''^■xM'im'^^- 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 ^
 
 
 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER
 
 ^Sorfes bB t^c same Jlu{t)or- 
 
 Uniform Edition, 3s, 6rf. eac^. 
 
 NOW KEADY— 
 
 THE AWAKENING OP MAEY FENWICK. 
 
 ONE EEASON WHY. 
 
 PART OF THE PROPEBTY. 
 
 IN THE SUNTIMB OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 I.IARY FENAVICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 A MATTER OF SKILL. 
 
 FLOWER AND THORN. 
 
 BEQUEATHED. 
 
 SUNSET. 
 
 LONDON . HURST AND BLACKETT, LDIITED.
 
 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER 
 
 BY 
 
 BEATRICE WHITBY 
 
 author of 
 
 • the awakening of mary fenwick," " one reason why,' 
 
 "in the suntime of her youth," etc 
 
 IN ONE VOLUME 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
 
 ?f\ 
 
 Ok 
 
 MAEY FENWICK'S DAUGHTEE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 And we must take the current when it serves, 
 Or lose our ventures. — Julius Coesar. 
 
 'Glow-wonns are not lanterns.' 
 
 Captain Fen'wick had a weakness for the name 
 Mary. Hackneyed it undoubtedly was, disfigured by 
 abbreviations it might be, but, to his taste, the name 
 was exceptionally desirable, and he said, * Call her 
 Mary. Yes, of coui-se, she must be called Mary,' when 
 his daughter was born. 
 
 JVIi's. Fenwick was flattered by the decree for the 
 name was hers, yet she foresaw that the presence of two 
 Mary Fenwicks in one house would insure awkward 
 complications of ' which Mary 1 ' ' what INIary ] ' ' old 
 Mary ' and ' young Mary ' ; she foresaw that a pair of 
 Marys would turn the name to a conundrum : therefore, 
 long after Miss Mary Fenwick could walk and talk, aye, 
 even after she could run and read, that indiscriminating 
 appellation Baby still clung to her, and was allowed to 
 cling. 
 
 But when a governess arrived at Combe, and the 
 nursery was promoted to school-room, a struggle was 
 made by the household after an appropriate and yet 
 distinctive name for the child. 
 
 B 
 
 1575517
 
 2 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 The abbreviations of Mary were discussed. 
 
 ' Molly 1 ' No, there were so many milky-mother 
 Mollys at the farm. 'MayT No, too flowery for a 
 tomboy. ' Minny ' rhymed to Ninny. ' Polly ' was 
 impossible. ' Maymy ' ridiculous ; if, as Mrs. Fenwick 
 suggested, two Marys were too much of a good thing, 
 then the little girl should be ' Baby ' to the end of the 
 chapter. 
 
 But Miss Fenwick had ideas of her own. 
 
 ' Not baby,' she said, ' I've grown taller than palings. 
 I won't be baby, but I'll be Bab, same as if I was called 
 Barbara, like Bab at Burton.' 
 
 The speaker was an only child, an autocratic little 
 lady whose decrees influenced, if they did not sway, the 
 household. Bab she henceforth became, and at two-and- 
 twenty she was Bab still. 
 
 The beauty or the ugliness of a name is, after all, 
 merely a matter of association. People might be found 
 in whose ears the yappy little name of Bab was music ; 
 in fact, there was a person at Combe, upon this very 
 September afternoon, who owned to such a perverted 
 taste. He, however, was writing letters somewhere out 
 of sight when Miss Fenwick, accompanied by four 
 friends of hers, made her way into her mother's 
 morning-room. 
 
 This room was a sunny, comfortable corner of the 
 house, and Mrs. Fenwick's special property. It was 
 stamped with her individuality; her work and her 
 knick-knacks, her books and flowers, her pictures and her 
 presence made it sunny, fragrant, comfortable ; with 
 dust and dogs, with a long face and a grievance, the 
 younger Mary Fenwick broke into this sanctuary. 
 
 Her four friends were on four legs, and followed at 
 Ler heels. They were anxious themselves ; they knew 
 there was something wrong, for Bab slashed at her 
 tweed skirt with a whip in a way which they neither
 
 MARY FUN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 3 
 
 liked nor did they understand. She was not a capri- 
 cious nor unreasonable mistress, she was good humoured 
 as a puppy ; her hand which, within that ugly, rough- 
 weather glove, held the whip was a just, impartial 
 patter and beater. 
 
 She was never ii-ritable, but dependable as one of 
 themselves. 
 
 ' Nothing puts Miss Fenwick out,' bragged Becket, in 
 the servants'-hall. 
 
 ' What should put her out ] ' the new housemaid 
 murmured. 'Health and wealth, and no man nor 
 master to say her nay.' 
 
 And yet, ' with health, wealth, and no man to say her 
 nay,' it chanced that Miss Fenwick was put out. She 
 banged into the morning-room, her straight eyebrows 
 drawn to a frown, her hazel eyes serious, her lips closed 
 tightly. IVIrs. Fenwick, dressed for her daily drive, was 
 writing at her table. She finished the sentence at which 
 she was engaged, unalarmed by the invasion ; then she 
 looked at the dogs, and shook her head. 
 
 * Not in here, Bab,' she said. ' Not the whole pack of 
 hounds in here. I don't mind Dan or Yenom, but not 
 the dachshunds. Turn out Jan and Fritz ; I draw my 
 line there.' 
 
 ■ Mother and daughter were on capital terms, on easy 
 terms of modern good-fellowship. 
 
 During Bab's lifetime there had been little to make a 
 mother — as an adviser, guardian, as a mother, in fact — 
 necessary to Miss Fenwick : she had felt no desire for 
 shelter beneath a maternal wing. She could stand alone 
 and unabashed in the ' light that beats on tlu'ones.' 
 
 In the Devon home of the Fenwicks was her majesty's 
 kingdom, her subjects were loyal and her reign was 
 prosperous as that of Elizabeth. But to maiden queens 
 perplexities arise ; they are not held exempt from worry ; 
 the share of a throne is a coveted possession, and
 
 4 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 wooers flock from far and wide with intentions serious 
 and matrimonial. 
 
 • I'll turn them out in a minute, mother. I'm going 
 myself, but I want to speak to you.' She dived into 
 the pocket of her covert-coat, and drew forth therefrom 
 a thick letter. * There,' she said, * there, it's from 
 Stanhope Peel, and it is another one.' 
 
 At this moment the carriage, on its way from the 
 stahles, drove past the window and drew up at tlie front 
 door. Mrs. Fenwick did not see it ; she dropped her 
 gloves on the floor, forgot the dogs, and took a step in 
 the direction of her daughter. 
 
 ' Not really, Bab 1 Not Mr. Peel ] I am sorry.' 
 
 *It isn't my fault.' 
 
 The girl had frank, wide-open eyes, and a direct way 
 of speaking : she was an uncomfortably plain speaker 
 occasionally. 
 
 ' No, no, not your fault : but it is so unfortunate.' 
 
 ' Humph ; he doesn't really care a straw about me.' 
 
 And Mi's. Fenwick believed her, though to prejudiced 
 taste it seemed difficult not to care very considerably for 
 Bab. 
 
 She stood holding her letter and frowning at it. She 
 was fair to see, tall, straight as a poplar, and though 
 dressed in severely masculine garb — with a great deal of 
 collar and cuff, box cloth and tweed in different shades 
 of drab about her, with an uncompromising hard little 
 hat on her trim head — she managed, by dint of small 
 features and a delicate skin, to look feminine in spite of 
 all efforts to the contrary. 
 
 Bab was not specially interested in her appearance ; 
 80 long as her muscles and sinews, nerves and eyes, 
 wrists and shoulders were in condition, she left her 
 useful garments to her tailor's taste. Neither was she 
 addicted to grumbling ; every one said she was a lucky 
 young person and she believed it. She had plenty to do,
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. A 
 
 plenty to say, she had an excellent fortune in prospective, 
 she was an only child, she lived in the country, and she 
 knew that a country life was the one best worth living. 
 However, this letter of hers was a nuisance, and it 
 must be answered ; she had come to grumble and just 
 for once she did grumble. 
 
 * He doesn't care a straw. I wish he'd have left it 
 alone ; it's such a nuisance ! I don't know what to say.' 
 
 * Poor Bab ! ' 
 
 ' It is so annoying.' 
 
 * I should not be angry, Bab.' Her mother did not 
 speak with conviction, but uncertainly. 
 
 * How can I help it 1 I am angry. Other women 
 make friends and 'keQ^ friends. I never have a friend. 
 If a man comes to the house, and if we get on, if he likes 
 me at all, there is always a crisis, a climax, and then — ■ 
 then he goes.' 
 
 * A crisis, Bab 1 ' 
 
 * Yes,' crackling her letter, * a crisis like this, a climax, 
 a flare-up. Any other girl can see a lot of a friend 
 without a crisis ; they amuse themselves without 
 climaxes ; I can't.' 
 
 * I am very sorry.' 
 
 * I'm not sorry, I'm irritated. You know and I know 
 what it is. You see, I'm not extremely lovely, and yet 
 I don't believe Cleopatra or Semiramis, averaging the 
 men they met, had more climaxes than I have. The 
 Campbells enjoy themselves without climaxes, but as 
 soon as a man is introduced to me he says to himself, 
 " I should ' do ' for his wife." I am a good match ; 
 don't shake your head, I'm an average sort of person, 
 and a,—(jood match.' 
 
 ' But you are not by any means a great i^C'ii'ti, Bab.' 
 
 * No, I'm not, so look at the pains a man will take for 
 only a little money. I don't wonder I'ich women don't 
 marry, they des -'
 
 e MARY FENWICICS DAUGHTEE. 
 
 ' Bab, wait, listen. If people marry imprudently, if 
 a man marries without enough money, it is a wretched 
 outlook for both of them.' 
 
 * Are you taking Mr. Peel's side 1 ' 
 
 'I am taking no side; but,' slowly, 'but he is com- 
 paratively poor ; he has no profession, he belongs to an 
 old family ; he must look forward.' 
 
 * Am I to be the prop for his family tree 1 ' 
 
 ' My dear, if you liked Mr. Peel, you might not object 
 to being a prop.' 
 
 ' Why can't men prop themselves and their old families 
 with work instead of with wives 1 You are such a 
 philanthropist, mother, you would be longing to prop all 
 the poor things (and their tailors and their families) who 
 suggested it. Mother,' with a laugh, * you had money 
 yourself, did men want props in your day 1 ' 
 
 !&Irs. Fenwick laughed too, but she reddened slightly 
 at this sudden demand upon her memory. 
 
 * The Fen^vicks were the only family that wanted a 
 prop in my time, only your father, Bab, — with him came 
 my only climax.' 
 
 'Then it's possible to — to * 
 
 ' Write your letter, post it and forget it.* 
 
 * I won't answer it to-day, he is an impostor, he 
 deserves to wait ; he says ridiculous things he doesn't 
 mean. I know that clever sister of his wrote it for him, 
 he is stopping with her; she was so civil to me in 
 London, so this is Avhat it meant.' 
 
 Mrs. Femvick sighed. 
 
 ' Don't get suspicious, Bab, don't think of it ; what 
 does it matter 1 It is only the way of the world, the 
 out.side world. There are,' slijiping her hand within her 
 daughter's arm, ' plenty of people who don't want props 
 but who want j'ou badly.' 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick pointed her free hand at herself by way 
 of proving her assertion, while her eyes fell on a photo-
 
 MABY FENWICK'S BAUGRTEE. 7 
 
 graph, which stood, large and conspicuous, framed in 
 silver, upon the writing-table. 
 
 Miss Fenwick looked at the photograph too, looked 
 and smiled at the well-known face, looked again and 
 laughed a little, shaking herself free from her mother's 
 hand. 
 
 * Jack is going to Burton with me,' she said, ' he will 
 be waiting, I had better go.' She opened the door and, 
 with the handle in her hand, turned round and faced 
 Mrs, Fenwick ; the dogs had jumped up and were 
 bustling .round her. ' Steady, dogs. Mother, the 
 carriage is here, I must not keep you. I will worry 
 Jack instead, he won't take Mr. Peel's side and talk 
 of props.' 
 
 * Bab, let it alone. Write your letter, don't discuss 
 it with — any one.' 
 
 Still Miss Fenwick stood with the handle of the open 
 door in her hand, and stooping, patted her collie's head ; 
 — she spoke, thoughtfully, 
 
 * I'd forgotten Jack, of course he is a friend, a real 
 friend who never, never woiTies. If I wanted to prop 
 any one,' raising her voice argumentatively, ' I would 
 prop Jack. If Jack suggested it, I would be his prop ; ' 
 her voice was clear, audaciously clear, ' now, if Jack 
 asked me to marry him, I'd do it, mother, like a sho..' 
 
 The door stood wide open. There was no modest 
 Faltering in this proclamation of Bab's, no hesitation, she 
 was a bold orator, and in the doorway, near at hand, 
 well within earshot, not a foot away, a man stood 
 listening to her words. This man had many reasons for 
 interest in these frank remarks, indeed he was, himself, 
 the subject of her suggestion ; he was Jack, Jack 
 Holland, whom she would ' marry like a shot ' ; Jack 
 Holland, who never worried ; Jack Holland, the original 
 of the framed photograph which stood upon the Avi'iting- 
 table before her.
 
 8 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Doubtless the photograph was a good likeness of the 
 young man, but then it i^epresented a grave face with 
 steady mouth and earnest eyes. At this moment the 
 face in the doorway was neither calm nor quiet, it 
 flushed, then paled, the mouth trembled, the eyes 
 kindled. He was well in sight of Mrs. Fenwick, she 
 watched him ; the words were said and heard all in a 
 moment, there was no time to hush, no time to stop the 
 girl, who was smiling at her own suggestion, uncon- 
 scious, amused — but Mr. Holland's heart, in its violently 
 disordei'ed state, did not throb with greater speed, nor 
 more strongly than did her mother's. 
 
 ' Don't stare, mother, I mean it. Come, dogs, we're 
 off. Hush, Dan, be dumb. Sticks and stones, nothing 
 cures a collie's tongue.' 
 
 She made a pass at the barking collie with her whip, 
 missed him, and tm-ning round vipon the tlu-eshold faced 
 the young man standing there. She looked at him, and 
 understood at once that he had been impiessed by her 
 remarks about him, even to such careless eyes as hers 
 there was a consciousness about his face which told 
 the tale. 
 
 She was on such easy terms of good-fellowship with 
 him, she was so sisterly a friend of his, that though she 
 had the grace to blush yet she laughed too. 
 
 It was a joke, merely a joke to which he had had no 
 possible business to listen, but then that had been her 
 own fault, not his : she had had no right to shout those 
 sort of questionable jokes into the hall; it was fortunate 
 no one beside Jack had heard her. 
 
 He did not join in her laugh, he — he blocked her 
 path ; Bab looked quickly at her mother, and then she 
 ceased smiling. 
 
 How quiet it seemed all at once, how stiff, how odd, 
 how constrained, how uncomfortable. 
 
 This joke was about to turn into grim earnest. She
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 9 
 
 wished she had held her tongue, for it seemed to be the 
 worst joke ever made, an awkward joke by which she 
 would, perchance, lose a friend, 
 
 A joke with a climax, another climax, in its train as 
 consequence, and the very last of her jokes upon the 
 subject. For Ja.ck was about to extract the humour 
 from it and turn it into a purely serious affair. She 
 knew Jack's face, she had been familiar with it from 
 babyhood, she glanced at it questioningly. 
 
 He had taken her hand, whip and all, in his. He 
 pulled her back into the room and shut the door behind 
 her. 
 
 Here was a crisis indeed, and not by post tliis time. 
 A sort of domestic crisis had broken suddenly as a bomb 
 breaks about her head. Jack was always an impulsive 
 man, he had startled her now, but she had known for 
 some time that he could be desperately earnest about 
 trifles, 
 
 ' Bab,' he said, ' you know that I have been fond 
 of you always. Did you mean what you said 1 Will 
 you marry me 1 ' 
 
 Not tete-cL-tete, not bedecked and cautious, but plainly, 
 openly, in a great hurry the climax came, 
 
 * Jack, Jack,' Mrs. Fenwick was aghast, she came to his 
 side and put her hand upon his arm, ' this is ridiculous.* 
 
 Ridiculous was the wrong word ; Jack did not answer 
 it, he was watching Bab's face. 
 
 ' Will you,' he repeated, ' will you marry me 1 ' 
 
 * No, no, Jack ; ' it was the number three of the group 
 who took upon herself to answer him ; ' Bab was joking, 
 she was talking at random. Would she have said that 
 if she had meant it 1 Jack, be reasonable,' 
 
 It was curious to see that Miss Fenwick herself stood 
 between these agitated people as though she had but 
 very faint interest in the discussion. She had no strong 
 likes or dislikes, but she was particularly adverse to a
 
 10 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 scene or a fuss. She wished Jack would let her hand 
 loose, she wondered why her mother was so vehement, 
 and, on the whole, she thought Jack's question worth 
 considering. 
 
 Why should she retract her words 1 She did mean 
 them, unquestionably she meant them. Jack was her 
 boon comrade, her oldest friend. She was not ill-pleased 
 at the turn her affairs had taken, her mother's opposi- 
 tion, I am afraid, settled the question. The crisis was a 
 somewhat abrupt one, but it should be the last. 
 
 ' Mother, how rude you are ! I don't mind. Why 
 are you angry with him 1 I did mean it. I will marry 
 him. Why not?' 
 
 * Bab, wait, think. Don't treat such a thing as this 
 as though it meant nothing, — as though it would lead 
 to nothing.' 
 
 ' I don't know what's the matter with you, mother. 
 You like Jack better than anybody else, and yet you 
 don't want me to marry him.' 
 
 * Wait, Bab, only wait.' 
 
 * I'm twenty -two, mother ; why should I wait 1 ' Her 
 cool, practical tones nipped the emotions of her hearers. 
 ' Jack is one of us already. Stay with her. Jack ; do 
 tell her every one gets married. I — yes, I'm going. 
 I've a letter to write.' 
 
 She backed out of the room. Away from Jack's 
 protestations, away from her mother's tears, she was 
 glad to get off ; she felt a momentary awkwardness, she 
 was afraid of more bombs, she would give the air time 
 to clear. Jack and her luother would talk everything 
 over and over, in and out, and then they would calm 
 down ; the former had lost his head, or he would have 
 waited for his climax until Mrs, Fenwick had started 
 for her drive. 
 
 It was a sudden conclusion, but Jack was a dear, — 
 and she would write two lines to Stanhope Peel and tell
 
 MABY FENWICKS DAUGHTEB. 11 
 
 him of her engagement. Yes, slie had let herself in for 
 a serious engagement ; she wanted a little time for 
 reflection. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 My project may deceive me, 
 But my inteuts are fixed and will not leave me. 
 
 All's Well that Ends Well. 
 
 'He that leaves the highway for a short cut commonly goes about.' 
 
 Mes. Fenwick and Jack were left iete-d,-iete. They were 
 not accustomed to meet as antagonists ; on the contrary, 
 theirs was a deeply-rooted and close friendship such as 
 is hard to sever. 
 
 This friendship of theirs was an old story, nearly as 
 old as Mrs. Fenwick's wedding-day, for in the early 
 time of her married life Jack had been her plaything, 
 her solace, her delight. 
 
 In those far-away days, when she had come as a bride 
 to her new home, life had not been all smooth sailing, — 
 no, it had been hard, difficult, lonely. She had wanted 
 companionship, unobservant guileless company in which 
 to forget herself. Such company she had found at the 
 rectory, where the rector's widowed daughter and her 
 brace of children had made their home. 
 
 These two small people had welcomed the bride, they 
 had brought their buljbling spirits, their warm hearts, 
 their exacting demands to Coiube ; then and there Mrs. 
 Fenwick had fallen in love witli the little pair, and she 
 was the sort of woman whose aif ection is not ' variable 
 as the shade by the light quivering aspen made.' 
 
 When the clouds blew away from Combe, shadows had 
 rested on the rectory, Jack's little sister, his comrade, 
 Gill, fell ill. Through her illness Mrs. Fenwick had 
 nursed her, till her death she had watched at her side ;
 
 12 MAEY FEN WICK'S DAUOHTER. 
 
 more than Jack knew, or ever would know, she had 
 risked in her devotion for the child ; — but he knew 
 enough to fix his heart to hers. 
 
 He knew what Mrs. Fenwick had been to him when 
 his mother married, and he had found himself an alien 
 amongst his new relations. His step-father, Lord Young, 
 had sons and daughters who tolerated a step-mother as a 
 useful person, a chaperon, a housekeeper, a companion 
 for their father, but who resented Jack's introduction 
 into the household. 
 
 Jack's mother was a practical woman, she had made a 
 good match and she meant to be comfortable. She did 
 not like Mrs. Fenwick, but she was glad that Mrs. Fen- 
 wick opened her doors to Jack ; she was glad that he 
 should spend his holidays at Combe ; she was glad that 
 he should be out of the way where his presence was a 
 cause of vexations, rubs, and jars such as are the not 
 infrequent result of contact between relations in the law. 
 School-boys were odious to her, and when her son took 
 the guise of a school-boy she had had no desire for his 
 company. 
 
 It had been convenient to get rid of Jack at that 
 time, but now circumstances had changed, Lady Young 
 could not forgive her son his preference for Combe ; she 
 was jealous of the Fenwicks. 
 
 She had had no particular craving for him in his 
 youth, she had not wanted him at all, but now she 
 evinced a dog-in-the-manger tendency to snarl at those 
 people who had found and appropriated a possession for 
 which she had had no use. Filial love is no unexpected 
 windfall which drops at a parent's foot, it is a sentiment 
 which does not flourish unfed. It is the fruit of labour, 
 of travail ; uncultivated it withers away. 
 
 Jack Holland had been a rollicking small boy, trouble- 
 some and wild enough until his early experiences of loss 
 and of loneliness had somewhat sobered him. From a
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 13 
 
 riotous madcap he had turned into a thoughtful school- 
 boy, who had worked creditably at Winchester, who had, 
 contrary to expectation, done well at Oxford, and who 
 was now most zealous for work at the Bar. But the 
 briefs were long a-coming, and term-time was hardly 
 more profitable than those long vacations which he was 
 in the habit of spending with the F^n wicks at Combe, 
 those bitter-sweet vacations whicli plunged him deeper 
 and ever deeper in love with that unsusceptible young 
 Diana of the woods, Miss INIary Fenwick. 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick was truthful, but she was not given to 
 speaking such truth as preys on the weakness of her 
 friends ; yet, as soon as the door closed behind her 
 daughter she attacked her companion. He had walked 
 over to the window ; he did not wish her, she thought, 
 to see his face. 
 
 ' You had no right to do that, Jack.' 
 
 *It was the only thing to be done, Mrs. Fenwick. 
 Any man on earth would have done it.' 
 
 ' Any sane man would not have done it. He would 
 have been patient.' 
 
 ' I have been patient for years ; I'm sick of being 
 patient. What is the good of it? What good has it 
 done me] Patience can't last for ever. Could I 
 stand there and hear her say that, and hold my 
 tongue 1 ' 
 
 'You had no right to take advantage of what you 
 overheard j you had no right to let her treat such a 
 question as a joke.' 
 
 * Who thinks of it as a joke 1 ' 
 
 * She does — of course she does. I know men have 
 given up the old style, and are rough and ready when 
 they woo, but they usually wait to ask these questions 
 till they are alone with the woman they wish to make 
 their wife. You took my breath away ; I could not 
 believe my ears.'
 
 14 MABY FENWIOKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 * What did you expect me to do ? Nothing, as usual 1 I 
 was to listen and to laugh and to say nothing — as usual % ' 
 
 ' She wasn't in earnest, from first to last she was merely 
 amused ; she doesn't understand what she has done. Jack, 
 go after her, find her, tell her you were joking as she was 
 joking, that you did not take her answer seriously.' 
 
 'No, no, I won't do that.' 
 
 'Why not?' 
 
 * Siu-ely you know why 1 If she likes me well enough 
 for this, I can teach her to like me well enough to give 
 her answer in earnest. I have a chance to show her a 
 better way of treating the question. I shall not get so 
 near to her, and get no nearer.' 
 
 * And if you fail — what then 1 ' 
 
 ' Then I will do as you say ; then I will go to her and 
 tell her I was joking as she was joking. It shall be a 
 joke to her, nothing but a joke.' 
 
 ' Precisely, that's as I guessed ; how like a man ! 
 You di'ag Bab into a false position, you make her talked 
 about ; a broken engagement is no credit to any woman. 
 It is not like you. Jack, to think of no one but yourself.* 
 
 As an onlooker, Mrs. Fenwick had seen much of the 
 disheartening game of the past ; she had no sympathy 
 with this venture, no encouragement for this impulsive 
 suitor — she, who had seen much and who divined more, 
 trembled for the future which she was doing her best to 
 avert. 'Justice is blind, and so is Cupid too,' but a 
 mother's love does not dim her eyes. Mrs. Fenwick 
 knew that Bab was not as Cupid painted her. She also 
 knew the size of Jack's great expectations, the demands 
 he would make upon her daughter's stores of feeling. 
 She knew how much he would require, and how little he 
 would get. It was true that Bab's hands were strong^ 
 shapely, open, but they held nothing which Jack asked 
 of them : they had no such stock-in-trade, they could not 
 give what they had not got.
 
 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGETER. 15 
 
 Alas ! she foresaw rocks, shoals, quicksands ahead, 
 for this daughter of hers was a spoilt child, and though 
 Jack was content to live as a courtier under the thumb 
 of a queen just now, yet he had plans, theories, standards 
 of life which his love for Bab had revolutionized some- 
 what, but which in the sober state of matrimony would 
 re-assert their dominion, and to them he would endeavour 
 tt) fit his wife. 
 
 Poor Bab ! Poor dear Bab ! 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick had not intended to spoil her daughter, 
 but Bab was a Fenwick, any little peculiarity of dis- 
 position that she had shown in her childhood had been 
 excused upon that plea by her mother, to whom the 
 Fenwick characteristics were sacred. 
 Captain Fenwick was no disciplinarian. 
 'Leave her alone, don't worry her,' he always said. 
 ' She's quite good enough for me.' 
 
 The let-alone system answered, no snippets of carpets, 
 no nails, no hammer, so to speak, were used for her 
 training, and yet she grew and blossomed just as she 
 should. 
 
 She did as she liked, but then she liked so agreeably ; 
 she had no perceptible temper, she did nothing out- 
 rageous, she wanted no curb. She led without domineer- 
 ing, she seemed ready to relinquish her rule if her 
 neighbours wished her to do so. 
 
 She lived a healthy life, she hunted and shot, she 
 fished and rode, she played tennis and golf, she danced 
 and drove the years away. Perfectly happy, perfectly 
 satisfied with her life, her surroiuadings, and herself, she 
 found nothing to long for, and she longed, consequently, 
 for nothing, except, perhaps, for more time in which to 
 enjoy the manifold goods the gods bestowed. 
 
 Every one liked Bab ; the men who came to Combe or 
 to the neighbourhood of Combe specially liked her. So 
 frank and friendly, so easy to please, so genial and so
 
 16 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 keenly interested in their out-of-door interests was she. 
 Lady Yoang was hard upon her, she said unkind things 
 of her. 
 
 * Miss Fenwick encouraged every one,' she told Jack. 
 But the * every ones ' themselves knew better, they 
 
 knew that Miss Fenwick's friendliness was extreme, tliat 
 it was more or less universal ; they also knew that it led 
 to a blank wall, and that beyond this barrier there was 
 * no thoroughfare.' 
 
 * She is a nice girl,' they had whispered, in confession 
 to their friends, ' but as hard as nails.' 
 
 This characteristic of hers was not inherited, no 
 Fenwick hitherto had been the untroubled owner of a 
 whole and merry heart ; no Fenwick hitherto could, with 
 any truth, have been called ' hard as nails.' In a vague 
 way IVIr. Holland knew of the ' no thoi-oughf are ' and the 
 blank wall, but he was angry with Mrs. Fenwick, who 
 had no reason to be so violently opposed to his plan ; 
 who had no justifiable reason for those tears which stood 
 in her eyes as she spoke. 
 
 ' Do you expect me to wait for ever 1 ' he asked her, 
 angry at her opposition, hurt by her tears, * Yoii told 
 me to wait. "What good has it done 1 What good coidd 
 
 it do r 
 
 Then Mrs. Fenwick said a cruel thing, — she spoke of 
 this overwhelming, unconquerable, this deep love of his 
 as though it was lacquer on a bell, or veneer on a gas- 
 bracket. 
 
 *I believed, I hoped that in time it would wear off, 
 that you would get over it.' 
 
 He repeated those words ' get over it ' in a voice that 
 went to the heart's heart. 
 
 'Yes, Jack, you think I am unkind, but love mis- 
 placed, unreturned, disappointed, doesn't remain intact ; 
 if you don't bury it, it turns sour, bitter, odious.' 
 
 He flushed, and setting his teeth remained silent ;
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 17 
 
 then she laid her hand upon his arm, and was more 
 gentle with him. 
 
 * You two have no tastes in common, Jack, absolutely 
 none. You are not a sporting-man, you love your books. 
 Half your day you spend among them, you are interested 
 in many things which to her would be dry as dust. Bab 
 does not think at all, she is too active physically to be 
 mentally active. She cares for her dogs and horses, her 
 whole life is spent in such pleasures as you in your heart 
 of hearts despise. She never reads, she has no sort of 
 interest anywhere except down in the fields and woods, 
 across country here at Combe. She comes in tired out 
 at night, her home is a place in which to recruit her 
 strength for the next day's sport; a man is just a sharer 
 of that sport, nothing more.' 
 
 * Why do you talk of Bab like that 1 Do you think 
 I want her to fall oil like an over-ripe ' 
 
 ' Blackberry,' interrupted she ; ' you know that when 
 blackberries are ripe they do fall off, away from the 
 bi-ambles and prickles. You know they are not good to 
 eat till they tumble at a shake. I am not blaming Bab 
 for being as providence made her, but I am blaming 
 you: leave Bab, let her go on as she is. You will 
 expect too much. She will not understand you. I 
 know you both so well, you will vex each other, it will 
 be discord from first to last. If Bab should ever 
 marry let it be with some one who cares less, who 
 exacts less; not with a friend who cheats her into 
 making a promise the meaning of which she does not 
 fathom, the meaning of which she is not capable 
 of fathoming. Bab doesn't know what sho has 
 done.' 
 
 * I have told you already that Bab shall not keep her 
 promise uidess she does understand what it means, and 
 what / mean.' 
 
 ' And I have told you of the gossip, of the unplea- 
 
 G
 
 18 31ABY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 Bantness, of the awkwardness of a broken engagement. 
 Tliink what your mother will feel, think what my 
 husband will say — think of Bab. Don't be obstinate, 
 Jack. Trust me.' 
 
 * I think in such a case I will trust myself, and I do 
 not believe our engagement,' he used that expression 
 boldly, * will be broken off. If you think it best we 
 can keep it quiet for a time, it need not be announced. 
 Perhaps under the circumstances it will be better not 
 to announce it.' 
 
 ' Far better.' 
 
 To share such a secret with Bab was a link to draw 
 her nearer ; it might be diificult to close her candid lips 
 which were accustomed to tell everything to everybody, 
 but the suggestion pleased Mr. Holland. It was difficult 
 for his companion to go on as kill-joy, as wet-blanket, 
 for she was fond of him, and his face touched her. 
 
 * You think I am cruel. Jack, but it is to be kind, I 
 am afraid of conseqviences ; no man in your state of 
 mind thinks of consequences, but they come. If — if 
 there must be this understanding between you let it be 
 private, that the misunderstandings which follow may 
 be private too.' 
 
 , The building of air-castles and the dreaming of 
 dreams want no foundations set, no commonplace, com- 
 mon-sense foundations ; Mr. Holland heard the speaker's 
 voice soften as she spoke, but he frowned at her words. 
 Just then a sound of approaching steps was heard, 
 voices and a laugh broke into this solemn conclave, the 
 door opened, Bab and her father, preceded by the dogs, 
 came into the room. 
 
 Captain Fenwick was not laughing ; he came in alert, 
 eager, interested, and caught Jack by the hand. As he 
 did so his expression altered, his excitement waned, his 
 congratulations fainted on his lips, he had seen his wife's 
 face. Captain Fenwick had boundless faith in the.
 
 MABY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 19 
 
 compass by which he steered ; he looked again into his 
 wife's face and then said interrogatively rather than 
 with congi-atulation, 
 
 ' "What is this I hear, Jack 1 Why haven't you come 
 to me ] I'm the person to be consulted first. Eab has 
 been telling me the most astounding thing.' 
 
 * Father said he was not at all surprised,' said Miss 
 Fenwick. There was nothing conscious, nervous, nor 
 exulted, nothing newly-betrothed in her way of talking. 
 * And he is very pleased.' 
 
