, how she had fumed over the more 
 ceremonious calls of his less tactful wife, how she 
 had longed and prayed that Roger might one day 
 come back again and enable her to let these peo- 
 ple see that, after all, she was perhaps even better 
 than their equal. And then, as soon as the news 
 came that she was comparatively rich, her instinct 
 had been to get out of Gatehouses at once ; she 
 had no longer any desire to shine among those 
 who had been witnesses of her past humiliations. 
 She did not want her daughter to pose as an 
 heiress before those who had, not unnaturally, re- 
 garded her as a "young person." So the viva- 
 cious, restless life of New York fascinated her be- 
 yond what any words of mine will express, and in 
 order the more thoroughly to observe it, she set 
 herself industriously to do the city and its en- 
 virons. 
 
 It was hot for the time of year, but not extraor- 
 dinarily so, and therefore Mrs. Meredith was 
 enabled to gratify her love of sight-seeing to the 
 very full. Dick was appalled at the energy with 
 which she attacked her task, and the interest with 
 which she carried it through.
 
 286 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " I had no idea that your mother would be like 
 this," he said one afternoon to Cynthia, when 
 Mrs. Meredith had at last acknowledged that she 
 was feeling a little tired, " but why waste it on 
 New York ? If she had gone to Paris, or 
 Dresden, or Munich, or to Italy, I could have 
 understood her enthusiasm ; but I can't under- 
 stand anybody enthusing about anything in Am- 
 erica." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " Because America is not a place to enthuse 
 over. Barring the Falls, which can be done in a 
 few hours, it is a place to pass through a place 
 to do business in, a place to seek your fortune 
 and all that sort of thing, but not no enthuse 
 over." 
 
 " Oh, well," Cynthia cried, " mother knows 
 that she will never come back here again, and so 
 she wants to see all there is to be seen while she's 
 about it." 
 
 " That's right enough, but if she goes on like 
 this she'll knock herself up properly. She ought 
 to have stayed here quietly and rested; eaten her 
 meals regularly, taken a drive every morning and 
 afternoon, and then have gone leisurely on and 
 have saved up all sight-seeing until she was on 
 the way home." 
 
 " Oh, well, you must let mother go her own 
 way. I am content to be guided by you, but
 
 Across the Ocean. 28 7 
 
 mother must go her own way. Sight-seeing 
 pleases her, therefore let her see sights. And 
 mind, to-night she is not going out ; we are none 
 of us going out ; we are going to do nothing 
 more exciting than perhaps take a ride on that 
 elevated railway." 
 
 Dick fairly groaned. " Not for a pleasure 
 trip ? Oh, my dear child, do you know what I 
 wish ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Well, I wish that your mother had belonged 
 to a peripatetic circus a sort of tent arrange- 
 ment that sets itself up every three days and then, 
 having exhausted the money of that pitch, goes 
 along to another pitch. Then if money had 
 come to her, she would have been content to sit 
 still and enjoy it." 
 
 Cynthia looked at him with a world of fun 
 shining out of her soft eyes. " I believe they 
 call that a f fit-up show,' don't they ? Fancy 
 mother in a fit-up show. It's too funny ! 
 Well, Dick, dearest, I am really sorry that my 
 mother is not more domesticated than she is, not 
 more like your own, that you can keep in proper 
 order, but as she is, so you must take her or 
 leave her. 1 am afraid that she's going to make 
 the most of this trip, because she feels perfectly 
 sure that she'll never take another ; at least not 
 one that entails a seven days' sea journey."
 
 288 A Matter of Sentiment 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 A NEW IDEA. 
 
 " I THINK," said Mrs. Meredith one evening 
 at dinner, " that we have about done New York." 
 
 " I should think you had," said Dick, with a 
 grim smile. " And you may think yourself very 
 lucky that New York has not done you." 
 
 "How done me? I don't understand you, 
 Dick." 
 
 " Well, that this fearful heat has not com- 
 pletely knocked you up. Considering all that 
 you have done and seen, the little care you have 
 taken of yourself, the excited state in which you 
 arrived, and the amount of hard labor that you 
 have put in since you have been here, I can only 
 say that you must have a constitution of iron." 
 
 " I have an excellent constitution," said Mrs. 
 Meredith, who, if she perceived the sarcasm did 
 not think it worth while to notice it, " far better 
 than ever my daughter will have, so you may 
 make up your mind to that." 
 
 It was on the tip of Dick's tongue to rejoin 
 " I hope so," but he nipped it off just in time, 
 and dropped a piece of bread in his mouth to 
 serve as an excuse for having opened it.
 
 A New Idea. 
 
 " I must say," Mrs. Meredith went on, " that 
 I have enjoyed my stay in New York very much. 
 It's a fine city; there's a sense of life about it. 
 I don't know, if I were not, so to speak, tied else- 
 where through you two, that I wouldn't sooner 
 
 live here than in any other city I have ever been 
 
 
 
 m. 
 
 " I can't understand your taste," said Dick. 
 " I think New York perfectly horrid myself. 
 However, these things are all a matter of opinion ; 
 but since you have done New York, Mrs. Mer- 
 edith, without New York having especially done 
 you, I suppose you will be moving on soon ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think there is nothing left to stay for 
 now," said Mrs. Meredith, quite seriously. " We 
 might go on to-morrow. What do you think, 
 Cynthia ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. Do let us get out of this horrid 
 heat," cried Cynthia 
 
 Something in her voice made Dick turn and 
 look at her. " Do you feel ill, dearest ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " No, Dick, but I don't feel well. I never 
 could stand dreadful heat, and it has been very 
 oppressive to-day. Do you know, I think I 
 shall go to bed directly after dinner. If you two 
 want to explore the elevated railway, you can ex- 
 plore it without me." 
 
 " Don't you think, Mrs. Meredith," said Dick, 
 19
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " that it would be as well to leave one world to 
 conquer ? " 
 
 " How ? " 
 
 " Well, you are coming back by way of New 
 York. How would it do to leave the elevated 
 railway till we are coming home, and spend one 
 evening resting ourselves ? " 
 
 " Yes, 1 don't mind," she said. 
 
 " But I shall go to bed all the same," an- 
 nounced Cynthia, " because my wretched head is 
 getting worse every minute." 
 
 Dick looked at her again very anxiously. " I 
 hope you are not going to be ill ? " he murmured 
 under his breath. 
 
 " No, no, no ; only a headache. Too much 
 sight-seeing too much done-up-ness. I am not 
 strong like mother." 
 
 " Thank God for that ! " was Dick's fervent 
 inward comment. 
 
 " Then we'll go on to-morrow, Dick," said 
 Mrs. Meredith. 
 
 " Very well, I'll find out about the trains pres- 
 ently." 
 
 " I suppose," said Mrs. Meredith, " that we 
 can get everything on the cars for whiling away 
 the tedium of the journey ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; as much as the tedium of such a 
 long journey can be whiled away," Dick replied. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose it is tedious."
 
 A New Idea. 
 
 " Yes, it is very tedious ; at least, I found it 
 so," said Dick. 
 
 " And what day do we arrive at Midas Creek ? " 
 
 " Midas Creek ! " exclaimed Dick. 
 
 " Yes, of course. We are going there first." 
 
 " Going to Midas Creek first ? " 
 
 " Of course. That's the main reason why I 
 have come." 
 
 " Oh." 
 
 He happened in his consternation to glance at 
 Cynthia, who looked so white and so suffering 
 that he proposed, without further continuing the 
 conversation, that they should leave the table. 
 
 " The sooner you are in bed, Cynthia," he said, 
 " the better." 
 
 " Yes, I know. I feel awfully played out to- 
 night. You and the mother can settle about the 
 journey," she said, as they passed down the 
 room. 
 
 " I'll go up and see you safe into bed, darling," 
 said Mrs. Meredith. 
 
 " And I will go and have a cigarette," said 
 Dick. 
 
 He left them at the elevator, and turning went 
 into the smoking divan, where he sat down and 
 tried to think over the appalling suggestion which 
 Mrs. Meredith had just made to him. He no 
 longer wondered, fond as he had been of her, that 
 Meredith had left her,
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " It looks such a velvet glove," his thoughts 
 ran, " but what a hand of steel cold steel, chilled 
 steel with velvet covers. She's made up her 
 mind to go to Midas Creek to worry everything 
 out to make a holy show of herself there. Oh, 
 
 it all, I must stop it somehow ! I must 
 
 manage somehow to make her go to the ranche 
 first. She'll be pretty sickened by the rough time 
 there ; and then I'll take her down to Freeman's 
 Rock, and when she has been the charms of that 
 place she perhaps won't be so keen on taking 
 Cynthia to a place which everybody will tell her 
 is simply ten times as rough. At all events, if 
 she goes to Midas Creek, she must go without 
 Cynthia. Her father's grave is nothing to her, 
 and I strongly object to my wife, until she is my 
 wife, visiting any such part of the world. And 
 then," he added, with a resolute expression cross- 
 ing his face, " once she is my wife, I'll take care 
 to keep her out of that kind of thing." 
 
 He finished the cigarette and then went up to 
 the sitting-room which was attached to Mrs. 
 Meredith's suite. He sat there alone for a few 
 minutes before she entered from the bedroom. 
 
 " Oh, you are here," she said. " I am sure 
 that poor child will be all right when she has had 
 a night's rest. She has done a little too much." 
 
 " A great deal too much, Mrs. Meredith," said 
 Dick.
 
 A New Idea. 2 93 
 
 " This heat is so very trying," she remarked. 
 
 " Yes, it is." Then he got up and went and 
 sat down opposite to her. " Mrs. Meredith, I 
 want you to do me a favor." 
 
 " Certainly, Dick, if I can." 
 
 " I want to go straight to Santa Clara." 
 
 " Oh, no." 
 
 " Well, but I have a good reason for saying 
 it ; it would be better on all accounts that you go 
 to Santa Clara first. 1 should strongly object to 
 Cynthia going to Midas Creek at all." 
 
 " But why ? " 
 
 " It isn't the place for a girl of her age or her 
 exceptional looks." 
 
 " She will be perfectly safe with me," said Mrs. 
 Meredith, putting up her chin with a haughty 
 gesture. 
 
 " Excuse me, Mrs. Meredith, but I happen to 
 know the part of the country where we are going 
 to, and 1 tell you that Cynthia is not going to 
 Midas Creek with my consent. As her future 
 husband I object to it very strongly, and I do 
 think that my wishes should be considered in 
 some degree." 
 
 " It's natural that Cynthia should wish to visit 
 her father's grave." 
 
 " Not at all. If you will excuse me saying 
 so this once, Roger was nothing to Cynthia be- 
 yond the bare fact that he was her father. She
 
 2 94 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 has no remembrance of him ; she has no special 
 interest in him except as he affects you. I am 
 not saying this to hurt you, Mrs. Meredith, but 
 believe me that I am right. Cynthia must not 
 go to Midas Creek." 
 
 " There is no reason why she shouldn't go," 
 Mrs. Meredith persisted. 
 
 " There is every reason why she shouldn't go. 
 The most important is that her future husband 
 objects to it." 
 
 " But how can I go if Cynthia is to be left be- 
 hind ? Where is she to be' left ? " 
 
 " That's easy enough. If you go to Santa 
 Clara, and we get our business through with re- 
 gard to the property, I can arrange for somebody 
 to take care of Cynthia while I take you down to 
 Midas Creek. You are making a mistake, Mrs. 
 Meredith ; you had better take my advice and 
 stop away. It will be a black and bitter disap- 
 pointment to you. You will hear things said 
 about Meredith which will hurt you beyond what 
 any words of mine can express. He didn't bear 
 the character of a Saint at Santa Clara ; he wasn't a 
 popular man anyhow. At Midas Creek you 
 will hear what will hurt you : you will hear noth- 
 ing that would be in any way a satisfaction to you. 
 As to the six feet of earth that covers him, what 
 difference is there between one patch of ground 
 and another ? My wish is to spare you pain,
 
 A New Idea. 
 
 and if you believe in me at all you will be guided 
 by me in this respect ; if you don't believe in me, 
 well you don't ; and you must go your own way, 
 although it isn't the right way. Still, if your 
 mind is bent upon it, I'll take you down to Midas 
 Creek myself, and I'll stay with you ; but I will 
 not allow Cynthia to go near the place." 
 
 For a moment Mrs. Meredith sat irresolute. 
 Dick, watching her keenly, saw by the tightly 
 held in under lip that she was torn bv a dozen 
 conflicting emotions. 
 
 At last she spoke. " Dick," she said, " I 
 generally have a very great respect for your opin- 
 ion. You have a clear, level, business head, and 
 I have gone very much by what you say, partly 
 for that and partly because you are my dear 
 Roger's great friend. But, Dick, when you 
 tell me, or when at least you imply that I am not a 
 sufficient protector for my daughter in California, 
 or any other part of the world, I consider that you 
 insult me." 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Meredith, there can be no question 
 of insult between you and me," he said quietly ; 
 " you must know that that is the wish furthest 
 from my thoughts ; you must know perfectly well 
 that I can have no object but your comfort and 
 Cynthia's ultimate good when I beg of you to 
 consider my wishes in this one respect. My dear 
 lady, Meredith himself was so conscious of the-
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 wildness of the life to which he had grown accus- 
 tomed by living in it for fifteen years, that he 
 would not allow for a moment that should I find 
 you, as I did find you, you would ever consent 
 to come out and share it. He naturally remem- 
 bered you as he had left you, and he felt that you 
 would instinctively shrink from many things 
 which had become the habit of his daily life." 
 
 " But you have been seven years in this same 
 place, living this same life," persisted Mrs. Mere- 
 dith, " and I don't find that it has made any dif- 
 ference to you. I don't see that you are any dif- 
 ferent to your family. You are still the young 
 man of good family who has been in a cavalry 
 regiment. I don't find that you have been de- 
 graded by having lived for seven years at Santa 
 Clara." 
 
 " No," said Dick, " you may not find it ; but 
 you would have seen a difference in Meredith." 
 
 " I don't understand you, Dick." 
 
 " I means imply this. Look here, Mrs. Mere- 
 dith, I'm going to speak this once straight and 
 plain to you, and then, if you please, we'll never 
 touch on the subject again. I went out to Cali- 
 fornia on account of my lungs ; 1 went out with 
 money from my father, with sufficient to start me 
 in a decent way of living, and from time to time 
 my father supplemented that start by further help. 
 Mrs. Meredith, from first to last of the whole
 
 A New Idea. 2 97 
 
 seven years that I have spent in this country, I 
 have lived the same clean and wholesome life that 
 I was accustomed to live before I came here. 
 Meredith did not follow the same course. He 
 had been out eight years when I first met him ; he 
 was then a broken man broken in pocket, broken 
 in character, broken in constitution. We chanced 
 on each other ; we chanced to become friends, and 
 I was the drag on the wheel of Meredith's passions 
 which kept him alive and in something like de- 
 cent condition until I had no longer any hold over 
 him. Meredith knew life in California better than 
 I did, better than you can ever know it ; but, 
 Mrs. Meredith, I know sufficient a,nd I have 
 seen sufficient to make me sure of one thing that 
 you will make a great mistake if you go to Midas 
 Creek and you will regret it all your life if you 
 seek to identify yourself there as Meredith's 
 widow." 
 
 For a moment Mrs. Meredith was too much 
 astounded to reply. " You mean to tell me," she 
 exclaimed, " that if I went there as my husband's 
 widow I should not be safe ? " 
 
 " I don't mean that you would go in danger of 
 your life," said he, " but you would certainly not 
 be safe from insult for one thing. You would go 
 with a deep feeling towards Meredith, too the 
 feeling of nobody that you would meet. Remem- 
 ber that Meredith died raving mad drunk. If you
 
 2 9^ A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 went to Midas Creek and you spoke of him to 
 any one who ever came in contact with him during 
 that last few days as you spoke of him to me, that 
 is as you have thought of him all these years, your 
 hearers would laugh in your face. They might 
 not even stop at that much." 
 
 "It wouldn't be necessary for me to say I was 
 Meredith's widow," said she. 
 
 " Well, if you were to speak of him to any one 
 in Midas Creek without revealing your identity, 
 you would hear what, as I said before, would hurt 
 you more than any words of mine could tell. 
 There's nothing to be gained by it, Mrs. Mere- 
 dith, nothing. Believe me, you had better let 
 well alone." 
 
 The moment the words had passed his lips he 
 realized that he had made a mistake. Mrs. Mere- 
 dith sat looking at him with a new light shining 
 in her blue eyes. 
 
 " Dick," she said, in a curiously hard, strained 
 voice, " what do you mean ? "
 
 Nothing More. 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 NOTHING MORE. 
 
 FOR a minute or so Mrs. Meredith sat staring 
 at Dick Vincent as if she would look into his very 
 soul. 
 
 " Dick," she said, " you have put a new idea 
 into my head. What did you mean when you 
 said that it would be best to leave well alone ? " 
 
 " I have been trying to explain what I meant," 
 he said deliberately. 
 
 His heart was beating more quickly than 
 usual ; he felt that some suspicion had been 
 aroused in her mind. Any sort of revelation 
 might take place during the next half-hour, and 
 he nerved himself to meet what might be before 
 him as only a strong man in perfect health would 
 have been able to do. 
 
 " Look here ! " she said, ignoring his remark. 
 " I insist upon it that we stop at Midas Creek 
 I mean that we go there first. I have a reason 
 a very urgent, a very cogent reason." 
 
 " Not with Cyntnia." 
 
 " Yes, with Cynthia." 
 
 " No, Mrs. Meredith ; I will not give my 
 consent."
 
 300 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " Your consent is not necessary. Cynthia is 
 not your wife yet, but Cynthia is my daughter, 
 and she will go where I tell her. That will be to 
 Midas Creek." 
 
 I shall appeal to Cynthia." 
 
 " You can appeal to Cynthia if you choose, but 
 Cynthia will do my bidding. Cynthia has never 
 disobeyed me in her life ; she is not likely to be- 
 gin now. Cynthia is going to Midas Creek with 
 me ; you can please yourself whether you go or 
 not. I shall not conceal myself, or the fact that 
 I am my husband's widow. What there is to 
 learn about my husband's death I will learn." 
 
 " What more can you want to learn than you 
 already know, Mrs. Meredith ? You have seen 
 the account of the occurrence in the local jour- 
 nal." 
 
 " I want to make sure," she said, looking at 
 him fixedly, " that my husband was killed." 
 
 He gave an exclamation of impatience. " My 
 dear Mrs. Meredith, this is worse than folly. If 
 you have any idea that Meredith, poor fellow, is 
 still alive " 
 
 " No, I have no such idea. I know that my 
 husband is dead, but, and the question is a large 
 one, was he killed or was he murdered ? " 
 
 " He was killed," said Dick, shortly. " You 
 have the evidence in the papers. You can have 
 no better proof than that."
 
 Nothing More. 3 01 
 
 " Yes, I can have better proof than that. I can 
 have the proof of the man who was there and saw 
 it done the landlord of the hotel." 
 
 " His evidence is there in the paper." 
 
 " I would prefer to have it from his own lips. 
 How do I know that the editor of that paper was 
 not paid to produce that report ? " 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Meredith, this is absolute 
 folly," said Dick. " Folly ! " 
 
 " Perhaps. If it proves so, I am content to 
 abide by it. You take things too much for granted 
 over in these wild parts of the country. I will 
 not do so. I have been robbed of my husband," 
 she exclaimed, working herself up into a fury, 
 " and I will have satisfaction. I will know the 
 truth. You got the news in New York ; you 
 came on." 
 
 " What was the good of going back ? " 
 
 " You came on ; you left him to his fate. You 
 didn't care." 
 
 " What was the good of caring ? The man 
 was dead." 
 
 " You don't know that he was dead." 
 
 " Yes, 1 do." 
 
 " How do you know ? By the paper? " 
 
 " No, I had a letter from a man who was pres- 
 ent, a man I know." 
 
 " What was his name ? " 
 
 " His name is Valentine Clegg."
 
 3oa A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " An American ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You knew him ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " And he wrote and told you my husband was 
 dead ? " 
 
 "He wrote me the whole circumstances of the 
 affair." 
 
 " Why didn't you show me that letter, Dick ? " 
 
 " Because there was a good deal in it that I had 
 no wish for you to see." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I have already told you, Mrs. Meredith, that 
 Meredith did not carry a very good character 
 about with him. His reputation in California, 
 such parts of it as he was known, was a bad one. 
 I should not like you to read being Roger's 
 widow, and I knowing him as I did, knowing the 
 good there was in him I should not like you to 
 read everything that Valentine Clegg said about 
 him. He had known him for many years al- 
 most ever since he first came out." 
 
 " I should like to see that letter." 
 
 " I am sorry I cannot show it to you." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " Because I have destroyed it." 
 
 " Why did you destroy it ? " 
 
 " I destroyed it because I then could not show 
 it to you."
 
 Nothing More. 33 
 
 " Did this Valentine Clegg justify the action of 
 the man who killed my husband ? " 
 
 " Absolutely. Nobody could have done 
 otherwise. It was a question of life for life, and 
 the man who had his senses about him did not 
 see being shot down by the man who was raving 
 mad drunk. It's no use shirking the truth, Mrs. 
 Meredith, and, as I told you, it is less than no 
 use for you to go to Midas Creek, either in the 
 character of an avenging spirit or, for the matter 
 of that, as Meredith's devoted widow." 
 
 " Where does this Valentine Clegg live ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Meredith, it is not necessary to tell 
 you." 
 
 "Yes, I will go and see him." 
 
 " No, I don't think you must go and see 
 him." 
 
 " I intend to do so. Give me his address 
 now." 
 
 " No, I shall not give you Clegg's address. 
 From what he wrote to me he could hardly be 
 called staying in the hotel, as he had not been there 
 more than five minutes when the affray took 
 place. He wrote me from the standpoint of a 
 purely disinterested eyed-witness. It can do you 
 no good to see him. Look here I'll send to 
 Midas Creek for the entire evidence, which I am 
 quite sure I can get you. That will be as worthy 
 of credence as if you went and collected it your-
 
 34 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 self, because I shall get it from the official 
 quarters." 
 
 " No, I'll have it at first hand. I'll go to 
 Midas Creek, and then I'll go to see Valentine 
 Clegg. I shall get his address from the hotel. 
 You are shielding somebody." 
 
 " Mrs. Meredith ! " 
 
 " Yes. I am not the least excited ; I am 
 speaking with an absolute knowledge of what I 
 am saying. It's borne in upon me with an 
 insistence which I should be a wicked woman to 
 disregard. I am quite calm, but I am convinced 
 that you are hiding something from me. You 
 are shielding somebody ; you know more than 
 you have ever told me, and if you will not tell 
 me the truth, I will seek out those who will." 
 
 As a matter of fact, Mrs. Meredith was most 
 horribly excited. She was trembling like an 
 aspen leaf from head to foot ; her face was white, 
 her lips were strained, and her voice was hard 
 and repressed even to monotony. 
 
 " So," she went on, " it's no use trying to hold 
 me back and bar my progress any longer ; it's no 
 use to speak to me of Cynthia ; Cynthia will go the 
 way that I go. The truth I will have. If my 
 husband has been done to death, his murderer 
 shall suffer." 
 
 As Mrs. Meredith grew more excited, so did 
 Dick Vincent become more absolutely calm. He
 
 Nothing More. 35 
 
 was past all personal feeling now. He was playing 
 a game as a game ; he was playing it desperately 
 in earnest, for the issues to him were more im- 
 portant than the issues of life and death. He 
 was playing a game of " pull devil pull baker," 
 between Mrs. Meredith's angry suspicion and the 
 chance of Cynthia being his wife. And he played 
 for all he was worth. 
 
 " You forget," he said, very quietly, " that 
 you are speaking of a country which is not Eng- 
 land. You would get no redress, you would get 
 no fresh inquest, you would not even get sym- 
 pathy. The jury, probably made up of hard- 
 headed, rough and ready men considered Mere- 
 dith's death a pure accident, and in order to ex- 
 press their feeling in that way they brought the 
 verdict in ' Died by the visitation of God.' If 
 I had been the foreman of that jury, or indeed an 
 ordinary juryman, I should have suggested that 
 they would better have expressed their feeling by 
 returning a verdict of ' accidental death ' ; but, 
 you see, I was not there, and, therefore, they 
 followed their own ideas and returned the verdict 
 as you know. As to my shielding anybody, as 
 to my hiding something, well, if you like to think 
 so, you must. I have no objection to taking you 
 to Midas Creek ; I only object to my future wife 
 going near that place. I have asked nothing un- 
 reasonable of you ; I have only asked you to take 
 20
 
 306 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 that journey when you have seen the ranche ; 
 and you are not acting reasonably by me when 
 you do everything you can to thwart me, when 
 you go against my fixed principles as regards 
 my fiancee, when you accuse me of something for 
 which you have absolutely no grounds." 
 