 But Captain Fenwick was staring hard at his wife, 
 who would not meet his eyes. 
 
 ' Godfray, they — they haven't thought about it 
 enough, indeed they have not.' 
 
 ' My dear Mary, Jack was at her christening, that's 
 twenty-two years ago and some odd months. There has 
 been time to think it over. I know you are cautious, 
 but thinking may be overdone ; I hardly understand.' 
 
 ' Bab,' Mrs. Fenwick looked into her daughter's face, 
 which sobered under those serious eyes, 'Bab has not 
 thought it over, she hasn't been serious, she wasn't even 
 in earnest.' 
 
 * I was, mother. What more can you say than " yes " 
 or " no," if you have thought it over for years ? I said 
 "yes."' 
 
 She looked from one to the other, wondering who 
 could gainsay her statement. She hardly expected Jack 
 to qualify her words. 
 
 ' I know you meant it, Bab, but your mother is angry 
 with me, she wants us to keep this — this understanding, 
 this engagement of oiu'S quiet till you rightly know 
 what you have let yourself in for.' 
 
 ' Wait,' said IVIi's. Fenwick, ' wait a little. It is too 
 sudden altogether ; wait till you understand each other. 
 Wait till Christmas.' 
 
 ' Mother talks as though we'd only just been intro-
 
 20 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 duced, Jack; but,' amiably, 'of course I don't mind 
 waiting. Mother, the horses are fidgeting, and 
 Coachman is furious ; you had better be off.' 
 
 As Captain Fenwick and his wife drove together 
 they talked of little but their pair of lovers. Captain 
 Fenwick was somewhat puzzled at his companion's 
 attitude. 
 
 * She may be as unimpressionable as a golf-ball>, but 
 he knows all about her. Don't bother yourself, Mary, 
 it will come all I'ight in the end.' 
 
 'The end, Godfray, the end is such a long way off. I 
 want it to be right in the beginning.' 
 
 * I thought you revelled in any sort of lover. I am 
 very pleased about it ; it is time she got married. 
 Jack's a capital fellow, and they ought to know their 
 own minds, they have been like brother and sister all 
 their lives. Don't worry, wait till Christmas, then see 
 how the land lies. Bab is my daughter, remember ; 
 she has inherited some of my failings, she is not like 
 her contemplative, unapproachable mother. Leave her 
 alone, Mary, leave her to natiu-e and to Jack.' 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Direct not him whose way himself will chose, 
 
 'Tis breath thou lackest, aud that breatli wilt thou lose. 
 
 llichard III. 
 
 ' Well may he stumble who chooses a stony way. ' 
 
 TiiE drawing-room at Woodbmy was all a drawing- 
 room need be, it was pleasant to look at and cosy to sit 
 in. The era of down cushions had swept it from end to 
 end ; soft, caressive, of divers hues and sundry sizes, 
 upon the window-seats, upon sofas, divans, and chairs lay 
 these last touches to the luxury of this luxurious age. 
 
 The owner of the room had no craze for picking up
 
 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 21 
 
 the uncomfortable oddities of former generations. Lady 
 Young never ransacked fusty old curiosity-shops for 
 crazy cabinets, historic clocks, antediluvian chairs ; she 
 had no reverence for the antique in any form whatsoever. 
 Old things and old people were best out of sight, and 
 alas ! she herself grew old. Long ago she had resigned 
 herself to the loss of a waist, but it was hard to resign 
 herself to the loss of youth ; it was mortifying, dull, 
 embittering to grow old and to lose comeliness. In the 
 days of yore men had looked at her blue eyes and at her 
 fresh cheeks, then they had told the world that, 
 ' Mrs. Holland was a sweet little woman.' 
 They looked now-a-days at her pince^iez, at her florid 
 face and they said, * Lady Young is a dangerous woman.' 
 As a matter of fact, Mrs. Holland had not been sweet, 
 nor was Lady Young absolutely dangerous. Of course 
 she was a scandalous, mischievous person, but dangerous 
 is a big word and there was nothing large about Lady 
 Young ; her tongue was petty, it did not concentrate 
 its venom effectively, it wounded, but it wounded super- 
 ficially. Neither nails nor teeth inflict deadly hurts, 
 and yet no one relishes being scratched or bitten. 
 
 Few people in Devonshire relished Lady Young's 
 conversation which she drew from an imagination that 
 was as capacious as her memory. This memory of hers 
 was a rag-bag in which she stored raw-edged snippets, 
 useless scraps, soiled tags, rags, and bob-tails of news 
 concerning Lady Young's neighbours and her neighbours' 
 neighbours. With her beauty Lady Young had achieved 
 her title, her tongue achieved for her such distinction 
 as, now-a-days, was hers. Happily an evil tongue is 
 distinctive, it soon brands its owner, and is writ down 
 as such. 
 
 If Lady Young was not popular she could find an ear 
 when she wanted one, for she condescended much to 
 men of low estate should her requirements elsewhere
 
 22 MABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 fail her ; if Lady Young's acquaintance did not believe 
 in her she had a complete, comfortable faith in 
 herself. 
 
 Lady Young's annvial garden-party was to take place 
 that afternoon at Woodbuiy. Both she and her step- 
 daughter, Alethea, were arranging flowers upon a table 
 spread with protecting newspapers in the drawing-room ; 
 they were busy over their portion of preparation for the 
 entertainment. 
 
 Alethea's sisters were married, her brothers were out 
 in the world, she was the only one of the Young brood 
 left in the parent nest. Lady Young was aware that 
 young birds are in no hui'ry to fly should the home of 
 the fledglings be too cosy, so she had arranged her 
 husband's nest with care, and the six young birds had 
 flown. 
 
 Lord Young was getting old, he was not so strong 
 as he had been. Alethea made herself useful, she had 
 a taste for sick-nursing, she was welcome to remain at 
 "Woodbury, 
 
 ' Providence was a wonderful manager,' Lady Young 
 was wont to assure herself ; it was her custom to trust 
 in providence and ' to keep her powder dry,' * Poor 
 Ally was so delicate and so peevish that she had no fear 
 of losing her, none at all.' 
 
 And Alethea's thirtieth year had passed and she 
 was not 'lost.' She stood over her flowers, a small, 
 pathetically thin woman, with soft, dun-coloured hair 
 pulled oil; her temples away from her pale, bright eyes. 
 She was fragile ; she owned a lordly ' nonconformist 
 conscience ' which wore her out in the endeavour to live 
 decently and in order with the step-mother with whom 
 her lot was cast. 
 
 It was a small matter, but she fought great battles 
 over it. In another world the names down for Y.C. 
 will be a surprise, perhaps, to most of us. We may
 
 MARY FUNWICEPS DAUGHTER. 23 
 
 hear of great bloodless victories won over trivial affairs 
 by puny, insignificant warriors. 
 
 It would have been impossible for Lady Yoiing to 
 live without her step-daughter, she was necessary at 
 Woodbury, there was always some one to wound, always 
 one small target at which Lady Young might aim her 
 miserable array of petty shafts. 
 
 * You waste time, Alethea, the morning's gone while 
 you blend and touch and fiddle-faddle your bouquets ; 
 people don't look at them through a microscope. I 
 like flowers en masse. All those cactus dahlias together 
 in one vase, all the lilies in another, and so on.' 
 
 Alethea took up the dahlias, and began to manipulate 
 them as had been suggested. 
 
 'I can trace out the big, showy people, the quiet, 
 little people, the dowdies, the vulgars, the fashionables, 
 the artists, I can trace them all out, mamma, in their 
 vases of flowers.' 
 
 * Bird's-eye and snap-jack, ragged robin and hemlock, 
 pink geranium and maiden-hair fern, I can imagine the 
 sort of flowers you like, Alethea. Tidy, ineffective, 
 old maidish, conventional.' 
 
 The uniform quietness of the younger woman's face 
 was contradicted by a pair of flexile eyebrows ; fine, dark, 
 expressive eyebrows which twitched, contracted, arched, 
 lowered, interpreting feelings which their owner had no 
 wish to be interpreted. 
 
 jMiss Young carried off her flaring parterre of cactus 
 to a distant table, pausing a moment to look out of the 
 window at the sunshine. 
 
 ' There is no month that compares with September,' 
 she said, * a fine day in September is a king of days. I 
 like the sun when its monarchy is limited.' 
 
 ' "What nonsense you talk. I put off our party till 
 September because I did not want mine to be merely one 
 amongst the dreary epidemic of garden-parties that are
 
 24 MAEY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER 
 
 given in July and August. I like to be the fii'st or the 
 last.' 
 
 ' " High diddle diddle, 
 
 The fool in the middle," ' 
 
 quoted Alethea, arranging some monster sunflowers in 
 a vase a foot high ; ' there is something cute in that 
 nonsense rhyme, mamma. What can be impressive 
 huddled down, hemmed in on both sides ] Never be a 
 fool in the middle. You are quite right.' 
 
 Lady Young seldom troubled herself to listen to con- 
 versation unless she could extract from it some treasure 
 for her rag-bag, something about some one for her fusty 
 old store of calumnies. 
 
 ' In September every one is at home ; of course the 
 dew falls more, and the lawns are spongy and all the 
 clothes are passee, but one can't get everything,' she 
 went on. * I won't have a tent, people have no con- 
 science about devouring peaches in a tent ; the house is 
 a sort of restraint on their capacity. The Campbells eat 
 as thovigh they were children at one of their own school- 
 feasts.' 
 
 ' It is something for the poor things to do.' 
 
 ' Do, Alethea, do 1 Tennis, cricket, golf, croquet — 
 surely with those four games, and the contingent of men 
 which I am always fortunate in getting at this house, 
 there is plenty for any one to do. You determine it 
 shall be dull, but then you find everything but the study 
 of your health dull • you find all visits dull but the visits 
 of Dr. Bedford.' Lady Young's top-heavy lilies were 
 very tiresome, they were falling out of the bowl as soon 
 as she stuck them in ; it was no use losing her temper 
 with them so she attacked her companion. ' Women 
 who have no husband to worry them worry about their 
 own ailments ; it is an unwholesome indulgence. I said 
 to Jack yesterday that you'd better not go to London in 
 the spring, but to the Medical Congress. You'd enjoy
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 25 
 
 that, you'd brighten up over that ; a study of symptoms 
 would amuse you.' 
 
 * Am I so impossible to amuse 1 ' 
 
 ' You needn't be cross ; you never understand a joke. 
 Even Jack laughed, and he hasn't my sense of humour ; 
 he is heavy like his poor, dear father.' 
 
 The lilies were in now — tight, taut, massive, gaudy. 
 Lady Young sat down and drew breath ; her dressmaker 
 had not resigned a struggle for curves and lines, and 
 Lady Young's brocade gown was not only noisy and 
 be-bugled but it was of pin-cushion fit. 
 
 ' Flowers in one's garden are enough flowers for me,' 
 she grumbled. * They waste one's time ; they are always 
 dead or dying, and wanting to be done. No wonder you 
 like them, Alethea, they are such invalids.' 
 
 ' Let Blair help you, mamma ; you are tired.' 
 
 ' I can't afford to be tired. I have a thousand things 
 on my mind. Your father is out ; if ever I do want 
 him he is sure to be out. Last night he was too gouty 
 to play me at backgammon, but he is never too ill to 
 be out.' 
 
 Lord Young and his daughter were fond of one another. 
 The father had made a mistake, a mistake such as is 
 often made ; a long mistake such as spoils the happiness 
 of a handful of persons. It is treason to own this 
 mistake, it is folly to fret for it. It is a mistake for 
 which consolation may not be proffered, a mistake over 
 which open sympathy may not be bestowed. 
 
 The Youngs shut shutters and drew down blinds to 
 hide the error of judgment of their chief, but the father 
 and daughter knew what lay hidden in the dusk, and 
 this mutual knowledge bound them together ; trouble 
 binds as no cement can do. 
 
 Alethea's delicate hand was warm, its clasp was good 
 to feel, and her tongue was discreet. Every soul may 
 deplore the mistake made save he who made it, and it
 
 26 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 takes pluck for a proud head and a proud old heart to 
 face a curious and discerning world without betrayal, 
 without wincing. Lord Young kept a good front, but his 
 daughter know what it cost him to do it, and he was 
 glad that she should know. 
 
 ' Father has gone to Combe,' she said, * hasn't he ? ' 
 'No, I prevented that. Eight miles off to-day? cer- 
 tainly not, and there is nothing to shoot when he gets 
 there.' 
 
 * Nothing to shoot, mamma 1 — there are any amount 
 of birds. You know that Jack said so yesterday.' 
 
 ' Jack will say anything, he is infatuated. I have no 
 patience with Jack. She doesn't maan to marry him ; 
 he will find it out, and then he will remember what I 
 have told him.' 
 
 Lady Young was much given to quoting her son, she 
 found him useful to back an opinion, to point a moral ; 
 he gave authority for many tales of which he had not 
 learned to dream. Sometimes he figured as a prodigal, 
 sometimes as a Solon, sometimes as an Admirable 
 Crichton, sometimes as a Simple Simon, but he was 
 always, upon one point at least, a singularly deluded 
 young man. 
 
 Alethea's eyebrows contracted. 
 
 * What have you told him ] I don't know what you 
 mean.' 
 
 ' That is not true, you are not blind j you know as well 
 as I know, as well as every one in the county knows of 
 his mania for that girl.' 
 
 'Unless you had opened all the eyes no one would 
 have known. Jack never mentions her name. Of 
 course, you make no secret of it, mamma, but neither 
 he nor she are demonstrative.' 
 
 'What further demonstration do you want? Does 
 not my son spend every available moment away from 
 his home 1 Is he not for ever at Combe 1 '
 
 MARY FENWICEPS DAUGHTER. 27 
 
 * It is habit ; he loved Combe before Bab's day.' 
 'For the sake of contradicting me, Alethea, you 
 
 would say anything. Does Jack go to see Ttrs. Fenwick] 
 do young men cai-e for the society of an elderly prig "? ' 
 
 ' Every one likes Mrs. Feuwick. I don't understand 
 what you mean by prig.' 
 
 * I mean a self-sufficient, conceited, stand-off person.' 
 
 * I thought,' said Alethea, softly, but with direct 
 maliciousness, such as she would presently repent, * that 
 " prig " was another name for superiority. I thought 
 that if any one was a little better, a little wiser, with 
 a somewhat higher standard than his neighbour*, then he, 
 or she, was what is called a " prig." ' 
 
 In the pause which followed this remark, while Lady 
 Young whetted her tongue, gathering energy for a 
 retort, the sound of a voice familiar to the vexed ears in 
 the drawing-room broke up the debate. 
 
 * Where is Lady Young, Blair 1 ' 
 
 * Her ladyship is in the drawing-room, sir,' 
 'All right, I will go in.' 
 
 * Good gracious, Jack,' said his mother, as the speaker, 
 following close upon his words, entered the room, 
 'you here? I did not expect you. How well you 
 look ! ' 
 
 ' I walked over,' he said, ' it's such a nice morning,' 
 
 ' Any news 1 ' 
 
 'None at all,' he was as pleasant and fresh as the 
 breezy weather. His mother stared with her hard blue 
 eyes at him. 
 
 * Then why are you not shooting at West Hill 1 INIosfc 
 inconsiderate of the Fenwicks to have a big shoot to-day 
 and to ask Lord Young.' 
 
 ' Only three guns,' said ISIr. Holland, annexing a bit 
 of scented verbena, which he put into his button-hole ; 
 ' not amazingly big. Captain Fenwick forgot all about 
 this show of yours. What lovely flowers, Alethea ! '
 
 28 MARY FENWICK'S DAVGnTEK. 
 
 * Forgotten 1 ' said Lady Young, sharply, * Then they 
 are not coming 1 ' 
 
 ' Of course they are coming, mother, Mrs. Fenwick 
 remembered all right ; she is bringing the Campbells.' 
 
 ' The Campbells 1 Fanny Campbell takes a couple of 
 her girls to everything ; they will fill the carriage,' 
 
 *Yes, so Mrs. Fenwick said,' 
 
 ' Then Bab isn't coming 1 I am not a huffy person, 
 Jack, but I expect some little attention ; under the 
 circumstances, I think it is nothing more than my due.' 
 
 Lady Young was dabbing up some water with a 
 handkerchief about which was nothing substantial but 
 the coronet. 
 
 * Mamma, is poor Jack to be scolded about the people 
 who get out of coming to a garden-party ] ' 
 
 ' I don't know whether Bab means to come or no,' he 
 said gravely, he, did not like cross-examination. ' She 
 said nothing about it. I,' thoughtfully, 'hardly saw 
 her this morning ; they started early.' 
 
 Bvit he had seen her sufficiently long to have been 
 chafed by some offensive words of hers which she had 
 not troubled herself to explain away. 
 
 Jack saw little of Lady Young, but he treated her 
 as a former generation considered a mother should be 
 treated. His manner to her was punctiliously civil. 
 He could not give much that was worth having from 
 within, his feelings were not under control of his will, 
 but his words and his ways were. Lady Young was his 
 mother ; he was sensitive, even tender about her because 
 of this tie. He was an old-fashioned man. 
 
 Bab had no reason whatsoever to reverence Lady 
 Young. That very morning, carelessly, without seeing 
 that she trod dangerous ground, she had laughed — good- 
 naturedly, it is true, but for all that she had laughed 
 and jeered at Woodbury ways and Woodbury news. 
 Jack had surprised and silenced her by a rebuke which
 
 MAliY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 29 
 
 was short, abrupt, and whicli seemed more severe to the 
 speaker than to the offender. 
 
 ' If you want to be smart about any one, Bab,' he 
 had said, 'go further from home. I've a prejudice 
 against hearing those sort of things said of my people.' 
 
 Bab had looked straight at the speaker for a moment 
 and lifted her eyebrows. Then she had proceeded to 
 change the subject. A few minutes later the cart had 
 come round, into which she had mounted and driven off. 
 Jack had seen her no more. 
 
 A fortnight had passed since he and she had come to 
 that unsatisfactory understanding in the morning-room. 
 Hitherto the misunderstandings following in its wake 
 had not been serious ; it takes two to even make a mis- 
 understanding, and Bab had no power of creating such 
 absurdities. She took no offence, she was frankness 
 itself ; but she never could understand anything but a 
 plain word. Moods and broods, tiffs, suspicions, lovers' 
 miseries in general were absolutely , incomprehensible 
 to her. 
 
 Not so to him. His tramp to Woodbury had blown 
 off his morning vapours, but they had been there and 
 they had wanted blowing. His temper was no longer a 
 well-governed possession, it rebelled against a steady 
 control, the fii-e in his heart sent smoke into his head. 
 He had gone into the garden and found Mrs. Fenwick, 
 he had told her that he wanted exercise, that he would 
 walk over to lunch at Woodbury, that he had a head- 
 ache that morning. 
 
 That wise woman had asked no questions, expressed 
 no surprise. She thought it would be ' very nice ' to 
 walk to Woodbury, she was certain Lady Young would 
 be delighted to have him. 
 
 So he had gone. He was not naturally bad-tempered, 
 it was easy to get in tune with a fresh autumn day. 
 All sorts of di'eams might be dreamt on such a morning
 
 30 MABY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 TuiTeted battlements of gloriously inhabited castles had 
 risen up in the verdant vales through which he had 
 tramped, but these fell flat as card-houses when he 
 found himself at Woodbury. 
 
 His mother had not a good effect upon him, he was 
 apt to leave her presence disgusted with himself, dis- 
 satisfied with most things, she rubbed him the wrong 
 way as she rubbed the rest of the world, she had no 
 knack to smooth with those soft fat hands that were 
 sweet with crushed verbena. 
 
 *Is she going to marry that charming Mr. Peel, 
 Jack ? ' 
 
 * I have not heard so.' 
 
 "Why could not his mother leave the Fen wicks un- 
 discussed] But many years ago he had left off using 
 the word ' why ' in connection with her ; he would leave 
 ' why ' and ' wherefore ' alone still. 
 
 * Then she has refused him. Jack ? I saw that he was 
 serious, he was so civil to Mrs. Fenwick.' 
 
 Jack said nothing, and he looked expressionless as 
 one of the sunflowers. News could never be dragged 
 from him j if he could hold his tongue his mother could 
 not, she did not know the golden way of silence. 
 
 ' I wonder what they expect for that girl ? The 
 property isn't good enough for a great match,' she said, 
 sharply. ' JSIi'S. Fenwick is ambitious, a parvenu always 
 soars like a sky-lark.' 
 
 * She was one of the Norfolk Mansers,' said Alethea. 
 'One of those Mansers at Podmore, where our great- 
 great-grandfather was hung for sheep-stealing.' 
 
 'Alethea,' said Lady Young, addressing her son, 
 'would tell any falsehood, she would invent anything 
 for the pleasiu'e of contradicting me. Of course Mi's. 
 Fenwick' s mother was not a dependent, nor was her 
 father a merchant in Brazil, nor did Grodfray Fenwick 
 marry her for her money. All these facts can be laid
 
 MAEY FENWICK'S DAUGETEB. 31 
 
 aside at Alethea's suggestion. But most people in the 
 county can remember the time when she did not lead 
 her husband by the nose. As a bride, he neglected her 
 grossly ; she was dull as an oyster, with no manners 
 and nothing to say for herself. She soon got him in 
 training ; she held the piu-se-strings, don't you see ? ' 
 
 This was not news to the hearers — nothing that con- 
 cerned Combe and its inmates could be called news at 
 Woodbury, Jack was grateful to Alethea for finishing 
 her duties with the flowers at this moment. He was 
 grateful to her for taking him off to superintend the 
 marking of the newly-shorn tennis-courts. Alethea and 
 he were friends, very good friends now; times had 
 changed since the old days when Jack was an interloper 
 at Woodbury, there was no cold shoulder tui-ned to him 
 there now-a-days. He walked about the gardens with 
 her, talking and laughing and making himself as 
 pleasant as a man can do whose mind is out with three 
 guns on a breezy hill a dozen miles off at the least. 
 
 CHAPTER IT. 
 
 To climb steep hills requires slow pace at first. 
 
 Henry VIII. 
 'A fog cannot be dispelled by a fan.' 
 
 'Now, miss, you really must. My mistress told me 
 last thing to see you started in good time. The squii'e 
 has ordered the cart round in half-an-hour.' 
 
 * What a nuisance you are, Becket.' 
 
 Bab had but just come in from the West Hill shoot ; 
 she was not specially tired, but it was nearly four 
 o'clock, and she did not care about dressing up and 
 turning out ; she was disinclined to disport herself at 
 the fag-end of Lady Yoimg's garden-party. 
 
 When she got home at this time of day, she liked to
 
 32 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 sit in an easy-chair and think of nothing at all ; a long 
 spell of exercise in the open air has a drowsy and lulling 
 reaction. Bab wanted nothing save her tea and her 
 chair, but there bustled into her bedroom this imperi- 
 ous and importunate Becket, with commands from head- 
 quarters such as her young lady might not ignore. 
 
 Becket was a great person in her way, which was as 
 faithful and as domineering a way as such an old ser- 
 vant's way had a right to be. She had lived with Mrs. 
 Fenwick in her girlhood ; from that period up to the 
 present day she had, as an interested spectator, seen 
 most of the ins and outs, of the ups and downs of life 
 at Combe ; she was an important part of the establish- 
 ment. In the nursery days Bab had bullied Becket, 
 but now the tables had turned : Becket treated Bab as 
 an erring, irresponsible child upon whom chiding and 
 advice could not be wasted. She coaxed, threatened, 
 bribed, and humoured her as she had done when Miss 
 Fenwick was not too old to be spoilt by such treatment. 
 
 ' Now, Miss Bab, you are brambles and mud and 
 mess all over, and sitting there won't dress you. The 
 squire told Bruce he'd drive the new mare to Woodbury. 
 'Twon't do to be late, for, by the looks of her, she won't 
 like standing.' 
 
 To this bait Bab rose. She was interested ; the new 
 mare was hers, and she had been but a week in the 
 Combe stable. ]\Ii'. Peel had heard her fame, and had 
 been ' up the country ' to look at and finally to buy her, 
 at a very long price, for her present owner. Bab was 
 surprised that anybody could have parted with so beau- 
 tiful, so intelligent, so perfect an animal. Brunette 
 appeared to be all that she had been said to be, and 
 what mare could be more ] 
 
 When Becket, diplomatic Becket, alluded to Brunette 
 her young lady roused herself, wriggled out of her 
 leather-faced, be -pocketed coat, took off her frieze cap,
 
 MABY FENWIOKS DAVGUTER. 33 
 
 and began with a steady click of thong to unlace her 
 shooting-boots. Duty called her to Woodbury, no 
 doubt duty would turn into pleasiu'e when once she got 
 there, but Jack's mother was rather a tiresome person, 
 and garden parties were parties, not entertainments. 
 
 Brunette would spin over to "Woodbury with them in 
 no time. Bab had a fair smattering of stable know- 
 ledge, but she preserved the taste of her sex for rattling 
 over the shocking switch-back roads of her county at a 
 pace which was extremely invigorating, — but only for 
 the driver. 
 
 * Dear me, what boots ! ' said Becket. ' What awful 
 clumping boots. Miss Bab. Your feet might be as flat 
 as a pond, they look it. Those nasty, foreign skins 
 disfigure you ; I'm the same way of thinking as Mr. 
 Holland, homo skins are good enough for any lady, 
 glacy kid shoes and slim soles to show off such favours 
 as you got from your mother. No foreigners, no 
 porpoises and crocodiles for British feet.' 
 
 ' Will you send Rawle to me ? ' 
 
 ' Rawle's busy in the work-room. I've come to wait 
 on you.' 
 
 ' Then get me a tennis-dress. Not that, — no, not 
 that.' 
 
 Becket was standing before the open wardi-obe un- 
 hooking some smart full-dress gown from a peg. She 
 took it to Bab's side, shaking out the lace and ribbons 
 tenderly. 
 
 * Now, now, miss do you take this and wear it just to 
 walk up and down the terrace and look your best. I 
 like a young lady dressed up as bright and dainty ats a 
 flower. I like a garden in a young lady's hat, and you 
 —you want a white duck suit plain as a charity child's, 
 and a boy's hat with a bit of cricket ribbon round it.' 
 
 ' Send Rawlo to me.' 
 
 * You haven't worn this lovely daffodil dress but once, 
 
 B
 
 34 MABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Miss Bab, it will be out of fashion next year. And 
 LIr. Jack ' 
 
 ' Send Rawle to me.' 
 
 ' If Mr. Jack saw the daffodil ' 
 
 * Send Rawle to me.' 
 
 Rawle was Miss Fenwick's own maid, whose place 
 Becket loved to usurp. The latter was no longer young, 
 and her duties were, intentionally, light ; she chose to 
 exceed them, leaving her orthodox precincts to fuss after 
 Mary Fenwick, the younger, whom she fondly imagined 
 to be a duplicate of her mother. 
 
 Half-a-score of years ago Becket had had such shocks, 
 such surprises amongst her mistress's early matrimonial 
 experiences, that now she was not to be either surprised 
 or shocked. She knew what a furnace might rage 
 beneath a chilly exterior ; she knew the tricks of in- 
 difference which the class she served palmed off upon 
 the world ; and she knew what that sort of indifference 
 was worth. She knew how finely a well-bred woman 
 can act. 
 
 She was not deceived by Miss Bab's feigned unconcern 
 in jNIr. Holland, she understood that sort of insensibility, 
 it was the counterpart of her mother's long ago. She 
 understood Miss Bab's ' nonsense,' and intended her 
 gratification by introducing Mr. Holland's name con- 
 stantly into the conversation. 
 
 When for the fourth time Miss Fenwick repeated, 
 * Send Rawle to me,' Becket shrugged her well-covered 
 shoulders, rehung the smart gown in the wardrobe from 
 whence she brought out the tennis-dress in question, 
 dropping it with a gestiu-e of depreciation upon the bed. 
 
 ' There, miss, and it's plain enough to suit a quaker, 
 but some ladies have such confidence that they won't do 
 anything extra to please.' 
 
 Miss Fenwick stood at the glass, not a hair on her 
 head was out of place, but she was smoothing and
 
 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 35 
 
 patting the masses of brown plaits with an anxious and 
 careful hand such as gave Backet's accusations the lie ; 
 Bab was no slattern though she turned up her nose at 
 such decorations as were forced upon her. 
 
 Her busy hands were strong and supple, tanned by 
 weather, but well-shaped and slender ; she wore no 
 rings, she had been given no pledge to remind her that 
 she was no longer entirely and legitimately free. 
 
 ' Any way, you can't make yourself into more than a 
 poor imitation of a gentleman. Miss Bab, at your best,' 
 said Becket, returning to the charge as she slipped a 
 plain, newly-washed, duck skirt over her mistress's 
 head, fastening the loose waist-belt with another sigh. 
 * You don't shoot so true, nor ride so straight, nor walk 
 so fast and far, nor hit them balls so hard as JNIr. Jack, 
 who is mostly for books and don't care much for what 
 you wear yourself out trying to do like a man.' 
 
 * Wear myself out 1 ' 
 
 Bab laughed out loud. She well might laugh. "Worn 
 out ] There was no single trace of wear about her. 
 She was fresh as a May day at four o'clock in the morn- 
 ing. Her beauty was chiefly the beauty of freshness, 
 of absolute freshness and perfect health. 
 
 The west-country air had blown a colour, a bloom 
 such as is the pride, the speciality of the Devon maidens, 
 into her cheeks ; her eyes glowed, her lips were fresh 
 and ruddier than the cherry, in fact, her face was an 
 absolute advertisement of the advantages of out-door 
 life ; she knew it was so, and she laughed scorn at 
 Becket. 
 
 'Worn out, am 11 Do I want patching, Becket? 
 Keep your argument up : say yes. I know your pro- 
 gramme, I know how you would like me to live. I 
 must change my clothes four times a day, I must 
 sit indoors eight hours a day in paper shoes and 
 open-work stockings, doing fancy-work for bazaars. I
 
 36 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 must plan food for the men, I must talk about maids 
 and frocks. I may drive in the landau and I may 
 drink chocolate. May I drink chocolate ] you know I 
 should not have any " nerves " for tea. No one, now-a- 
 days, has sufficient nerve to drink tea.' 
 
 ' You may laugh, miss, but I knew gentlemen's ways 
 before your mother was married. You've got a hobby- 
 horse, don't let it run away with you, pull it in ; for 
 there may be other hands on your reins, and you won't 
 like that. If a young lady is going to be mari-ied it's 
 best to make her husband into her hobby-horse ; you 
 can't have both. Miss Bab. Hobby-horses won't go in 
 double harness, nor yet tandem. Oh, no, no. Miss Bab, 
 you are never going in those hedging and ditching 
 gloves 1 You are ] Then take the bill-hook too, and 
 be consistent.' 
 
 Miss Fen wick escaped, still laughing, from Becket; 
 she was quite consistently clad, she said, without the 
 bill-hook. 
 
 ' My love in her attire does show her wit,' 
 
 was a line which was applicable to her but, oddly. Jack 
 had never quoted it ; indeed, he sometimes seemed to 
 hanker after the vanities of clothing much as Becket 
 hankered. 
 
 Captain Fenwick was not more gi-ateful for Wood- 
 bury hospitality than was his daughter. Garden-parties 
 were an insipid form of dissipation, but his wife had 
 explained to him that it was impossible, under the cir- 
 cumstances, to get out of this particular fete. Lady 
 Young was easily offended. She had a tongue ; people 
 with 'tongues' get nicely treated. She had a son — it 
 was his existence which Mary emphasized ; it behoved 
 Captain Fenwick to do the civil at Woodbury. 
 
 Of course Mary was right, but her husband had a 
 martyr-like air about him as he awaited Bab ; for once
 
 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 37 
 
 in her life she was late, and the mare was on her hind 
 legs at the front door. 
 
 ' Hurry up, Bab,' he said, turning to meet his 
 daughter. The wear and tear of fifty years had left 
 their inevitable trace on his kind face, but he was still 
 spruce and soldierly, and his heart was as wnrm as it 
 had been in those bygone times when no Bab existed 
 for whom it was necessary to wait. ' Hurry up, your 
 mare has been on her hind legs for ten minutes. I 
 don't much like the look of her ; I'm tired, and she 
 wants driving. No, Bab, I'm going to drive ; I don't 
 believe she's fit for you to tool about the country alone.' 
 
 Miss Fen wick said, magnificently, that ' Any child 
 could drive Brunette ; but,' breaking ofE as she dodged 
 into the cart while the docile steed danced upon the 
 drive, * of course she was a little fresh that afternoon.' 
 
 She was indeed, and the freshness did not cease to be 
 aggressive. 
 
 ' It would take a precocious child to drive this mare, 
 Bab,' said Captain Fenwick, dryly. ' She hasn't given 
 me much time for reflection, and here we are.' 
 
 They were flying up the drive to Woodbury. Bru- 
 nette had shied at gates, capered past carts, bolted when 
 a gang of larks had risen from behind a hedge, and was 
 just now treating bit and bridle with disdain as she took 
 her cargo along at her own pace. 
 