 " You dare to say this to me ? " 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Meredith, I dare to say this. 
 And I shall dare to say a good deal more before 
 we have done. It takes no such great daring." 
 
 " Then I shall go to Midas Creek without you, 
 and I shall take my daughter with me. If you 
 like to give my daughter up " 
 
 "There's no question of my giving your 
 daughter up ; I shall never give your daughter 
 up, excepting at her own wish. And I defy you 
 I dare you to say one word to influence her 
 against me. If you do, Mrs. Meredith, it will be 
 a trial of strength between us, and although 
 Cynthia may have been the most perfect daughter 
 in the world, she has given her word to me, she 
 has given her love to me, and I am convinced 
 that she will abide by my wishes, because her 
 common-sense will tell her that they are more 
 reasonable than yours." 
 
 Mrs. Meredith got up from her seat. She 
 stood, holding on to the table beside her, staring 
 hard at him and swaying unsteadily, as if her head 
 were in a whirl. 

 
 Nothing More. 37 
 
 " You think," she began, " you think that you 
 can hoodwink me, but you will find your mis- 
 take." 
 
 She pointed a trembling finger at him, and then, 
 without a word of warning, without a sigh, a gasp, 
 or an attempt to save herself, she dropped like a 
 stone at his feet. Dick, with an exclamation of 
 intense annoyance, stooped and raised her from 
 the ground. He was vexed with her ; he was 
 vexed with himself. She seemed a dead weight in 
 his arms, and he carried her to the nearest couch, 
 where he laid her down, then flew to the electric 
 button, ringing three times as a signal to one of 
 the chambermaids to come to him. 
 
 " Quick ! this lady is ill ! " he exclaimed, when 
 the maid arrived. " Can you get me some 
 brandy ? Stay ! Perhaps Miss Meredith may 
 have some. She has gone to bed ; she cannot be 
 asleep yet." 
 
 The maid, who was a Swede, stooped down 
 over Mrs. Meredith, and took the cushion from 
 under her head. " It is ze best to put ze head 
 low," she said in a tone which re-assured him, 
 because it told him that she was not flurried at 
 Mrs. Meredith's state. " I go see if the youn - 
 lady has brandee." 
 
 A moment later she came back, carrying a 
 small silver flask and a glass from the toilet table. 
 She was immediately followed by Cynthia, who
 
 3o3 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 had thrust on a cambric wrapper above her night- 
 dress. 
 
 " What is the matter, Dick ? " she said. " Is 
 mother ill ? " 
 
 " Yes, she has fainted. Have you ever seen 
 her like this before ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes, I have sometimes. Yes, that's 
 right, Brincka, the lower the head, the better. 
 Rub the palms of her hands. Now, Dick, a 
 little of this brandy Oh, don't weaken it with 
 water, just a few drops will be enough to begin." 
 
 Thus bidden, Dick Vincent forced a few drops 
 of brandy down her throat. There was no effort 
 to swallow, and the liquid ran out the corner of 
 her mouth on to the cushions of the sofa. 
 
 " I think," said Cynthia, still rubbing hard at 
 the palm of one hand while the Swedish maid did 
 the same with the other, " I think we should do 
 better if we could get a doctor here. This sort 
 of thing needs ether. There must be a doctor 
 near to a big hotel like this, possibly one living 
 here. Her pulse is so slow, and she scarcely 
 seems to breathe. Wait a minute, I'll get some 
 scent." 
 
 But it was all of no use. Brandy, scent, 
 doctor, daughter, nothing had any effect upon the 
 inanimate form lying upon the sofa. A doctor 
 who happened to be occupying the next suite 
 came quickly in. He took but one glance at the
 
 Nothing More. 39 
 
 sofa, touched the wrist, bent down and listened 
 a moment to the heart, then turned to the maid 
 and said, " Give me a looking-glass." 
 
 Cynthia dropped her mother's hand, went 
 swiftly into the bedroom and brought back an 
 ivory hand-glass. She had no idea why he wanted 
 it ; all this was an absolutely new experience to 
 her. She watched the doctor with wide-open 
 eyes in which curiosity was the main expression, 
 as he held the glass over Mrs. Meredith's lips. 
 Then he took it away, looked at it, and glanced 
 markedly at Vincent. 
 
 " Are you this lady's son, sir ? " 
 
 " I am going to be her son-in-law," said Dick. 
 " This is her daughter." 
 
 The stranger turned and took the girl by the 
 hand. "My dear young lady," he said, " it is 
 better to tell you the truth at once. We can do 
 nothing more."
 
 3 10 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 A TERRIBLE WEEK. 
 
 WHEN the doctor uttered those words to Cyn- 
 thia Meredith " We can do nothing more " 
 she looked at him with eyes which unmistakably 
 showed that she had not in any way taken in the 
 full meaning of his words. 
 
 " I have never done more than given her a 
 little brandy," she said, looking anxiously at him. 
 
 " You don't understand," he said. " It's no 
 use giving her brandy now. It is too late to do 
 anything." 
 
 " I don't understand you," she said. 
 
 At this moment Dick took the girl's hand. 
 " Dearest," he said, " you don't realize what the 
 doctor wants to tell you. He means that you 
 have only me now ; that we must be everything 
 to each other." 
 
 " You don't mean that my mother is dead ? " 
 
 " She is dead," said the doctor, simply. 
 
 Dick was holding her two hands fast within his 
 own. He expected a terrible outbreak of grief, 
 but Cynthia was absolutely calm. 
 
 " Are you quite sure ? " she said to the doctor, 
 and then looking down at the quiet face of the
 
 A Terrible Week. 3" 
 
 dead, " Are you sure that nothing can be done ? 
 Won't you try to do something ? " 
 
 " There's nothing to be done," he said. 
 " Your mother is dead. She was, of course, sub- 
 ject to these attacks ? " 
 
 " Oh, sometimes. I have known her faint, not 
 very often, but never so long as this. You are 
 quite sure ? " 
 
 " I am quite sure." 
 
 For a few seconds the girl did not speak. She 
 stood looking down on the sofa with a blank face. 
 " You were quite right, Dick," she said, at last, 
 looking up at him. " You said she would kill 
 herself." 
 
 " With what ? " asked the doctor. 
 
 " Oh, she was ill all the way over ; yes, very 
 ill. The doctor on board said she ought not to 
 have come. And then she couldn't rest ; she 
 wanted to see everything ; and the heat was so 
 great ; she was so energetic, so determined to 
 make the most of her time, and nothing we could 
 say made any difference. She utterly fagged her- 
 self out." 
 
 " Ah, it's a pity. Her heart must have been 
 in a state necessitating a very quiet life. I shall, 
 of course, be able to speak more definitely later 
 on. What a pity it is when people take their 
 holidays too hard and make a toil of a pleasure." 
 
 " Well, 1 did my best," said Dick ; " in fact,
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 I was trying to persuade her not to take a very 
 disagreeable and arduous expedition when she 
 was taken ill. However, it's no use to talk of 
 that now ; there must be a great deal to arrange. 
 Cynthia, I am sure that you would be better in 
 bed. I ought to find somebody to stay with you 
 to-night. Miss Meredith," he continued, turn- 
 ing to the doctor, " does not know a soul in the 
 country ; and I not a single lady in New York." 
 
 The doctor did not hesitate for a moment. 
 "Oh, that's easy enough," he said. " I'll fetch 
 my wife here. Come into the next room," he 
 added to Cynthia ; " I should like just to run my 
 eye over you/' 
 
 He drew her into the adjoining room and 
 listened a moment at her heart. 
 
 "Your heart's all right, he said. "I'll bring 
 my wife to you. I think they had better transfer 
 you to a room next to ours, and she will look 
 after you for the night." 
 
 He had closed the door of the room where Mrs. 
 Meredith was lying, and made a sign to Dick to 
 follow him into the corridor. " She will be better 
 when she has had a good burst of crying," he said 
 in an under-tone. " She is a good deal run down. 
 Has she been sight-seeing too ? " 
 
 " Yes, she has until she absolutely rebelled 
 this evening, and refused to do any more." 
 
 " I see. What's her name ? "
 
 A Terrible Week. 3*3 
 
 " Oh, Meredith. Miss Cynthia Meredith. 
 You know that she is engaged to me." 
 
 " I gathered as much. With her mother's con- 
 sent ? " 
 
 " Of course. Oh, yes." 
 
 " Father living ? " 
 
 " No, he isn't. He and I were partners on a 
 ranche together in California. We were on our 
 way to settle up his affairs." 
 
 " Well, my dear sir, it's a pity you didn't get 
 married before you left England. That poor 
 little woman in there has really driven herself to 
 death from what I can gather from a cursory ex- 
 amination. However, I'll go and fetch my wife. 
 By-the-bye, what is your name ? " 
 
 " Vincent Richard Vincent. Thank you a 
 thousand times. I really don't know how to 
 thank you enough. You see, I'm so frightfully 
 stranded, being left like this, and if she breaks 
 down at all, I shan't know what to do with her. 
 It's awfully good of you." 
 
 " Oh, it isn't a bit. My wife will be delighted ; 
 she's the kindest creature living. I dare say she'll 
 be able to do more with her in five minutes than 
 you and I would in a week. And then we must 
 have a talk as to all that will have to be done. 
 You have a very unpleasant week before you." 
 
 " I know it," said Dick. However, I must go 
 through it somehow,"
 
 3H A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 It was but the work of a few minutes for Doctor 
 Sergeantson to go back to his own suite of rooms, 
 acquaint his wife with all that had happened, and 
 enlist her services for the girl who was so sud- 
 denly bereaved of her only living relative. 
 
 Mrs. Sergeantson was a warm-hearted Irish- 
 woman, impulsive, quick, and intensely sym- 
 pathetic. She never attempted to stand upon 
 ceremony, but rushed into Cynthia's room as if 
 she had known her all the days of her life. 
 
 " Oh, me poor child ! me poor dear child ! 
 How can I find words to tell you how grieved and 
 sorry I am for the dreadful trouble that has fallen 
 upon you ! " she cried. 
 
 Cynthia, who was sitting by the open window, 
 staring at nothing, looked round with a half-vacant 
 stare. 
 
 "You are very kind," she said. "I don't 
 think that I quite realize what has happened yet. 
 It's all been so sudden, so " 
 
 " Yes, me poor child, I know perfectly well. 
 You are stunned, poor darling. But you shall 
 not stay here in this room by yourself. Come 
 and stay to-night with me. Come to my suite. 
 You shall share my room to-night, and we'll turn 
 the doctor into the room next door. Come, me 
 poor dear, you can do no good here, and you 
 can't stay here brooding by yourself." 
 
 Some note in the sweet Irish voice or in the
 
 A Terrible Week. 3*5 
 
 touch of the tender hands made Cynthia realize, 
 
 as nothing else had done, the terrible loss which 
 
 -ad befallen her. She caught her breath with a 
 
 ob for the first time since they had called her 
 
 from her bed. 
 
 " Oh, why should you be so kind to me ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " Sure, me dear, because although I never saw 
 you before I've got a heart that can ache for any- 
 one that's in trouble. But you must cheer up. 
 The doctor tells me that you've a fine young man 
 that's going to be your husband, and so you won't 
 be as much alone in the world as if you were left 
 all by yourself. Ah, here's Brincka. She's a 
 good sort is Brincka ; she's a great friend of mine. 
 Come now, Brincka, if I take Miss Meredith off 
 to me rooms, you'll bring all her things, won't 
 you, there's a good girl ? " 
 
 Mrs. Sergeantson well understood the art of 
 getting what she wanted by the soft methods of 
 persuasion. Brincka, who was genuinely sorry 
 for the great blow which had befallen Cynthia, 
 readily promised to transfer all the young lady's 
 belongings to Mrs. Sergeantson's apartments. 
 
 " Now, me dear, you can leave it all to Brincka," 
 cried Mrs. Sergeantson. " She's as clever as day- 
 light, and as kind as they make 'em. Come 
 straight along with me, there's a dear. There's 
 nothing to be gained by staying here, and the
 
 3 l6 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 sooner you lay your weary head on your pillow 
 and get you to sleep, the better." 
 
 " I don't feel as if I should ever sleep again," 
 cried Cynthia. 
 
 They were just about to leave the room when 
 an idea struck Mrs. Sergeantson. She stepped 
 aside and spoke to the Swedish maid, who whis- 
 pered something back in reply. Then she turned 
 back to Cynthia. " Me dear," she said, " you'd 
 like to go and take your last look at the little 
 mother ? She'll not be the same to-morrow per- 
 haps. Go and say good-bye to her now. It 
 will comfort you afterwards, and I'll go with you, 
 and then I'll be the better able to talk to you 
 about her." 
 
 " Yes," said Cynthia, " perhaps it will help me 
 to realize it." 
 
 Mrs. Sergeantson looked into the adjoining 
 room. " There's no one there," she said. 
 " They'll wait until we've cleared out of the 
 road." 
 
 The dead woman was lying upon the couch 
 where she had breathed her last, a light sheet be- 
 ing thrown completely over it. 
 
 " Sure she was a pretty creature," said the Irish 
 woman impulsively, " and you are her living 
 image. Poor dear ! poor dear ! It's sad to see 
 her like this. And yet me husband said she 
 couldn't have suffered a pang."
 
 A Terrible Week. 3 1 ? 
 
 In a moment the floodgates of Cynthia's grief 
 and sorrow were opened. She flung herself down 
 upon the floor by her dead mother's side. The 
 Swedish girl impulsively ran towards her, but the 
 doctor's wiser wife touched her with a warning 
 hand and shook her head. 
 
 " Not a word," she said ; " I have been waiting 
 for this. It had to come sooner or later." 
 
 The Irishwoman was very kind and tender and 
 considerate to the forlorn girl. She encouraged 
 her tears ; she tended and ministered to her ; she 
 took her away to her own cheerful room and 
 waited upon her as her mother had never done. 
 
 So, knowing that she was in good hands, Dick 
 was left free to make all necessary arrangements 
 with Doctor Sergeantson and the authorities. 
 
 At best it was a hideous week which followed. 
 The formalities which are necessitated by sudden 
 death were all got through in due course, and as soon 
 as possible all that was left of Cynthia's mother 
 was laid quietly away to rest in one of the grave- 
 yards of the city to see which she had sacrificed 
 her very life. 
 
 " And now," said Mrs. Sergeantson to Dick, 
 when they were all once more assembled in the 
 doctor's sitting-room, " now what is going to hap- 
 pen?" 
 
 " Mrs. Sergeantson," said Dick, " you can be- 
 lieve that during the past few days I have been
 
 3 l8 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 thinking that question out with my whole heart. 
 Under the circumstances, so unexpected, so tragic, 
 I do not see that we have before us but one 
 course." 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 " That is that Cynthia and I should be married 
 immediately here in New York. I know, dearest," 
 he said, putting out his hand to her, " that this is 
 sudden, but we have been in circumstances which 
 leave us little or no choice. We both thought to 
 wait a few months and to go back and be married 
 in England in the midst of our relations, but here 
 we are, several thousand miles away from anybody 
 belonging to us, alone with each other, alone sav- 
 ing for the doctor and his kind wife, as alone as if 
 we were on a desert island. Now, having come 
 so far, it would be ridiculous to go back without 
 completing the business for which we came across 
 the Atlantic. I hold your father's will ; I also 
 hold your mother's will, made just before she left 
 England. You have seen my mother and my 
 people ; you know that you will be absolutely 
 welcome to them whether you go back as 
 Cynthia Meredith or as my wife. It will simplify 
 everything if we are married now. We can then 
 go to Santa Clara without any difficulty. We can 
 wind up your father's estate, we can arrange what 
 shall become of the ranche, and then go back to 
 England to take up our life together in the home
 
 A Terrible Week. 3*9 
 
 which would have been yours in any case after a 
 
 few months. What do you say, Mrs. Sergeant- 
 
 ? 
 
 " Sure, I think it is the very best plan that 
 could possibly be," said the doctor's wife. 
 
 " You have no fear that your mother ? " 
 
 began Cynthia. 
 
 "My dear, I have no fear of anybody," he ' 
 replied. " You know perfectly well that my 
 mother was delighted when we announced our en- 
 gagement to her; she was delighted. To her you 
 are the ideal daughter-in-law. I suppose," he 
 said, turning to the doctor, " that there will be no 
 great difficulty in arranging for a marriage to take 
 place as soon as possible ? " 
 
 " Oh, there are a few formalities to go through, 
 of course the .same as in any country ; they are, 
 if anything, fewer here than at home. Anyway, 
 the wife and I will be delighted to keep Miss 
 Cynthia with us." 
 
 " Don't call me Miss Cynthia," Cynthia broke 
 in, pathetically eager to show how she appreciated 
 the kindness which had been lavished upon her. 
 
 " Well, I won't. I don't feel, although we 
 have only known you a few days, I don't feel like 
 a stranger to you. We shall be delighted, Vin- 
 cent, to keep Cynthia with us until she is safely 
 your wife. I think you are perfectly wise, and 
 everybody concerned that is to say your mother
 
 320 
 
 Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 and your sisters ; nobody else will matter will 
 certainly agree that you had no other course open 
 to you. Then you can go along on your journey, 
 get through your business in your own time, and 
 stay a few days with us on your way back." 
 
 " And then," said Dick Vincent, holding out 
 his hand, " our greatest desire will be that you 
 and Mrs. Sergeantson should come and stay with 
 us at Hollingridge."
 
 Dick's Way. 3" 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 DICK'S WAY. 
 
 IT is an easy thing to get married. All the 
 great epochs of life, those about which we are ac- 
 customed to make the most fuss, may be accom- 
 plished without any fuss at all. How easily some 
 people die ! Quietly, unobtrusively, like guests 
 who wish to slip away without spoiling a party, 
 some people lay down the armor of life and slip 
 so gently away out of our midst that we hardly 
 miss them until they are actually gone. So in 
 spite of the fuss that is usually made about wed- 
 dings, it is quite possible and easy to be married 
 without any fuss at all ; and with the help of the 
 doctor, who had proved himself such a good 
 friend to Dick and Cynthia, the two were married 
 in the Church of the Strangers at New York one 
 day early in November. 
 
 Any feeling that Cynthia might have had of 
 being married in a corner, of having in a sense 
 run away to be married, was quite dispelled by a 
 cable from her future mother-in-law, to whom 
 Dick had at once cabled the news of Mrs. Mere- 
 dith's death and his intention of marrying Cyn- 
 21
 
 322 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 thia without delay. " Deeply grieved," it said. 
 " Fully approve." So it was with what you 
 might call the skeleton of a maternal blessing that 
 the two went, accompanied by the doctor and his 
 wife, to the Church of the Strangers, and were 
 made one ; and when they had celebrated the 
 event by a quiet little feast together, they set off 
 on their long journey towards Santa Clara. 
 
 It was not until then that Dick Vincent per- 
 mitted himself to breathe freely. It is difficult 
 to explain his feelings at this time. His first 
 sensation, when he realized that Mrs. Meredith 
 was dead, had been one of actual horror ; his next 
 of care for Cynthia ; and this had been speedily 
 followed by a feeling, which would not be shaken 
 off or got rid of, that he had been mercifully de- 
 livered out of a terrible situation ; that he had 
 been spared a near chance of losing the only 
 girl he had ever loved the girl who loved him 
 with all her heart and soul. He knew that if 
 Mrs. Meredith had ever accomplished her wish 
 and got to Midas Creek, she would inevitably 
 have discovered everything ; she had been so 
 plainly and unmistakably on the right track. 
 And he knew, although no real blame could be 
 imputed to him even by her, that all chance of 
 happiness for him would have been at an end 
 for ever. 
 
 Cynthia, after the first few days, had recovered
 
 Dick's Way. 3 2 3 
 
 wonderfully from the awful shock of her mother's 
 death. It is so much easier to get over a loss 
 when one is in the midst of strange scenes, when 
 one's life is full, and one's heart has an occupant 
 which for the time is sufficiently enthralling to push 
 every other interest to one side. So, by the time 
 they started on the first stage of their journey 
 which would eventually bring them to Santa Clara, 
 Dick was feeling that at last he could allow him- 
 self to be utterly happy. And Cynthia well, 
 with Cynthia happiness took the form of breath- 
 less gratitude to think that Dick, so handsome, 
 young, well-born, straight and clean and whole- 
 some, should have fixed his affections upon her. 
 It was extraordinary. Of course, she gave the 
 credit of it all to that mysterious fetish which we 
 call Providence. " And the best of it is," she 
 said to him, as they waved a last adieu to the 
 doctor and his wife, " you would have cared for 
 me just the same if I hadn't had a penny to my 
 fortune." 
 
 " Perhaps even a little more," corrected Dick. 
 
 "Well, you might. But I don't altogether 
 believe in that ; at least, I don't like to think that 
 under any circumstances you could have liked 
 me better.'* 
 
 " You are quite right, child ; I couldn't. Only 
 ' like ' is such a wishy-washy word for what I feel 
 for you,"
 
 3 2 4 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 Well, they spent a couple of weeks dawdling 
 along the road to that part of California in which 
 Santa Clara was situated, and at last they arrived 
 at the mansion which Dick had painted in such 
 unpromising colors to his fiancee's mother. 
 
 Cynthia was openly, frankly, childishly disap- 
 pointed. " Is that the place ? " she asked. " Not 
 those sheds ? " 
 
 Dick laughed. " Yes, that is the mansion." 
 
 " But, Dick, there must be a house some- 
 where." 
 
 " That is the house." 
 
 " Oh ! " Her tone was redolent of the inten- 
 sest disappointment. " Oh, what would poor 
 mother have thought of it ? " she exclaimed. 
 
 " I told her what to expect." 
 
 " Yes, dear yes. But you never gave such a 
 picture of Oh, well, I don't know how to put 
 it, but it's like a cattle shed. I expected to see a 
 long, low, white house with a piazza, and ham- 
 mocks, and easy-chairs, and lots of plants and 
 flowers, and all that sort of thing. It's a sort of 
 lean-to without another side to it. Dick, how 
 could you stay here for seven years?" 
 
 Dick Vincent laughed. " Well, you know, 
 dearest, I didn't care tuppence about the pretti- 
 ness of the place or perhaps I should rather say 
 the nonprettiness of the place. I had set my 
 teeth into it, and I intended to make it pay. It's
 
 Dick's Way. 
 
 all very well if you can buy a fancy ranche in a 
 picked quarter, then life on a ranche may be very 
 nice ; but here, where you have to start from the 
 beginning, where you never see a decent soul from 
 year's end to year's end, only those that are playing 
 the same game as yourself, some succeeding and 
 some making the most hideous failures, there is 
 something very grim and extremely unpleasant 
 about the whole thing. But mind you, we made 
 it pay before we struck that oil well." 
 
 " 1 am sure you did," said Cynthia, with an 
 adoring glance at him. " But what pluck you 
 must have had ! You had dear Hollingridge 
 with all its beauty ever in your mind ; you knew 
 it would be yours one day, even though you 
 didn't like to think about it. How could you 
 put up with this ? " 
 
 Oh, well, one gets used to things. After all, 
 one only lives one day at a time." 
 
 " Do you get used to things ? " said Cynthia. 
 " I don't believe it. Do you know, Dick, I 
 never got used to being a teacher in a village 
 school ? You might say, ( Oh, that's nonsense ! 
 Her mother was always poor ; she had known 
 nothing better. She was not like a person who 
 lost a big position within her memory.' I don't 
 believe it makes a bit of difference ; if you are 
 not congenial to the life you are in, you never get 
 used to it. There only comes a time when you
 
 326 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 don't mind it. If I had gone on till I was ninety 
 teaching those wretched little stupid children, I 
 should always have hated it just the same." 
 
 " Yes, yes. Because you were utterly out of your 
 natural sphere ; that is understandable enough. 
 But in a case like this, where you. are working for 
 an end I had two ends to work for, for I wanted 
 to buck my lungs up and I wanted to make the 
 show pay one puts up with things, discomforts, 
 all the rest of it, as a means to an end. But, 
 dearest, we'll not stay here a day longer than is 
 necessary to wind up affairs. It will be compar- 
 atively easy, but it will take some weeks. Do 
 you think you can be happy here till we are 
 through ? " 
 
 " Oh, Dick, I can be happy anywhere where 
 you are. Why, I shouldn't mind living here alto- 
 gether, so long as I had you. It isn't what I 
 expected, no. I suppose hardly any strange place 
 is quite what one expects ; I have never seen one 
 yet that was." 
 
 But with all her cheerfulness and all her love 
 Cynthia did not in the smallest degree take any 
 different view of Santa Clara. " Poor mother ! " 
 she said, over and over again, " how disappointed 
 she would have been. It's almost as well, Dick, 
 that she didn't live to come here. She would 
 have hated it all. Even if my father had lived 
 she would never have been happy here. She 

 
 Dick's Way. 3*7 
 
 loved prettiness, daintiness, comfort and conveni- 
 ence -just as she loved flowers and the sunshine. 
 Hers was a most luxurious nature, although, poor 
 dear, she had to do without luxury all the best 
 years of her life. 
 