 ' She has got something in her.' 
 
 * She has. A temper and a taste for excitement. 
 She's missed no chance of fun on her way. I like 
 something less lively between the shafts, Bab.' 
 
 * You are lazy, father.' 
 
 Bab was not to be put out of conceit with her posses- 
 sion. When she alighted from the cart she stroked 
 Brunette's satin neck affectionately before she followed 
 her father through the house, and on into the heart of 
 the garden-party.
 
 38 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 * How late you are ! ' said their hostess, meeting them 
 •with that uncomfortable high, fin-like greeting of finger 
 and elbow called shaking hands. 
 
 Explanations, smiles, apologies followed ; then Lord 
 Young walked Captain Fenwick off with him, and Bab 
 was engulfed by friends. 
 
 Miss Fenwick was a favourite of Fortune. She knew 
 nothing of cold shoulders, of slights, of social wounds. 
 Her acquaintances were, for the most part, ready to be 
 her friends : any advance of hers was met three parts 
 of the way, any remark of hers was listened to as 
 though it was of consummate interest. 
 
 At home and abroad alike Queen Bab reigned with 
 an easy, unconscious sovereignty. Some girls were a 
 little afraid of her. Those shy girls who were not the 
 favourites of Fortune, who were used to be ignored, to 
 being talked down, to wallflowering at balls, to isolation 
 at tea-parties ; those girls who, conscious of their home- 
 made frocks, and of their blushes, tried not to know 
 that they were social failures, making believe that the 
 agony they endured was pleasure ; those girls, whose 
 martyrdom was without hope of reward, wondered why 
 men and women huddled one another, like sheep, along 
 a beaten track after Bab Fenwick who cared nothing for 
 nobody, — at least, very little for anybody. 
 
 Jack Holland was not one of the following flock that 
 day ; he watched his sovereign, but from a distance. 
 Alethea Young and he had sneaked off to a warm corner 
 of the drawing-room ; she was tired out and he was lazy, 
 so, both of one mind, they sat in the south window. In 
 an unintrusive, warbling way Alethea was a great 
 talker, and Jack listened to her while his eyes followed 
 the active, white figure which was here, there, and 
 everywhere amongst the crowd ; a group of appreciative 
 acquaintance always hovered about Queen Bab which- 
 erer way she turned.
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 39 
 
 Her white, duck suit, her sailor-hat, looked plain 
 enough amongst the gala gowns of the womenkind, who 
 had seized the last chance of airing summer smartnesses 
 no matter how chilly the afternoon should prove. Every 
 girl hoped that her nose looked less pink than her 
 neighbour's, and steadily refused a wrap ; for what 
 woman feels the cold when clad in her best gown, or the 
 heat if she is wearing her new coat % 
 
 Jack was pretty well inured to a latent soreness of 
 heart. The soreness that day was more active than 
 usual ; it kept him whei-e he Avas even after there was 
 no special figiire to watch, even after his white star had 
 set down the rhododendron glade in company with a pair 
 of black stars from the barracks. 
 
 The crowd upon the lawn was thinning, the roll of 
 departing cai'riages had begun, people came strolling up 
 from afar off in couples, shivering dowagers paced the 
 gravel walks to keep warm, the sun had set, and still 
 Jack sat on in the window, while Alethea talked. 
 
 It was not easy to decide which of the pair was most 
 startled and surprised when Miss Fenwick herself came 
 round the sheltering screen behind them and joined them. 
 
 * "Why did you appropriate Jack, Ally ? I have been 
 hunting for him for an hour ; I have been disturbing 
 game in all directions; the happy couples have hated 
 me. You lazy, unsociable people, you have been 
 shirking.' 
 
 As she spoke, she seated herself at Jack's elbow on 
 the couch as though she had settled down there for some 
 time, as though she had never disparaged her hostess, 
 nor turned a shoulder on a rebuke ; and Jack became 
 aware that he had been sulking, that he deserved to be 
 shot for his ill-humour for which he would hasten to 
 atone. 
 
 Bab had no idea that she had been out of favour, so 
 the benefit of forgiveness could not be appreciated.
 
 40 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' We did our duty for two hours,' said Alethea, * and 
 I got hoarse and Jack got bored, so we made a party of 
 discontent and bleated in this cosy corner.' 
 
 ' Don't go, Alethea.' 
 
 ' But I must. I ought to have gone long ago. Look 
 at that little maiden all forlorn pretending to be inter- 
 ested in begonias ; I shall go and talk to her, and show 
 her how nice a garden-party can be.' 
 
 As Alethea rose and the down-cushion, against which 
 she had been leaning, rolled upon the floor. Jack offered 
 it to the new-comer ; her shoulders wanted no cushion. 
 She was such a restless person that Jack could never bribe 
 her to remain beside him for ten consecutive minutes. 
 She was a lady of quicksilver, qiiicksilver at large. 
 
 * Jack,' she asked, picking a morsel of thread off his 
 coat-sleeve, which offended her punctiliously neat taste, 
 ' how are you going back 1 ' 
 
 ' Bedford will give me a lift.' 
 
 ' Let him drive father instead. I want you to come 
 with me.' 
 
 Her sunny face was turned to his, her lips curved to a 
 wide smile. He had known ' other women fair as she,' 
 but other women had quibs and cranks and wanton wiles, 
 other women were small and mean in many ways, other 
 women tried to please, they meant and manoeuvred to 
 please ; but Bab was spontaneously pleasant, she was 
 incapable of the smallest insincerity. 
 
 Occasionally this incapacity of hers had not, to Mr. 
 Holland's mind, seemed altogether admirable, but 
 now 
 
 * With me,' he repeated, gently ; then she quenched 
 the light of his eyes. 
 
 ' I want to drive Brunette,' she explained, ' and father 
 thinks I can drive nothing but one of his old sheep. If 
 he will go back with Dr. Bedford, that will make it all 
 right.'
 
 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER 41 
 
 Entirely frank, absolutely straight, and yet — and yet 
 he no longer looked at her radiant face, but he watched 
 a dowdy wi-en which supped on the seeding face of a 
 sunflower outside the window, and he did not speak. 
 
 ' It is getting late, Jack ; I have ordered the cait. 
 Let father know, and we raiglit start now.' 
 
 Her companion was in a brown study, the sort of 
 study which was even more tedious than its fellows. 
 She got up. 
 
 ' If you let father know, Jack/ she repeated, ' we might 
 start now.' 
 
 * I don't think we can start at all. It won't do ; you 
 don't drive aboiat the country alone with me, or with 
 any other man who happens to be staying at Combe.' 
 
 * I drove to Burton with you last week.' 
 
 ' In the cart with Jim at the back, not in the T-cart 
 with no one.' 
 
 'What's the difference? Is a groom a chaperon? 
 With whom should I drive if not with you 1 I 
 thought — ' she looked puzzled and a little annoyed, 
 * you would have liked the idea.' 
 
 ' People do not know even the little there is to know 
 about us. I think they should not have occasion 
 to talk,' pedantically ; ' I don't wish a word to be 
 said.' 
 
 * You need not charge me as if I were a jury ; you 
 won't convince me of anything preposterous. Don't be 
 so dreadfully proper, don't be so ridiculously strait- 
 laced ; let me drive you home.' 
 
 But Jack would not take his orders like the rest of 
 the world, he had clear opinions on most points, and 
 Bab had not gone the right way to work to confuse 
 them. If a man is irritated he is sure to be obstinate. 
 Tact is the predominating feminine characteristic ; tact 
 has survived as the fittest quality with which to govern 
 the governing sex. In theory a frank and guileless
 
 42 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 woman is mucli admired, but it is the woman of re- 
 source, of nod and beck and wreathed smile, of wanton 
 wile, of infinite tact who secures the full appreciation 
 of men. Truth is seldom comfortable enough for ears 
 that are beyond and above all things careful for their 
 comfort. 
 
 It was not by any maans disgracefully late that night 
 when Mrs. Fenwick came into her daughter's room, bub 
 Bab was half-asleep in her chair while Rawle pigtailed 
 her hair. The beautiful hair which had been ' groomed ' 
 (in its owner's plu-aseology) until it was as sleek and 
 smooth as Brunette's glossy coat of brown. 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick did not return her daughter's sleepy 
 smile of welcome ; then Bab shook herself upright, at 
 the same time shaking the half -completed pigtail from 
 her maid's hands. 
 
 'Rawle, you may go, I shan't want you again. Sit 
 down, mother, sit down, that chair is very comfortable.' 
 
 But Mrs. Fenwick did not sit down, she fidgeted with 
 the silver, the gleaming silver necessaries and un- 
 necessaries of the toilette, which strewed the table. 
 
 * You have been talking me over with father, he did 
 not like being squeezed into the landau with the 
 Campbells. He did not like my driving Brunette home 
 with Major Elton ; he was very huffy about it.' 
 
 ' How could you drive home alone with Major Elton 1 
 You hardly know him.' 
 
 Bab was plaiting rapidly at the pigtail, she gave a sigh 
 which was three parts yawn. 
 
 * I drove home with him because Jack wouldn't come. 
 When Jack lays down the law it annoys me ; he is too 
 fond of his own way, mother ; but I am sorry you had 
 to squeeze father in amongst you. I thought Jack 
 would walk.' 
 
 * Bab, you don't treat Jack as ' 
 
 *As what? I'm always in hot water now. You
 
 MARY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTER. 43 
 
 needn't be afraid, I made it all right with him after 
 dinner. I told him exactly why I did it ; he was not 
 angry, he saw reason.' 
 
 * Did he ? Did he see reason later on when he sang to 
 us 1 No one sings as he sings. I could not speak to 
 thank him, and you, Bab, you were asleep, he saw you 
 were asleep. I was sorry, I was ashamed to see that you 
 could sleep.' 
 
 ' One can generally sleep when one's tired, I've been 
 out in the air all day. I didn't know I was going to 
 sleep, one never knows ; ' she was apologetic. * I like 
 Jack's singing.' 
 
 * Then if you like it, listen to it.' With maternal 
 pride Mrs. Fenwick lifted her daughter's prodigious pig- 
 tail ; it was hard and heavy, she let it fall again. * And 
 if you like him, Bab, don't ride rough-shod over his 
 feelings. I am going, you need swallow no more yawns, 
 but — but I want you to think ; think what a power you 
 have to hurt any one who is fond of you ; think how a 
 simple tiling can please him, just the simplest thing. 
 The giant's strength is excellent, you have it, I can't 
 bear to see you use it as a giant.' 
 
 Bab looked thoughtful, she received her mother's 
 good-night kiss absently. 
 
 'It would be a good thing to be married soon,' she 
 said, 'Jack won't be ridiculous then. Good-night, 
 mother.' 
 
 JMi'S. Fenwick was not satisfied, she had done no sort 
 of good, she had not been sufficiently stern. 
 
 Evil things do not budge for coaxing, she knew ; they 
 want a sharp onslaught, they want driving, not leading 
 forth. Providence does not coax sinners to saintliness, 
 the power that coaxes is not from above. 
 
 But then there was no downright sinner in the green 
 and white chamber, the sleepy pigtailed head there slept 
 the sleep of the righteous.
 
 44 MARY FENWIOK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 The post of onlooker, the thankless, anxious post was 
 Mrs. Fenwick's ; she had better return thither, playing 
 at providence would avail her nothing. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 I pray thee sort thy heart to patience. — Henry VI. 
 
 ' He who would eat the kernel must not complain of cracking 
 
 the nut.' 
 
 The heavy rectory gate swung behind ]\Irs. Fenwick, 
 swinging smoothly, closing gently as though that special 
 incomer actually, as well as figuratively, anointed the 
 rusty hinges which she passed upon her way with oiled 
 feathers. 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick was one of those people who know the 
 blessed effect of oiled feathers, and who make use of that 
 knowledge. She was a happy woman, she did not shut 
 herself up with her happiness, jealously defending the 
 sunshine of her life against such shadows as the mere 
 knowledge of her less fortunate neighbours' aches and 
 pains, wants and griefs might cast across it. No, she 
 went out voluntarily into the shadows and tried, with 
 the light of her sunshine, to make dark places bright. 
 
 The sort of happiness which had come to her was 
 wholesome, it agreed with her. It had developed a 
 proud, reserved, high-minded but passionate girl into a 
 strong, yet gentle woman. She had 
 
 * The great, deep heart which is a home for all, 
 Just, eloquent, and strong 
 In protest against wrong, 
 Wide charity that knows no sin, no fall.' 
 
 She was not an officious person, she was no platform 
 orator, no organizer, she merely fulfilled the old adage 
 of her people, ' Doe ye nexte thiruje.' It seems a simple
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 45 
 
 law to follow, in reality it is not so easy as it sounds, 
 but she followed it. She did ' ye nexte thinge,' she did 
 it kindly, and because a little kindliness reaps a reward, 
 because bread thrown upon the waters comes back 
 buttered, because charity is beloved of gods and men so 
 was Mrs. Fenwick beloved. Life was hard enough 
 within those flowery cottages in the little Devonshire 
 hamlet beyond the gates of Combe : it is not only 
 beneath the gas-lamps that mankind sins and suffers, 
 London has not the monopoly of want, of suffering, of 
 pain. Where every prospect pleases man remains vile 
 and he remains struggling, sometimes for a livelihood, 
 sometimes for health, but usually for something which 
 he wants and cannot get. 
 
 ' Ye nexte thinge ' which IMi-s. Fenwick did was to 
 give sympathy first and help behind it. She gave of 
 both to every Jack and Gill, to every Darby and Joan, 
 every sinner and every saint within her ken. Her help 
 was not all drawn from her pocket — a great deal came 
 from that comfortable source — but her tongue, which 
 was a gentle hopeful member, and her ear, which was a 
 patient, interested listener, were her allies. She was in 
 truth a Lady Bountiful of mind and heart, of time and 
 head, of pocket and of peace, and she gave of her 
 bounty with open hand. 
 
 Captain Fenwick laughed at his wife, who was said to 
 keep a soup-kitchen, a registry-office, a dispensary and 
 a confessional at Combe, but his laughter was not 
 unpleasant in ]\Iary's ears. 
 
 Bab laughed too. "\\Tien she thought about it she 
 wondered how her mother found time to plunge into all 
 the household affairs of the valley ; she, herself, could 
 hardly cram into one short day her multitudinous 
 engagements. After all, her mother did small good. 
 Bill Olridge continued to beat jMts. Bill, Tom Carnall 
 continued to get drunk on cider and to ill-treat his
 
 46 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 motherless children, Nellie Pike continued her evil 
 course, rheuraatics devastated far and near for all IVIrs. 
 Fenwick could say or do. 
 
 "Where so little could be done it hardly seemed worth 
 while to do anything, though Bab thought it was very 
 nice of her mother to try to Arcadianize the district. 
 Everything her mother said or did was nice. Bab left 
 to her the monopoly of such niceties. 
 
 Some day, some day when she was a prop in good 
 earnest, Bab would begin to interest herself in those 
 dreary necessities of existence, ' the poor who were to 
 be always with her.' 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick was on her way to the rectory to attend 
 a committee-meeting, for the neighboui-hood was palpi- 
 tating just then over the near approach of a bazaar. 
 
 A bazaar in the countiy is no stale, unprofitable part 
 of the quarterly round, half-duty, half-dissipation. It is 
 a stirring event, a landmark in the pass of time, and it 
 is also what all bazaars must be — a foundation of feuds 
 and friendships, an enterprise which excites passions of 
 emulation, of ambition, of envy. The best friends fight 
 and the bitterest enemies are reconciled over the pin- 
 cushions, and the live-stock stall and the tableaux 
 vivants. 
 
 The community here in Devonshire were, oddly 
 enough, interested in the object of the bazaar ; there 
 were people who intended to sell and the other people who 
 intended to buy, there were no experienced Philistines 
 in this unsophisticated region who would dream of 
 taking a parcel, an empty purse and a cheap day's 
 amusement in the Tipton Town-hall next week. 
 
 The Tipton bazaar was to overflow with attraction, it 
 was to be fancy-dress. Humanity is, as every one 
 knows, immensely allured by the charm of fancy-dress. 
 How interesting, how novel, how arresting, how becom- 
 ing it may be. How well the Lady Mayoress looks ag
 
 MART FENWICEPS DAUGHTER. 47 
 
 Mary Stuart. How realistic are the wigs of the 
 Cavaliers. 
 
 But the committee had curtailed any flight of indi- 
 vidual fancy at Tipton, the stall-holders were one and 
 all to be dressed as gipsies, the stalls were to represent 
 gipsy-tents ; in fact, the bazaar itself was to be as like 
 a genuine gipsy encampment as the gipsies and the local 
 work-people could contrive to make it. 
 
 Two locked rooms at Combe bristled with paper 
 parcels, the fancy stock-in-trade of the Fenwick stall. 
 A fantasy in scarlet, gold, and white, jangling with 
 sequins, hung in Miss Fenwick's wardrobe. 
 
 She had looked at it doubtfully that very morning. 
 
 * Is this really what an Italian gipsy would wear ? ' 
 she had inquired of Becket. 
 
 * It is copied exactly from the book, miss.' 
 
 ' How thin it is, and what extravagant women Italian 
 gipsies must be.' 
 
 'Try it on, miss.' 
 
 When she had done as she was told to do and donned 
 the fantasy, when she had tied the gorgeous kerchief 
 over her hair and beheld she was very fair, Bab had 
 grumbled no more. 
 
 ' It is rather pretty, but it is messy ; all these strings, 
 and scarves, and sequins go the wrong way. Take it 
 off, Becket.' 
 
 She was an odd young lady who preferred a coat and 
 waistcoat, a shirt and tie to any soft decoration ; she 
 never made the best, she only made a man of herself, 
 and so Becket told her. 
 
 As I>Irs. Fenwick turned into the drive she rose a 
 covey of boys who bolted across the gravel path, making 
 for the shrubbery ; but when these young gentlemen 
 saw who the intruder was they turned thorn about and 
 came to meet her. 
 
 She was appreciated at the rectory. Mrs. Campbell,
 
 48 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 the rectoress, liked her ; she had been a sympathizer 
 with that lady's seven annual trials in the past.: those 
 trials had now developed into a family which overflowed 
 their father's purse and had made havoc with their 
 mother's health. A squiress who was pleased to put 
 her hand in her pocket, a squiress whose carriage was 
 almost rectory property, and who was willing to cha- 
 peron the girls was sure to be appreciated. 
 
 The boys liked her, she never saw ink on collars, 
 holes in trouser-knees. Even green smudges from tree- 
 climbing, whitewash off out-houses and dirt of any sort 
 had no horror for her, she did not preach to wash, to 
 brush, to reflect. 
 
 When the three boys came to meet her, Mrs. Fenwick 
 knew that they came with a purpose, for through her 
 their petitions reached her husband's ears, and the trio 
 always wanted special ' leave ' to enjoy themselves on 
 Combe ground in some way at which farmers and 
 keepers alike rebelled. 
 
 ' How do you do, boys 1 What has happened to you, 
 Lance 1 Have you hurt yourself ] ' 
 
 ' They are burning struel in the orchard, I got smoked 
 roasting potatoes,' rubbing his grimy face with a grimy 
 hand. ' I say, Mrs. Fenwick, we are going to the 
 warren, Saturday, after the rabbits. Do you think 
 Captain Fenwick would mind just lending us that old 
 gun, the muzzle-loader on the bottom rack 1 We have 
 only got father's, and there are no end of rabbits.' 
 
 The Campbells were day-boys at a school in Tipton, 
 they had ample opportunity for testing their squire's 
 power of endurance, through Mrs. Fenwick they achieved 
 many treats ; asking in her case did not mean the short 
 'Certainli/ not,' which Avas so familiar in their oars. 
 But now she shook her head. 
 
 ' I asked him before, and I told you he said " no " j 
 he quoted the epitaph,
 
 MARY FENWICE'S DAUGHTER. 49 
 
 "Boy, gun, 
 Great fun ; ' 
 
 Gun bust, 
 Boy dust." 
 
 lie only keeps that muzzle-loader for sentiment, he says, 
 not for murder.' 
 
 * It's doing nothing.' 
 
 ' That is better than doing too much, Lance.' 
 
 The boys looked glum. 
 
 ' And I — I say, about Beacon Point, did yo;i ask 
 him 1. ' 
 
 ' They are going before long, he will take one of you, 
 not more, and try to fit it in with your exeat.' 
 
 ' Thanks awfully.' 
 
 A tapping upon a window-pane of the drawing-room, 
 where a beckoning hand, a large face and a small 
 bonnet appeared, broke up the interview. 
 
 ' That's Lady Young,' said the eldest boy, ' there are 
 an awful lot of people come to jaw about the bazaar. 
 Bab came a long time ago, the Adams brought her.' 
 
 This was wonderful hearing, Bab here? Mrs. Fen- 
 wick hurried on, hurried into an atmosphere of tea- 
 cake, of coffee, of hot sealskins and excitement ; a 
 dozen women accosted her, but not with ' how-de-do.' 
 No one pretended to care for the health of her neighbour. 
 
 * Now, Mrs. Fen wick, I am sure you will agree with 
 me. Lady Young wishes tea to be charged at a shilling. 
 Is it not a preposterous price 1 You know as well as I 
 know, and the public also knows the price of tea.' 
 
 ' Dear me,' said pacific Mrs. Campbell, ' I can re- 
 member paying a shilling for a cup of tea in London, — 
 such flavourless tea, too.' 
 
 * No doubt, Fanny, you can go further back still and 
 remember when tea was made in dishes and cost a 
 fortune. Ancient history,' Lady Young's laugh an- 
 noyed her antagonist, ISIrs. Adams, who flushed very
 
 50 3IABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 red, 'has nothing to do with the case. As I have 
 undertaken the refresliment stall with Mrs. Adams' 
 help, I think I may be allowed to speak. Is it reason- 
 able to expect me to make money if tea is sixpence a 
 head 1 Sixpence a head ! and it is proposed that people 
 should eat what they wish for that sum.' 
 
 ' Eat what they wish in reason, Lady Young. I have 
 sold at many bazaars. I have sold in London and in 
 Leamington : we made money at our stall, and we made 
 it at sixpence.' 
 
 * London, Leamington — what have they to do with 
 us] The sort of people we shall have at this bazaar 
 come to stay, and they come hungry ; they sustain them- 
 selves upon their tea. Eat what they like I they may 
 like to eat everything.' 
 
 * Cakes, scones, biscuits, bread-and-butter, pattisserie 
 of all sorts will be provided. It would be physically 
 impossible to eat everything.' 
 
 * If we want to feed the neighbourhood let us, by all 
 means, invite them to a meal ; but if we wish to benefit 
 the Cottage Hospital, let us employ the right means of 
 doing so.' 
 
 * A shilling is a prohibitive price,' Mrs. Adams' voice 
 quavered, * which will give the stall a bad name. My 
 fowls will not sell unless people are attracted to the 
 refreshments by a reasonable tea. I get my fowls at 
 three and sixpence a couple from Ireland. I propose to 
 sell them at ten shillings. Consider the profit they will 
 bring us.' 
 
 * The moral deterioration of the stall-holder is the 
 most expensive part of a bazaar,' Alethea Young whis- 
 pered to Bab under cover of the dispute. 
 
 Bab was not listening to the tea-riot, the four Miss 
 Campbells were sitting round her talking of their charit- 
 able speciality, waxworks ; giggling and babbling with 
 the insipid, frolicsome gaiety of youth.
 
 MABY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 51 
 
 Bab bad a good-natured but, to some minds, pro- 
 voking way of liking everybody : sbe liked a very 
 little, so that the little was easy to like. 
 
 Muriel, Dorothy, Phyllis, and Audrey (this name- 
 cycle had swept through Combe Rectory on its triumph- 
 ant march north, south, east, and west) were nice girls, 
 she thought ; they talked much of clothes and curates, 
 and they laughed even more than they talked. She 
 placidly tolerated the subjects which were not to her 
 taste interesting, and the laughter she bore with even 
 when she did not see its point. 
 
 * At any rate, Ally,' said Bab, * waxworks are not an 
 imposture. Every one who goes to the show knows 
 precisely what he will get for his money. Mrs. Jarley 
 and her man John, and the dusting, and the winding-up, 
 and the jokes.' 
 
 *No, Miss Wilson,' Lady Young's voice was shrill 
 with feeling, ' if bread-and-butter is made an extra who 
 will undertake to count the pieces 1 ' 
 
 * Oh, Bab, do you think waxworks are played out 1 ' 
 said the embryo IMrs. Jarley, a good deal worried. 
 * They're rather old.' 
 
 * The world is old,' said Alethea, ' but it doesn't seem 
 played out.' 
 
 Poor IVIrs. Jarley wanted a bolster for her mind, not 
 an evasive generality ; she knew that Bab would speak 
 the truth, however uncomfortable to the ear it might be. 
 Again she appealed to her, 
 
 * Do you think waxworks are too old, Bab 1 ' 
 
 ' They are about as fresh as anything, Muriel. Jack 
 was glad they were chosen. Theatricals and tableaux, 
 he said, had to be taken seriously, and serious amateiu-s 
 were a serious nuisance.' 
 
 This was a bolster, though a hard one. Mrs. Jarley 
 smiled again. 
 
 * Why isn't Islx. Holland here ? ' asked Phyllis. ' He
 
 52 MAIiY FENWIOICS DAUGHTER. 
 
 promised to draw up our programme for us, and write 
 the amusing things for Mrs. Jarley.' 
 
 The question touched a forgotten circumstance in 
 Bab's memory ; she opened her eyes wide, stared at the 
 ceiling interrogatively, bit her lip, and then drew a sharp 
 breath. 
 
 * That's my fault,' she said ; ' how stupid of me. I 
 forgot all .about it. He is waiting for me at the 
 Hanleys.' 
 
 ' Why at the Hanleys 1 ' asked Alethea, speaking less 
 gently than usual. 
 
 *We arranged to golf there, you see, but I was 
 cubbing this morning, and INIrs. Adams was out. I 
 went back with her to lunch, and she was coming to this 
 committee-meeting so I came too, and until this moment 
 I forgot Jack.' 
 
 The four Miss Campbells giggled, then they looked 
 intelligently at Miss Young and giggled again. Alethea 
 was not responsive, she seemed to be listening to the 
 bread-and-butter riot. 
 
 ' A shilling or sixpence, scissors or knives 1 ' she said, 
 joining in the discussion. 'You'll have to settle the 
 question by arbitration, not argument, Mrs. Adams; 
 you don't know mamma, she is not to be convinced.' 
 
 But the question had not been decided either by 
 argument or arbitration when the lateness of the hour 
 impelled the heated committee to disperse. 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick and her daughter were wending their 
 homeward way on foot, they picked their way through 
 the rough village street and up the hill to the lodge 
 gates ; it was dark. Bab had been complaining of her 
 treacherous memory, she had been explaining the trick 
 which it had played upon' her that afternoon. Her 
 mother did not reassure her, she was stiff ; unjust 
 though it was, she was severe. 
 
 ' Mother, I left a message for Jack this morning to
 
 MaEY fen wicks DAUGHTEB. 53 
 
 meet me at the links. I did it because you said those 
 things to me last night.' 
 
 ' A promising start, Bab, but a bad finish.' 
 
 ' How could I help it \ ' 
 
 IMi-s. Fenwick said nothing, her daughter kicked a 
 stone aside. 
 
 ' As Solomon said in his song, mother, " I am sick of 
 love." ' 
 
 * You know nothing about it, Bab, nothing but the 
 word. You may be sick of Jack, that is quite another 
 story.' 
 
 Though ISIrs. Fenwick was not joking, Bab only 
 laughed. By this time they had reached the gate, the 
 man at the lodge was standing at his door and greeted 
 them, as they had ah-eady been greeted a score of times, 
 with, 
 
 * Giid evenen, mum, nice evenen's evenen.' 
 
 ' Very nice evening, but a wet sunset. Has the cart 
 come back yet, Basten 1 ' 
 
 * I aren't zeed un, miss ; but I ef only ciim'd in 'ouze 
 thease minit. Liza,' addressing ISIrs. Basten in the 
 background, * ef our dugcart pass'd up tii gert 'ouze % ' 
 
 ' Koa, 'er idden ; and, Bill, diiee plaize tii as missis ef 
 'er'll cum in 'ouze and liik tii thur babby, 'er hain't 'erzel 
 s'evenen.' 
 
 * Poor baby ill again, Basten? I am sorry.' 
 
 ' Us dU 'ope 'er idden agwaine tii 'ave vits agin, mum, 
 but 'er's wuss than iver 'er wuz avore wee a cauld. An' 
 
 'er's a-zot 'erzel agin 'er phuzzick ' he broke oil and 
 
 listened, the sound of wheels were audible. ' I kin 
 yer'n, miss ; that thir's thur dugcart zhure 'nough.' ' 
 
 Basten opened the gate, the lights of the cart came 
 skimming up the hill. Bab stood in the centre of the 
 drive, holding up her hands to stop its passage. 
 
 ' Pull up, Jack, pull up. We are here, we want 
 a lift.'
 
 54 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTEB. 
 
 In the dusky light the young man saw his guard of 
 honour by the gate, and drew up beside them. 
 
 * Who wants a lift 1 ' he asked, ' both of you ? There 
 is no back seat, but get in, I'll walk up.' 
 
 ' No, Jack, you take Bab, I would rather walk ofE 
 the hot committee-meeting, and I am going in here to 
 see Eliza.' 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick, with the weight of her daughter's 
 iniquities on her mind, disappeared into the lodge, while 
 that daughter climbed into the cart. She had a 
 suspicion that she was to be blamed, not pitied for 
 her short memory. 
 
 * Don't bucket old Pickles along at this pace,' she 
 remonstrated, ' or we shall be at home before you have 
 forgiven me. Jack.' 
 
 During the afternoon Jack had suffered as a man in 
 his difficult position must suffer ; he told himself that he 
 was as irritable as a convalescent, as touchy as a sensi- 
 tive plant ; he told himself that he was an unattractive, 
 powerless failui-e. His vanity, his self-love, his best part 
 and his worst were all alike hui't and sore. He tried to be 
 patient but he was not patient ; for the first time he had 
 found himself wishing that he had left ill alone upon 
 that momentous morning, and had turned his back on 
 Combe. 
 
 But yet, so soft-headed a master is he who rules with 
 a rod of steel that Mr. Holland's indignation could not 
 survive her first remark ; it melted at the mere sound 
 of her voice. She sat by his side, she appropriated a 
 giant share of rug, and — how well he loved her, alas for 
 him, how inevitably he loved her ! 
 
 * Jack, you are as stiff as buckram.' Her voice, her 
 dear voice was soft, though her words were without 
 sentiment. * Are you going to put out my eye with 
 your left shoulder 1 The fact is, I forgot — I absolutely 
 forgot all about you.'
 
 MABY FENWIGK'S DAUGETEB. 55 
 
 * So I concluded.' 
 
 He was in reasoncable humour • that was well. 
 
 ' You see/ she went on glibly, ' Mrs. Adams was out 
 this morning, and she asked me to go back with her to 
 lunch, so I went — to see her cob. After lunch we rode 
 here ; I had to change, and she persuaded me to go to the 
 meeting. Then Alethea Young asked something about 
 you, and I remembered. So of course ' 
 
 ' One explanation is enough, Bab ; " I forgot " did as 
 ■well as two dozen. Please don't apologize. I had a 
 delightful afternoon.' 
 
 ' That's all right,' relieved. * Who was there 1 ' 
 
 'The Hayters and Elton, and some people in the 
 house.' 
 
 * I'm so glad,' cordially. She was cordial, for was he 
 not a sensible, sane person once more ] ' I'm so glad 
 you ha,d a nice time.' 
 
 * It was extremely nice.' 
 
 Pickles was now walking up the slight incline leading 
 to the house ; nose to stall and oats, he was disinclined 
 to loiter ; he found that his driver intended he should 
 trot no more so he walked, but at his best pace. 
 
 ' The afternoon was extremely nice,' Jack repeated ; 
 he was no longer sitting square with aggressive left 
 shoulder, but he faced his companion's profile, upon 
 which he looked as men can look by intention, or do 
 look by habit when good-looking features are within 
 sight. 
 
 It is so easy to look more than is felt, so easy to 
 appreciate beauty, so easy to express nnich by word of 
 mouth ; so impossible to plomb the depth, to gauge the 
 breadth and height, the reality of anything to do Avith 
 feeling save by the test of time. Under the twinkling 
 starlight, with a moon in the background, without taking 
 the effect of reaction into consideration Jack had 
 temptation to plunge ahead with his uphill courtship.
 
 66 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 'Imagine yourself irrevocably hitched on a barbed- 
 wire fence, with the hounds full cry in the vale, Bab ; 
 my afternoon was just about as nice as that would be. 
 It is nothing to laugh at ; I did not laugh, I bullied my 
 caddie and I thought I should like to bully you.' 
 