 " If your father had lived," said Dick, " it 
 would have been by no means a sine qua non 
 that your mother should make Santa Clara her 
 permanent home. You forget that he would have 
 been able to live in any part of the world that he 
 liked, just as you and I are going to do. For my 
 part, and with all my heart, child, I wish that 
 they had both lived to come together again. It 
 was equally hard on the man who had toiled for 
 years and years, trying this scheme and that, tak- 
 ing first this road and then the other, to have 
 everything go wrong just when he had grasped 
 the prize. Life is very hard for some people ; I 
 think of it every day ; and it was harder, perhaps, 
 for the woman who had waited all the best years 
 of her life, only to find too late that the man she 
 loved had been faithful to her and had loved her 
 to the very end. I feel, child, as if I must try to 
 make you happier than the ordinary run of wo- 
 men ; as if I should in a way so make up to your 
 mother for the happiness that she missed. But 
 we will go home, dearest. I don't feel, now that 
 1 have come back again, like holding on to any 
 responsibilities in this country. I'd rather realize
 
 328 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 everything and go home, and live our own mod- 
 est, contented life at Hollingridge. There is no 
 especial happiness in great wealth ; one's first feel- 
 ing is Well, here's an oil well worth ten thou- 
 sand a year. If we know ten thousand is com- 
 ing in we shall insensibly creep up in our expen- 
 diture, enlarge our ideas, and then if anything 
 were to happen I mean if the blessed well were 
 to dry up we should have to cut down every- 
 thing, which would be horrid. But if we realize 
 it all now we can invest our money in good Eng- 
 lish securities, and we can regulate our expendi- 
 ture accordingly. What do you think ? " 
 
 In truth Cynthia was so disappointed with 
 Santa Clara and all connected with it, that she 
 was ready to agree to anything that seemed good 
 to her husband, and Dick therefore regarded the 
 eventful disposal of the ranche as a settled thing 
 and only a question of time. But neither in Amer- 
 ica nor in any other country wherein laws exist 
 and take effect can the wills of two persons be 
 duly arranged for and carried out without a cer- 
 tain amount of delay. Christmas had come and 
 gone before Dick Vincent was in a position to 
 begin negotiations for the disposal of the ranche. 
 Cynthia was terribly disappointed that they were 
 not able to spend Christmas at Hollingridge. 
 
 "If you knew," she said, in one letter to her 
 mother-in-law, " what an isolated life I have
 
 Dick's Way. 3^9 
 
 lived, I who have not one relation in the world, 
 you would understand how I yearn to be with you 
 at this time. But this tiresome old ranche is 
 still on our hands ; not that it is likely to stay on 
 our hands, for oil wells always fetch their price, 
 but it has not changed owners yet, because Dick 
 could not, although he pushed the lawyers as hard 
 as he could, get affairs settled so as to be able to 
 set about selling Santa Clara." 
 
 " Dear little thing," said Mrs. Vincent to 
 Laura, " she didn't in the least want to go out 
 there. It was her mother's insistence that carried 
 that point. Dick hated their going. How much 
 better it would have been if they had stayed 
 quietly here with us, or divided their time 
 between us and Brighton, and let Dick go and 
 arrange everything. I hate women who want to 
 go and poke their noses into everything." 
 
 " Well, she got married," remarked Laura. 
 
 " Yes, she got married, that's true but what 
 is that ? She missed all the wedding presents." 
 
 " Oh, I don't suppose the wedding presents 
 would have counted for much, as she hasn't a 
 relation in the world. And we shall all give them 
 wedding presents just the same," Laura cried. 
 
 " Ah, yes, that is so ; yes, that is so. Well, 
 my dear, I don't like to say anything unkind, and 
 it isn't nice to speak ill of the dead, but really I 
 think Dick won't be any the less happy because
 
 33 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 his wife's mother chose to have her own way in 
 this instance." 
 
 "If Dick isn't happy with that sweet little 
 wife," said Laura, " then he deserves to be un- 
 happy." 
 
 " And if anybody," said Mrs. Vincent in quite 
 a severe tone, " deserves to be happy throughout 
 the rest of his life, it is my dear Dick. No, 
 Laura, I am not partial. I always feel with re- 
 gard to you children that I am not partial. Dick's 
 as good as gold and as straight as a die." 
 
 " I wasn't saying anything against Dick, 
 mother," said Laura with a smile.
 
 Disillusionized. 33 l 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 DISILLUSIONIZED. 
 
 THE sojourn of Dick Vincent and his wife at 
 the ranche of Santa Clara was but another render- 
 ing of the old saying, " All things come to him 
 who can afford to wait." In time even the most 
 intricate legal matters will arrange themselves, and 
 when they are clearly, concisely and simply laid 
 down in black and white in the shape of a will, 
 the time of waiting is not very long. It seemed long 
 to Cynthia because she yearned for the dignity and 
 comfort of an English home. To Dick the time 
 seemed positively to fly. He was so happy, so ab- 
 solutely satisfied and content with the wife that he 
 had chosen, that he did not really care whether they 
 stayed at Santa Clara a few months more or less. 
 He had remembered to take up from New York 
 a box of odds and ends of things which would, he 
 felt, transform the place into something more like 
 the semblance of a hom^ than he had left it. He 
 had written to his manager, Jack Frogg, to see if 
 he could not get up certain articles of furniture 
 from the next town, and among them was a little 
 piano, which had once belonged to a young
 
 33 2 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 English bride, who had gone out full of hope and 
 joy and had not survived the ennui and misery 
 of life on an isolated ranche until the anniversary 
 of her wedding day came round again. When all 
 these extras had been arranged and put in their 
 places, the " mansion," as he always called the 
 house on the ranche, represented to him as good 
 a home as anybody in California need desire. But 
 Cynthia, although she was more sweet and more 
 companionable and delightful than even his fond- 
 est dreams had imagined her to be, never for one 
 moment accepted Santa Clara as anything but a 
 temporary abiding place. 
 
 " No, dear," she said one day, when Dick pro- 
 t posed to buy in some more furniture from a neigh- 
 boring sale, " it isn't worth while. What we have 
 will do for us very well as long as we are here. 
 What is the good of burdening ourselves with a 
 single chair more when we have got Hollingridge 
 waiting for us at home ? " 
 
 " One would think," said Dick, putting his arm 
 round her and looking fondly down upon her, 
 "that Hollingridge was your childhood's home, 
 not mine." 
 
 " Ah, it's women who \ alue houses and homes," 
 said she, wisely. " 1 doa't suppose your father 
 cared half as much for Hollingridge as your 
 mother did ; and 1 am sure yes sure, Dick 
 that you don't think a quarter as much of it as I
 
 Disillusionized. 333 
 
 do. This is all so much waste time. How soon 
 do you think you shall be able to start ? " 
 
 " Well, if all goes on all right, we shall be able 
 start towards the end of the month. But you 
 would like to see San Francisco, wouldn't you ? " 
 
 " San Francisco ? Oh, no, Dick. When we 
 have thoroughly satiated ourselves with Holling- 
 ridge, with little spells of London in between, 
 we'll go to Rome and to Munich. I have a great 
 desire to see Munich ; and I would like to see 
 Dresden very much. But San Francisco no. I 
 dare say it is very beautiful ; I think I have always 
 heard so the * Golden Gate,' isn't it ? But I 
 don't think we'll stop any longer out here just for 
 San Francisco. You have seen it, of course ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I have been there several times." 
 " Then you don't want to see it again ? " 
 
 " Only for your sake." 
 
 " Ah, then for my sake we will go home. We 
 will go home and make much of Hollingridge. 
 But Dick, you didn't tell me that you had sold 
 the ranche." 
 
 " 1 have not ; but those fellows who were here 
 yesterday told me that they would let me have an 
 answer to-morrow without fail, and if they give 
 my price we shall have nothing to grumble about 
 when we go off homewards." 
 
 " Are they going to take it as it stands ? " 
 
 " Yes, they don't care to have a lot of strangers
 
 334 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 about. You see, they may strike oil somewhere 
 else ; where there is one oil well, there are very 
 often two, even three ; and it is a fine thing to 
 keep your neighborhood fairly clear. They are 
 going to use the house for the manager to live in ; 
 and as for the vines and all that sort of thing, 
 they'll let all that slide. To-morrow we shall 
 know ; to-day, dearest, come out with me and let 
 us go along towards the Lee Morrisons'. Mrs. 
 Lee Morrison would like to see you, I know ; 
 and you haven't been there for a month." 
 
 " That is unkind of me," said Cynthia, " be- 
 cause Mrs. Lee Morrison has been very nice to 
 me since I have been out here. Dick, I'd like to 
 make her a present before I go back. She was 
 good to you, wasn't she ? " 
 
 " Very good. She nursed me in the last go of 
 fever I had." 
 
 " Did she ? You never told me that. Do you 
 think, Dick, we could afford to give her the 
 piano ? " 
 
 " We can afford anything that you like in 
 reason." 
 
 " Is the piano in reason, Dick ? I know I 
 happen to know, it would be a great treat to that 
 little woman. She plays exquisitely, and Lee 
 Morrison has had such a hard fight with his ranche 
 that he has never been able to afford even to hire 
 one for her."
 
 Disillusionized. 335 
 
 " Cynthia, dearest, how good and thoughtful 
 and kind-hearted you are. Nobody but you 
 would have thought of giving the little woman so 
 much pleasure. We'll go and see her this after- 
 noon, and then you can tell her your idea." 
 
 " Oh, no," cried Cynthia. " I'll send it over 
 in a cart and let it be a surprise. Why, it's half 
 the beauty of giving it to send it as a surprise," 
 she laughed. "But I'll go over with you. Dear 
 little woman ! I hope she doesn't think that I 
 have neglected her." 
 
 " Oh," said Dick, easily, "she knows you have 
 plenty to do. Don't worry about that. People 
 out here don't spy into one's motives and count 
 visits, as they do over in the old country. Child, 
 if you have not been able to keep up with your 
 callers here, what the dickens will you do when 
 you get to Hollingridge." 
 
 " It will be different at Hollingridge." 
 
 " Will it ? I believe that my mother had sixty- 
 three families on her visiting list ; I gathered as 
 much the last time I heard the subject mentioned. 
 You have to call on each so many times a year ; 
 you have to call after every dinner party and every 
 function, and they have to do as much for you. 
 You will have to play the Lady Bountiful to the 
 entire village ; to go down and hear the kids read in 
 the school you know the kind of thing t John 
 was a good little boy.' You'll have to give
 
 336 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 away prizes ; you'll have to give a cup for the 
 Agricultural Show, and very likely you'll have to 
 present the awards. You'll have to go along do- 
 ing the civil and the gracious until your soul is 
 sick within you." 
 
 " I'll do it," said she, confidently. " Oh, I'll 
 do it." 
 
 " Now my mother," he went on, " had a cer- 
 tain genius for that kind of thing. I went out 
 with her one afternoon just before I came down 
 to Blankhampton, and she took me what she was 
 pleased to call * a round of visits.' A round of 
 visits ! Seventeen houses did we go to, and she 
 timed every one of them so that there wasn't a 
 soul at home. When we got to the last one, she 
 was getting to feel peckish ; so she was very 
 pleased to go in like a dignified Gulf Stream and 
 talk about nothing for twenty minutes. She told 
 me as we drove up the avenue that there was a 
 pretty daughter there. She wasn't my idea of 
 prettiness." 
 
 " But you hadn't seen me then." 
 
 " No, I hadn't seen you, child. And yet, I 
 think I must have done somewhere in my dreams, 
 or in some other incarnation, because when I first 
 saw you that morning in St. Thomas's Street, I 
 knew, somehow or other, that you were the other 
 half of my soul, and everything that I had ever 
 admired or wanted from the beginning of time."
 
 Disillusionized. 337 
 
 Within a week from that time Dick had brought 
 the negotiations for the sale of the ranche to a 
 conclusion, and the time when they would be able 
 to leave California forever came within measurable 
 distance. Cynthia went to and fro as gayly as 
 any bird, with always a snatch of a song on her 
 lips and such unfeigned satisfaction about her 
 whole mien that Dick was constrained to laugh at 
 her every time that they met. 
 
 " I believe," he said to her one morning, when 
 she was gaily planning out the programme for 
 their return journey, " I believe you hate Cali- 
 fornia." 
 