 She looked overhead, 
 
 ' Plenty of stars,' she said, as though a good supply 
 was an unusual sight ; ' but what a moon, lots of rain 
 in it. Jack.' 
 
 Ho too looked up at that moon of burnished copper 
 sailing amidst a myriad of stars against a faint-hued sky. 
 
 ' I wonder what they think of us, Bab 1 I don't 
 expect the stars take us seriously, their sharp eyes wink 
 and twinkle as if the panorama down here was a joke to 
 them ; they are an unsympathetic lot : but the moon I 
 like her, she never twinkles at our poor old earth, her 
 eye is large and she sees largely, she looks deep into the 
 life she shines upon ; when she's the only light we have 
 down here, she has no cause to wink.' 
 
 Perhaps to a young person who had owned that she 
 was ' sick of love ' that quick, soft voice of his was a 
 little tiresome, it made Bab uncomfortable to hear him 
 talking like a fool about the moon in a high-flown way. 
 
 * The September moon is such a funny colour,' she 
 said, slowly, * it is like a hot farthing or — or a bad egg.' 
 
 She wished to hustle him out of his ridiculous mood, 
 really she was afraid he would kiss her. Of course in 
 time he would come to that, but as yet that time had 
 not arrived, perhaps it would be better to get the first 
 salute over and settle down calmly to these natural out- 
 comes of the crisis. He was looking at her in a 
 threatening way. She followed up her remark by a 
 question. 
 
 ' Why didn't you come to the meeting 1 They wanted 
 you to write something humorous for the waxwork 
 programme.'
 
 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 57 
 
 ' Did you want me, Bab 1 ' 
 ' They were fighting so. Nothing was settled.' 
 ' Did you want me, Bab ? Do you ever want me 1 If 
 I went away to-morrow would you — if it was a wet, 
 miserable day and you could not go out — would you 
 remember me then, and want me 1 ' 
 
 * But why should you go 1 You have nothing to do in 
 London, surely you need not go back till after Exeter 
 assize 1 Tliere is the bazaar and the ball, you never 
 said a word before about going away.' 
 
 ' Do you remember the days when I used to scrape 
 the thorns off the stems of the wild roses so that you 
 should pick them without getting pricked 1 You used to 
 rush off to put your flowers in water and leave me as 
 soon as your hands were full,' 
 
 ' You were very good-natured,' she said quickly. 
 
 ' No, it certainly was nature, but not good at all. 
 When I scraped the thorns off in those days I didn't 
 want the flowers, but now I want my share, Bab, now I 
 want a share of the roses. I love you, darling. I love you.' 
 
 This was getting dreadful. 
 
 * I know that,' said Bab nervously, * I know it. Jack, 
 but I wish, I really wish you would try to care a little 
 less, it would be better, I'm sure it would be a great 
 deal better.' 
 
 * Care less 'i ' he repeated, as Pickles stopped at the 
 hall door. ' Care less ] Teach me your way, Bab,' he 
 was still immoderately tender though he knew her every 
 trick of voice and manner and he saw she was embar- 
 rassed, ' you have not learned to care more, and I cannot 
 learn to care less. Care more, I can't do that either, 
 Bab, it is impossible. Care less 1 Care more ? You 
 don't know what you say. I am afraid you know very 
 little at all about it.' 
 
 Bab was getting out of the cart now, she rang the 
 front-door bell with a loud peal.
 
 C8 MABY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' What is the use of trying to be rational 1 ' she said 
 to the dogs which leaped and frisked about her as she 
 went, blinking, into the cheerful hall. ' Venom,' ad- 
 dressing the terrier suddenly, ' you are old and wise, you 
 ought to know. Will he get over it when he is mar- 
 ried ] Will he get as other people are 1 Say yes, or no.' 
 
 Venom yapped a satisfactory yap of assent. 
 
 * I knew he would. I felt sure of it. He won't,' 
 reassuring herself, * worry about the stars, or the moon, 
 or me, when it is settled and we are married just like 
 every one else.' 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 Vust 'er rained, 
 Thin 'er bloard, 
 Thin 'er 'ail'd, 
 Thin 'er snoard. 
 
 Thin thir ciim 
 A sho'er o' rain, 
 Thin 'er froz, 
 An' bloard agin. 
 
 ff'cather-cast of the West. 
 
 ' A mariner must have his eye upon rocks and shoals as well as 
 upon the North Star.' 
 
 The master of Combe was very sorry for himself, he 
 lolled his haivy head against his leather chair and 
 sneezed repeatedly, sneezing as though he believed, as 
 his remote forefathers had done, that Satan himself was 
 concealed in the * Snishuum ! ' ' Tishum ! ' ' Ishum ! ' 
 
 Notwithstanding his cold no one had pitied liim, he 
 had been left alone since breakfast, he had had to do 
 the cosseting, the compassion, which were his by right, 
 for himself. 
 
 No revolution, nor domestic anarchy, nor social rioting 
 were wont to upheave the courses of Combe life under 
 the strong, wise hand which governed his household, but
 
 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTEB. 59 
 
 exception goes to prove the rule. The Tipton bazaar 
 had turned the house upside down and this was but the 
 day before the fair. 
 
 His wife had forsaken him, everything which he 
 particuhxrly wanted had gone : the scissors had been 
 taken from the smoking-room table, Captain Fenwick's 
 cash-box and his own ball of twine had disappeared. 
 Rawle was reading the third volume of his novel in the 
 work-room, the post had brought him nothing but bills. 
 
 He would have taken his cold out of doors, — for he, 
 like his fellows, treated sickness as an ill to be cured by 
 anything rather than by caution, — but it had rained, as 
 is its accomplished habit in Devon, since daybreak, and 
 was, at seven o'clock in the evening, raining still. 
 
 He had rung the smoking-room bell more often than 
 was necessary, he had ordered champagne, — Mary would 
 be tired out, — he had made a roaring fire though the 
 muggy evening was hot as June, and now, with a terrier 
 on his knee, he sat listening for carriage wheels which 
 did not come. 
 
 There ! he thought as much, he was deaf from this 
 abominable cold for, even while he was listening, the 
 door opened and his daughter came into the room. 
 
 * I didn't hear you coming, Bab ; how wet you are.' 
 She was indeed, her coat was iridescent with raindrops ; 
 the brim of her hat dripped round her face as the edge 
 of a verandah drips when the shower is over. ' \Yhere 
 is your mother % ' 
 
 ' She sent me home ; the Adams were going so they 
 drove me, and dropped me at the lodge.' 
 
 ' Where is yoiu- mother 1 ' 
 
 ' She is still there. Nothing is ready, everything is 
 at sixes and sevens. The workmen had not got the 
 stalls up till an hour ago. Till tlien we did nothing, 
 there was nothing to do but talk. Now there is a 
 fearful fuss, such a babel, such fights.'
 
 60 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTEB. 
 
 ' Do you mean to tell me that your mother is not 
 coming back to dinner ? ' 
 
 * I don't fancy that she or Jack will get away till 
 midnight.' 
 
 ' If any one was obliged to stay on you might have 
 done so, you would not knock up. Why on earth didn't 
 you look after her and send her home 1 ' 
 
 ' Send her 1 ' Bab was laughing ; she was amused at 
 the blame to which she was so unaccustomed. * She 
 isn't the sort of mother who gets sent.' 
 
 ' She doesn't complain so you think she cannot get 
 tired. Poor Mary, I can imagine how she stood about 
 and ate nothing.' 
 
 ' There was nothing to eat.' 
 
 ' Just like a committee of women ! Nothing to eat ? ' 
 
 ' Some one bought a few buns ; we ate them like 
 wolves. I don't think mother got more than a currant.' 
 
 * Jack must be off his head. I suppose ho was mooning 
 about after you all day, or he would have seen to Mary.' 
 
 Bab had taken olf her hat, and was shaking the drops 
 of rain upon it off into the fire ; her clothes exhumed a 
 thick mist, she was looking fresh and cheerful. Captain 
 Fenwick's heat of mind did not impress her. 
 
 * I saw very little of Jack,' she returned ; ' his mother 
 swallowed him up. She was as quarrelsome as a robin, 
 and I heard her saying wondrous things about me.' 
 
 ' Twelve hours without food ! ' in awed tones ; ' no 
 one hut a wo ' 
 
 * Jack got us lunch all right ; lots of nasty things to 
 eat at the " Plough." ' 
 
 ' You have just told me there was nothing to eat.' 
 ' No tea, I meant. It's one's tea, don't you see, that 
 
 one can't get on without. I'm so hungry, I'll go off 
 
 and get clothed.' 
 
 ' Before you go, where are my scissors, Bab 1 I can 
 
 keep nothing in this house.'
 
 MABY FENWIGE?S DAUGHTEli. 61 
 
 ' No,' with a spontaneous, bubbling laugh, ' no, not 
 even your temper. I will never come home again when 
 you are expecting mother — never, never. You are not 
 a bit pleased to see me.' 
 
 On the staircase she stopped laughing — she had always 
 known that she was but second fiddle to either father 
 or mother, she had always known it. Heigh-ho ! flrs^t 
 fiddles had serious responsibilities. She was Jack's first 
 fiddle, and he wanted her to play all sorts of music of 
 which she did not know the tune. Old airs, with no 
 variations ; she had heard them droned out by tiresome 
 women till she was dead sick of the sound. She had no 
 wish to be reduced to the level of such performers. 
 And — she had a crow to pluck with Jack. 
 
 She was lively and talkative at dinner, the champagne 
 (which Mrs. Fenwick was not there to drink) and his 
 daughter's sprightliness between them dispelled the 
 migraines and vapours of the master of the house. He 
 and she talked upon the great bird and beast topic, upon 
 the crop topic ; their interests were identical. Bab's 
 tongue had no feminine faculty for fine sifting and hole- 
 picking, it was no blacker of blots ; it was a good- 
 natured, frank tongue, with small diffidence about it. 
 
 The evening did not seem over long. Bab was wide 
 awake. No one sang ' The Devout Lover ' as her 
 lullaby, and when the sound of carriage-wheels was 
 heard, she looked up in surprise at the clock. 
 
 ' It's only ten,' she said ; ' they have got through the 
 work faster than I thought possible.' 
 
 Captain Fenwick threw down his cards ; he and she 
 were in an exciting crisis at bezique, but off he went 
 into the hall to meet the wayfarers. 
 
 * When Jack has had his dinner tell him I'm here,' 
 Bab called after her father ; ' don't say anything about 
 me till he has finished dinner.' 
 
 When she found herself alone in the drawing-room
 
 62 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 she set a waste-paper basket at a convenient distance 
 o£F, and essayed to throw the bezique cards one by one 
 into it. Some time passed before she tired of this game, 
 and the cards were everywhere except in the basket, 
 when she presently halted on the rug and looked 
 impatiently at the clock. 
 
 The walls of Combe were thick, the drawing-room 
 was far away from the dining-room, and far from 
 Captain Fenwick's own quarters, whither he had hurried 
 his tired wife and her companion for the soup and 
 champagne, for the royal reception denied his daughter. 
 
 Bab leaned her folded arms on the back of a tall oak 
 chair ; a black screen, embroidered in gold, was behind 
 her, beside her a high lamp threw its light upon her 
 dress, leaving her face in shadow. Dan, the collie, lay 
 prone at her feet, a dachshund had scratched at the train 
 of her maize dress and turned it into an impromptu bed. 
 Bab was a little out of breath after her card-throwing ; 
 she was hot, the colouring of her dress harmonized with 
 her brunette tints, with her brown head and hazel eyes. 
 
 She leaned upon the hard carving of the oak chair ; it 
 had been a long day. Jack took an unreasonable time 
 over his dinner. At last the door opened, she turned 
 her eyes towards the incomer and looked at him curiously, 
 observantly, as though he was a stranger in whose 
 appearance her interest had been aroused. 
 
 ' Here you are at last. Jack. I was waiting for you.' 
 
 This was a likely greeting, and its warmth was backed 
 by the dogs' welcome ; they rushed at JVIr. Holland, 
 revolving round him, whining with pleasure. He stooped 
 to pat the collie, then closed the door and went over to 
 the hearth, standing with his back to the waning fire 
 and looking at the lady of his love. 
 
 ' Waiting for me 1, ' his first look of admiration changed 
 into inquiry. What was the matter 1 why was Bab wait- 
 ing for him, and wide awake at eleven o'clock at night ?
 
 3IABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 63 
 
 His fascinations had nothing to do with the case. Bab 
 had something upon her mind, as the saying is ; some- 
 thing in her mind was prehide only to something on her 
 tongue, she had no reserves, no secrets, no hidden feelings. 
 What she thought that she spoke ; he saw that she was 
 thinking uncomfortable things of him, and that she 
 would certainly speak them. 
 
 ' What have I done, Bab 1 What can it be ] What 
 can keep you out of bed to blow me up ] ' 
 
 When this lady was in earnest and in yellow she was 
 at her very best, Jack felt that it would be impossible 
 to take offence at any demand she might make upon his 
 forbearance. She looked anxiously into his face. 
 
 ' Have you given out that I'm to stop shooting and 
 hunting when we are married ] ' She spoke quickly, in 
 a matter-of-fact, but injured voice, the question had a 
 certain charm about it to his ears. 
 
 * Have I given out that I intend to be Attorney- 
 General ] Do I bi-ag that I'm a likily Chancellor 1 
 Have we settled anything about which to speculate or 
 to brag ] ' 
 
 * Do you mean yes or no 1 ' 
 
 * Yes what 1 No what ] ' 
 
 * Do you hate my shooting 1 ' 
 
 * I hate nothing of yours, but I deplore a — waste of 
 cartridges.' 
 
 Here was a hit direct, though ho was in an imper- 
 tvirbable, after-dinner humour. Bab would have liked 
 to have given a Roland for his Oliver had she known 
 where to lay hands on such a commodity ; as it was, she 
 repeated her fii-st question with a growing impatience. 
 
 * Did you wait up to cross-examine me 1 ' he answered. 
 
 * Yes, I did. Is it true that you hate a woman in the 
 coverts or the hunting-field 1 I heard your mother say 
 so, Charlie Elton heard it too, there was only the canvas 
 of one tent between her and me. She said that if we
 
 64 MABY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 marry we should fight fearfully, she said all sorts of 
 nasty things of mo, of course, and — and 1 am to be 
 modelled on my mother. She said that you want a 
 delicate cobweb of a woman for your wife. Is it true, 
 Jack]' 
 
 It was not her fault that she had overheard all this, 
 she Avas no more to blame than he whose mother had 
 been tho author of these disquieting remarks. His 
 mother ! He frowned instead of smiling, looking grim 
 enough and forbidding enough to awaken Bab's sus- 
 picions. 
 
 * A fable,' he said. * Why did you listen to it ] ' 
 
 * I was unpacking, I couldn't go away, and there is 
 some truth in it. Jack, there is a shadow of truth in it.' 
 
 * No, no, no shadow, none. Think how long we have 
 been friends, what good times we have had together. 
 Because we come closer, nearer, because we unite our 
 interests, is that a reason why we should " fight fear- 
 fully," and be ready to cut our throats 1 ' 
 
 She was not convinced, she shook her head, watching 
 his face. 
 
 *Bab,' suddenly, 'are you a "delicate cobweb"? 
 Are you not my life, my love, my hope, my joy, the 
 very eyes of me 1 ' 
 
 There was no cobwebby feel in the hand which she 
 removed from his. 
 
 * Don't ! I want you to say what you mean, not to 
 be stupid. If we are married, shall you be lofty about 
 hunting and shooting] Do you disapprove of my 
 shooting 1 ' 
 
 * I don't care two straws one way or the other. If 
 you like it, do it by all means. If you don't, give it up. 
 I think a woman might do — better. I know she can 
 do — worse.' 
 
 * A wet blanket,' she retorted ; ' you will pull a long 
 face and say, as Mr. Campbell says, " do what you wish,
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER 65 
 
 do what amuses you, however silly it may be," he spoils 
 everything for the girls, Jack, by despising their 
 amusements.' 
 
 ' Desjnse.' 
 
 ' Yes, despising their interests. A man often despises 
 his wife, I've noticed it.' 
 
 ' Bab, you talk at random.' It confounded him to 
 see the vastness of her ignorance. ' Is it a rule of life 
 that a man should despise his wife 1 Don't say such 
 wretched things, such miserable rubbish. When I ask 
 you to give up anything to please me, then I think it 
 will be time to quarrel with me. Then you may begin 
 to dread the time that I shall bully and despise my wife.' 
 
 'You are exaggerating. Jack, I am not dreading 
 anything. It was natural to tell you what I heard, as 
 it made me think. I thought we might get into one of 
 those jarring, nagging, uncomfortable couples, like the 
 old Adams. I thought you really might fancy I should 
 change into a domestic person with a mind on maids, 
 a soul for books. That I should take to sitting in the 
 house, and to needle-work, and to straining my ears for 
 your footsteps when we were married. I shan't, you 
 know, I'm sure I shan't. I hate the house. Jack, I love 
 to be out, out, OUT. I can't breathe stuffing in a room 
 and poring over books. I want to move, to feel my 
 hat on my head, and the earth under my feet, and the 
 fresh air round me. Don't marry me, Jack, if you want 
 me different ; don't try to change me. I got a panic, I 
 thought you had a plan to make me alter everything.' 
 
 She was in earnest ; she appealed to him, as she had 
 done long ago. As a child when she had wanted his 
 help, when she had found she was only a gu'l with 
 petticoats, and other like weaknesses to contend with 
 in the hard day's work, 
 
 Bab had lit on a vein of truth in this last accusation ; 
 she had lit upon a deeply buried conviction the existence 
 
 F
 
 66 MAIiy FLIS WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 of wliicli its owner had not liimself perceived, until she 
 put it into words. 
 
 In truth, Jack had not pictui-ed his wife among the 
 mangolds and the turnips ; he had not pictured her 
 among the *gee-woas,' and the 'stand-overs,' and the 
 buckets of water, and the horses. He had not pictured 
 their tete-a-tete discourse of birds and beasts, of runs and 
 shoots, of crops and weather. 
 
 He knew, in his heart of hearts, that Bab's picture of 
 the domestic person with needlework and strained ears 
 had been sketched upon the canvas of his imagination 
 as a married Queen Bab ; so that when she turned his 
 anticipation into ridicule, when she accused him of it, 
 when she appealed against it, he felt guilty. 
 
 * Isn't it better to put off worrying yourself till 
 Christmas is past? It is a premature sort of discussion, 
 when,' his head was inclining to one side, he was going 
 to be tiresome, * when the time comes, dar ' 
 
 * Oh,' shortly, ' you are begging the question.' 
 
 ' May I never show you what I feel 1 Will you never 
 try to understand me 1 ' 
 
 ' I understand all right, Jack. Do you think that you 
 are the only person who talks about all that sort of thing to 
 me 1 I assure you that the Campbells talk of nothing else.' 
 
 * Poor Bab,' his smile was grim, his fancy chuckled 
 though his heart did ache. 
 
 * I know you want me to be weak in the head about 
 you ; you oughtn't to grumble, for it is much better^ 
 than if I was weak in the head about every other man I 
 saw. You don't know what girls are ; when they begin 
 falling in love they don't seem to be able to stop. Oh, 
 it's appalling, they confide in me and I really can't 
 remember who it is they don't love ; there are so many 
 of them and such changes.' 
 
 * If you,' gravely, ' would only begin, Bab, I would 
 teach you where to stop.'
 
 MAEY FENWICK'S DAUGBTEB. 67 
 
 * I should think " to be loved " means " to be bored," 
 in nine cases out of ten.' 
 
 * You know nothing about it, then.' 
 
 * I must say you are very good,' with a complimentary 
 smile, ' you don't often, at least you don't always talk 
 in that way.' 
 
 * As the years go by you will find out, perhaps, what 
 I feel without a word of mine.' 
 
 * I,' looking at him scrutinizingly, * I wonder why 
 you like me ] I often think it's only fancy, Jack.' 
 
 * In, say, ten years' time, I wonder if then you will 
 still think it a, fancy?' 
 
 'Ten years, I shall be thirty-two, it isn't old — one 
 can go on doing everything at thirty-two just the same, 
 women ride to hounds at sixty. And, Jack, you have 
 not any plans for modelling me? We will give and 
 take, give and take, as we have done.' 
 
 She was so unconscious of her huge takings and her 
 scanty givings, that any one save a man of Jack's 
 calibre must have been forced to speak 'some certain 
 truths of her.' He did not even think them, so thick 
 was the smoke in his head. He turned away from her, 
 leaning an elbow on the mantelpiece and his head on 
 his hand. His wooing did not prosper, words were 
 breath wasted, and now-a-days, no feat of arms, no 
 deed of chivalry could be used for his purpose. Patience 
 was his only weapon, and it was a miserably weak 
 one. 
 
 * Of course,' she proceeded cheerily, * I didn't believe 
 a word your mother said.' This was a pleasing ad- 
 mission. * But Major Elton said you weren't a sports- 
 man, and he chaffed me about it, so I thought I'd tell 
 you. It is very late, I must go now.' 
 
 * You have a hard day before you. Oh ! ' the door 
 opened, and as it did so the speaker returned to the rug, 
 • here is Captain Fenwick.'
 
 68 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 * Bab, you up still 1 This is a miracle. Your miracle, 
 Jack ; you must be proud.' 
 
 No one saw the joke. Bab said she really must go, 
 and hurried off with a nod of good-night to the mankind, 
 humming ' Drink, puppy, drink,' on her way. 
 
 No, Jack was not going to bed ; he had not seen the 
 paper, he should go to the smoking-room. "Was any- 
 thing wrong 1 Certainly not ; he was only a bit tired 
 after all the labour at Tipton. With such a cold 
 Captain Fenwick ought to be in bed, and Captain 
 Fenwick took the hint and went. 
 
 It is a sick heart, or a sick head, that drives its 
 owner to take to pacing his room in the small hours, 
 instead of taking to his bed. No one but the rats had 
 wakeful nights at Combe, they frisked behind the 
 wainscoting, but every other living thing in the house 
 was decently asleep. 
 
 The smoking-room was full of photographs of Bab ; 
 the young man did not read the paper, he walked from 
 frame to frame looking at the daughter of the house in 
 many a different stage of her existence. 
 
 Other women tired their heads and dressed themselves 
 up, and were photographed within the house, curtains 
 or screens in the background, flowers or books about 
 them. Not so Miss Fenwick. Here she was as a baby 
 thing strapped in a pannier on her donkey by the 
 porch ; here, barefooted, digging on the sands by the 
 sea ; here swinging under the cedar on the lawn ; here 
 seated on her pony in the stableyard — these were 
 likenesses of her during childhood. 
 
 Later on, with her mane of hair up, and her skirts of 
 a somewhat more advanced length, she was pictured as 
 the centre of a group of men and guns ; she stood 
 leaning on her own gun, with a pile of dead game at her 
 feet ; setters, retriever, spaniel, crouched on the grass 
 among the sportsmen. Here again was Bab clad in
 
 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 69 
 
 cloth cap and rough, open coat, sitting square-shouldered 
 and bolt upright in her cart ; Bab on her hunter ; Bab 
 in her habit ; Bab everywhere about the room, and 
 always out, out, OUT. 
 
 Unfortunate man that he was, his head-quarters were 
 in London, and she knew it. She must know, surely 
 she must know that thither Mi'S. Holland would be 
 taken by her husband ; she must know that the out, 
 OUT, OUT, for which she clamoured would be, for the 
 greater part of the year, the sort of out which is taken 
 in streets. Where the hat on her head must be orna- 
 mental, neither billycock nor nondescript of frieze ; 
 where the earth under her feet would be very much 
 disguised ; where the air around her would be vitiated, 
 heavy, exhausted, nothing fresh about it save the 
 adjective. Why did she talk in that matter-of-fact way 
 about being married, and then talk almost violently of 
 her intention to be out, OUT, OUT 1 
 
 She had a youthful way of living from hour to hour ; 
 she did not often allude to any future, but to-day his 
 mother's fables had had effect upon her imagination, 
 she had been driven to think. Did she imagine that 
 Jack could be added to the Combe menage merely as 
 ' Bab's husband,' with no other distinction, no tangible 
 position 1 Impossible ; she had as great a contempt for 
 an idle man as Jack had himself. He took up her 
 latest photograph and looked at it long and earnestly, 
 and yet as he did this he told himself that to live such 
 a life would be impossible, — utterly impossible. 
 
 He loved her with all his heart, with all his mind, 
 but there are other ingredients than mind or heart 
 which go to form a man. Jack was energetic, ambitious, 
 keen for success in the ranks of his profession. 
 ' For more than passion goes to make a man. ' 
 He was not a poor man ; from the old rector of Combe 
 he had inherited an income sufficient to make him
 
 70 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 independent of a wife's fortune ; unhappily for him, the 
 independence of <£ s. d. was all the independence he had 
 in regard to Bab. She had talked to him of ' give and 
 take ' ; had she planned to take every blessed thing of 
 his and spoil it? 
 
 The thought was treasonable, she was guileless, 
 generous, frank. If she was slow to feel legitimate 
 pangs to be out, out, out with him, or to be in, in, in 
 her husband's home (whether that home were in Hono- 
 lulu or in Hampstead), that was his fault, every fault 
 was his ; as a true lover should, he took the blame to 
 himself. He left his finger-marks on the photograph 
 frames, and his track on the carpet, all in vain. 
 
 ' time, thou must untangle tins, not I, 
 It is too hard a knot for me to untie.' 
 
 That was the end of his reasonings, he left his fate to 
 time. Time, to which we confide our future when we 
 are powerless to help ourselves in the present. Time is 
 a desperate remedy. 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 Happy thou art not, 
 For what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get. 
 
 Measure for Measure. 
 
 ' For a dream cometh through the multitude of business. * 
 
 •'b'- 
 
 An hoiu' ago the greatest lady in Devon had opened the 
 Tipton bazaar. The prejudiced advocate of the superi- 
 ority of our sex must o^v^^ the feminine voice to be but 
 a wretched medium for public declamation. In thin, 
 Bhrill tones the great lady had declared that ' she had 
 much pleasure in opening the bazaar, and really,' with 
 an appealing glance at her nervous daughter, * really, 
 she was sure,' losing her place and becoming colloquial
 
 MARY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTER. 71 
 
 and deprecating, * everybody in the neighboiirliood hoped 
 it "would be a great success, and — and — and everybody 
 had taken so much trouble, and everything was so 
 pretty and so tempting, and, therefore, she again de- 
 clared the bazaar to be open.' 
 
 Here a solemn gipsy, two feet high, led forward by 
 a gipsy mamma, heaved up, in shaky little hands, an 
 enormous bouquet, which the great lady accepted 
 gi'aciously, and into which she dipped her nose several 
 times, with staccato gestures, as she stepped down from 
 the dais into the encampment. 
 
 * We are longing to see all the beautiful things more 
 closely,' the distinguished impostor murmured, between 
 her smiles, to the Ijystanders. 
 
 ' Audaciously worthless,' she said to her daughter on 
 her way home, * the things they sold wei-e audaciously 
 worthless, there was absolutely nothing to buy, and I 
 have spent twenty pounds in buying it : the house is 
 ruinous, but the dear boy's seat must be oui- fii-st 
 consideration.' 
 
 Now the bazaar was in full swing, the Town-hall was 
 packed from end to end, buyers crowded the stiding 
 tents, every one was frauding, or being frauded, and 
 doing it pleasantly and thoroughly. 
 
 Gipsies, of all nations under heaven, were ' doing ' 
 their customers at every turn. Their fixed smiles, their 
 suave interest in the transactions, their genial temper 
 abetted their dishonesty, concealed their design. 
 
 Jack Holland sat in a caravan at the extreme end of 
 the encampment. He had volunteered to do anything 
 except to ' dress up,' and the committee had entrusted 
 to him the management of the raffling trade. He was 
 head of the department and master of the caravan in 
 which the fortune-teller held her seance. All day long 
 the rattle of lottery counters was about his ears. 
 Round about the caravan traffic was congested. Gipsies
 
 72 MABY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 with raffling papers pressed about the wheels, clamoviring 
 that their tui'n had come for his attention, he was 
 worked as a willing horse, worked as though the will- 
 ingness was but a feather in the driver's cap. Those 
 people who had taken shares in the various raffles, 
 watched him narrowly with keen suspicion, they openly 
 suspected him of guile; while the gipsies soothed the 
 losers and encom-aged the winners, thus, 
 
 ' Here you are, ]VIr. Cobley, you're the lucky man ; 
 here is the fan, you have won it. Now, you really must 
 take a share for this screen, I bring you luck ! ' 
 
 * Foot Miss Warren, have you not got the cosy after 
 all 1 I did so hope you would get it. I am so sorry.' 
 
 The personal sympathy of these jingling, genial gipsies 
 was seductive, the fresh raffling papers were soon refilled 
 with the names of victims, and all went merry as a 
 marriage bell. 
 
 Jack rattled, and wrote, and smiled to himself. 
 Luckily it is the way of the world to shout at a win 
 and to whisper over a loss, so the few who draw prizes 
 in raffles, or elsewhere, noise their takings abroad and 
 act as decoy-ducks, while those many who draw blanks 
 hold their tongues, like wise people. 
 
 He could find few legitimate instants in which to look 
 across the crowd to the far end of the room where his 
 own gipsy stood beside a huge cauldron, suspended from 
 an iron triangle, and from which people ladled out 
 ' surprises ' at sixpence a dip from a well of sawdust. 
 His own gipsy, this queen of gipsies had no spare 
 moment, legitimate or otherwise, to waste on the 
 proprietor of a caravan, she was far too busy. 
 
 Customers thronged about her ; spruce, alert, and 
 keen to do a thriving trade, she sold her ladlef uls as 
 fast as hands could ply them. She wasted no time in 
 unnecessary civilities, but gave change with laborious 
 reckoning, wrapped awkward parcels awkwardly but
 
 MABY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 73 
 
 with a business-like precision. Intent on diminishing 
 her stock, she worked in earnest as it was her wont to 
 play. 
 
 The afternoon had worn away in hard toil, the lights 
 had long been lit, trade had slackened for the time 
 while the thirsty people surged round the tea tent. 
 IVIrs. Fen wick had been dragged forth from her tent by 
 her husband who, manlike, was out of touch with the 
 money-grubbing enthusiasm. 
 
 * If a hundred pounds was wanted, for heaven's sake 
 write a cheque; Mary should not dig her grave in 
 search of half -a-cr own.' 
 
 He dragged her off to the calming contemplation of 
 waxworks who melted, poor things, in a free library, at 
 intervals of a quarter of an hour ; while Mis. Fenwick's 
 littered stall was set in order by her contingent of gipsy 
 helpers. 
 
 Still Bab worked with a group of buyers thick around 
 her ; her head was getting tired, the arithmetic of 
 traffic had tied a tight string of thought round her 
 forehead which was marked with faint lines. She had 
 not talked, and smiled, and toiled in vitiated air for 
 several consecutive hours without receiving the hall- 
 marks of her labour ; there were indications of crow's- 
 feet about her eyes, amiable traceries of her ingratiating 
 smiles round her mouth. 
 
 Fah ! she was tired, she wanted something ; — of course 
 she wanted her tea, she had missed her tea. Where 
 was Jack 1 She looked about and espied him in the 
 caravan, — she caught his eye and made a sign indicating 
 that she had orders for him. She did not watch the 
 effect of the sign, she did not doubt what it would be. 
 
 More children ladled out their sixpenny surprises, 
 more lads and lasses tried their luck in the cauldron 
 but Jack had not come ; again she looked at the 
 caravan, he was not there, a gunner-boy from the
 
 74 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 barracks was in his seat, rattling the lottery-box in his 
 stead, and hemmed in by gipsies. 
 
 She arrested a stall-holder who passed her just then. 
 
 * Look after my cauldron for a little while, will you 1 
 I'm going to get tea. Oh, Jack, where have you been 1 
 I want tea, I've a tongue like a parrot.' 
 
 Jack was always so useful a friend when tea or 
 tickets, carriages or cloaks were necessary ; he was late, 
 which was unusual, in taking his orders — he was 
 indifferent, which was yet more strange, to Queen 
 Bab's thirst. 
 
 * Can you get away 1 ' 
 
 * Yes, Miss Cane will sell for me, but I would rather 
 you brought me my tea, it is cooler here.' 
 
 * But I want you outside ; skirt round the fringe of 
 the crowd this way.* 
 
 * Wliy do you want me outside 1 What is the 
 matter 1 ' 
 
 ' Alethea is ill ; she has been telling fortunes the 
 whole day in that beastly caravan, the thermometer 
 92° ; she looks dead, but it is a faint, they tell me.' 
 
 To faint, to weep, to fall in love, these amiable 
 weaknesses of her sex did not appeal to Bab's com- 
 passion, she reckoned the trio in the same catalogue of 
 unattractive eccentricities, 
 
 * Oh, faint, is she 1 you need not be frightened, Jack, 
 she often faints — in chvirch or when she's at all over- 
 done,' the voice was not sympathetic ; he might be 
 tender over these cobwebby women, but they did not 
 appeal to her compassion. 
 