 " Oh, I do," she exclaimed ; " I do. It's so 
 unlike everything that I had pictured. I have 
 no doubt the air is lovely, dear, I don't deny it 
 for a moment but air isn't quite everything. 
 How you could exist here for seven long weary 
 years I can't think. But of course you knew it 
 was only for a time ; it wasn't your life, it was only 
 a kind of slice out of it. Of course, I owe Cali- 
 fornia one debt," she said ; " it gave you to me." 
 
 " Yes, we shall of course owe it that debt," said 
 Dick. 
 
 " Yes. It not only gave you to me, Dick, it 
 preserved you for me. No, I don't mean your 
 chest ; I don't believe there was ever anything 
 much the matter with that ; but if you had gone 
 
 on in England, you certainly would have been 
 22
 
 33 8 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 married long before I had the chance of meeting 
 you." 
 
 " Not at all. I don't believe I should ever 
 have married." 
 
 " Ah, that is as may be. Anyway, here we 
 are, man and wife, and we must make the best of 
 each other." 
 
 She uttered the words with an air of offering a 
 challenge, and Dick, who was still desperately in 
 love, caught her in his arms and merged the hus- 
 band in the lover instantly. 
 
 " Oh, child, child," he cried, " do you think 
 you will always make the best of me ? " 
 
 " Well, I'll try," she replied, coquettishly, 
 " I'll try. It will be hard, but I'll do my best." 
 
 Dick still held her tight clasped to his breast. 
 " You promise me that you will ? " 
 
 " Dick," she said, reproachfully, " haven't you 
 any faith in me ? Haven't I promised you the 
 same thing over and over again ? One would 
 think that there was some sort of Damocles' 
 sword hanging over your head ; that some bogey 
 man might come round the corner and wrest me 
 away from you, whether I would or not. I dare 
 say we shall have a few rubs in our married life ; 
 other people all seem to have them. What have 
 you in your mind ? Nothing, I hope, that I 
 have said or looked or done ? " 
 
 " Nothing," he said, " except that J have not
 
 Disillusionized. 339 
 
 yet got used to the fact that you are mine. I 
 always feel that something or somebody might 
 come in and tear you away from me." 
 
 " Make your mind quite easy on that score, 
 dear Dick," said she. " All the world isn't going 
 to run after me because you happen to be in love 
 with me. Don't forget although, mind you, I 
 think it is very bad policy on my part to cheapen 
 myself to you but don't forget that I lived to 
 be eighteen years old and never had a lover until 
 you came along." 
 
 "Not one?" 
 
 " Well, no, not a real one. There were one or 
 two young men who cast sheep's eyes at me, but 
 somehow it never went any further than that. I 
 used," she went on, " sometimes in the bright 
 summer evenings, when I saw ^all the girls in 
 Gatehouses with their young men dangling after 
 them you know how life runs in a little place 
 like that, a little tennis, a little boating, a little 
 dancing, and then there's an engagement and a 
 lot of wedding presents and another couple started 
 I used to wonder whether I should ever be 
 like one of those girls and have a man to order 
 about, to be at my beck and call, to carry my 
 tennis racket and my tennis shoes, and generally 
 make himself useful, to bring me flowers, and you 
 know, Dick, all the rest of it. And then " 
 
 "Well?"
 
 340 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " I used to shake my head and say, f No, Cyn- 
 thia Meredith, you are most unfortunately placed. 
 You are like Mahomet's coffin, hanging midway 
 between earth and heaven. You are not one of 
 those lucky girls up there with a nice villa and a 
 tennis ground, an ample allowance, and a mother 
 who could give dinner parties and all the rest of 
 it, and yet you are not the ordinary stuffof which 
 village schoolmistresses are made. The young 
 men of the tennis grounds will never want to marry 
 you, and you will never want to marry the young 
 man who would be willing to marry the school- 
 mistress ; and so you must look on all your life 
 and make believe that the onlooker who sees 
 most of the game has the best time." 
 
 " And yet when the young man came along 
 who was willing to marry the schoolmistress," 
 said Dick, " you found yourself quite willing to 
 marry him." 
 
 " It's very wonderful, Dick, isn't it? Some- 
 times," she went on, "I find myself thinking 
 about the circumstances of our marriage. There 
 seemed to be a sort of fate about it. Did it ever 
 strike you, Dick ? " 
 
 " Yes, many times." 
 
 " So strange that mother should have insisted 
 on coming out here. Do you know, Dick, I can 
 tell you now what I never liked to tell you be- 
 fore."
 
 Disillusionized. 34* 
 
 " What's that ? " he asked. 
 
 " Well, poor mother, just at last you know sh 
 got the most extraordinary idea about you." 
 
 " Your mother did ? " 
 
 " Yes. She fancied you had some special rea- 
 son for not wanting her to see my father's grave." 
 
 " I had." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 " Well, I hardly know how to put it. I could 
 not see that any good could come of such a pil- 
 grimage, and in that rough place there might 
 have come harm." 
 
 " I thought that too, then," said Cynthia 
 simply ; " but sometimes, Dick, if I happen to 
 be awake at night, as I am now and again, 1 get 
 thinking, and 1 wonder whether I ought not to 
 look upon her great wish as a sacred trust, and to 
 go to Midas Creek in her place."
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 VALENTINE CLEGG. 
 
 AT last the day of departure had come. Santa 
 Clara no longer belonged to Dick and Cynthia. 
 The purchase money, an enormous sum, had been 
 duly arranged for, and Cynthia Vincent, her boxes 
 already stowed in the wagon which would carry 
 them down to Freeman's Rock, was taking a last 
 farewell of the house which had been her husband's 
 home for seven years. 
 
 " Good-bye, old house," she cried, " good-bye, 
 dreary view, good-bye everything and everybody. 
 Mr. Frogg, you have been very nice to me since 
 I have been here. I wish you were coming home 
 to England." 
 
 At this the manager laughed. " No, Mrs. 
 Vincent, there's no room for me in England," he 
 replied. 
 
 " I don't believe in that. For my part, I'd 
 rather live in a cottage in England than in the 
 grandest palace that ever was built in San Fran- 
 cisco." 
 
 " But you haven't seen San Francisco." 
 
 " No, but I have seen Santa Clara and the 
 surrounding neighborhood, and I had a glimpse
 
 Valentine Clegg. 343 
 
 of Freeman's Rock as I came through. Now, if 
 you come to England, be sure you come and see 
 me," 
 
 " Thank you a thousand times." 
 
 " Meantime I wish you all the luck in the 
 world, but I wish you weren't going to have it 
 here." 
 
 " Don't set him against the palace, Cynthia," 
 and Dick. 
 
 " No, no. I could have no influence over Mr. 
 Frogg, not in that way. He's a hard person that 
 likes a barren land. And I'm going home to 
 dear England to lovely Hollingridge, all green 
 and cool and beautiful. And, oh, I am so happy. 
 I feel like a child going home after the longest 
 term that any child ever stayed at a boarding 
 school an uncomfortable boarding school." 
 
 " Have you been so very miserable with us, 
 Mrs. Vincent ? " 
 
 " I haven't been miserable at all. How could 
 I ? But all the same, it's been an exile, and I'll 
 not pretend anything else." 
 
 " If you don't stop chattering and get in," said 
 Dick Vincent, " there'll be no going to old Eng- 
 land or anywhere else." 
 
 " I stand rebuked," cried Cynthia, gaily. 
 " Well, good-bye, Mr. Frogg, good-bye. Be 
 sure to come and see us if you ever find yourself 
 in the old country again."
 
 344 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 The little woman to whom she had given the 
 piano was waiting a little way down the dreary 
 road in order to wish her a last God-speed. " I 
 shall miss you," she said, rather wretchedly, " in 
 spite of the great pleasure that you have brought 
 into my life." 
 
 "Oh, the piano?" cried Cynthia. "Think 
 of me when you play it, and keep a corner in 
 your hearts for us. Good luck be with you. 
 Good-bye ! " 
 
 " There ! " she said to Dick, as they rattled 
 along, " we're off at last. We will never go back, 
 Dick." 
 
 " No," echoed Dick, " we'll never go back. 
 Take care of your arm, child ; take care of your 
 arm." 
 
 Oh, she was so gay as they rattled along. In 
 her heart there was one song of thankfulness 
 which kept rising to her lips in snatches 
 
 " We're going home ! We're going home ! " 
 
 How like and yet how wide apart were the 
 thoughts of the husband and wife as they jolted 
 along the uneven road. Cynl'iia was openly and 
 childishly glad at being about to turn her back on 
 California ; Dick was equally well satisfied to do 
 so, though for a very different reason. In truth 
 to him the time they had paased at Santa Clara 
 had seemed interminable ; every day he had got 
 out of his bed with a feeling that before he got
 
 Valentine Clegg. 345 
 
 into it again some accident might have revealed 
 the fact which he was so anxiously concealing 
 from his wife. Once clear of the country and 
 settled at Hollingridge, he knew that he need 
 have no fear of any such accident befalling him. 
 He was not likely in that quiet, far-off country 
 home ever to meet again with any one of the per- 
 sons who had been witnesses of that terrible trag- 
 edy, the tragedy which still weighed upon his 
 mind with a sense of unmitigated horror. They 
 had got now to within a few hours of what to him 
 meant safety. Or, stay ; that was not exactly 
 the term which he used to himself what to him 
 meant peace of mind which was not likely ever to 
 be broken. He could not help thinking, as they 
 rode along, how wonderfully everything had 
 worked together to help him to conceal the un- 
 palatable truth. How determined that little wo- 
 man had been that she would sift the whole affair 
 to the bottom. How suspicious she had been 
 how determined how ruthless in her unquench- 
 able desire to have always absolutely her own 
 way. And her own way had practically killed 
 her. Well, so far as happiness was concerned, 
 Dick knew perfectly well that he would not suf- 
 fer in that respect by the death of his wife's 
 mother. And Cynthia, dear, -tender-hearted little 
 girl that she was, had been smitten by a qualm of 
 conscience. She had taken into her dear little
 
 346 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 head that perhaps she ought, as a duty, to go to 
 Midas Creek as a substitute for her mother. 
 Well, he he had nipped that in the bud at once. 
 
 " I could not convince your mother that it was 
 wiser she did not go near the place where your 
 father died," he said to her. " Don't you think, 
 dearest, that if your mother had been intended 
 to go there she would have been spared to do so ? " 
 
 " I never thought of that," was Cynthia's re- 
 ply ; " and, of course, dear Dick, if you would 
 rather that I didn't go, I'll never give it another 
 thought again." 
 
 " I would much rather you did not go," he 
 said. " I never like to think that my greatest 
 friend, whom I trusted and loved all the seven 
 years that we lived together, came by his end in 
 such a horrible way. I like to remember him as 
 we were together at Santa Clara : when he was so 
 easy, so considerate, so kindly to everybody. I 
 tell you candidly, Cynthia, that I know exactly 
 what I should hear if we went to Midas Creek, 
 and I shrink from hearing it. He is dead : his 
 hour had come ; nothing that we can do would 
 bring him back to life again, so pray don't let us 
 do anything. We must pass through Midas 
 Creek, because we get on to the cars there but 
 don't let us stop. I hate to think of the place as 
 asaociated with him." 
 
 And she had instantly fallen in with his ideas,
 
 Valentine Clegg. 347 
 
 declaring that she believed him to be perfctly 
 right, and that for her part she hated these wild, 
 out-of-the-way savage places, and never wanted to 
 find herself in any one of them. "It was only an 
 idea, Dick," she said, " a foolish idea, but you 
 know I have been through a great deal lately, and 
 I get ideas in my head at times." 
 
 " Well, don't get any more ideas on that sub- 
 ject, dearest," he said, " it can do no good. You 
 might fret yourself to fiddle-strings feeling that if 
 you had only persuaded your mother to be quiet, 
 or to do other than she did, she might still be 
 with us. That would be all very well if we could 
 look forward as we can look backward. If I had 
 known that your father would get drinking again 
 the moment that my influence was taken away 
 from him, I would never have left him at all ; I 
 wouldn't have come home." 
 
 " Oh, but you couldn't go through life as his 
 jailer." 
 
 " Well, to all intents and purposes I was his 
 jailer." 
 