 * She never gives in, she goes till she drops. She's 
 all yoiu' pluck, Bab, but not your muscle.' 
 
 Pluck was the attribute which the hearer canonized, 
 it was absurd to apply such a word to poor Alethea. 
 
 As she followed Jack, winding her way in and out 
 among the people, she met Lady Young face to face,
 
 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 75 
 
 who laid her soft fat hand upon Bab's arm and arrested 
 her. 
 
 'Where are you taking my son to, Miss Fenwick] 
 Not off duty, I hope.' 
 
 ' Fatigue-duty, Lady Young ; Alethea has collapsed, 
 he is taking me to revive her.' 
 
 Lady Young was in excellent humour. Social joys 
 such as she appreciated had fallen to her lot throughout 
 the day, she had picked up crumbs of news about all 
 sorts and conditions of men. The great lady had 
 bought her embroidered table-cloth ; tea, at a shilling 
 a head, was selling as fast as frantic vendors could serve 
 it ; Lady Young had won the smart screen which had 
 been raffled at the Combe stall, and she knew that 
 Mrs. Fenwick did not wish her handiwork to be landed 
 at Woodbm-y. Now she was sauntering away from her 
 work, meaning to enjoy a little rest and a great deal of 
 conversation. 
 
 * I got her out into the cloak-room for some air, she 
 is faint.' 
 
 *As it is scarcely a case for a mash, or EUiman, I 
 hardly understand what Miss Fenwick will do,' laughing 
 very much. ' "When Ally is ill, poor dear, I find it best 
 to ignore, or to scold her for her little ailments. They 
 are a great amusement to her, so we must not deprive 
 her of them altogether.' 
 
 Jack was never his natural self when his mother was 
 in earshot, he stiffened in manner and in mind. 
 
 ' Aletheti looks ghastly,' he .said. 
 
 ' Go and , play good Samaritans, by all means, 1 
 mustn't keep you. Don't allow Jack to doctor Ally 
 into hysterics. Miss Fenwick, she is always worse when 
 he is at Woodbury.' 
 
 ' The heat in that caravan is enough to kill any 
 woman.' 
 
 * Yes, yes, yes, Jack, any one can take you in.'
 
 76 MABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTEB. 
 
 Such an accusation is not relished by the accused, he 
 frowned, but Bab looked at him with friendly eyes ; 
 acuteness is a valuable but it is not an ingratiating 
 quality, a simple, credulous person may be green but he 
 is almost sure to be nice. 
 
 The window of the cloak-room was wide open. 
 Alethea lay beneath it on the floor, her head raised on 
 a roll of cushions ; a woman was kneeling beside her, 
 bathing her forehead, her hair was drenched on her 
 forehead. She looked so ill that Bab, her disdain 
 changed into sick fear, did all she was told to do for 
 the sufferer, too alarmed to speak. She had never seen 
 any one faint, she had had no sort of experience in 
 illness, but she held salts and administered brandy when 
 she was shown how to do so. 
 
 Her hands were deft and steady, but never in her 
 life had Bab been so glad to see anything as she was 
 now, when she saw Alethea's eyelids flicker and unclose, 
 when she saw her smile feebly at Jack, who was chafing 
 her hands. 
 
 * That's right. Ally, you are better.' 
 
 ' I am quite well,' raising her head quickly, but 
 letting it fall again, for it swam and reeled when she 
 moved. 
 
 'You are nothing of the sort. Keep quiet — and 
 drink this.' 
 
 Was Jack ' doctoring her into hysterics ' 1 His voice 
 was not soft, as Bab knew its softness, and yet tears 
 came rushing down Alethea's cheeks as he spoke. Bab 
 had never cried in her life save when she had the 
 toothache, and once when she had lost her temper. 
 
 Without directions, she held the salts again cruelly 
 close to the poor thing's nose. 
 
 * If you cry it does no good, and you make yourself 
 worse,' she said, earnestly, persuasively. 
 
 'Is that you, BabT the tears stopped flowing. 'I
 
 MARY FENWICICS DAUGHTER. 77 
 
 didn't see you. Yes, some more water. I shall be all 
 right in a moment.' 
 
 Very soon she was sitting np, trying to get rid of 
 the good Samaritans, and declaring she was perfectly well. 
 
 * You will go straight home,' said Jack. 
 
 * No, nonsense ! you know how I hate my health, don't 
 make a fuss about it. Let me keep here quietly out of 
 sight, don't let my disgrace be public' 
 
 ' Why should you be doomed to sit here on a kitchen 
 chair till ten o'clock % You are fit for nothing but bed, 
 you must get straight home ; ' looking at Bab to enforce 
 his commands. ' I will go and see for the carriage.' 
 
 ' The carriage went back, it won't be here till ten. 
 Bab, take my side, ask him not— not — oh,' putting her 
 hand to her forehead and pushing back the wet hair, ' I 
 cannot remember what I meant to say, my — my head 
 works like a steam-engine.' 
 
 ' So does your tongue, dear,' said Lady Young, from 
 the threshold. The strains of the band, the trample of 
 feet, the hum of voices came through the open door with 
 her disquieting presence. ' If you don't feel well, you 
 had better not talk so much.' 
 
 ' It was very hot. The strain of fortune-telling on my 
 imagination was immense. It was silly of me, but it 
 did me up. I'm all right now.' 
 
 'All right' with those grey, trembling lips? Jack 
 could not bear to hear her excuses. Alethea was a con- 
 stant weight upon his mind, he felt guilty concerning 
 her. She was too small and fi'agile to be a target for 
 shafts, however trifling they might be. There had been 
 occasions on which he had done battle for her in the 
 past, but the battles had not made her life any the 
 easier. 
 
 ' If you are fit for it I should go back to your post, 
 the evening people are thronging in, and all the maids 
 will want their fortunes told.'
 
 78 3IABY FENWWK'S I)AVQRT:ER. 
 
 ' She is not fit for it, Lady Young,' said Miss Fenwick. 
 'Jack, go down for the carriage, it's put up at the 
 "Plough," tell them to come round at once.' 
 
 She gave her prompt orders, as a person whose wishes 
 are undisputed can give them ; her three auditors were 
 all a little startled, though in divers ways, by her words. 
 Bab had been frightened, concerned, touched by Alethea's 
 illness, she was unaccustomed to these sensations, they 
 upset her; she looked with reproachful eyes upon the 
 incomer. 
 
 * If people are coming fast don't stay away from your 
 stall, Lady Young,' she said. * I will look after Alethea, 
 I will stay with her until the carriage comes round, and 
 I will see her off.' 
 
 Jack looked at her as though she had suggested 
 martyrdom; and she was a magnificent martyr. She 
 stood on guard above wan, worn Alethea, who looked 
 pale and faded in her incongruous dress, the gorgeous 
 colouring of which accentuated her lack of health and 
 the loss of her youth. 
 
 Bab did, for once in a way, ' in her attire show her 
 wit.' Her figure was beautiful, the soft blouse, fine as 
 cobweb, white as may-blossom, showed the full curves 
 and graceful lines liberally; her slender waist was 
 swathed in an ornamental scarf, richly embroidered ; 
 her necklace of sequins, and the bordering of sequins 
 upon her scarlet and gold skirt tinkled and jangled as 
 she moved. The handkerchief which bou.id her head 
 had rufiled the trim hair round her brow, thereby 
 softening her face. 
 
 Jack, with an eloquent look at Queen Bab in her role 
 of ministering angel, went off for the carriage, while 
 Lady Young held up her pince-nez, through which she 
 looked sharply at the last speaker. Was Bab interested 
 in Jack? Had it come to thisi No, she was merely 
 angry with Jack's mother.
 
 MAEY FEN WICK'S DAUGETEB. 79 
 
 * So I am dismissed, Miss Fenwick. I know you have 
 your father in good order, but I'm not sure he will like 
 the extra twelve miles for the horses, he will think you 
 carry your good oflices a little far,' 
 
 Bab thought this herself. "When Lady Young was 
 gone, she sat down on another kitchen chair and laughed. 
 
 * Your step-mother always annoys me, Ally. And 
 she is a shoddy sort of person — not worth it. My dear, 
 I beg your pardon ; I forgot. I was very rude j but we 
 are sort of fellow-sufferers.' 
 
 * What do you mean ] ' 
 
 *I mean, Ally, — I am one of those unlucky people 
 who can keep nothing to themselves. I'm a sieve.' 
 
 * It is nice to be a sieve, Bab ; everything trickles by 
 you, you get rid of the past and are ready for fresh 
 impressions. You know the rhyme, 
 
 My heart is a sieve, 
 In whicli loves and affections are danced up and down for a minute 
 
 or two, 
 And the finer they are the more sure to go through. 
 
 Oh, it's a comfortable, convenient thing to be a sieve. 
 So little is expected from a sieve.' 
 
 Over-work, smelling-salts and brandy had had an odd 
 effect on Alethea ; a great force of feeling, over-big for 
 the little, insignificant frame, glowed in her pale eyes. 
 Bab looked at her in surprise, with a puzzled smile. 
 
 ' Bab, are we to share mothers-in-law ? Is that what 
 you mean 1 ' 
 
 ' Nothing is settled. It's on the cards ; but it is one 
 of those dead secrets which I am always letting out.' 
 
 * Are you engaged 1 ' 
 
 ' No, no, it is only I'm not exactly disengaged. Now, 
 don't talk, keep quiet, you are getting green again.' 
 
 When Alethea had been ensconced in the carriage 
 with rugs and smelling-salts, with every attention which 
 a sickly woman has any reason to want from man or
 
 80 MABY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 woman, Jack and Bab went back to their encampment 
 together, 
 
 ' We have only wasted half-an-hour,' she said, as she 
 drank her tea to an accompaniment of the charming 
 things which Jack was saying to her. He credited her 
 with all the cardinal virtues because of this thing that 
 she had done ; but then he snatched at any excuse for 
 making love to her now-a-days ; and she, eating maca- 
 roons and balanced on a three-legged stool, bore with 
 him placidly enough till her meal was ended. 
 
 * I must get back to my cauldron. I wish I could 
 have got off with Alethea, I have had enough of this. 
 By the bye, Jack, tell father that I sent her back in our 
 carriage, and explain why. You always break things 
 diplomatically, and he'll be furious.' 
 
 Captain Fenwick was angry, but anger in a crowd 
 and in a bustle loses all its terrors. Upon the home- 
 ward drive it was too late to scold, and Bab was apa- 
 thetically calm, leaning back in her corner of the 
 carriage. Jack had eyes and ears for no one but for 
 the yawning, weary gipsy beside him, who could think 
 of nothing but £ s. d. and her own takings. 
 
 At Woodbury Alethea lay on a sofa telling her father 
 her version of the day's fair. He was like a boy out 
 for a holiday when he found himself alone with his little 
 daughter. The ox and the brawling woman, or the 
 civilized equivalents for those possessions were his, and 
 he took them in the civilized way, he kept up appear- 
 ances of indifference to the ox and relish for the woman. 
 
 When Lady Young was near, the father and daughter 
 found it wise to see little of each other, to be undemon- 
 strative, distant, cold ; but the cat was away and the 
 mice expanded, Alethea's tongue went fast. Even to a 
 man's unobservant eyes she was not quite her natural 
 self ; every incident of the weary day seemed to have 
 amused her, but her eyes did not make merry. By and
 
 MABY FENWICK'S DA UGBTER. 81 
 
 by Lord Young began to suspect there was something 
 wrong. 
 
 ' You are tired out, my dear, I'm afraid you haven't 
 had a happy day.' 
 
 ' Happy ! ' she repeated, in the light, airy way of 
 speaking that she affected. ' Don't you know, happiness 
 is not to be found at a bazaar, father ; it is nowhere to 
 be found except among the aitches in the dictionary.' 
 
 * Tut, tut, Ally, nonsense ! You have been doing too 
 much.' 
 
 ' Too little,' she said ; ' I always do too little.' 
 'And talk too much,' said her father, laughing, and 
 yet anxious. 
 
 * Yes, too much. I like to talk big in the how, when, 
 where, and why way that's fashionable. Let me talk 
 big of the world and I ; we superfluous women talk very 
 tall, we draw " the world" in to back us up. There is 
 DO one else whom Ave can draw. Other people can talk 
 email, of " we two," of " you and I " ; tlvey ' 
 
 ' My dear, you are talking nonsense.' 
 
 * Papa, I will tell you a bit of sensible news. It is a 
 secret, but I think Jack will marry Bab Fenwick.' 
 
 * You call that news ; I heard it from your mother 
 when the l>oy was in petticoats. It will be an excellent 
 thing for Jack, but they are a long while about it \ 
 those premeditated matches never come off. So she 
 sent you home in the carriage % Ila, ha ! Those pre- 
 cious chestnuts. I wonder what Fenwick said to her \ 
 I wouldn't be in her shoes.' 
 
 ' Bab always does what she likes with chestnuts, and 
 what not. She is lucky ; she would not let me tell her 
 fortune, but I know it.' 
 
 ' You have tired yourself out, Ally. Telling fortunes \ 
 is that what you have been doing'? What odd ways 
 people find in which to waste their money. Did you 
 tgll your own fortuije — eh % '
 
 82 MARY FENWIGX'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Yes, papa. It is a good deal mixed up with yours.* 
 
 * "Well, well, I'm glad of that. I'm glad your line of 
 life runs on at Woodbury, my dear.' 
 
 * Though I'm a superfluous woman, yet I'm not a 
 superfluous daughter, so I ought to be satisfied.' 
 
 * Are you not satisfied, Alethea 1 There, my dear, 
 don't talk ; you are tired to death.' 
 
 * Not to death, but to enervation. I talk of nothing 
 but myself in consequence. I am telling secrets. I 
 think I'll take my line of life to bed and sleep upon it. 
 Mamma will be coming home presently.' 
 
 * Then be off at once ; she'll want a listener, I shall 
 be here.' 
 
 ' Good-night.' 
 
 ' Good-night, Ally.' He kissed her, patting her head 
 as though she was still a child. * I'm glad your line of 
 life runs on at Woodbury.' 
 
 ' I'm glad too,' she faltered, but half-heartedly. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 But keep one course though the rough wind say, no. 
 
 King Henry VI. 
 
 ' A wilful man should be very wise.' 
 
 It took the neighbourhood some time to calm after the 
 controversies, the heart-burning, the fatigue and ex- 
 citement of the bazaar. 
 
 Talked thin and threadbare, the topic was exhausted 
 and wore away : the coming October ball usurped its 
 place as a new love casts out the old. The ball was an 
 annual function, held at the county town, and was an 
 event of importance. The twelve mile drive thither 
 from Combe handicapped the treat in the eyes of some 
 people, but with a roomy 'bus, judiciously filled, the
 
 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 83 
 
 revellers were not wont to complain, overmuch, of the 
 distance. 
 
 The Fenwicks had, according to their custom, gathered 
 a well-assorted party together for the ball. 
 
 On the morning preceding the festivity the elder 
 Mary Fenwick did, with serious dissatisfied eyes, behold 
 her daughter drive off with a trio of her special friends 
 in the cart, en route for golf and lunch at Biu-ton. 
 
 Brunette spun down the drive. Jack Holland and 
 a nephew of Captain Fenwick, a INIr. Lascelles, were 
 perched on the narrow back seat of the cart, holding on 
 by the skin of their teeth, for the horse pranced in 
 unpremeditated angles on her way irrespective of her 
 driver's will ; ISirs. Fenwick watched the departure, and 
 sighed. 
 
 Bab was debonair and serene, but she was the only con- 
 tented person at Combe ; her affairs were not satisfactory 
 save to herself. 
 
 The lane of coiu'tship may be long, but it should have 
 a turning. No man on earth will go on and on between 
 restricting hedges without an occasional glimpse of the 
 open country around, and a chance of reaching the end 
 of his walk. 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick had assured herself a hundred times 
 that Bab was not altogether to blame ; a pauper cannot, 
 with the best intentions, be generous to a beggar. Poor 
 Jack ! He was not getting on, he was in the long lane 
 and getting a little sick of the march. He kept his 
 failures and his heart-aches to himself. He was proud 
 enough not to make himself ridiculous, but he was too 
 much in love to be reasonable. 
 
 A hundred times Mrs. Fenwick had seen him cut to 
 the quick, and had pretended to be as blind as her 
 daughter. A hundred times she had feared to see his 
 place vacant, and to hear that the foolish scheme of theirs 
 yras over. It would be better that it should be at an end.
 
 84 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 If he should be mad enough to keep Bab to her 
 promise, if he shovild be so blind as to marry her. What 
 then ? What sort of future would theirs be 1 
 
 The fairy-tale finis, ' so they married and were happy 
 ever after,' is very good as the fictional end of a myth. 
 ' So they married and life began in earnest,' was what 
 Mrs. Fenwick's past taught her to expect of matrimony. 
 
 She had been lucky ; dear heaven, through what dark 
 places she had struggled to her luck ! How well she 
 had known the heart-ache ! Well enough to feel for 
 others without reserve, without the sort of sympathy 
 which a man shrinks from ; the ' men have died and 
 worms have eaten them, but not for love ' consolation, 
 as though death and the worms to eat are but of one 
 open, churchyard, burial kind. 
 
 As are most happy women, Mary Fenwick was an 
 idealist. She did not want Bab to marry unless she 
 understood fully what she was doing ; she knew what a 
 hurried, careless marriage might entail. Her marriage 
 had been hurried, careless, but she had married Godfray, 
 so all was well. 
 
 Not so with her sister, her younger sister, Mrs. 
 Kaufmann, who was arriving at Combe for the ball that 
 day ; Mrs. Kavif mann had made a hash of matrimony, — 
 she had achieved it lightly, and it had been a mistake. 
 She was a lively, a brilliantly lively woman, gay, sociable, 
 and a great favourite in her own circle, and — and Mary 
 hoped, with a hope which was as fervent as a prayer, that 
 her daughter should have a different fate, a better fate. 
 
 Dear Cicely, poor Cicely, she made the best that she 
 could, perhaps, of a difficult fortune, but — Mrs. Fenwick 
 heaved a sigh. She should see this dear sister of hers 
 soon, she would go to meet her at the station. There 
 are many people at whose side we love to be, but about 
 whom we cannot bear to think, about whose life we are 
 afraid to speculate.
 
 MARY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTER. 85 
 
 It was a gala day at Combe. The household was 
 stirred by arrivals ; even at the lodge there was a 
 tea-party. Becket was taking an early cup of tea with 
 JVIrs. Basten. 
 
 Becket was a very great person in the valley. It was 
 an honour to show her hospitality ; but, like hospitality 
 shown to a king the entertainment was best when over, 
 most enjoyable in retrospect. The five Basten children 
 had been driven, with their puppy and their lesson-books, 
 into the kitchen. In the parlour, the unnaturally clean 
 and orderly parloiu: the guest and hostess sat at a 
 table, covered with a cloth of pickled-cabbage hue and 
 pattern, drinking black tea and talking — at least, 
 Becket was talking in a gracious and friendly strain. 
 She praised the flavour of the tea, admired the sleeping 
 baby in the cradle at her feet, did not openly wince at 
 the clatter of small feet on flags, the whine of the dog, 
 or the squeak of slate pencils, when such disturbances 
 came through the open kitchen door. 
 
 But ISIrs. Basten was nervous ; she knew Becket was 
 one of those deadly sort of women who 'are fond of 
 children when they are good,' and she broke into the 
 conversation with the occasional shout of a violent order 
 to the miscreants next door. 
 
 ' Bide quiet thease minit, chillern ; yii be sich chitter- 
 boxes us can't yer owerzels spake. Awe, Mrs. Bucket, 
 yii bant agwaine zo zune, zure-lie 1 Why, tidden up 
 af-pass five. Dii 'ee bide a bit lon'er, now dii 'ee. Th' 
 maester 'ull be terrabul upzot to find 'ee gon' win 'ee 
 comes intii 'ouze. I tell un 'ee's a fiile about 'ee,' this 
 banteringly ; then, with a hurried glance at the kitchen, 
 'Putten down. Bill; let th' dug be, will 'ee? Be 'ee 
 agwaine to put un down. Bill ? I tell 'ee whot tez, I'll 
 vetch 'ee a clout in tha hayd, I will, and turn thickee 
 dug out o' dear.' 
 
 Becket ignored these asides.
 
 86 3IAEY FENWICirS DAUGHTER 
 
 'I'm sure Mr. Basten won't be more disappointed 
 than I am,' hf^piiig herself to bread, spread thick with 
 clotted ci-eam, ' but I am afi-aid I must go. You see, 
 it's the ball to-night, and we have the house full. You 
 know, Mrs. Basten, I'm not free with my time like you 
 married people.' 
 
 ' Free wi' a maester and chillern 1 AVot stuff be 'ee 
 tellin' up, my dear sawle. XJs be bound hand an' fiit' 
 fi'o' church tii chiu-chyard. Tez like thease yer, us diis 
 ut becaz tez natur — but tidden fraydum. A maester 
 wants a dale o' patience ; an' chillern,' with a proud 
 glance at the cradle, which belied her words, ' an' 
 chillern be zarten cares and onzarten comferts. But 
 thir, th' maester an' me 'ave wondur'd times 'pon times 
 'ow tez yii bant marrid yerzel, Mrs. Bucket.' 
 
 Mrs. Becket pushed her chair back from the table, 
 fetched her bonnet-strings from where they dangled, free 
 from the dangers of tea, down her back, and began to 
 tie them under her chin. 
 
 ' Too much choice confounds the fancy,' she said, with 
 a sigh. 
 
 ' Tez lik that thir wi' th' young miss. 'Er'll git the 
 criiked stick tii las ev 'er bides tii lang a maid, Mrs. 
 Bucket. Why dornt 'er take Mr. Jack, 'eer be wull 
 growd an' clane-skinned : I zeed un hiking saft tii she, 
 passen long an Zinday aternoon : and her drove un pass 
 here s'marnen wi' some other gintle-folk. Goan wi' yer 
 larnen, Bill, if I 'ears un squake agin, out 'er'll go. 
 Zuse me, Mrs. Bucket, but they chillern be mazed bout 
 thickee little dug o' th' maester's. 'Ee bant very awld, 
 and pullen and draggen un about 'er dawnt graw ; us 
 reckons 'er'll t\u-n out a glide shipdug same as 'er muther 
 be.' 
 
 * Don't think I mind a noise or a dog, ]\Irs. Basten. 
 Why, the dogs at Combe are in and out of the work- 
 room like sparrows in the ivy, and before that, they
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGETEB. 87 
 
 were in and out of the school-room, and in and out of 
 the nursery too. Miss Fenwick had no company but the 
 dogs.' 
 
 ' An' Mr. Jack, 'ee Usen to lade th' pawny up Ciimbe 
 hill, wi' 'er pin tap ov un, avore 'er was as 'igh as my 
 Liza; 'ee was a fiile bout th' little maid from fust along; 
 — dawnt dii. Us wasteses th' shuUen us finds on th' 
 rawde. A man dawnt get zet store an, ef 'er makes 
 imzel zo chape.' 
 
 Becket rose, — a garrulous farewell is a long affair, — 
 smiling as though she knew a good joke which she was 
 forced to keep to herself. 
 
 ' Dear, dear, how much we talk and how little we 
 know, Mrs. Basten. I must hurry now, they ought to 
 be back from Burton by this time ; and it's " Becket, 
 Becket, Becket," all over the house when anything's 
 wanted. There, it's striking six, and Mrs. Kaufmann 
 will be arriving any moment, and so put about if I'm 
 out when she comes up to her room.' 
 
 ' Awe,' Mrs. Basten stooped to rock the cradle. 
 Certain recreations of the better classes were to her 
 unsophisticated mind incomprehensible, the matrons of 
 her standing cannot conjugate the verb to flirt, a hard- 
 and-fast line is drawn which forbids any trifling with 
 certain of the commandments, they judge their 'betters' 
 as they themselves would be judged. ' 'Er be coming, 
 be 'er? Tez tli countrified in thease yer parts fiir sich 
 as she. Wull, wull, living up tli Lunnon, wi' naw chick, 
 an' wi' sich a powerful dale of money, tain't no wun'er 
 bur's a bit gay 'pon times. Us dornt belave awl us yers, 
 Mrs. Bucket.' 
 
 The offensive word *gay' finished off the arrange- 
 ment of Becket's bonnet-strings and hooked her dolman. 
 
 * Believe nothing you hear against Mrs. Kaufmann,' 
 she was very angry, ' those who belie her are not fit to 
 wash the dishes in her scullery ; let them attend to the
 
 88 MA BY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 work they are used to, and not interfere with matters 
 they can't understand, any more than they can under- 
 stand dead languages, nor gentle-folk's feelings, nor 
 dumb animals' speech,* 
 
 Poor Mrs. Basten had made a /mix pas ; she found 
 herself in a hole, and by way of extrication she turned 
 the dangerous topic by attacking her family. 
 
 * Thir,' she cried, ' thir be thickee dug squakin' agin. 
 Out o' ouze er'l goa, I warn'd 'ee I'd dii et. Com yer, 
 Shep, com yer, piip.' She rushed into the now silent 
 kitchen, and drove therefrom a large unwieldy puppy, 
 chasing him across the parlour and out through the 
 opened door into the drive. Becket, still huffy and 
 bridling, followed his lead ; Mrs. Basten saying, 
 
 ' WuU, if yii must goa yii mus,' then the speaker's 
 cultivated ear caught the sound of wheels. ' Hark, thir 
 's th' dog-cart til las, yii stip back into th' poarch a 
 minit, Mrs. Bucket, and let 'un pass, I'll jist rin an ope 
 the gaytes.* 
 
 She did so and none too soon, for the cart came up 
 the incline very fast indeed. Between the cry of * Gate, 
 gate,' and the flashing into sight of the carriage and 
 its cargo was but the twinkling of an eye ; the speed 
 was not slackened as it turned through the posts, the 
 speed was not slackened at Mrs. Basten' s scream of, 
 
 'Mind th' dug, miss. Liik, where 'un be an' th' 
 roaide. Awe, my dear life, er's urn'd ovii* 'un.' 
 
 Neither was the speed slackened when the yelps of the 
 poor puppy, the frantic prolonged yelps of pain, proclaimed 
 its sufferings, it wa»s not slackened at the command to, 
 
 * Pull up, pull up. Where on earth are you going to 1 ' 
 In fact, the mare had taken the command of the cart 
 
 into her own mouth. As she disliked a noise she shook 
 herself, laying back her ears to show her annoyance. 
 She saw no reason for stopping in such a pandemonium, 
 but rushed on, increasing her pace for the wheels bowled
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTEB. 89 
 
 easily on the smooth drive, and she was near her happy 
 home. She had been given her head during the greater 
 part of the homeward way, now she took what she was 
 no longer given. 
 
 The driver's wrist was strong, but it was a slender 
 woman's, not a wrist of steel, so though Miss Fenwick 
 put forth all her strength, and, leaning back, pulled 
 steadily at the reins, she might as well have pulled 
 at the great Wellingtonia, which they dashed by just 
 then, for all the impression she made upon the pace. 
 
 Dark, like the mouth of a cavern, the di'ive, shaded 
 by trees, stretched before them. 
 
 * Was it a child or a dog ] ' asked Bab's little neigh- 
 bour. Miss Wren, awe-stricken. 
 
 * A dog,' said ISIr. Holland, shortly. ' Steady, Bab.' 
 
 * Wonder what damage you did, Bab ? ' said her cousin, 
 Jim Lascelles. ' Not murder, there was too much hulla- 
 balloo for death. My dear, this mare of yours is a bit 
 too much for you, we shall take the next gate at the 
 gallop if you don't impress her bit upon her shortly.' 
 
 ' Is there a gate"?' said Bab's neighbour, nervously. 
 
 ' Five barred. Hold on, ]\Iiss Wren, here is my hand, 
 or there is the bar, cling to which you think firmest ; it's 
 a high gate.' 
 
 Bab laughed, but Miss Wren was frightened, it was 
 so dark under the trees. 
 
 * Do stop it,' she urged, * do, stop. Can't you catch 
 hold of the reins ] Oh, it is running away, Mr. Lascelles ; 
 let me go, don't hold me, I want to jump out.' 
 
 ' The gate is open all right. I was only chaffing. If 
 you want to get killed jump out, if you want to dance 
 with me to-night stay where you are.' 
 
 The driver laughed again, but Jack Holland said, 
 soothingly, 
 
 * Brunette's getting tired of the fun. Miss Wren, it's 
 all against collar, she is calming down.'
 
 90 3IABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Gradually, very gradually the pace steadied, and Bab 
 landed herself and her friends safely at the front door. 
 Miss Wren, with a deep breath of relief, and followed 
 by Mr. Lascelles, went into the house. 
 
 Jack was to drive the cart round to the stables, Bab 
 stood looking at the ripped seams of her gloves by the 
 light of the carriage-lamp. 
 
 * She has a mouth like a saw. Jack,' she said, admit- 
 ting the obvious fact with her inevitable frankness, 
 though reluctantly. 
 
 * Did you feel those kicks at the lodge 1 They weren't 
 play, they were vicious. The cart's low ; it is not safe.' 
 
 * I must di-ive her with a thicker kicking-strap.' 
 
 * If, for just once in a way, you will do as I wish, 
 Bab, you won't drive her at all ; she's bad-tempered, 
 uncertain, unsafe. You had far better get rid of her.' 
 
 Bab, astonished, incredulous, looked up at his serious 
 face. 
 
 * I like her,' she said, as though no more needed saying, 
 as though these three words would conclude the whole 
 matter. 
 
 * Yes, but you might like her successor even more. 
 Can't you be satisfied with the pleasure of having maimed 
 a dog ■? You don't particularly wish to kill yourself or 
 your friends, or to shave such a thing, do you % ' 
 
 Bab shrugged her shoulders, her laugh was not so 
 spontaneous as usual. 
 
 ' You should not kick a person who is down. Jack. 
 She did get out of hand, but I had given her her head 
 too much ; it wasn't her faiJt.' 
 
 ' If that blessed gate had not been open, Bab, what 
 then 1 You thought it was shut, and so did I. Such a 
 bit of luck doesn't happen twice.' 
 
 Bab patted Brunette's neck tenderly ; the mare was 
 getting very fidgety over the prolonged and unlooked- 
 for delay.
 
 MABY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 91 
 
 ' It was all my own stupid fault, Jack. Don't take 
 th:i,t serious alarm of yours, and a cock-and-bull story 
 about it to father. Ho is prejudiced against Brunette as 
 it is ; he did not choose her, so she is not perfect.' 
 
 She paused for an answer ; none came. 
 
 ' Nothing happened. Jack,' argumentatively. 
 
 * There was a ti-emendous uproar about the " nothing " 
 at the lodge.' 
 
 * That is another kick ; you harp on the dog — poor 
 little thing ! — but, Jack, don't say anything about it to 
 father, he has such a tiresome trick of believing what you 
 tell him : and I,' — for the second time — ' I like Brunette.' 
 
 * And I, Bab, like you. I like you far better than to 
 trust you to her. Pluck is an excellent thing, but it isn't 
 pluck that allows itself to be driven by a horse. She 
 drove us home ; you know it.' 
 
 'Brunette and I are getting cross. Jack. We want 
 to get to our respective stalls, but first of all we want 
 you to be generous, not to tell of us.' Brunette was 
 pawing the gravel, and her mistress was appealing to 
 the weak-minded young man in the cart, to whom it was 
 impossible that she should appeal in vain. 
 
 ' Go to your stall,' he said, gathering up the reins and 
 ' clicking ' softly. ' The story is not cock-and-bull, but 
 I'll hold my tongue about it. It is very bad for you, 
 Queen Bab ; you are like this mare of yours, you always 
 get your head.' 
 
 No gas, no electric light was to be had at Combe, but 
 Miss Fen wick's pretty green and white bedi-oom was 
 ablaze with candles. She stood between miiTors with a 
 victimized expression on her face, for she was being 
 laced into a ball-dress which was an inch or so, only an 
 inch or so, too small in the waist. 
 
 The bracing was, Bawle declared, exactly what this 
 maize silk bodice wanted, and she was firm with her 
 resisting mistress.
 
 92 MABY FENWIGKS DAUOHTER. 
 
 *It will give, miss, presently. If you let the waist 
 go with so much poppy wreathing you'd look thick ; you 
 would, indeed.' 
 
 In the mirror Bab's reflection was slim as a fir-tree ; 
 there seemed no need to be apprehensive of such calamity 
 as thickness. She was about to say so when Becket, 
 carrying a large, square wooden box, the look of which 
 is well known to some women, walked into the room. 
 