 For a moment she sat looking up at him. 
 " Dick," she said, " I don't like to think about 
 my father. I wish he had lived for mother's 
 sake. Do you think that I will ever go the same 
 way that he did ? " 
 
 " Oh, my dear delicious little person, no ; cer- 
 tainly not. What a ludicrous idea ! Put such a
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. , 
 
 notion out of yout dear little head this moment. 
 You mustn't think too much of his having been 
 a drinker; he was nobody's enemy so much as 
 his own. You must take the circumstances of 
 his life into consideration ; his temptations his 
 careless, gay, easy-going, good-natured bonhom- 
 mie. He was a dear good fellow all through, but 
 for this one little weakness well, I am afraid I 
 must say this one great weakness and he was a 
 good sort a good friend." 
 
 " He was a very bad husband," said Cynthia, 
 half resentfully. 
 
 " Well, yes ; he was a bad husband." And 
 then a memory came back to Dick of a steel hand 
 in a velvet glove, and he knew, beyond all cer- 
 tainty of doubt, that had he been the husband of 
 Cynthia's mother he would probably have acted 
 very much as Cynthia's father had done. 
 
 He thought over this conversation as they rode 
 along. 
 
 " You look quite moody, Dick," said Cynthia, 
 turning her radiant eyes upon him. 
 
 " Moody ? I never felt less moody in my 
 life," he declared. " I was thinking, that was all. 
 You know, child, a 'man cannot put seven years 
 of his life behind him without a certain feeling of 
 sadness at least, I can't." 
 
 " But you are putting them behind you for 
 me."
 
 Valentine Clegg. 349 
 
 " I wasn't regretting you," he said. " Pray 
 don't get such a thought as that in your mind." 
 
 I need not go into all the details of the long 
 and weary drive down to Freeman's Rock. " I 
 am so tired, Dick," said Cynthia, as at last they 
 came to the first straggling huts of the little town. 
 " I do like civilization, Dick ; this kind of life 
 would not have suited me at all. I think I 
 should have gone mad if I had had to live here." 
 
 " Ah, well, you would have got used to it. 
 Thank heaven you needn't ; and that you will 
 always be able to afford a carriage and pair and a 
 Pullman car." 
 
 " Yes, the cars are all right, but, oh, Dick, I 
 don't like being off the beaten track." 
 
 She clutched at his arm nervously as they drew 
 up at the door of the hotel. 
 
 " There's nothing to be frightened of," he said, 
 soothingly. " Don't let yourself get full of fan- 
 cies. You are nervous and unstrung ; you are 
 tired out. We'll get some dinner, such as it is, 
 and we'll be off to bed in good time. Remember 
 the coach starts very early in the morning." 
 
 She was even more nervous as they approached 
 Midas Creek. 
 
 " I feel as if I were going to see ghosts," she 
 said, shiveringly, to him. 
 
 " Nonsense ! nonsense ! You will see nothing 
 to upset you, child. It is a shade better than
 
 35 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 Freeman's Rock, and it isn't as if we had to stop 
 there." 
 
 " We get straight on to the cars, don't we ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, child. We are just in time. We 
 shall have something like twenty minutes to spare. 
 You will get something like a decent dinner on 
 the cars ; and mind, we haven't had that since we 
 got off them three months ago." 
 
 It was very strange, but the girl was possessed 
 of a curious shrinking feeling that everybody in 
 Midas Creek must recognize her as the daughter 
 of the man who had a few months before been 
 turned into the likeness of a wild beast. Her 
 nervousness was sufficient, naturally enough, to 
 give Dick courage. In soothing her fears he for- 
 got how intensely he had dreaded this momentary 
 touch with the town where Meredith had died. 
 
 It was with a simultaneous breath of relief that 
 the husband and wife found themselves once more 
 on the cars which would carry them away from 
 Midas Creek. 
 
 " Good-bye, good-bye ! That is the last we 
 shall see of California," said Cynthia, waving her 
 hand towards the little town. " Now, Dick, you 
 and I are going to begin to live." 
 
 How she enjoyed the cup of tea which Dick 
 ordered for her immediately 1 How, after the in- 
 conveniences of the make-shift life at Santa Clara, 
 she revelled in the completeness of the luxury
 
 Valentine Clegg. 35 1 
 
 which she found as soon as they were once aboard 
 the cars ! 
 
 " I am going to settle down and do nothing ; 
 to rest myself," she said, when she and Dick had 
 cone back to the saloon. " It will take me three 
 
 o 
 
 days to get over the awful jolting of that dreadful 
 journey from Santa Clara down to Midas Creek. 
 Dick, I feel old and haggard." 
 
 " Well, you look neither one nor the other," 
 he replied. " But the more you can rest, the 
 better for you. Then you will be fit and well, 
 to have a few days with the Sergeantsons, before 
 we go on board the c City of Boston.' What are 
 you going to do now ? " 
 
 " I am going to stay here quietly and read this 
 book. I have got a lovely new book from that 
 black waiter just come up with a trayful of them." 
 
 " And I," said Dick, " if you really don't mind 
 being left, would like to go into the smoking-car 
 and have a pipe." 
 
 "My dear boy," she cried, " pray do ! You 
 must be as tired as I am, and as longing for your 
 little luxuries." 
 
 " I am longing for a pipe," he said with a 
 laugh, " so I shall leave you. If you want me, 
 send one of these colored gentlemen after me." 
 
 Then Dick left his wife, passing through the 
 I next car and into the smoking car, where he 
 'took a vacant seat about half-way between the
 
 35 2 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 two doors. As he took up his pipe and his 
 tobacco pouch, a man who was sitting on the 
 other side of the car put down a newspaper and 
 looked across at him. For a moment Dick was 
 puzzled. It was a face he knew yes, but he 
 could not put a name to it. Where had he seen 
 that man ? Somewhere ; but where ? 
 
 Then the stranger got up and came to the 
 chair next to him. " I guess you've forgotten 
 me," he said. " My name is Valentine Clegg."
 
 Touch and Go. 353 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 TOUCH AND GO. 
 
 As the words which disclosed his identity left 
 Valentine Clegg's lips, Dick suddenly felt that 
 he was undone. So, after all, chance and luck 
 had failed him. He had gone right though the 
 very midst of danger and his luck had served 
 him; now, at the last moment, he felt him- 
 self deserted by Dame Fortune. He could not 
 expect to avoid a meeting between Cynthia and 
 this man, this man who knew him for what he 
 was the one who had taken her father's life. 
 In the flurry of the moment he quite forgot that 
 Valentine Clegg had from first to last sympathized 
 with him before everything. He forgot every- 
 thing except that his wife was on board the 
 train, and that he must make one last effort to 
 keep the truth from her. He felt now, with a 
 wild gush of poignant regret, that he had taken 
 the wrong course with her. He felt that it 
 would have been wiser and the better plan to 
 have openly, from the first moment, disclosed the 
 truth that it was a shot from his revolver which 
 had ended Roger Meredith's life. It would have 
 been easy enough to prove, had proof been neces- 
 23
 
 354 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 sary, that he had had little or no choice in the 
 matter ; but now nothing could take away, if the 
 facts ever came to Cynthia's knowledge, the one 
 damning mistake of his having deceived her. 
 She would have forgotten the accident ; she 
 would never forgive the concealment. He had 
 meant it kindly enough at the first. He had 
 not liked to say to the little widow, with her 
 eyes full of tears, that his had been the hand to 
 bring her husband's ignoble career to an end. 
 He had done it to spare her feelings entirely. 
 He recalled bitterly, as Valentine Clegg talked on 
 and he aimlessly gave answers at random, how 
 little she, that soft-eyed, velvet-gloved woman, 
 had ever considered his wishes, his likes, his 
 desires. He might have spared himself the 
 trouble now now everything was on the verge 
 of disclosure. The whole fabric of his happiness 
 might, during the next hour, fall about his ears 
 like a pack of cards. 
 
 He quickly determined that he would leave the 
 cars at the next stopping-place, though he could 
 not imagine what excuse he should make to Cyn- 
 thia herself for doing so, more especially as their 
 luggage was expressed right through to New 
 York. Still, he could not run the risk of her 
 meeting with Valentine Clegg. 
 
 " I see," said Mr. Clegg, " that the very sight 
 of me has knocked you over. You needn't let
 
 Touch and Go. 355 
 
 it do that, my dear fellow. I never sympathized 
 with anybody more in my life than I did with 
 you. What happened was absolutely unavoid- 
 able ; and for the matter of that, Meredith was 
 such an out-and-out blackguard, that you really 
 did a service to the entire world by ridding it of 
 him. I told you so at the time." 
 
 " Yes, I know you had a bad opinion of 
 Meredith." 
 
 " I had that same," said the stranger in an 
 emphatic tone. " I knew Meredith inside out. 
 I had known him for years and years and years. 
 He was a wrong 'un ; a bad hat. The world's 
 no poorer for his demise." 
 
 "No," said Dick, "you are wrong there. 
 There was good in him, and plenty of it; It was 
 only that besetting curse of drink that made him 
 what he sometimes was." 
 
 Valentine Clegg looked up at Dick in genuine 
 amazement. " Say," said he, " you are not quali- 
 fying for a finger-post, are you ? " 
 
 Dick shook his head. "No, far from it very 
 far from it. I never had any qualification for 
 preaching to others ; I have less than ever now." 
 
 " Oh, my dear chap, you take a wrong view of 
 it altogether. I tell you you didn't know the fel- 
 low. You'd think no more about it, if you knew 
 him as I did, than a butcher thinks when he fells 
 an ox, or a policeman when he kills a mad dog."
 
 35 6 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " As a matter of fact," said Dick, " I did know 
 him ; I'd known him intimately for years. Be- 
 lieve me there was a lot of good in poor old 
 Meredith. I have never quite got over it ; I 
 shall never be quite the same man again." 
 
 " Well, I think you take a wrong view of it," 
 said Valentine Clegg. " Of course, since you say 
 there was good in the chap, I won't dispute it ; 
 I am glad to hear it, but I didn't know it that's 
 all. I don't think you will find many men 
 ready to endorse your opinion. But still that's 
 neither here nor there. The thing was done, it 
 was an accident at least, it takes about the same 
 rank as an accident and I don't like to see you, 
 a fine young fellow like you, brooding over what 
 could not possibly be helped. Put it out of your 
 mind, my dear fellow ; leave it behind you ; don't 
 think about it again. After all, what's done can 
 never be undone in this world not where it has 
 to do with a six-shooter." 
 
 " You are very kind," said Dick. " I can 
 never sufficiently express to you how entirely 
 grateful I was for the advice you gave me when 
 we met before. I have wished more than once 
 that I had stayed and faced it out ; but perhaps 
 you were right, and it was the easiest way out of 
 the difficulty." 
 
 " I am sure of it," said Valentine Clegg, " per- 
 fectly certain of it ; and the jury showed their ap-
 
 Touch and Go. 357 
 
 preciation of my idea by the verdict they brought 
 in. Well, I saw that meeting me knocked you 
 over, but don't let me disturb you. I am get- 
 ting off the cars in a couple of hours from now ; 
 I only go as far as Meville." 
 
 The stranger then skilfully turned the subject 
 away from that of Roger Meredith's death, and 
 talked on in the most friendly way on quite dif- 
 ferent matters. And as they talked, Dick kept 
 turning over in his mind how he could avoid a 
 meeting with Cynthia, or how he could convey to 
 him that Cynthia was in total ignorance of that 
 particular episode in her husband's life. 
 
 At last when they were summoned to dinner, 
 and Valentine Clegg rose, as if it were the most 
 natural thing that they should dine together, he 
 had no choice but to inform him that he was not 
 traveling alone. 
 
 " By the way," he said, " I have got my wife 
 with me." 
 
 " So ? Been married long ? " 
 
 " No, only a few months well, almost less 
 than a few months." 
 
 " Really ? I hope you will present me to 
 Madame." 
 
 " 1 shall be delighted to. There's just one 
 thing " 
 
 " 1 suppose she knows nothing ? " interposed 
 Mr. Clegg.
 
 3S 8 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " Not a word," said Dick, " not a word. I 
 wouldn't have her know it for anything." 
 
 " That's natural enough presupposing that 
 she's an Englishwoman. One of our women, 
 you know, wouldn't mind." 
 
 " I don't know. She is an Englishwoman," 
 said Dick. 
 
 " My dear sir, I'll be as mum as a cherub 
 carved in marble on a tombstone." 
 
 He followed Dick into the dining-car, where 
 Cynthia, being healthily hungry, had already 
 taken her place at the table assigned to them. 
 Dick felt as he walked between the rows of little 
 tables, that it was a case of now or never, touch 
 and go. 
 
 He knew that hesitation would be fatal, so put- 
 ting the best face possible upon his nervousness, 
 he walked straight up to Cynthia. 
 