 'From Mr. Holland,' she said, 'yellow roses such as 
 would turn an attic into a palace. I came to scold you, 
 miss ; but there, how can I, when I see you looking like 
 a rose yourself 1 Oh dear, oh dear ! how came you to 
 run over that poor puppy dog, miss 1 It can't so much 
 as stand ; and to see the children crying for pity, and 
 breaking their little hearts did put me about. But 
 there. Miss Bab, you are not to blame, you couldn't help 
 it, coming round the corner ten thousand miles an hour, 
 as you did, I said so to Mr. Holland. A kind-hearted 
 young gentleman he is. I met him on the drive going 
 down his own self to see what was the matter ; so con- 
 cerned as though 'twas a child hurt, not a dog. But 
 don't you worry ; 'twas only the paw after all, and 
 't wasn't no fault of yours, but just an accident. There, 
 Kawle, let that poppy lie against her shoulder ; there 
 isn't such another skin in the county. You are as 
 handsome as ever your mother was, and finer grown, 
 that you are. I'll take out your bouquet. Do look 
 here, Rawle, all yellow, Allan Richardsons, smelling 
 like violets. You are a lucky young lady ! ' 
 
 Lucky actors are they who play small parts to con- 
 tinual rounds of applause. Where every spectator claps 
 there can be no question of success. 
 
 Miss Fenwick sailed down to the drawing-room with 
 her usual unconscious sovereignty. Jack was late, he 
 only came in as dinner was announced, then she held up 
 her flowers towards him, smiling her thanks. He was
 
 MARY FENWIOE^S DAUGHTER. 93 
 
 seated far from her end of the table, he could not catch 
 any of her continual conversation ; she was the leading 
 spirit amongst her noisy neighbours, and very fair to see. 
 
 An ache in a paw or a heart — which hurt the most 1 
 The pain that might be howled into the ears of the 
 oiiender, or the pain which was dumb 1 
 
 ' JNIr. Holland, do you think that poor little dog was 
 much hurt 1 ' Miss "Wren was beside him, asking this 
 question. * It yelped so, I can't forget it; I hope it 
 wasn't killed. Miss Fen wick is so used to killing; 
 she's strong-minded, but I'm not. I hate hurting 
 anything ; I can't help it, but I do.' 
 
 * Don't try to help it ; it isn't a trait for which you 
 need apologize.' 
 
 Miss Wren thought Jack was quite a dear man, and 
 not so dreadfully in love with Miss Fenwick after all. 
 
 ' It would be so nice not to care,' simply. * I've 
 thought of nothing else, poor dog.' 
 
 ' There wasn't much damage done. I had a look at 
 the paw that was hui't ; it was crushed, not smashed, 
 and it is cui*able.' 
 
 Then he talked of something else, and talked a great 
 deal, doing his duty to his hostess. For an empty chair 
 is better than a silent guest. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 If mirtli, youth's playmate, feels fatigue 
 Too soon on life's long way, 
 At least he'll run with you a league ; 
 Laugh on, laugli on to-day. — Pbaed. 
 
 'Garlands are not for every brow.' 
 
 Ihfaut souffrir pour elre belle, and the young girls, the 
 debutantes of the Combe party, suffered many things 
 during the weary, outwai'd drive. Old Mrs. Kaufmann
 
 94 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 — she was old — was a voracious person, with her patter 
 of small-talk and her genius for laughter ; she frisked 
 and whisked up such frivolity as lay latent amongst the 
 mankind, and kept it circulating round her. Already 
 she had helped herself to their preference, and was 
 rapidly annexing the roomy, roving affections of Mr. 
 Lascelles. She, who was Miss Fenwick's aunt, and, 
 consequently, old enough to be a grandmother — she, 
 who had a husband and money and diamonds — what 
 more could she want of men 1 Selfish old thing ! 
 
 The girls, pale with excitement, sat rigid and bolt 
 upright, careful for the trimness of their crimped heads, 
 cautious for the freshness of their billowy frocks. With 
 their big, brilliant eyes shining and anxious in the 
 dusky light, they pursued pleasure with the old and 
 wise, casting childhood's follies behind them. 
 
 Miss Fenwick was not afraid of the sound of her own 
 voice, she had no fears concerning the ball, she should 
 get as good a time as she had a mind for, there was no 
 chance of her disgracing the family by standing un- 
 chosen beside a frowning chaperon, she had no fear for 
 her hair or for her skirts. She was debonair as usual. 
 Bab never put on anything with her clothes as her sex 
 BO often does, she was just the same sort of person in a 
 ball-dress as in a dressing-gown, her individuality was 
 marked, monotonous, she had no variations of mood 
 or manner. She was perfectly natural, and natui'ally 
 immutable. 
 
 Beside her father, far off from the lady of his love, 
 Jack Holland was seated. He did not join much in the 
 general conversation which was led by Mrs. Kaufmann, 
 but talked incessantly to his vis-d,-vis Mrs. Fenwick. 
 Once or twice Queen Bab addressed him from her side 
 of the 'bus, appealing to him to back her opinion, or for 
 reference. The air was filled with the scent of his roses, 
 towards which she now and again bent her face,
 
 MARY FENWIOKS DAUGHTER. 95 
 
 When the wheels of the 'bus, leaving the soft tena- 
 cious mud of the Devon roads, began to clatter past 
 houses and by lamps, Bab's practical mind flew at once 
 to the business part of the night's revelry, and, leaning 
 forward, again she addressed him. 
 
 * Jack, we are rather late, the place will be crowded ; 
 if we get divided, I mayn't come across you again till 
 all my dances are gone.' 
 
 ' Bab, you are very bold ; do you want to book him 
 here, poor fellow, when he hasn't a chance of getting 
 out of it ] I blush for you.' 
 
 * Don't interfere, Jim, you may not understand that 
 Jack expects all the women he knows to keep their 
 programmes blank, till he has done the civil to the dear 
 dowagers he loves.' 
 
 ' I remember the days when Jack filled his card to the 
 hilt before the first dance,' said Mrs. Kaufmann, smiling 
 indulgently at the young man. ' Yes, Jack, you were 
 as keen not to miss one moment of the fun as the other 
 little boys ; and I've danced Sir Roger with you in my 
 time. You were in Eton jackets then, and cared for 
 nothing but ices. Ah, Bab, but he is grown so old and 
 so grand, and I am not one of his dear dowagers, he 
 never gets me my tea.' 
 
 * He doesn't jump at yoiu* offer, Bab,' said her cousin. 
 * I say, Holland, does she fasten on any chap who can 
 dance, and forget to leave him until she is forcibly 
 removed 1 That is the kind of thing Bab would do, she 
 has no preferences, she doesn't like trouble, and she 
 loves dancing.' 
 
 * She has never fastened on me,' said Jack ; he had 
 still his boyish habit, which Mrs. Fenwick and her sister 
 knew so well, of looking his interrogator straight in the 
 face. His eyes were clear and ardent, he had a quick 
 way of speaking, though his voice was mellow and low- 
 toned ; he wore his hair rather longer than the cropped
 
 96 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 martial heads around him, his moustache was slight 
 enough to show his well-cut mouth, and the mere flicker 
 of a smile upon it. Mrs. Kaufmann inspected him 
 leisurely and attentively, and with a shade of seriousness 
 in her face. 
 
 * One moment,' said the conductor of the 'bus, holding 
 up his hands, ' there is a part of the evening to which I 
 can look forward, we shall return — it will be over at 
 last. I have ordered the carriage at two. Do you all 
 hear? Two o'clock. One, two. You can all count so 
 far as two.' 
 
 ' I think that I can keep awake till two with some one 
 to talk to me, even in Devon.' 
 
 The 'bus was advancing in jerks, having joined in the 
 string of carriages. The conductor who was in excel- 
 lent spirits, marshalled the party into the entrance. 
 
 ' Look out, Jim, all people more than six feet high 
 should look out for their heads. Don't knock the 'bus 
 lamp over, we could have nothing humorous with burn- 
 ing oil just now. Lost your shoe. Miss Wren? So loose 
 it slipped off 1 Very awkward. Cinderella clung to 
 hers till the fun was over, but shed it then because it 
 pinched, no doubt. Bab, are you going off without your 
 roses? Here, here, take them yourself. Halloa, 
 Hanley, how are you ? Late, are we 1 Never mind, we 
 shall have quite enough of it, bless you ! Go and get 
 hold of a few men. Jack, for the little girls Mary 
 brought must dance everything ; a blank on their pro- 
 gramme is a stain on their escutcheon. There is Peel. 
 Here, Peel, you are just the fellow I wanted. We have 
 a charming girl with us from your part of the world. 
 Miss Wren — Mr. Peel. What ? You knew each other 
 before? Lucky people. That's right, Mary, she has 
 gone off. Jack has got the other youngster, and there 
 is Bab in the thick of it already. You come along up 
 this way with me, and let's see who's here.'
 
 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 97 
 
 Captain Fenwick and his wife made their way up the 
 room towards the dais and the diamonds. He was full 
 of that coveted social commodity ' go,' and Mary passed 
 from one warm greeting to another, welcomed by all 
 sorts and conditions of people. 
 
 No wonder she was popvilar, her blindness for defects 
 reassured the modest, and her tongue was gentle as her 
 manner ; she was sympathetic, considerate, tolerant. 
 She did not obtrude her advantages, people whose 
 daughters were not ' successes ' and whose husbands 
 were not ' comfortable ' did not feel the weight of her 
 superior fate. 
 
 Every one said * it was a capital ball,' there were 
 some revellers who, doubtless, found it altogether 
 capital. 
 
 Probably the youngsters were, with few exceptions, 
 disappointed with their fun, their expectations had been 
 prodigious, and then they had so lately grown out of 
 the parties of their youth. Children's parties where the 
 tired ones sit down and cry ; where the unhappy ones 
 weep to go home ; where the angry ones quarrel, and 
 where there is authority to which doubt or difficulty 
 may appeal without disgrace. 
 
 Here they might be tii'ed, homesick, angry or amazed, 
 but they must keep a serene front and hold their tongues 
 about it. 
 
 Under the blaze of light, all amongst the bunting, 
 and the flowers, and the music, were envy, vexation of 
 spirit, failm-e making their presence felt. Under good 
 shirt-fronts, and beneath white bosoms aches, cuts, 
 stabs, wounds remained hidden. The pluck which hid 
 these great and small discomfitures was a very creditable 
 part of the entertainment. 
 
 But upon Miss Fenwick' s snowy breast lay nothing 
 heavier than the poppy wreath and a string of pearls. 
 She was getting all she had expected to get from the 
 
 H
 
 98 MARY FENWIGK'S DJUGHTEB. 
 
 ball. She had danced and was dancing like a dervish 
 — save that she waltzed with no spiritual object. 
 
 Every time the band struck up the maize dress and 
 the scarlet poppies revolved before the spectators, or 
 trod the mazes of the Lancers. Bab never wasted her 
 time in cool and shadowy places, ' sitting out.' 
 
 She looked for no especial swallow-tail. Most of the 
 men with whom she trod her measures were very nice, 
 she liked them all, and she was glad to find that Stan- 
 hope Peel was not offended with her. For she greeted 
 him in a most friendly way, and when he asked her for 
 a dance gave him the last she had, regretting that it was 
 nothing better than the Lancers. 
 
 In this same set of Lancers Jack and Alethea chanced 
 to be dancing ; the former smiled a cynical small smile, 
 thinking of those rejected addresses of a month back 
 when he overheard her genial conversation. 
 
 ' We ought to have got the Fas de Quafre together,' 
 she was saying. * I don't think we missed it once last 
 year. I did not know you would be here, or I could 
 have kept it.' 
 
 Under some circumstances a perfectly natural young 
 person jars terribly and sets the teeth of amour projyre 
 on edge. Jack cast a keen glance at Mr. Peel's good- 
 looking face, and found his sympathy was superfluous. 
 Bab's partner was perfectly satisfied with that which he 
 had been given ; — f ortimate, enviable man. 
 
 Jack was not having a nice evening, he loathed the 
 night, deprecated his own loathing, hated himself alto- 
 gether, and talked to his own weary little partner while 
 his eyes were dazzled with the corn-field dress, which 
 whirled and twirled in every arm but his. 
 
 The night had been danced into day, the hours were 
 very small indeed when Mrs. Kaufmann came across 
 the ball-room, and squeezed her laces and brocade into 
 a vacant corner of the couch where Mrs. Fenwick was
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 99 
 
 seated. She was followed by her brother-in-law with 
 whom she had been dancing. 
 
 ' Here she is, Mary,' said he. * Look after her, she 
 wants it. Yes, Cicely, you may be, in fact you are 
 equal to looking after a dozen old fogies of my standing, 
 beside the regiment of little boys you collect as body- 
 guard, but I've great faith in Mary's sobering influence. 
 Mary, she has got poor Jim in tow.' 
 
 * Will you reverence my grey hairs, Godfray 1 I dye 
 them, of course, but they are grey all the same.' 
 
 ]Mrs. Kaufmann was Mrs. Fenwick's junior, but only 
 by seven years. During her gu'lhood she had shared 
 the Fenwicks' home. From thence she had married, 
 and the marriage had not been a success. Llr. Kauf- 
 mann's heart and soul were concentrated in his stables, 
 riveted in quadrupeds, his bride cared nothing for the 
 lower scale of creation. No child came to fasten her 
 heart to her hearth, she was uncomfortably devoid of 
 domestic taste. As chase of some sort was the fashion 
 of the house, she took to the chase of bipeds, and at first 
 was excellently well amused by the sport. 
 
 But such a pastime is about as wholesome, and about 
 as easy to relinquish, as dram-drinking. She would not 
 abandon her habit when Mary took her to task. 
 
 * I must have some amusement, scandal doesn't 
 interest me, and it really isn't so harmless, Mary, an 
 entertainment. Wrinkles will pull me up soon, I've a 
 crop round my eyes, I shall have to stop laughing and 
 take to massage.' 
 
 It was easy to laugh. Cicely had the knack of laughter. 
 Mrs. Fenwick wanted more than the mere knack for 
 this only sister of hers, wanted more than a mere scum 
 of merriment floating on no sound basis of happiness, 
 poor Cicely. 
 
 But pity was wasted on this brilliant woman who 
 looked ridiculously young and was absolutely light-
 
 100 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 hearted, and who was now dismissing Captain Fenwick 
 and all other mankind, on purpose for a tete-a-tete with 
 her half-disapproving, wholly anxious sister. 
 
 ' Go away, Godf ray, the svipper-room is not over- 
 crowded ; we'll follow you presently. Now, Mary, he is 
 off, and there is nobody within earshot, so just tell me 
 — what are Bab's methods? Why is she tormenting 
 Jackr 
 
 * Tormenting 1 ' 
 
 * Driving him mad, my dear. Is it deliberate wicked- 
 ness \ is it mere fun % or is it — heredity ] ' 
 
 ' What do you mean 1 ' 
 
 'Don't turn pale, Mary, for I never mean quite so 
 much as I say. I no longer lose my head or my dis- 
 crimination at a ball ; I have kept my eye on those two. 
 Jack is spending the evening with Alethea Young. 
 Sometimes he has looked sulky, sometimes he has looked 
 wicked ; he has had a wretched time of it.' 
 
 ' I saw Bab dancing with him.' 
 
 ' The Fas de Qiiatre, yes ; but that was all. Mary, 
 does she like him]' 
 
 * Of course, of course, she likes him very much indeed.' 
 
 * My dear, I knew as far as that, but I want to know 
 farther. Is she going straight to her execution % ' 
 
 'Hush, Cicely; I don't know.' 
 
 ' That means I am not to be inquisitive.' 
 
 * It simply means that I have no notion what will 
 happen.' 
 
 ' What is the matter with the girl 1 Who is her 
 fancy-man 1 ' 
 
 ' She has,' with a faint sigh, ' no fancies.' 
 ' No fancies. A Fenwick, a Manser, with no fancies ? 
 Whei'B did she come froml Poor Jack, he must be 
 having up-hill work. I was sorry for him ; he was 
 riotously gay when we danced together. I saw through 
 it. He was acting the old tragic comedy — the tragic
 
 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 101 
 
 comedy which we, in the forties, know all about, and 
 acting like a professional ; he has had some practice, 
 I'm afraid/ 
 
 Mrs. Fenwiek nodded. 
 
 * Odd things men,' reflected the other ; * they only really 
 want what they can't get ; they are all alike, like as 
 sheep. I beg your pardon, Mary ; you have stiffened ; 
 Godfray, of course, has no peer. That reminds me, why 
 not marry these two ] Heredity again ! Oh, yes, they 
 must be married immediately ; they can tussle it out 
 afterwards. Do you remember how you tussled before 
 you settled down] ' 
 
 ' Bab is not as I was.' 
 
 * You were as proud as Lucifer, Mary, and as im- 
 passioned as Sappho. She has, as you say, no fancies — 
 but marry them.' 
 
 * You don't understand Jack ; he would not marry 
 her now.' 
 
 * Nonsense ! give him a chance. It is dangerous, of 
 course ; but then all matrimony is dangerous. She won't 
 quarrel with him ; women never quarrel with a man 
 unless they are interested in him. I remembered Goff 
 and you, and I tried to quarrel with OHver on our 
 honeymoon. I suppose I didn't do it nicely, for he 
 would not respond. He got bored and stayed at the 
 club, and grumbled to his friends about my temper ; our 
 tiffs were a failure. If I quarrel with any one now, it is 
 not with Oliver. Oh, dear, here is that nice gunner-boy 
 making a dead point at me ; it means supper, Mary, and 
 an end to our tete-ci-tHe. It is sometimes a little tiring 
 to frisk as a lamb, when I get a chance of bleating to 
 you as the old sheep I am, and in an appropriate key. 
 Your dance, Mr. Lascelles % So it is. Good-bye, Mary ; 
 here is Lady Young coming to attack me about my 
 husband. How do you do, Lady Young 1 Capital ball, 
 isn't it ] '
 
 102 MABY FENWIGK'S DAUGETEli. 
 
 Lady Young was in the habit of making excuses for 
 Mrs. Kaufmann. She assured people that they need 
 not be shy of the silly woman : she was her own enemy, 
 not the enemy of mankind. Poor thing ! she always 
 talked so much and told stories, with herself as heroine, 
 trying to make ovit that she was an amusing person. As 
 her odd groom husband did not mind her giddiness, neither 
 would Lady Young take exception to it. This was 
 charitable, and Lady Young's regal robe creaked over 
 the greeting which its owner bestowed upon Cicely. 
 
 * I saw you in the distance dancing away ; it was like 
 old times to see you, it took me back twenty years at 
 least. You are indeed an evergreen. And where is 
 Mr. Kaufmann 1 Shirked the dance, no doubt 1 ' 
 
 ' I can't localize my husband at this moment. Last 
 week he was in Warwickshire, down with influenza, 
 poor man ! I escaped at once, knowing what a sick 
 man means.' 
 
 ' Influenza ! ' from Mrs, Fenwick, startled. * You did 
 not tell me, Cicely.' 
 
 ' Oh, did I not 1 Well, influenza is like cholera, the 
 less one talks of it the more placid one remains. — Yes, 
 yes, Mr. Lascelles, I am coming.' 
 
 Two o'clock had struck ; the room was thinning fast. 
 The musicians were not the only people who were 
 longing for rest and anticipating ' God save the Queen ' 
 eagerly ; they were not the only people who had found 
 the night long, hot, and hard ; but they had earned 
 wage and would have something to show for their 
 labour. 
 
 Jack had seen his people into their carriage. He had 
 received some specially disturbing last words from his 
 mother ; he had walked back strolling under the lights, 
 between the pots of dying flowers, treading the red 
 carpet softly, halting at last to stand with folded arms 
 at the ball-room door.
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 103 
 
 Plenty of couples still whirled to the strains of a 
 waltz. The maize-satin dress got over the ground at 
 amazing pace. Bab danced well ; there was a graceful, 
 steady swing in her movements, and she laughed and 
 talked as she went, feeling no need to store her breath. 
 She was fresh and untired ; nothing about her bore 
 token of revelry, save the jagged little ribbons which 
 fringed her skirt as they swooped round and round, 
 skimming the vibrating boards. 
 
 He watched her ; he was so sore at heart, so chafed 
 and fretted that he — he. Jack Holland, scrutinized her. 
 
 Hope, hundred-lived hope, fell sick and languished ; 
 in its vacant place a monster put in an appearance — a 
 candid monster, who showed Jack a bunch of faded roses 
 in the grate, and called the donor ' a fool,' straight out 
 to his face. 
 
 Proud of an enervating, useless passion, content to 
 give without receiving, hugging a sentiment, loving a 
 chimera 1 If Jack had any self-respect, the monster 
 argued, he would shake himself free of his folly, he 
 would be quit of an allegiance the wage of which was a 
 sore heart — a sore and angry heart. 
 
 It was an old story, the monster quite understood that 
 Jack, as a lonely boy, had been fond and foolish about 
 the child Bab, who had taken the place of his dead 
 sister in his life ; he quite understood that Bab in socks 
 and sash, in curls and coral, might have been a nice child. 
 He quite understood that even when Miss Fenwick had 
 attained a riotous, long-legged, hobbledehoy age, Jack 
 had tied himself to the strings of her Liberty smocks. 
 He quite understood that Jack had been a school-room 
 courtier who had baited Bab's hooks, blown her doubtful 
 eggs, stuck in her stamps, written her exercises, and 
 beaten her tables into her brain. 
 
 The monster quite understood that Jack had been 
 getting worse and worse in his infatuation and folly for
 
 104 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 years. But it was never too late to mend, it was not as 
 yet too late to change. 
 
 Then Jack turned upon the monster and called him 
 Self, not Reason, defending Miss Fenwick against the 
 accuser. 
 - Change ! Why should he change 1 Certainly not. 
 
 She had forgotten him and his dances. Why should 
 she remember an exacting, unattractive person who was 
 unworthy to touch her satin shoe? Who grudged her 
 her innocent, frank happiness 1 who was angry because 
 she had not buffeted the dancing world with a trophy 
 of flowers, but had modestly deposited them upon the 
 ground 1 
 
 At this juncture of his reflections, Bab saw him ; the 
 next moment she and her partner, Mr. Lascelles, had 
 halted beside him, 
 
 * Jack,' she said, * we,' indicating her cousin, ' don't 
 want to go yet. We must stay over the galop. Father 
 has gone to look for you ; don't be fothnd. Oh, what a 
 nuisance ! the music is stopping. Here come father and 
 Aunt Cis full cry. F'rard, Jim; stop them. Dance 
 with her — keep her.' 
 
 Jack found himself held by the arm, and pioneered 
 through the crowd that was siirging supperwards. He 
 allowed himself to be scurried off, helter-skelter, up the 
 staircase to a curtained alcove near the sky ; he followed 
 his leader right willingly. 
 
 I* Many a time this couple had hidden from the authori- 
 ties together, many a time had Bab rushed him off in 
 this sort of manner, laughing and twittering all the way 
 she went. Breathless they sat down side by side on the 
 window-seat within the shadowed nook, and looked into 
 each other's faces and laughed, 
 
 I Forthwith the monster and his arguments were for- 
 gotten. Alert, at the fag-end of a ball, brilliantly 
 lively in the dim light, cool in the stifling heat, whole-
 
 MABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. ' 105 
 
 some as a moorland breeze, Bab sat at his elbow and 
 smiled upon bim. 
 
 And he had been blaspheming her in his heart. He 
 was ready to turn np his nose at a love-sick Queen Bab, 
 and to prefer a lady unimpressionable as a billiard-ball. 
 
 ' We must wait,' she was saying, ' till the music ha;^ 
 begun. We shall hear it up here. I hate leaving 
 before it's all over. I must get the galop in; father 
 can have another supper, and the horses won't hurt — it 
 is a warm night.' 
 
 ' Will you dance it with me 1 ' 
 
 'The galop r 
 
 * Yes.' 
 
 * I can't ; I'm engaged.' 
 
 ' Out of twenty odd dances you gave me one.' 
 
 ' It was a very nice one.' 
 
 ' Short commons, Bab.' 
 
 'Yes, but why did you go off with that girll You 
 didn't come near me till so late. I'd asked you, Jack, 
 to book your dances early. You forgot and so did I.' 
 
 * I didn't forget, I came directly I could get away, 
 but I had a sort of idea, a kind of insane hope that you 
 would keep me what I wanted. Your father got hold 
 of me before I was inside the place, he wanted me to 
 look after some of the people. So I had the girl on my 
 hands, she knew no one. I did my duty ; if you'd done 
 yours, Bab, you'd have danced a bit oftener with me.' 
 
 ' I know such a lot of men, you see, Jack. I'm full 
 up before I get into the room sometimes. It was a 
 capital ball.' 
 
 ' Capital, if you enjoyed it, but I — I don't remember 
 much about it except that you had no time to waste on 
 me, and that for the life of me I could see no one, think 
 of no one, care for no one but you.' 
 
 Miss Fen wick left off twittering; when Jack got 
 demonstrative she grew constrained and uneasy.
 
 106 MARY FENWIGK'S DAUGUTEB. 
 
 * I hear the music, in a moment we must go.* 
 
 * It is my dance.' 
 
 ' I never,' patting her foot to the music, * cut any one 
 out, it is such bad form.' 
 
 ' It's too late in the programme to be precise, and if 
 yoiT are engaged to any one, you are, if you will remember, 
 chiefly engaged to me.' 
 
 * I dare say,' civilly, ' Mr. Whose-his-name will have 
 gone, then I can have it with you.' 
 
 Toot, toot, toot, the horn in the * Post-boy's Galop ' 
 sounded far off, but not the less inspiring on that account. 
 
 * Mr. Whose-his-name has gone, Bab, he is certain to 
 have gone, and I want to sit it out. Have you never 
 heard of such a thing as sitting out at a ball ] ' 
 
 She got up, laughing. 
 
 * I can sit out with you at Combe, Jack, at intervals, 
 for the rest of my life, but it would be silly to waste 
 this galop.' 
 
 * I am silly, Bab.' 
 
 * Yes, but silliness will keep.' 
 
 * It will, it lasts me like the cruise of oil. Do you 
 really want to dance this badly 1 ' 
 
 She hummed a bar, nodding her head. Of course he 
 would come, and he did. At the foot of the stairs her 
 partner, Mr. Whose-his-name, was waiting for her ; in 
 his accomplished arms Miss Fenwick chased the ' Post- 
 boy's Galop ' to the finish, to the bitter end. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. 
 
 Jiomeo and Juliet. 
 
 'Of a little, take a little.' 
 
 The fun was over, and the weary cargo in the 'bus 
 rolled homeward, chewing according to their several
 
 MABY FEN]VIGK:S DAUGnTER. 107 
 
 experiences the tasteless oi- poignant, the sweet or bitter, 
 the stimulating or enervating cud of the night's revel. 
 
 The prettiest debutante sat still as a cloud, silent 
 as the Sphinx, her programme rocking softly beneath 
 the tucker of her dress, waiting the inevitable moment 
 when it should be honourably entombed as a sainted 
 relic of man. Its owner chewed a poignantly-sweet cud, 
 and wished the drive to Combe double its length. 
 
 In scraps upon the cloak-room floor Miss Wren's dis- 
 honoured programme lay ; the only hieroglyphic in the 
 world had not been scrawled upon it, the one man in 
 the world was at her side but not aware of his situation. 
 If this was the sort of evening a grown woman was com- 
 pelled to pretend to relish, then Miss "Wren wished her- 
 self back in the nursery and out of reach of social snubs. 
 Much heart-burning as well as exultation was carted 
 home with its owners. 
 
 The Devon roads are not as smooth as billiard-tables, 
 in the autumn of the year tons of foi'midable flint stones 
 are strewn with generous impartiality about the lanes 
 and highways. Bab chewed no cud, she talked and 
 laughed for the first ten minutes of the joiirney, yawn- 
 ing, now and again, short, sharp, energetic yawns which 
 disturbed her neighbours' remarks. Soon she grew 
 silent, the jolting and jarring of the carriage rocked her 
 to drowsiness. Her slumbers wanted no delicate court- 
 ing. Inch by inch, little by little, her head edged to 
 the right, sinking lower and lower, descending more and 
 more until it reached a comfortable resting-place upon 
 her neighbour's shoulder. 
 
 She was fast asleep, and her cousin, upon whose un- 
 appreciative shoulder the brown head was bolstered, 
 gi'umbled about his honours to every one, though he had 
 not the heart, he said, to disturb her. 
 
 * Nothing would rouse her but a cold pig ; she is 
 sweetly, and I might whisper, heavily asleep.'
 
 108 MARY FENWIOK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 A reverent mind was outraged by this blasphemy, and 
 had not recovered its balance when the 'bus drew up at 
 the porch of home, and the sharp air, blowing thi'ough 
 the opened door, aroused this young sleeper of Ephesus. 
 
 ' Halloa,' opening hor eyes, * where are we ] Oh,' 
 drawling and sleepy, ' we have got back. I could have 
 slept for a month.' 
 
 ' I'm glad you are quite at home,' said Mr. Lascolles, 
 
 Then slie laughed, and sitting up in a hurry, asked 
 Jack, who was not looking at all amused by the incident, 
 whether her faculty for sleep was not a disgrace 1 
 
 ' A faculty for getting what one wants is an enviable 
 faculty.' He was lighting her candle for her, and he 
 spoke more as a ' busy mocker ' than a flatterer. 
 
 ' Shall I cultivate insomnia ] No, thanks, I want 
 nothing at all. Give me my candle. Let me escape. 
 I don't want those girls in my room, talking everything 
 threadbare ; I hate my sex's habit of " talking-over." ' 
 
 She toiled slowly up the staircase out of sight, her 
 hair battered on one side, her dress frayed and soiled, 
 her attitude languid. He watched her until she turned 
 the corner of the flight. He watched a queen whom it 
 was impossible to dethrone. 
 
 Even the debutante had done devouring her pro- 
 gramme, even the forsaken damsel had got quit of her 
 miseries in sleep, but still Jack lingered on down-stairs. 
 His thoughts were not as luxurious as the chair in 
 which he lounged, they were not thin, light, easily dis- 
 pelled as the curly clouds of smoke which puffed inter- 
 mittently from his pipe, but they were of the self -same 
 colour as the other clouds, they were blue. 
 
 From the solitariness of his life, from its lack of 
 home-ties, Jack had had an isolated youth, and he had, 
 consequently, grown to be a di-eamer of dreams, a some- 
 what egotistical di'eamer. 
 
 Save for this adopted home of his he had had no
 
 MARY FJ^N WICKS DAUGHTER. 109 
 
 close tie, he had had no one to consider but himself, 
 none of the corners and angles of his nature had been 
 rubbed off in the friction of family life. 
 
 Happy-go-lucky people who fit themselves into their 
 nook of existence, tobogganning over the smooth and 
 trudging through the rough, had nothing akin to Jack. 
 The take-what-comes, the comfortable make-the-best-of- 
 it people had nothing akin to Jack. 
 
 He planned ovit his futiu-e, he made provident, precise, 
 exact schemes of existence, his life was to be beautiful, 
 full, straight, useful ; he dreamed of matrimony as it 
 has been dreamed of before by visionary men and 
 maidens. Of the perfect whole, of the twain with one 
 mind, one will, one flesh. It was a specious vision, had 
 not implacable Fate fixed on Bab as an essential half of 
 the divine whole. 
 
 Bab did not dream on the subject, with an impartial 
 eye she looked ahead. Marriage was a give and take, 
 a bear and forbear institution wherein wise couples 
 ducked heads to avoid collision, foregoing discussion. 
 She had no prejudice against matrimony, she was vexed 
 when, obviously, she had been wooed for her shekels, 
 but she must marry somebody, and Jack Holland was 
 handy, he was nice, he was her oldest friend, she liked 
 him very much, she would marry him. 
 
 Hitherto she had had no giving, no forbearing, no 
 ducking to do. Jack had done all that ; no wonder her 
 view of the future seemed plausible and comfortable 
 enough. 
 
 The monster came swiftly into the smoking-room and 
 sat beside Jack, making all these kind of disturbing 
 suggestions to him, and arguing fiercely ; the fire sank 
 and the clock ticked off an hour or two, whilst Jack 
 defended the lady of his choice against her calumniator, 
 
 Bab, heartless 1 Bab, hard-hearted ] Bab, to blame 1 
 He who made such accusations must have been mad,
 
 110 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 for when at length Jack extinguished the lamp, and, 
 taking his candle in his hand, went out into the 
 shadowy hall on his way to bed, there met him a rival 
 candle shining in the dusk, and a rival watcher, heavy- 
 eyed and heavy-hearted, looked him in the face. 
 
 * Bab ! ' 
 
 The monster had declared her to be asleep, oblivious 
 to every ill and shock which flesh is heir to, yet now 
 she encountered Jack her face agitated, wide-awake, 
 troubled ; the wisdom of the monster was, for the second 
 time, defeated. 
 
 * Bab darling.' 
 
 * I wish I'd known you were up, Jack,* said his 
 darling, drearily. 
 
 ' Did you want me 1 ' 
 
 * Yes, I wanted some one.' 
 
 * Wliy 1 What is the matter ? * 
 
 * I wanted help.' 
 'Help? Help for what r 
 
 Something serious had happened. Bab's voice broke 
 as she explained. 
 
 * Venom is ill, Jack, awfully ill. She had a fit just 
 when we came home, she has had another since. Rawle 
 was no good, I sent her to bed, and I've been all alone 
 with the poor old dog in the kitchen. There are such 
 a lot of beetles, and Venom is getting worse all the 
 time.' 
 
 It was a tragedy indeed ! Jack had a tender spot in 
 his heart for the cute old terrier, which had lived out 
 her full span of life at Combe. 
 
 * I will come and have a look at her,' he said, much 
 concerned. 
 
 ' I was on my way to fetch father. Siu-ely something 
 can be done. Poor old thing ! ' with unsteady lips ; 
 'she is hardly breathing at all.' 
 
 Down the chill passage, whence she had come, Bab
 
 MABY FUN WICK'S DAUGHTER. Ill 
 
 led the way to the kitchen. A red-hot fire burnt in 
 the grate and glowed upon a basket upon the hearth, 
 within which lay the terrier. Jack put the candles 
 down upon the dresser, and then he knelt on the flags 
 beside poor Venom, and looked at her without speaking : 
 there was a sunken grey look of death about her 
 grizzled, scarred face. Bab must know what that look 
 meant. 
 
 *I brought her here because the fire was so warm 
 and she is so cold. Jack. I have rubbed her with hot 
 flannels. I have poured some brandy down her throat. 
 Nothing did any good.' 
 
 * Did you try a wet sponge on her head 1 ' 
 
 * No, I didn't. I will go and get one now.' 
 
 Jack shook his head ; he had laid his hand on 
 Venom's faintly-beating heart. 
 
 ' It's no use to torment her with remedies. Let her 
 alone, Bab. She is not going to get any better, I am 
 afraid.' 
 
 But Bab was a young person who never said ' die.' 
 Moreover, she could not wait inert and watch a 
 harrowing scene, she must do something. 
 
 ' Why should she die, Jack 1 ' 
 
 'Look at her.' 
 
 * Yes, yes, I am looking, but she is a tough old dog, 
 she might pull through. Don't you remember when she 
 got jammed between a root in a fox's earth, and couldn't 
 struggle out till she had shrunk on a week of starvation 1 
 Don't you remember that we found her crawling into 
 the porch, with ribs like a bird-cage, half dead] You 
 thought she would die then, but she didn't. We got her 
 round on Liebig and cream. She has such an excellent 
 constitution. Don't,' imploringly, ' don't give her up.' 
 
 ' But, dearest, she is old. She is fifteen if she is 
 a day.' 
 
 ' Fifteen ! ' huskily. ' What is fifteen 1 Isn't it cruel
 
 112 MARY FENWIOKS DAUGniER. 
 
 that fifteen is old for a dog when a stupid fish, that no 
 one cares a straw about, should live a century, and take 
 twenty years growing up.' 
 
 She leaned her cheek against the dog's grizzled nozzle, 
 and looked up into Jack's face. Indeed, he thought 
 any law of nature barbarous that should make her 
 ' little finger ache,' at any time. Here, among the dish- 
 covers and black-beetles, kneeling on the flags by the 
 scrubbed tables, she was divine. As a ministering 
 angel she gave her orders. 
 
 ' Jack,' she said, ' do try the sponge ; fetch yours, 
 there isn't one here.' 
 
 In a small way it would have been hard for a courtier 
 to better serve his liege than by such a service. This 
 courtier took his candle and hurried off to his room ; it 
 was a sacrifice for a forlorn hope. 
 
 He was not two minutes gone ; howbeit, when he 
 came back from his quest with his hands full and his 
 breath short, he came too late. 
 
 Bab still knelt, as she had done when he left her, by 
 the terrier ; but she did not speak ; she only pointed to 
 the basket. 
 
 ' It is no good, Bab, she is dead.' 
 
 With averted face and bent head, with a pigtail of 
 hair hanging over her loose, white wrapper, with the 
 glow of the fii'e upon her, over her head biu-nished brass 
 and tin, his imperial lady knelt on in silence. He set 
 his candle and his sponge upon the table, and went 
 over to her side ; then she rose to her feet and put her 
 hand into his, staring into his face with troubled eyes. 
 
 ' I — I wish dogs lived for — for ever. I — I wish I 
 had not been so fond of Venom.' 
 
 ' Poor old thing ! It is hard lines, Bab, but she had 
 to die some time, you know. She might have grown 
 wheezy and old, and then people would have got sick of 
 her ; it's better to die when she was appreciated.'
 
 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 113 
 
 Bab had no faculty for philosophizing. Resignation 
 had never entered into her scheme of existence. She 
 had no experience of evils where it is necessary to 
 accept one, and expedient to choose the lesser. 
 
 • I would rather that I had grown sick of her, Jack ; 
 but I am sure I never should have, I never got tired of 
 any dog. I don't change.' 
 
 * No, Bab, I know you don't.' 
 
 ' I never knew her miss a rat. Jack.* 
 
 Ratting was not an accomplishment which appealed 
 to the young man, but the break in her voice went 
 straight to his heart, and vibrated upon its strings. 
 
 ' She was the cutest, most faithful dog in the world,' 
 he said fervently, with his eyes in the basket by which 
 they stood together; then, in the hushed tones of 
 bereavement, they talked, recalling the virtues of the 
 dead. 
 
 Though quicksilver was a dominant part of Bab's 
 composition, she was not restless now. The great, white 
 face of the clock looked down upon them and ticked 
 loudly, suggestively ; the beetles were going home for a 
 quiet day ; the fire waned ; and yet she lingered by poor 
 Venom's side. 
 
 In her grief, in her confidential, appealing sorrow Bab 
 * had grovtTi so dear, so dear,' that her comrade left the 
 virtues of the dead for the virtues of the living. 
 
 He told her of the monster and his blasphemy ; he 
 told her that he had, at the monster's suggestion, sus- 
 pected her. He told her that he. Jack Holland, was a 
 selfish, exacting, despotic monster himself, who could not 
 rest without her forgiveness. 
 
 ' Nonsense ! ' she said, graciously, but looking now 
 towards the clock. 
 
 He talked of their future life ; of the good things they 
 would do ; of the glorious certainty of their infinite 
 happiness in an existence which they would spend in 
 
 I
 
 114 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 righting wrongs, in soothing suif ering, in steadfast work, 
 in honest pleasure. 
 
 He talked as a man may, on a rare occasion, talk t© 
 the woman he loves. He told all his dreams out loud — 
 bewildering her, confusing her, confounding her. 
 
 Then he talked of her — of Bab, herself, in the same 
 wild way, with the same extravagance. Here she pulled 
 him up : she knew where she was — he had told her this 
 Bort of fairy-tale before. She did not know anything 
 about their future life, therefore she could not gainsay 
 his prophecies ; but she was quite certain that her origin 
 was not divine, she was quite certain she was an ordinary 
 mortal who was out of place on a pedestal. 
 
 *It is half -past five. Jack,' she said, pointing at the 
 clock ; * the kitchen-maid will be down in a minute. I 
 must go.' She took up her candle and turned from the 
 corpse. ' You look tired. Jack.' 
 
 * Tired ! ' he repeated ; * tired with you I ' 
 
 * How odd the hall looks by this light I ' 
 
 * You need not run j I am not going to say any more, 
 Bab.' 
 
 She relaxed her pace, she was pale and pensive. At 
 the door of her room she paused to wish him good-night. 
 
 * Have her buried in my garden, Jack. I shan't get 
 up early. Good-night ; you have been so kind. Good- 
 night.' 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Sitting by my side, 
 
 At my feet, 
 
 So he breathed the air I breathed, 
 
 Satisfied 1 — R. Bkowning. 
 
 • Qui capit capitur.' 
 
 Upon the day following the October ball the weather 
 was contemptible. All the morning it tried to rainj
 
 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 115 
 
 though the attempt was unsuccessful, it was sufficient 
 to unsettle every one's mind as to * doing ' and ' wearing.' 
 
 The deserted womenkind at Combe had not philosophy- 
 sufficient to make them independent of the weather. 
 Without the stimulating presence of the men the jaded 
 girls drooped, that peculiar washed-out, light-headed, 
 all-is-vanity sensation, the discomforting speciality of 
 ball-goers, drained them of their spirits ; they were flat, 
 dull, dismal, 
 
 ' Take them to the Hanleys' hockey-party, for good- 
 ness' sake ; take them to luncheon, as you were asked to 
 do,' Mrs. Kaufmann urged. ' I hate young girls, Mary ; 
 
 they are so natural; I nearly said selfish, but it's 
 
 the same thing, isn't it 1 ' 
 
 ' We are going ; I've ordered the carriage,' 
 
 ' Where's Bab 1 ' 
 
 The daughter of the house, who had not learned to 
 droop or repine under any circumstance, was still asleep ; 
 no one disturbed her, she washed her hands of enter- 
 taining ; she was not going to do anything save sleep 
 till lunch-time. Nothing had been seen of Mr. Holland 
 that morning, but he had not gone to shoot at Croxton, 
 for Mrs. Kaufmann had smelt him out in the smoking- 
 room, and, pursuing him thither, had pressed him to 
 play billiards with the poor dear girls, a privilege which 
 he had been ungallant enough to decline. Later he had 
 altogether disappeared, and when the landau started for 
 Burton he was not within doors. 
 
 But two o'clock found him in the dining-room, dis- 
 cussing a delectable salmi and some not wholly delectable 
 thoughts ; his eyes wandered continually to the door, he 
 was listening as a dog listens for its absent master's 
 steps. Footsteps came before long, quick and sharp, 
 with a pattering accompaniment of paws on a parquet 
 floor. A moment later Miss Fenwick, Dan and Fritz 
 preceding her, entered the room. Nothing could be
 
 116 MAB7 FENWICrS DAUGHTER. 
 
 fresher nor more blithe than the incomer. No trace of 
 her vigil was to be seen in her face, nor heard in her 
 voice ; neither vigil nor weather affected her. 
 
 She passed Jack, tapping him a friendly * Good- 
 morning ' on the shoulder, and aat herself down at the 
 head of the table, facing the light. 
 
 Her eyes were not heavy, her cheeks were rosy as 
 Aurora, she had slept off every trace of revelling, and 
 she looked with critical interest upon Jack's plate. 
 
 * Is that good, Jack 1 ' she asked. * Give me some.* 
 
 As he waited upon her she laughed, and quoted a 
 rhyme, teasing him — 
 
 ' " We can live without books, 
 
 What is knowledge but grieving ? 
 We can live without hope, 
 What is hope but deceiving ? 
 We can live without love, 
 What is passion but pining ? 
 But where is the man 
 That can live without dining ? " 
 
 And lunching, Jack,' in parenthesis. * But you are not 
 one of the men who say " they never touch anything in 
 the middle of the day," and then eat tons of everything 
 they can get at one o'clock. Men think it's a smart 
 theory, that " glass of claret and a biscuit " theory, but 
 they don't like it in practice.' 
 
 Bab looked up laughing, it struck her that Jack's 
 smile was an inspiriting one with which to meet. It 
 struck her that she liked to see his face opposite to her ; 
 though, alas, neither immaculate breeches and gaiters, 
 neither broad, square shoulders nor rough frieze coat, 
 neither one nor other, nor all, contrived to turn Jack 
 (within or without) into that species of man which Bab 
 appreciated, a genuine sportsman. Bab's eyes were not 
 intelligent, discriminating, they were superficial servants. 
 She knew no more of the lust of the eye than she knew
 
 MABY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTER. 117 
 
 of the lust of the flesh, but of the pride of life she had 
 her full share. 
 
 Jack's thin, pale face which was neither tanned nor 
 reddened, his light jaw, and finely-cut features, his deep, 
 intelligent eyes, and his thick, over-long hair had no 
 touch in common with the stalwart Fenwick ancestry, 
 who, in oil and canvas, looked down from the walls upon 
 the comely couple at their lunch. 
 
 With a quick, imperious gesture, Bab dismissed the 
 well-trained dogs from the exciting proximity of scraps. 
 Offering no remonstrance, save a dumb one in their 
 eyes, they lay down on the rug. Dumb entreaties are 
 thrown away on humanity. 
 
 ' How long have you been up, Jack ? ' 
 
 ' Since nine o'clock yesterday morning.' j 
 
 « W-h-a-t 1 ' 
 
 * I couldn't go to bed in broad daylight, I can't sleep 
 at odd hours. I had my tub and went out for a potter.' 
 
 He had, in truth, pottered idly up and down that 
 portion of the garden which commanded a near view of a 
 certain curtained window, until he had been driven from 
 offering that unprofitable homage to a shrine by the 
 greeting of the gardener. 
 
 Bab looked hard at him. 
 
 « You will be cross before this long, long day is over, 
 I expect : you are tired now. I told Rawle to wake 
 me at one. I slept till then, so I'm as fresh as paint. 
 Becket says it's going to rain.' She lifted her head, and, 
 looking through the window, swept the grey panorama 
 of valley, hills, and woods with a long, keen glance. 
 ' What's it going to do ] ' 
 
 * Pelt,' laconically. 
 
 • "The mist comes from sea to hill, 
 There'll be enough to turn a milL"' 
 
 * Are you coming to Burtou ? ' 
 ' It's a nasty day.'
 
 118 MAllY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 * Yes, but it's something to do ; the cart will be round 
 directly.' 
 
 * Of course I will come ; ' he looked at her cap, skirt, 
 and cape of uncompromising waterproof : it was grimly- 
 practical, but distasteful clothing : such apparel as a 
 man approves his wife for wearing, but deprecates for 
 less favoured women. * You look prepared for a flood. 
 What will you have now 1 Apricot-cream or /oie-gras ? ' 
 
 * Both,' she laughed, ' in rotation. I'm so hungry, for 
 I've lost my breakfast. What have you been doing 
 with yourself since last I saw you 1 ' 
 
 ' Funeral rites, Bab.' 
 
 * Why did you remind me ? I'd been studiously for- 
 getting.' 
 
 * It isn't decent to forget till after the funeral, even 
 in dog-land. But she's buried. She has done her last 
 duty and filled her grave. Poor Venom ! I had her 
 put in your garden, Bab, with a rose-tree at her head 
 and a clump of columbines at her foot, — her tail, I should 
 say, — so forget her as soon as you can; she's out of 
 sight.' 
 
 If there was displeasure in his voice, Bab did not 
 notice it ; but she did notice that he tossed a bit of toast 
 to the collie. 
 
 '1 don't like your feeding Dan,' she remonstrated; 
 the don't like in that tone was equivalent to won't have. 
 ' Dogs which beg at meals are a pest.' 
 
 Bab ruled the dogs justly, but as spoilt women are 
 given to govern their subordinates, with absolute 
 monarchy. 
 
 * Don't be a despot, Bab. Let the poor old chap get 
 what he likes for once in a way. He will be alongside 
 of Venom in a year or two. Then there will be no 
 catching of toast in uncanonical hours. No wanting and 
 no having. No laws of Medes and Persians, and no 
 lawgivers.'
 
 MABY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTEB. 119 
 
 'There may be Home-Eule in the Dog-Star, Jack. 
 At any rate, there will be anarchy nowhere, if what 
 you teach me is true.' 
 
 She slowly tossed a crumb of biscuit to the wondering 
 Dan ; her eyes on her vis-a-vis's exultant face. 
 
 'I think,' reflectively, 'you will make a good bar- 
 rister, you have a knack of convincing me.' Another 
 biscuit demoralized the dogs. Jack felt as a man might 
 feel who has made his name, and gained a case of world- 
 wide fame ; but he felt thus only for a minute. ' I am 
 easy to convince,' she proceeded ; ' when people argue 
 with me, I always think as they think just at first, or 
 until I hear a contrary opinion.' 
 
 At three o'clock the rain and the T-cart came 
 together. 
 
 'It is a sea-fret, a mist, a mere nothing,' said Miss 
 Fenwick, standing at the front door to scan the dreari- 
 ness without. The magnificent view for which Combe 
 was famed, had been reduced to a dozen acres of damp 
 grass-land, dotted with a dripping walnut-tree and a 
 weeping ash j hills and woods were alike clouded out of 
 the scene. 
 
 The air was like soft, warm, human breath. It was 
 such a day as the natives call ' nice, growing weather.' 
 Bab had been bred and born in this atmosphere of visible 
 vapour. As the ferns and the moss, she flourished in and 
 appreciated it. Brunette was somewhat sobered by the 
 downpour. Though her impatient hoofs imprinted a 
 score of uneven horse-shoes upon the reeking gravel, she 
 made no other sign of her individuality. 
 
 ' I Avill drive,' said Jack ; his mackintosh was turned 
 up to his ears, his hat pvilled well over his eyes ; ' you 
 had better try to keep dry. Oh, yes, take an umbrella, 
 Bab ; you don't want to wring water out of your fringe 
 when you get there.' 
 
 * I hate being driven,' she grumbled, ' but I must
 
 120 MAEY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 keep fairly dry, or I shan't be fit to be seen. Coming 
 back I can drive.' 
 
 So Jack got up into the T-cart and took his high and 
 perilous seat. This cart was Bab's own property, chosen 
 for its colour, height, the lightness of its wheels, its 
 smartness, not for comfort nor convenience ; there was 
 barely room in it for a brace of full-sized people. 
 
 The drive was not such an excursion into Paradise as 
 one imagination had foreseen ; it had its drawbacks. 
 Brunette absorbed much of the di-iver's attention, and 
 Bab's umbrella spiked him on the cheek and in the eye 
 several times, while Bab herself gave him advice and 
 admonitions about the mare. 
 
 * She is not safe for you to drive alone,* he said. 
 This remark was not pleasing to a young person who 
 prided herself upon her skill with the reins. ' This 
 cart doesn't give her enough work to take the nonsense 
 out of her.' 
 
 ' It's only play ; Brunette's no vice about her, Jack.' 
 
 * You have heard of the dealer who was kicked by 
 the horse he was selling, and died murmuring, " playful 
 little rogue ! " Consistent man that, a faithful friend.' 
 
 * Hush, Jack, don't argue again ; I don't like you 
 when you argue.' 
 
 Jack looked at her, not answering. 
 
 'His face with lines of firmness wrought, 
 He wears the look of a man unbought, 
 The face that a child would climb to kiss, 
 True and tender and brave and just, 
 That mau might honour and woman trust.' 
 
 o' 
 
 But she saw nothing more about his face than the 
 rain wet on his cheeks, his drenched moustache, the 
 dripping from his hat. 
 
 ' Hurry her along. Jack, it's pouring cats and dogs. 
 The rain's trickling down my neck. I want to get 
 out of it.'
 
 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 121 
 
 Hockey in a hall is a nice game for those who like 
 bruises, and do not mind a noise. The campaign at 
 Burton was great fun for people of these latter tastes. 
 Bab liked it, she whacked and pushed, and backed and 
 shrieked in an even more fiery state of vicious en- 
 deavour than her compeers. The game was worth the 
 discomfort of the drive, and so she said graciously to 
 her hostess. Alethea, early lamed, disappeared with 
 Mrs. Kaufmann in search of rest and peace. They 
 found each other poor company, for when two great 
 talkers meet then comes a tug-of-war. Lady Young 
 hemmed Mrs. Fenwick in one of the window-seats, and 
 penned her down with chit-chat ; while the great lady's 
 son whacked lazily at the petticoat-guarded ball, back- 
 ing up Miss Fenwick' s energetic play, desiring most 
 of all the end of the game. 
 
 The skies wept without, within Avas clattering of 
 quick feet, ripples of laughter, the hum and buzz of 
 voices rejoicing at the worship of the British deity, 
 a ball. 
 
 The putting away of childish things is a clearance 
 that takes some people half a century to accomplish. 
 Bab, on her homeward way, behaved like a child ; she 
 forgot the dignity of her years, and disgraced herself. 
 
 When the hockey and the tea, in fact when the fun 
 was over, carriages were announced, and there arose 
 the bustle of last words and leave-takings. 
 
 ' I'm going to drive you back,' said Bab, addressing 
 Jack ; she was fastening her cape and peering through 
 the open door at the darkness without. 
 
 ' It's raining buckets-full. I think,' said her careful 
 squire, ' that you had better squeeze in with the others.' 
 
 ' Five in the landau % No, thanks. I want a blow, 
 my head is buzzy after the ball.' 
 
 She only wanted a blow j she would get that, for the 
 wind was high and gusty.
 
 122 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 * Bab,* called her mother from the background, * you 
 must drive home with us. You will be wet through. 
 You will be washed out of the cart.' 
 
 But Bab took - her way ; she- wanted air, and did not 
 object to being wet or washed, and she proceeded to 
 descend the steps towards her equipage which stopped 
 the way. Jack stayed behind to reassure Mrs. Fenwick. 
 In the midst of his protestations he stammered, red- 
 dened, and disappeared ; the elder Mary Fenwick was 
 laughing at him, her eyes were twinkling. 
 
 * It is all right, Bab,' he said, joining that young 
 person at the door. 'You can come; but I have pro- 
 mised to wrap you up and to drive you.' 
 
 * You shouldn't make rash promises.' 
 
 There were a couple of extraneous men seeing Bab 
 off ; she had taken the reins and the box-seat, and her 
 attendants were tucking the apron round about her 
 knees. 
 
 * Move to the other place ; I'm going to drive.' 
 
 * But why ? ' 
 
 ' You must keep dry.' 
 
 Brunette had no patience such as is necessary for a 
 debate. If her cargo was aboard she intended to get 
 home with them speedily, and she plunged forward. 
 The cargo had a will of its own, and checked the start ; 
 this annoyed Brunette, she reared on end, remonstrating 
 at the delay with her hoofs. 
 
 ' You had better be off. Miss Fenwick ; you can fight 
 for the reins with Holland on the way. Just now you 
 are obstructing the course.' 
 
 So Miss Fenwick moved to her legitimate seat as had 
 been suggested, and out into pelting rain, under dripping 
 trees, she was driven homewards. 
 
 Jack was, for the first few minutes, so much engrossed 
 with the reins as to be speechless ; his companion sat, 
 stiff and straight, at his elbow.
 
 3IABY FENWICErS DAUGHTER. 123 
 
 * I want to drive, Jack,' in a tone of remonstrance. 
 
 * You will have enough to do in keeping dry,' he said. 
 * When she gives over pulling like this, I'll get out your 
 Scotch cloak ; it's under the seat.' 
 
 'Jack, don't be obstinate. I want to drive,' empha- 
 sizing the word ' want.' 
 ' I see you do.' 
 
 * Will you give me the reins ? ' 
 
 * I told your mother I'd see you did not get unneces- 
 sarily wet. Hold down the umbrella in front of you, 
 the rain beats in your face.' 
 
 ' Give me the reins,' still more emphatically. * Please, 
 Jack.' 
 
 * No, certainly not. At least, not yet.' 
 
 A pause, during which a gust of rain-charged wind 
 came howling up the lane into which they had turned. 
 Awkwardly, in the teeth of it. Miss Fenwick fumbled 
 with her lambrella, hoisting it forward as she had been 
 directed to do. The result of her manoeuvre was un- 
 fortunate ; the wind blew stronger than it seemed, for 
 it wrenched the handle from her hand, and drove the 
 umbrella down into the road. 
 
 It was the work of several seconds to pull up ; the 
 rain pattered in Bab's face. She murmured something 
 about ' how wet it was, and how stupid she had been.' 
 Jack was magnanimous ; he was in that state of mind 
 in which he hardly knew his own will from hers, though 
 he had usurped those dripping reins which she coveted, 
 and which he now handed to her. 
 
 ' Never mind,' he said, ' I will pick it up ; there is 
 more wind, I suppose, than I thought. Whoa hooa. 
 Brunette.' 
 
 He got down, and pursued the umbrella as it trundled 
 through the puddles, driven by the wind, and caught the 
 flapping thing, badly damaged, some hundred yards 
 back; then he turned to retrace his steps.
 
 124 MABY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 Dusk though it was it was not dark, he was not blind, 
 and yet — and yet where was the cart ] 
 
 He reached the sharp corner of the lane whence he 
 could see the long hill ahead : no entangled ruin lay in 
 the ditch, no tragic sight to rend his heart, but horse and 
 cart and driver, steady as a rock, climbing the incline at 
 a good, round trot. 
 
 Then he knew what had happened : he understood 
 the trick, and who had taken it. 
 
 A dilapidated umbrella has great capacity for comedy. 
 Mr. Holland stood in the pouring rain and looked at it, 
 then he laughed. Later on he took out his watch, con- 
 sulted it, then faced about and hurried back to the high- 
 road. 
 
 From her youth up Bab had played many a practical 
 joke upon him, jokes such as had their origin in mere 
 animal spirits ; but things had changed with him of late ; 
 he laughed, but he did not relish the humour. 
 
 A dog has a most faithful heart, but he resents a 
 laugh at his expense ; even to his beloved master he 
 owes a grudge should that potentate ridicule him. Jack 
 turned back to the highway and hailed the mail-cart on 
 its way to Combe, smiling still, but sardonically. 
 
 All the way up the long hill Miss Fenwick chuckled 
 softly to herself. Not drive home ? — of course she would 
 drive home. How amused Jack must be as he trudged 
 through the villainous mud carrying her umbrella. 
 Cabinet ministers, actors, royalties, all the people whose 
 biographies she had read in the school-room, had been 
 amused by practical joking. She had been impressed 
 by this fact at the time, and remembered it. Jack, who 
 was no big-wig, would not presume to turn up his nose 
 at a joke. 
 
 Would his sense of humour be washed and blown out 
 of him ? Bab stopped laughing, the rain trickled down 
 her neck and dropped like a waterfall off her cape. It
 
 MABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 125 
 
 was a long way home and a bad road ; in the Devon 
 nature of country, as soon as the cart had ascended a 
 hill, it descended precipitously ; the weather was vile. 
 Jack had had thirty-six hours of day already, he had 
 been very kind and useful in the kitchen overnight. 
 Bah ! how wet it was ! 
 
 "What an audacious, malicious joke hers had been ! 
 she began to doubt the fun of it. What would Jack 
 do 1 Good heavens, he would be late for dinner, and 
 there were people coming to dine ; authorities at Combe 
 might be but little amused by the delay. She was so 
 used to getting her own way that she soon lost satisfac- 
 tion in her victory. She thought she had behaved like a 
 child, and like a disagreeable, stupid child. 
 
 With a lighter hand on the reins and a lighter weight 
 in the cart. Brunette flew along, carrying Bab's joke too 
 far, turning it into a flabby flat effort after mirth. 
 The road wound round a hill, the wooded ground below 
 sloped steeply down to a wide trout-stream, a wall of 
 loosely-piled stones formed the hedge on either side the 
 lane. 
 
 Pools of water gleamed faintly here and there beneath 
 the mare's quick hoofs; she was going home at her own 
 pace, her spirits rising every moment, she took advantage 
 of her driver's absent mind, she frisked in her harness, 
 she shied at a puddle, she gathered herself together for 
 a double shuflfle on the flints. In mere exuberance of 
 youth this high-spirited sinner. Brunette, defied her 
 betters, and then took violent umbrage at the just 
 correction of her mutiny. 
 
 People usually think twice before they touch a spirited 
 horse with a whip, or before they attack a spirited 
 person : a high spirit is a safeguard for man and beast. 
 Meekness may be lashed in safety ; but they let sleeping 
 dogs lie who value their skin. 
 
 If Bab had not been a little tired and a little worried—
 
 126 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 if, in fact, she had been in her usual serene and prac- 
 tical frame of mind, she would not have come to grief 
 that evening ; for then she would not have drawn the 
 lash across Brunette's glossy coat, and, consequently, 
 Brunette would not have gone mad with anger. 
 
 Brunette must give over dancing in harness, and Bab 
 said so emphatically with the whip. The mare, resent- 
 ing the lesson, started aside, backed, danced again, and 
 then, dashing forward, brought the near shaft of the cart 
 against the wall, shattering it to pieces against an out- 
 jutting block of granite, thus bringing the homeward 
 journey to an abrupt conclusion. 
 
 Let those laugh who win. Bab did not laugh ; all her 
 energy was absorbed in pacifying Brunette. The altera- 
 tion in the balance of the cart frightened the mare ; her 
 mistress got out, soothed and unharnessed the nervous 
 animal, listening all the while for footsteps which never 
 came. 
 
 The shaft was broken off short, the cart was in the 
 ditch, not a sound could be heard but the rain and wind 
 in this lonely lane on the hill-side. 
 
 What had become of Jack 1 What a fool she had 
 been ! She could not wait for ever. There was nothing 
 to be done but to get home on foot and leave the cart to 
 its fate. Most women, under the circumstances, would 
 have turned Brunette loose ; a restive horse, which starts 
 and frets at every turn, was a serious charge, but Bab 
 led her through three muddy miles of rough lane, plod- 
 ding along pluckily and patiently enough, despising her 
 arm for the pain in it. 
 
 Long before Miss Fenwick saw the lights of Combe, 
 she had forgotten all about her practical joke; the 
 practical consequence was more impressive. She wanted 
 pity and consolation, not laughter. She wanted dry 
 stockings and her dinner more than she had ever wanted 
 anything in her life.
 
 MABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 127 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Pull off your old coat, and roll up your sleeves, 
 Life is a liard road to travel, I believes. 
 
 A Song of (he West. 
 
 'A little stone may upset a large cart.' 
 
 With winds and frost and * they there stinking 
 violets ' to spoil scent ; rain and sunshine to ruin trout- 
 streams ; showers to drown, vermin to devour, neigh- 
 bours to drive, poachers to net, instinct to warn the 
 prey of gun and fowler, no wonder the sportsman carries 
 a heavy heart and a dissatisfied tongue ; for whose is so 
 hard a fate as lus ? Against him, year in year out, the 
 elements war. 
 
 The master of Combe — wet, splashed, muddy, fresh 
 from the day's slaughter — invaded his wife's room. 
 
 The day had been merely fair, the birds scarce and 
 wild ; Captain Fenwick had only just come back from 
 Croxton. Mary was resting ; she sat with an open book 
 on her knee before the fire, and drew away to make room 
 for her lord beside her, smiling a little smile, the mean- 
 ing of which he knew quite well. 
 
 * He would not have laughed at her if she had been 
 tramping through turnips and mire on a goose-chase 
 all day ; but there, he had done grumbling. She was a 
 most comfortable, peaceful woman to come home to.' 
 
 He had a rare way of saying charming things to hia 
 wife ; they came as easily to his lips as jibes, and jeers, 
 and bitterness come to the frank marital lips of some 
 men. 
 
 'You look done up, Mary. What have you been 
 doing 1 ' 
 
 She told him of the luncheon at Burton, of the hockey ] 
 she said it had been a long day, and bit her lip to stop 
 a sigh. 
 
 * What's the matter r
 
 128 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Nothing — really nothing — nothing new.' 
 ' Won't you tell me 1 I thought that five-and-twenty 
 years ago you had done with feasting on your worries 
 alone; you gave me your word I should halve them, 
 Mary.' 
 
 * Lady Young is on my nerves, Goff, that is it. She 
 button-holed me this afternoon, and she is an uncomfort- 
 able companion, she thinks nothing that is nice.' 
 
 'What did she sayl Tell me, I won't let it out.' 
 He gave this assurance smiling consciously, for he had 
 a man-like knack of * letting out ' feminine mysteries. 
 
 * She was unpleasant about Bab, she was odious about 
 Jack, and she implied — I mean she actually said that 
 Alethea Young was — was over-interested in her son.' 
 
 Men of Godfray's calibre dislike gossip, and they have 
 no idea how to take it. They do not understand how 
 much may be said, and how little believed, or intended 
 to be believed. They do not see how the teller of the 
 tale draws here a little and there a little from her 
 imagination, they do not see where the patches are 
 placed ; they have no sympathy for the light feminine 
 method of infringing the ninth commandment; they 
 take gossip au grand serieux, and spoil the fun of it 
 altogether. 
 
 Captain Fenwick frowned, it was odious to find that 
 his possessions formed food for fault-finding. 
 
 'Unpleasant about Bab? Why did you stand such 
 a thing r 
 
 * " Whom Jezebel his wife stirreth up," ' said Mary, 
 shaking her head. 'Quite unintentionally, Godfray. 
 Could I stop Lady Young's tongue ] Am I omnipo- 
 tent ] Besides, I have sympathy for her to a certain 
 point ; if I was Jack's mother I should say disparaging 
 things of Bab to you.' 
 
 * But you would not invent ridiculous fictions about 
 Alethea. T like Jack, as you know, but I think he must
 
 MARY FENWIOK'S DAUGHTBB. 129 
 
 put his foot down and have one thing or the other. 
 This sort of shilly-shallying sickens me, I never liked it, 
 it was your doing, Mary, and it's a failure. Why is 
 Bab playing the fool and setting that woman's tongue 
 at her] I shall put a stop to it. I'm not keen to 
 be connected with Woodbury, those two, mother and 
 daughter — pickles and butter-milk — will be bickering 
 over here, worrying you and irritating me.' 
 