 " Dearest," he said, " I have met an old friend 
 of mine Mr. Valentine Clegg. We have been 
 having a great time together. I hope you 
 haven't been lonely." 
 
 " Dear Dick, I have been asleep,*' she re- 
 plied. " I feel ten thousand times better for it. 
 Mr. Clegg, I am most pleased to meet any old 
 friend of my husband's. How do you do ? " 
 
 Valentine Clegg took Cynthia's hand. " Mrs. 
 Martin, ma'am," said he, " I am most pleased to 
 make your acquaintance."
 
 Touch and Go. 359 
 
 " My name isn't Martin," said Cynthia, " it's 
 Vincent. My husband's name is Vincent." 
 
 For a moment Valentine Clegg's jaw dropped, 
 and Dick felt a ringing in his ears that was almost 
 insupportable. The sharpness of the American, 
 however, saved the situation. 
 
 " Did I say c Martin ' ? God bless my soul ! 
 What tricks one's tongue serves one ! Of course 
 your name is Vincent. But I am getting old, my 
 dear lady that's the truth. I remember when I 
 was a boy my father used to call ' Tom-Dick- 
 Harry-John-Jack ! " He seldom got to the right 
 name until we supplied it ourselves." 
 
 " Ah, yes. And traveling does tire you, doesn't 
 it ? I am worn out," said Cynthia. " Well, are 
 you going to join us at this table ? " 
 
 " If you will allow me, ma'am, I shall be ex- 
 tremely flattered and honored." 
 
 " Oh, don't say that. We shall be very glad 
 of your company, shan't we, Dick ? " 
 
 " Oh, very glad," said Dick. 
 
 A grim thought crossed his mind of an old say- 
 ing that had long obtained in the Vincent family. 
 It was to the effect that he might very comfort- 
 ably put any gladness he felt in his eye and be 
 none the worse for it. 
 
 Cynthia was still very gay at the prospect of 
 going home, and exerted herself to the utmost to 
 be pleasant and charming to this friend of her
 
 360 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 husband's. She talked gaily and naturally of her 
 joy in seeing the last of California, and the intense 
 happiness she felt at going home to her own 
 country. 
 
 " It's not because we're insular," she said, " 1 
 am not at all an insular person, but I do like 
 comfort. The hideous discomfort of life out in 
 new countries is too much for me. It's like get- 
 ting up too early in the morning, before the world 
 is aired. I like my world aired for me by people 
 having lived in it for a few hundreds of years." 
 
 Thus she rattled on, and Valentine Clegg, 
 always, though he was a plain man himself, at- 
 tacted by a pretty woman, fell in with her humor 
 and talked his hardest. Nor was Dick himself 
 the least silent of the three. In truth he was so 
 afraid that she would in some way give him away, 
 that he, too, talked nineteen to the dozen, and 
 theirs was the merriest table in the whole car. 
 
 At last, when the meal had nearly come to a 
 conclusion, Cynthia happened to drop her hand- 
 kerchief. It was a filmy little square of finest silk 
 muslin, profusely embroidered in black, with an 
 elaborate monogram in one corner. It happened 
 that Valentine Clegg was the first to perceive the 
 loss, and he stopped and picked it up with a gal- 
 lant air, which showed that Cynthia had impressed 
 him very favorably. Cynthia took the handker- 
 chief with a smile and a word of thanks, laying
 
 Touch and Go. 3 61 
 
 it on the corner of the table between. It hap- 
 pened thus that the corner which bore the mono- 
 gram lay uppermost, and presently Mr. Clegg 
 chanced to notice it. 
 
 ' How curious ! " he said, speaking with invol- 
 untary surprise, " that 1 should make the mistake 
 of calling you Mrs. Martin, and you have got a 
 monogram which is marked ' C. M.' Cynthia 
 Martin." 
 
 " Well, it is funny," said Cynthia ; " it looks 
 rather fishy, to tell the truth, but our name is 
 Vincent. Now you are wondering what the ' C. 
 M.' stands for. It stands for Cynthia Meredith 
 which was my maiden name. 
 
 " Cynthia Meredith ! " repeated Mr. Clegg. 
 " Was your name Meredith ? " 
 
 At this point of the conversation Dick gave 
 himself up for lost. He never looked at Cyn- 
 thia nor Valentine Clegg ; he went on arranging 
 bits of cheese and butter on a biscuit with an in- 
 tensity which such an occupation did not war- 
 rant. 
 
 " Yes, my name was Meredith," said she. 
 
 Valentine Clegg looked at Dick, then back at 
 Cynthia. " And were you by any chance the 
 daughter of Roger Meredith ? " 
 
 " Yes, I was Roger Meredith's only child." 
 
 " The man who was killed at Midas Creek?" 
 
 " Yes," speaking sadly, " the same."
 
 3<32 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " But how came he to have a daughter like 
 you ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I was his daughter, but he 
 had been out here for fifteen years. I hadn't 
 seen him since I was three years old." 
 
 " I see. Well, Mrs. Vincent," glancing at his 
 watch, " I shall be getting off the cars in a few 
 minutes now, but I must tell you something be- 
 fore I say good-bye to you. I was there when 
 Meredith was killed." 
 
 " You ? " She looked at him with all her soul 
 in her gray eyes. Dick's eyes were riveted on 
 her face. 
 
 " I don't want to say a word against your 
 father, even though you hadn't seen him for fif- 
 teen years," said Valentine Clegg, " but you know 
 he had a failing ; it is a failing a good many men 
 have out in the wilder parts of the world." 
 
 " I know," said Cynthia, " I know." 
 
 " Well, it was very sad when a good man goes 
 wrong, it is always very sad but I was there, 
 Mrs. Vincent, and I saw the whole thing from 
 beginning to end. I knew Meredith years before. 
 It was a pity he came by his end like that, but 
 practically the whole affair was an accident. The 
 other fellow had no choice ; it was one life or the 
 other. If ever you hear to the contrary, you have 
 my word for it that the whole thing was as much 
 an accident as if Meredith had dropped a lighted
 
 Touch and Go. 3^3 
 
 match into a box of dynamite. There the cars 
 are slowing down, so I will bid you good-bye. I 
 am glad to have met you, very glad ; more so 
 than you'll ever know. We shall probably never 
 meet again, but whatever you hear in the time to 
 come, remember that you have my word for it 
 that your father's death was neither more nor less 
 than an accident. So, good-bye! God bless you 
 both ! " 
 
 He took her hand, holding it fast in his own 
 for a minute or so, then he turned round to Dick. 
 " Good-bye, old fellow," he said. " You know 
 where to write to if I can ever do anything to 
 serve you. Good-bye ! God bless you ! I am 
 glad to have seen you, and seen you together." 
 
 " I'll come and see you off the cars," said Dick. 
 
 When he returned the cars were once more in 
 motion. Cynthia was sitting precisely where he 
 had left her. 
 
 " Dick," she said, in a tone of conviction and 
 with a deadly earnestness that completely startled 
 him, " I am not sentimental, I don't look at 
 things as my mother did, but that was the man 
 who shot my father ! " 
 
 " No, no," cried Dick. 
 
 " Dick, I am certain of it ; I am convinced 
 of it." 
 
 " You are wrong, my child you are wrong ; I 
 assure you you arc wrong."
 
 3 6 4 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 
 " No, Dick, I am not wrong. That was the 
 man who shot my father." 
 
 " Well, if he did," said Dick, suddenly feeling a 
 deadly sickness creeping over him, " the whole affair 
 was, as he put it himself, practically an accident." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know that ; I am not saying any- 
 thing about that; but Dick, I have sat at meat 
 with him I have laughed and joked with him 
 and after all, one's father is one's father." 
 
 For a moment Dick Vincent did not speak. 
 " Dearest," he said, as his face was pale and his 
 voice shook a little in spite of himself, " I knew 
 your father much better than either his wife or 
 you. Believe me, if he could speak to you now 
 he would tell you to put such an idea out of your 
 head altogether. There are times in one's life 
 in every one's life when the most grave and im- 
 portant acts must be decided on the spur of the 
 moment. The man who shot your father in self- 
 defence is, I feel certain, carrying with him a 
 burden which will only fall from him with the 
 grave. Nobody blamed him." 
 
 " He might have spoken out," said Cynthia. 
 
 " No, he was advised at the time that the eas- 
 iest way would be to keep silence. When once a 
 man has put his hand to the plough, there can be 
 no turning back ! " 
 
 THE END.
 
 A* L. Burt's Catalogue of Books for 
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 "Mrs. Molesworth's delightful story of 'Two Little Waifs' will chant 
 all the small people who find it in their stockings. It relates the ad. 
 ventures of two lovable English children lost in Paris, and is Just wonder, 
 ful enough to pleasantly wring the youthful heart." New York Tribune, 
 
 Adventures in Toyland. By EDITH KING HALL. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "The author is such a bright, cheery writer, that her stories ar 
 always acceptable to all who are not confirmed cynics, and her record ot 
 the adventures is as entertaining and enjoyable as we might expect.". 
 Boston Courier. 
 
 Adventures in Wallypug Land. By G. E. FARROW. 
 
 18mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "These adventures are simply Inimitable, and will delight boys and girls 
 of mature age, as well as their juniors. No happier combination ot 
 author and artist than this volume presents could be found to furnish 
 healthy amusement to the young folks. The book is an artistic one in 
 every sense." Toronto Mail. 
 
 Pussbudget's Folks. A Story for Young Girls. By 
 
 ANNA F. BURNHAM. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "Mrs. Burnhain has a rare gift for composing stories for children. With 
 a light, yet forcible touch, she paints sweet and artless, yet natural and 
 strong, characters. ' ' Congregationalist. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent 
 publisher, A. L. BUBT, 52-68 Duane
 
 I . L. HURT'S BOOKS FOE YOUNG PBOPLH. 
 BOOKS FOR GIRLS. 
 
 Mixed Pickles. A Story for Girls. By MBS. E. M. 
 
 FIELD. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "It Is, In its way, a little classic, of which the real beauty and pathos 
 can hardly be appreciated by young people. It Is not too much to say 
 of the story that It Is perfect of its kind." Good Literature. 
 
 Miss Mouse and Her Boys. A Story for Girls. By 
 
 MRS. MOLESWORTH. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "Mrs. Molesworth's books are cheery, wholesome, and particularly well 
 adapted to refined life. It is safe to add that she is the best English prora 
 writer for children. A new volume from Mrs. Molesworth is always a 
 treat." The Beacon. 
 
 Qilly Flower. A Story for Girls. By the author of 
 
 " Miss Toosey's Mission." 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 "Jill is a little guardian angel to three lively brothers who tease and 
 play with her. . . . Her unconscious gocdness brings right thoughts 
 and resolves to several persons who come into contact with her. There is 
 no goodiness in this tale, but its Influence is of the best kind." Literary 
 World. 
 
 The Chaplet of Pearls ; or, The White and Black Kibau- 
 
 mont. By CHARLOTTE M. YONGK. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "Full of spirit and life, so well sustained throughout that grown-nn 
 readers may enjoy it as much as children. It is one of the best bocks of 
 the season." Guardian. 
 
 Naughty Miss Bunny: Her Tricks and Troubles. By 
 
 CLARA MCLHOLLAND. I2mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "The naughty child Is positively delightful. Papas should not omit the 
 book from their list of juvenile presents." Land and Watjr. 
 
 Meg's Friend. By ALICE CORKRAN. 12mo, cloth, 
 
 illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "One of Miss Corkran's charming books for girls, narrated In that simple 
 and picturesque style which marks the authoress as one of the first among 
 writers for young people." The Spectator. 
 
 Averil. By EOSA N. CAREY. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, 
 
 price $1.00. 
 
 "A charming story for young folks. Averil Is a delightful creature 
 piquant, tender, and true and her varying fortunes are perfectly rc.al- 
 istic." World. 
 
 Aunt Diana. By ROSA N". CAREY. 12mo, cloth, illus- 
 trated, price $1.00. 
 
 "An excellent story, the Interest being sustained from first to last. 
 This is, both in its intention and the way the story is told, one of tbe 
 best books of its kind which has come before us this year." Saturday 
 Review. 
 
 little Sunshine's Holiday: A Picture from Life. By 
 
 Miss MOLOCK. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "This is a pretty narrative of child life, describjng tbe simple doings 
 and sayings of a very charming and rather precocious child. This is a 
 delightful book for young people." Gazette. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by th* 
 publisher, A. L. BUBT, 63-58 Duane Street, New York.
 
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