 Rarely did the lazy master of the house excite himself 
 to be angry, but he was angry now. Mary listened with 
 her eyes upon the fire. 
 
 ' I'd rather Bab had no mind than a strong one, Mary, 
 and so I tell her. Why isn't she like other women ] I 
 shall have it out with Jack to-night. I believe in speak- 
 ing out. Let out a bit, don't hang on wondering what 
 it all means, and misunderstanding like the idiots in 
 books. Jack's face is as long as a wet week in November, 
 and Bab is always flying about with some man, but 
 never the legitimate one. It is time she settled down 
 and thought seriously ; Jack's such a fool about her, he 
 won't give her a good blowing-up, that is what she wants ; 
 you,' attacking Mrs. Fenwick, but very gently, 'you 
 have spoilt her, Mary.' 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick did not answer for a moment ; then she 
 said, slowly, 
 
 * I think, just for a little longer, I would leave it alone.' 
 
 * Long ago, Mary, you derided a let-alone policy ; you 
 spoke your mind out strong. I am inclined to do as you 
 do, not to do as you tell me.' 
 
 * I think, just for a little longer, I would leave it alone,' 
 she repeated. * Night and day I turn the question over 
 in my mind. She doesn't think Jack is a god, so if she 
 should marry him she won't break her heart and spoil her 
 temper when she finds he is only a man. She has no 
 dreams from which to awake ; she is as practical as — as 
 a widow.' 
 
 K
 
 130 MARY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 * You always side with your sex, Mary ; you think of 
 her, not of him.' 
 
 ' He/ Mrs. Fenwick lifted her misty eyes to her hus- 
 band's face, ' he, Godfray, he is, and he has been, and he 
 will be fonder of her than of anything in life.' 
 
 ' Pshaw, Mary, grass may grow taller round a stone, 
 but a man gets chilled if he comes too much in contact 
 with a girl who is unimpressionable as a golf ball. Jack 
 must be something stronger than patient, and so I shall 
 tell him.' 
 
 The dressing-bell had rung, some of the dressing-hour 
 had worn away, Mary had more to say, arguments ready 
 to modify her husband's purpose, but no time in which to 
 use them, for Becket broke into the conversation. 
 
 Dramatic Becket from whose lips common-place fiction 
 was arresting, and whose latest intelligence this evening 
 set both her hearers on their feet. 
 
 * Miss Fenwick had not come in, and the cart had not 
 come home, and the night was dark as pitch, and the rain 
 fell in buckets, and there was company expected at dinner, 
 and Rawle had begun to think something must have 
 happened, and sure as fate there wouldn't be time to get 
 Miss Bab dressed, unless she was bustled up to her room 
 without delay. And who would fetch Miss Bab ? And 
 where in the world could she be % ' 
 
 Captain and IMrs. Fenwick looked at each other. 
 
 * She is all right, Godfray, Jack drove her home ; there 
 is some mistake, nothing more. They are sheltering 
 somewhere.* 
 
 These reassurances were inefEective, for Captain and 
 Mrs. Fenwick hurried out into the passage, making for 
 the staircase. Towards them, walking along leisurely up 
 the stairs, with a paper under his arm and a candle in his 
 hand came Jack himself, his eyes upon the ground, his 
 thoughts a league away. 
 
 * Oh, here you are, Jack ; that's all right. Becket
 
 MARY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTER. 131 
 
 came to us with some cock-and-bull story about your 
 being lost. "Where is Bab ? ' 
 
 * I've no notion,' 
 
 * What do you mean 1 You drove her home.' 
 
 ' I drove her to the foot of East Hill, no further.* 
 ' East Hill ! Why to East Hill ] I don't understand. 
 Is there anything -nrong 1 ' 
 
 * Not with me. But I can't think why she hasn't 
 arrived ; she ought to have been here an hour ago.' Then 
 Jack, shortly, and with no relish at all, explained the 
 situation. 
 
 ' It was a joke, brief as true wit. I made the best of 
 it, for I remembered the mail and I got to the corner in 
 time to catch it. Defying Government, I got a lift to 
 Combe. I was here soon after half-past six.' 
 
 It was not a tale that shed lustre on its hero, and 
 Captain Fenwick, in his present frame of mind, had no 
 sympathy for him. 
 
 ' Bab is out of her teens,' he said, very angry, * you 
 ought to see that she left off playing the fool like this. 
 You should put your foot down and stop it. I've just 
 been telling Mary that this sort of nonsense can't go on ; 
 it is bad for both of you. I won't have it ; it must be 
 one thing or the other ; you must have it out with Bab. 
 I'm sick of it.' 
 
 There was a very awkward pause after this speech ; 
 then Mrs. Fenwick, with beseeching eyes upon her 
 husband's kindled face, said nervously, 
 
 * What can have become of her, Godf ray 1 ' 
 
 * Tiu-ned back to follow him, of course,' blustered the 
 squire ; * don't you know what a woman always does to 
 a back ] she follows it.' 
 
 This solution of the matter may have satisfied Jack, 
 for he walked on into his own room and shut the door, 
 not sharing for once in his life in Fenwick anxiety. 
 
 ' Get back to your room and dress, Mary, you can do
 
 182 MARY FEI^ WICK'S DAUGUTEll 
 
 no good. I'll go down-stairs and see what is to be done. 
 If/ more gently, * she had come to any grief, we should 
 have heard of it by this time.' 
 
 This was the last practical joke Bab would ever play, 
 it had fallen flat as Salisbury Plain ; the lights of Combe 
 House were balm to her eyes, she was plodding up the 
 drive now, her wet boots clung like paper to her tired 
 feet, the persevering rain had worsted her waterproof 
 armour, and had soaked her to the skin. The falling 
 leaves, heavy with rain, fell upon her, she trod them 
 soft and sodden underfoot. 
 
 Brunette kept up her spirits, ambling and dancing 
 etill, though now Basten led her by knotted reins. 
 
 Bab was concerned with her own misfortunes, she had 
 forgotten that any part of the incident had been intended 
 for a joke ; she had wondered once or twice what had 
 become of Jack ; of course he would turn up all right. 
 How she had longed to rest her aching arm, and turn 
 over Brunette to his keeping. He would be sorry when 
 he heard how actively she had wanted him. 
 
 Her father heard the muffled tramping on the drive, 
 End went to meet her. He could not listen to her tale 
 of woe and scold her. Though she had behaved badly, 
 though the new T-cart lay in the ditch three miles off, 
 yet here the poor child was safe and sound, soaked to the 
 skin, tired, laughing ; how thankful he was, after his 
 momentary anxiety, to get her home with a whole skin. 
 There was no time to scold her. Even now the sound 
 of approaching wheels foretold the arrival of guests, 
 father and daughter had alike to hurry oif to dress. 
 
 In a pitiful plight, dripping but good-humoured, she 
 met with more open arms and more commiseration in 
 her own precincts. She had never learnt the ordinary 
 way in which women ' who get themselves into a mess ' 
 are treated, sympathy for and extrication from 'the 
 mess ' were the only consequences of Miss Fenwick's
 
 MAEY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 133 
 
 folly; retribution was nothing accounted of in those 
 days. 
 
 Backet and Rawle flew about, showering pity and 
 praise as they got her into warm, dry clothes, unplaited 
 her wads of wet hair and dried it. 
 
 For one brief minute Llrs. Fenwick came into the 
 room on her way down-stairs, and from some subtle 
 reason Bab just then remembered Jack, and asked 
 whether he had got home yet, and how he had come ] 
 
 ' Jack had driven back, he was down in the drawing- 
 room, and Mrs. Fenwick must follow him at once, some 
 people had arrived. It would have been far wiser,' this 
 severely, ' if Bab had gone straight to bed after such 
 a soaking ; she had better not trust too much to her 
 own strength. It was a deplorable accident, and Mrs. 
 Fenwick deplored the whole affair.' 
 
 ' I am very sorry, mother.' 
 
 But IVIrs. Fenwick's rustling skirts were trailing 
 down the passage ; she had been stiff, she was not to be 
 propitiated by that airy apology. It was Jack who had 
 had the blowing-up, it was Jack who had borne the 
 brunt of Captain Fenwick's displeasure ; by every plea 
 of justice Bab was the person who deserved a heartache. 
 Mrs. Fenwick was haunted by Jack's face. Godfray's 
 sudden attack had been unwise, uncomfortable, and 
 ill-timed. 
 
 An unsuccessful quest is game for rating — alas I poor 
 Jack. 
 
 Half-way through dinner, Bab appeared. She came 
 ill upon a roar of conversation, and found that all her 
 explanations and apologies had been made for her. She 
 took her allotted seat, which chanced to be far from 
 Jack, who was talking to Mrs. Kaufmann, and whose 
 eye she could not catch though she tried to do so. Then 
 she set to work at the courses, too behindhand with 
 them to have much leisure yet awhile for conv>jrsatiou.
 
 134 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Though she ate well, she looked pale. Her satin 
 dress was dead white, and suited her admirably. She 
 had had no time to don extra adornments. Her neck, 
 her arms, her hands were bare of ornaments ; her hair 
 was still damp, looking dark and heavy round her face. 
 She had not ploughed through that sea of despond un- 
 scathed J she really was a little tired, and did not quite 
 know what to make of so novel a sensation. 
 
 She had meant to attract Jack's attention, but she 
 was wedged between a brace of chatterboxes, and she 
 soon forgot her intention. Later on in the evening she 
 got into the heart of an arm-chair, and had no energy 
 to move ; this perverse lover of hers never came near 
 her, so she postponed those little apologies and explana- 
 tions, which her mother evidently thought Jack's due, 
 until a more convenient season. 
 
 They were going. Jack and she, her father and one 
 of the Campbell boys, to the Beacon next morning, they 
 were going for a day at the rabbits on the moor, there 
 Avould be ample time then to say the necessary civilities. 
 It was strange that Jack should not have been com- 
 passionate; the walk had been atrocious and, in sober 
 truth, she might, had she behaved less sagely, have been 
 hurt, really hurt, upset and hurt. 
 
 Bab was talking hunting with a neighbour, and 
 enjoyed herself lazily in her corner ; but most of the 
 people were gathered round the piano, where Jack sat 
 and sang very tuneful and lusty airs, shunning ' Devout 
 Lovers,' * To Aletheas,' and all sentiment, but shining iu 
 * Chevalier ' and * Comic Opera.' 
 
 This was music such as Bab appreciated ; she broke 
 off her talk and listened. In a pause after a song, her 
 Majesty called out — 
 
 ' Sing " Old Dutch," Jack. Aunt Cis likes that.' 
 
 But ' Old Dutch ' was not sung : he was not a barrel 
 organ to be tvu-ned by its owner's hand. He thundered
 
 MARY FENWIOICS DAUGUTER. 135 
 
 out the ' Zxoei Grenadieren ' to its clash of cymbals ; 
 when that was done, his rejyertoire was at an end, he 
 said, and he set a soprano voice to work, turning pages 
 and murmuring thanks, and being eminently miserable 
 and musical. 
 
 It was not to soprano voices that ]\Irs. Kaufmann 
 cared to listen ; she came over to her niece's side as 
 soon as the ' Zwei Grenadieren ' was finished, humming 
 the last verse. 
 
 'Why, Bab, he sings divinely. I should have been 
 a domestic woman if your Uncle Oliver had sung instead 
 of sleeping, when we were tete-ci-tete. Do you know, a 
 bass voice sets my heart aching as though I was 
 eighteen. There comes a time when a sentimental pang 
 is a downright luxury. I have a lump in my throat 
 because that old reprobate came to grief ; it is an 
 exceedingly hard lump — it tastes of youth.' 
 
 ' What do you mean 1 Tastes of youth ! I don't know 
 the flavour.' 
 
 ' No, you are right, Bab, you've no palate for such 
 delicacies ; in fact, I think very little of your taste 
 at all. Here you two sit talking, talking, talking 
 quadruped, talking shop. It's manners to hold your 
 tongue at a concert. Yes, I'm talking myself now, but 
 that girl is singing nonsense, and she is singing flat.' 
 
 'Issher 
 
 'No ear, no taste, no sense but common-sense. Are 
 you not ashamed of yourself 1 Get up, come over to the 
 piano, aud as soon as this ditty is done I'll sing to you 
 myself.' 
 
 So it came to pass that presently, when JNIrs. Kauf- 
 mann sat herself down on the music-stool, Bab stood 
 beside her, heavy-eyed and languid, but within a foot of 
 Jack. It was wise to bring the mountain to Mahomet, 
 and to chain that prophet — who understood the man- 
 oeuvre perfectly — to the piano, by requesting him to hold
 
 136 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 a candle forward so as to shed its light on the pages, 
 which the mountain herself manipulated. Mrs. Kauf- 
 mann was pleased with herself, and sang her song with a 
 queer forlorn sort of pathos, at which every one laughed 
 save Mahomet, who forgot all his duties excepting the 
 arduous one of the candle. 
 
 * My days pass pleasantly away, 
 My nights are blest with peaceful sleep ; 
 I feel no symptoms of decay, 
 I have no cause to mourn nor weep ; 
 My foes are very few and shy, 
 My friends are neither false nor cold. 
 And yet, of late, I often sigh — 
 " I'm growing old ! " 
 
 My growing talk of olden times, 
 My growing thirst for early news, 
 My growing apathy to rhymes, 
 My growing love of easy shoes. 
 My growing hate of noise and boys, 
 My growing fear of taking cold — 
 All whisper in the plainest voice, 
 " You're growing old." 
 
 I'm growing fonder of my staff, 
 I'm growing dimmer in the eyes, 
 I'm growing fainter in my laugh, 
 I'm growing calmer in my sighs, 
 I'm growing careless of my dress, 
 I'm growing frugal of my gold, 
 I'm growing wise, I'm growing — yes, 
 I'm growing old, 
 
 I see it in my changing taste, 
 I see it in my fading hair, 
 I see it in my growing waist, 
 I see it round me everywhere, 
 A thousand signs proclaim the truth, 
 So plain a truth is seldom told, 
 Yes, even in my vaunted youth, 
 I'm growing old. ' 
 
 When the song was done, every one laughed. Mrs. 
 Kaufmann was pleased to joke at her own expense, and 
 her audience appreciated that sort of humour, all save 
 Mr. Lascelles who frowned upon the audacious. 
 
 Pab stood at Jack's elbow and chuckled softly, then
 
 MARY FENWIGEPS DAUGHTER. 137 
 
 she spoke to him, falling into the trap laid for her. 
 Jack saw the snare and who had laid it, and he was not 
 grateful to Mrs. Kaufmann. 
 
 ' I have been telling Mary that this sort of thing can't 
 go on : it must be one thing or the other.' 
 
 He had sung and heard many a ditty during the 
 evening, but those words of Captain Fenwick's had got 
 into all the music and vibrated in his ear. 
 
 * You must have it out with Bab, this sort of nonsense 
 can't go on any longer.' 
 
 Nonsense ? Perhaps, after all, nonsense was the right 
 word. 
 
 * Jack,' said she, 'you got the best of it this afternoon. 
 Much the best of it.' 
 
 ' Certainly — I got home first.' 
 
 ' It was a stupid, childish sort of trick.* 
 
 ' It was.' 
 
 ' I,' with a weary gesture, ' I'm tired. I wish these 
 people would go.' 
 
 ' There is a sofa behind you.' 
 
 She sat down, inviting him with a gracious movement 
 to the seat at her side, but Mrs. Kaufmann sat at the 
 piano, playing, and he stood and watched her. 
 
 * How well she plays, but I hate the " Marseillaise," 
 there is a fiend in it, a fiend such as accounts for a 
 revolution, such as might evolve communism. Our 
 national air is the right sort of tune for a just battle. 
 Strong, cool, steady.' 
 
 Bab was yawning, but she made another effort to 
 propitiate Jack. 
 
 '"Confound their knavish tricks;" you are thinking 
 of my sentence, Jack, I really was confounded. Sit 
 down here and talk to me, please do ] mother is frown- 
 ing at me, she thinks I ought to be entertaining 
 somebody, and I'm too tired to talk.' 
 
 So he sat down by her side and tailed to tier as ne
 
 138 MARY FENWTCK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 had been bidden to do ; and when the guests had gone, 
 and the last carriage had rumbled away out of hearing, 
 he lit her candle for her and bade her a brief good-night. 
 
 'Jack, we are going to the Beacon to-morrow, don't 
 oversleep yourself after your long day. You,' with 
 unwonted observation, ' look tired.' 
 
 He was very white, lips and cheeks alike. 
 
 *I am pretty near tired out,' he answered slowly. 
 * Good-night.' 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 We thought there was no more behind, 
 
 But such a day to-morrow as to-day. — Winter's Tale. 
 
 ' A wound is not cured by the bending of the bow.' 
 Yesterday 
 
 'Autumn amongst her drooping marigolds 
 Wept all her garnered fields, her empty folds, * 
 
 but to-day, borrowing a wrinkle from her capricious 
 sister April's behaviour, October dried her eyes and 
 smiled. A smile that warmed the country-side with a 
 touch of the dead summer. 
 
 The people who had come for the ball were leaving 
 Combe that day. Soon after breakfast their host and 
 his daughter bade their guests premature farewells, for 
 these indefatigable sporting-folk Avere off to the Beacon 
 after the i-abbits, and none of the precious day might be 
 wasted in doing the civil. 
 
 Jack, with a small Caiiipbell boy from the rectoiy 
 bubbling with excitement by his side, stood in the sun- 
 shine on the terrace looking, with something of the pain 
 of farewell in his eyes, across the matchless glory of the 
 landscape spread before him. 
 
 Those vast vales and tinted hills, the wide ponds
 
 MARY FENWICK8 DAUGHTER. 139 
 
 where the water gleamed like a sapphii-e in the sun, 
 where the sepia water-fowl floated, and the rushes bent 
 and whispered in the wind ; where afar oif the pink 
 arable fields and the rich pastures sunk and heaved as 
 they clambered over the gentle blue hills ; how well he 
 knew, and how well he liked the loveliness of the land 
 which custom could not stale, nor anything (save a 
 sea-fog) rob of its infinite variety. 
 
 Steep and manifold were the ups and downs of the 
 country-side, yet they shaped a most harmonious prospect. 
 Weuld to heaven that the ups and downs of life might, 
 some day, be blent into so rich and perfect a whole. 
 
 Lance Campbell never ceased to talk though Jack 
 was as dull as ink, though air-gun and catapult did not 
 seem to interest him, though in the middle of the boy's 
 conversation he broke in. 
 
 ' Come along. Here they are ! You must finish that 
 yarn to the rabbits.' 
 
 Far away on the common where the Beacon Point 
 sloped towards the sea, the rabbits, to which Jack 
 alluded, were sitting. I do not think that they thought 
 more than they could help of the human bipeds who 
 were wont to kill time, and them alike, on a fine day 
 together. 
 
 There they sat in the sunshine, driven with ferrets, 
 for some unfathomed reason, from their hurries over- 
 night, and disinclined upon this glorious morning to 
 return to domesticity underground. 
 
 No worries connected with the coming winter, no 
 anxieties concerning their large families, no foreknow- 
 ledge of powder and shot, of gun, of dog, of beater, spoilt 
 their joy. 
 
 Now and then there was a scurry from a gorse-bush to 
 a tuft of couch grass, or a rush from a bush of whortle- 
 berry to a dry little hillock ; now and then the heather 
 rustled and a small tail flickered by the bracken. But,
 
 140 MARY FENWIGETS DAUGHTER. 
 
 mostly, the little people sat still in the beds they had 
 made, discussing maybe the shocks and hairbreadth 
 escapes of the preceding evening ; the inconveniences of 
 wire-netting and the horrors of wire-springs. 
 
 Perforce, many unpleasant offices must be filled. 
 Hangman and judge, butcher and sportsman are, more 
 or less, necessary adjuncts to this curious world. Their 
 odious functions are duties that must be done, but let 
 those fortunate people who may eke out existence with- 
 out being instruments to carry out the mysterious law, 
 which bids humanity inflict great suffering upon their 
 sentiate fellows, rejoice ; let those fortunate people be 
 mightily thankful, let them in degree, according to their 
 dispositions, chant Te Deums. 
 
 Anon, a more substantial sound than the busy 
 whispering of the breeze reached these happy small fry 
 on the common. Long, soft ears were pricked to listen ; 
 in the twinkling of a dewdrop up went a regiment of 
 bunnies upon their hind legs. 
 
 Alas, yes, those heavy thuds were human footsteps 
 muffled by heather ; then came a horrid sound to hear — 
 a mortal laugh : a laugh which cleared the open of 
 humble life, for every rabbit scuttled off to covert and 
 lay low, under gorse and brambles, awaiting a consum- 
 mation for which they had no devout wish, no world- 
 weary resignation. 
 
 That laugh was the only one, for the small advancing 
 army were seriously bent on slaughter, they had come a 
 long way for the purpose ; through the sunshine and the 
 richly-tinted woods they had driven thither. At the 
 farm, just beneath the brow of the hill, they had 
 alighted, and were marching, marshalled in business 
 array, to this gorgeous tract of high-lying country, 
 ■where the small quadrupeds throve and multiplied so 
 pleasingly. 
 » On the left hand Jack took his station, to the boy and
 
 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 141 
 
 girl were given the centre places, and at tbeir right 
 Captain Fenwick stood ; the keeper, with a retriever at 
 his heels, behind him. 
 
 ' These yer common be theeke wi' robbits, zur,' said a 
 beater, addressing his master. * I've zeed scores an' 
 scores ov 'em veeding t'other zide o' thickee goil, Yii 
 kin shiiet 'em whir yii be, ev yii 've a mind tii : or yii 
 kin 'at 'em over wi' a stick.' 
 
 ' Get to work.' 
 
 So the beaters and the spaniels got to work, and those 
 quaking, crouching little people provided the fun. 
 
 No king could have so regal a death-chamber as they : 
 high furze-bushes, thick and formidable, spangled with 
 honey-sweet golden blossom, and hung with silver cob- 
 webs by the moorland engineers, made choice tomb- 
 stones ; the heather and the heath were over, and theii* 
 twisted scrub was sad as a cypress-tree. Near at hand was 
 the ghost of a concave Roman encampment encircled by 
 wind-tortured firs, their broken branches standing out 
 from their rough trunks like the prongs of a rake ; 
 beneath them the barren ground was strewed with the 
 destructive spikes of the balmy trees, it was bare save 
 for the tangled blackberry-bushes, and cut off from the 
 common by a broad trench, brimful of rotting leaves. 
 
 Lady-ferns and osmundi grew tall in the deep glen near 
 by, but their charms, like those of the bracken, were on 
 the wane ; a gaudy bronze and streaks of red upon their 
 fronds wrote of their coming fate. Through the moss 
 at their feet trickled a lively stream, singing the water- 
 song such as no mortal musician ever yet sung in the 
 memory of man ; the water-song which with the self- 
 same melody can rejoice with those who do rejoice, or 
 weep with those that weep. The sympathetic singer 
 that tunes his voice so skilfully as to fall in with the 
 mood of the hearer, and chants one song to satisfy 
 countless diversities of hearers.
 
 142 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGRTER. 
 
 Stretching beneath the Beacon Point lay league upon 
 league, league upon league of verdant land ; far off 
 against the horizon rose the round sweeps of Dartmoor ; 
 the nearer hills were fringed with firs fine as feathers 
 against the blue, sparrow-egg hue of the cloudless sky. 
 A peep of the Channel lay, like a haze, afar off, edged 
 with red sandstone cliffs. Through the vast valley a 
 train crept, murmuring like the sea, and trailing a long 
 flasr of smoke in its track. The common was a home 
 such as one might oneself be loth to leave at a moment's 
 notice. 
 
 A clump of thin passee beeches, and a plantation of 
 browning larches flanked this mortuary ; skirting this, 
 the four guns, dealing out death right and left, steadily 
 advanced. 
 
 There were plenty of rabbits, therefore there was 
 plenty to be done. If, by chance, one of the prey 
 continued to escape after his death-warrant had been 
 cracked, it was but seldom. And some civil person was 
 sure to say, * Awkward shot that,' or * Bad luck, Bab,' 
 to explain the circumstance. 
 
 Lance was as candid a boy as he was keen a sportsman, 
 and once when he was puzzled, he broke out bluntly — 
 
 * I say, but why does she always have first shot ? You 
 always let her have first shot.' 
 
 Though he jerked the shoulder nearest Jack to indicate 
 that he was addressing that person, he got no response 
 but a bang. Later, he answered his own qviestion. 
 
 ' It's because she is a girl, I suppose. And, I say,' 
 this in lowered, though audible tones, * she takes every- 
 body's whenever she can, don't shel' 
 
 Like a small army, sure of victory, and with no nasty 
 chance of a return of hostilities, the quartette briskly 
 advanced. Keen, excited, with the enthusiasm of her 
 age and sex, Bab had outstripped her comrades, she was 
 Bome few paces ahead of them.
 
 MABY FUN WICK'S DAUGKTER. 143 
 
 The beater who was working between Lance and Jack 
 was standing over against a high clump of * fuzz,' and 
 now drew back, with so sudden a movement as to arrest 
 the attention of the whole party. 
 
 Every tutored ear caught a sharp flutter of wings; 
 from those bushes, close to the Campbell boy, rose a 
 slim, brown bird, and flew forward. 
 
 ' Mark, cock,' cried Pike, the keeper ; it was the first 
 woodcock of the season, his voice rang and thrilled his 
 hearers. 
 
 Forward flew this important bird, every gun rose to 
 every eager shoulder, an impatient queenly hand was 
 first in the field, Miss Fenwick fired. The fool of a 
 woodcock, untouched, turned sharply, twisting on his 
 way, and dipping low to the left, made for the covert 
 behind his foe. 
 
 A member of the lower sex, though she have the 
 hardihood to keep her heart, has yet a disastrous knack 
 of losing her head. Bab forgot every one on the common 
 save the woodcock, she covered him as he flew, following 
 him with her gun, seeing nothing but his precious carcass 
 at the end of her barrel, and letting fly with her second 
 barrel as soon as she judged it to be the right moment 
 for the murder. On flew the lucky fowl, this time with 
 route unmarked. 
 
 ' Who fii-ed that 1 ' yelled a fierce voice ; the smoke 
 han^inor about the bai-rel answered for the wretched 
 sportswoman. 
 
 'Jack's hit.' 
 
 ' Good God, what have you done ] ' 
 
 ' Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! ' 
 
 ' Lor' 'ave mussy, 'ore's a concarru' 
 
 ' Urn tii un, Bill.' 
 
 * Awe law, thir's bliid on 'un.' 
 
 At this dramatic moment the common reeled before 
 Bab's stricken eyes ; — there Jack lay, like — like a shot
 
 144 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 rabbit, prone on the heather. In a moment he was 
 surrounded ; they had all rushed to him, and he could 
 hardly convince them by word of mouth that ho was 
 not dead, nor even likely to die. 
 
 He did not quite know himself what had happened to 
 him, or what extent of damage the excruciating pain 
 about his knee exactly signified. But he knew so far as 
 to be certain that he was not death-struck, for he had 
 received the main part of the chauge in his left leg. He 
 got up at once, finding as he did so that the knee-cap 
 has as great a capacity for suffering as the human heart. 
 
 Leaning upon Lance's ready shoulder, Jack looked 
 down at the shattered debris of knickerbocker above 
 his strong, saving leather gaiter. Captain Fenwick was 
 on his knees trying to see through the tattered frieze, 
 so as to gauge the extent of the misfortune. 
 
 Dumb, white as her own linen collar, Bab stood 
 trembling where she was ; she could not move, light as 
 was her twenty-bore gun, yet it was too heavy for her, 
 mutely she handed it to Pike. 
 
 ' It is not much,' said her victim, reassuringly, * the 
 knee is peppered a bit, Bab, that is all.' 
 
 * It was a nasty smack,' said the school-boy, looking 
 queer and shivering, but regaining his voice and his 
 spirits at a bound. * Forty paces off. She couldn't hit 
 the rabbits like that, could she 1 ' 
 
 *If you had kept the line, Bab,' said her father, 
 gravely, severely, ' this wouldn't have happened.' 
 
 For once in her life Miss Fenwick had no word to 
 say, no suggestion to make, her lips quivered ; and Jack, 
 seeing how it was with her, was filled with gratitude to 
 Pike, who took the sinner's side. 
 
 * 'Twaz th' vurst cock, zur, an' thir, 'er's awnly a 
 maid, atter awl. 'Twiid 'ave bin wance til offen ev yii'd 
 'it 'un 'igher up, miss, for tho' 'tez an orkard concarn to 
 git ridds ov a lig, 'twud 'av bin a wurz job ev yii'd
 
 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 145 
 
 a-blawed out th' breath ov 'un, or scriiped out th' eye 
 ov 'un.' 
 
 * Get rid of the leg 1 ' Lauce's voice was hollow, his 
 eyes round with wonder. 
 
 *Poof, rot,' said the sufferer, but with a pang at 
 heart. 
 
 'Ef yer plaze, zm-,' said the keeper, addressing his 
 master, ' I wudden touch et, let 'un bide as 'tez, Eeckon- 
 ing vur th' scatterin' ov th' charge, ther's a powerful lot 
 ov shot in et, I kin zee. 'Tez doctur's business thease 
 yer, an' th' siiner 'er gits tiiet th' better, I sim.' 
 
 * Go down to the farm, Jan, and get up the cart at 
 once. Look sharp.' 
 
 * Yii kin hobble a bit, Mr. Jack, can't 'ee 1 Us kin 
 git thickee cart up close t'other zide ov th' fuzz. I'd 
 git thir zo siine as paws' ble, avore yer lig knaws what's 
 come tii 'un, zur, an' gets as stifE as a fince, an' zet vur 
 th' inflammation,' 
 
 Over the heather and couch grass, round hillocks, 
 through scrub, over stones, Jack painfully and laboriously 
 limped, holding to Godfray's arm on one side and to 
 Lance's shoulder upon the other, setting his teeth to 
 keep his own counsel when the pain shivered and 
 quivered, playing like red-hot fireworks about the joint. 
 
 The cause of this metamorphosis followed the pro- 
 cession, her mind gradually recovering its balance as 
 she did so ; she was so thankful it was no worse. For 
 a moment she had been terror-struck, for a moment she 
 had felt a fearful and unknown sensation of horror ; but 
 now Jack was getting along famously. It did not seem 
 to be a painful wound ; he was the most cheery of the 
 whole group. She wished her knees would not rock 
 under her ; she wished she could lie down for a minute 
 and close her eyes. She wondered how people felt when 
 they fainted. 
 
 Below ground there was no doubt some ironical 
 
 L
 
 146 MARY FENWIGIPS DAUGHTER. 
 
 whispering amongst bereaved, relieved small people. The 
 big, blustering bipeds made a vast hullaballoo when it 
 fell to their turn to provide sport. Here was a great 
 thing, out of which twenty good rabbits might be made, 
 holding up his own paw and leaning on his neighbours, 
 crawling at snail's pace towards a cart which had been 
 hurried up to help him, and which stood in waiting on 
 the turf; while a spiritless popper in petticoats, as 
 pale as a white rabbit, followed with hanging head 
 behind the male bipeds. What a fuss they all made! 
 Why did not he crawl under a furze-bush, and lie there 
 quietly and die? Their comrades had met with such a 
 fate in many a case, no commotion had been made about 
 them. 
 
 Over the start, Bab came to the fore ; every one 
 treated Jack as a sufferer, and sufferers are treated as 
 imbeciles without wills of their own, of whom any one, 
 who has a mind, can take care or direct. 
 
 The seat in the cart had to be pushed back to allow 
 space for Jack's wounded limb. The squu-e advised, 
 Pike bungled, the horse fidgeted over the necessary 
 moves. 
 
 * Go to Shylock's head, Lance. Shove it back. Pike, 
 to the last hole, the very last — there, that's right.' 
 
 'How are you and the boy to get back?' asked the 
 victim, he was leaning now on Queen Bab's proffered 
 arm, leaning lightly on an unsteady support. 
 
 ' We shall,' — vaguely — * I suppose we shall walk ; 
 don't bother about us, we'll get home somehow.' 
 
 'For once in your life. Jack, think of no one but 
 yourself.' 
 
 The red-hot fireworks with sharp and sickening pangs 
 played in his knee-cap, as Jack was hoisted to the seat. 
 The amateur arrangements for his comfort were not 
 quite scientifically applied. 
 
 ' Boll that rug, Bab, push it in at the back. Further,
 
 3IARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 147 
 
 further ; you are doing more harm than good, I'm afi-aid. 
 Is that better, Jack 1 ' 
 
 Mendaciously Jack replied that * It was far better.' 
 
 * Is it quite comfortable 1 ' 
 
 ' Don't ask silly questions, Bab : when you shoot a 
 fellow in the knee don't ask him if it's quite comfortable.' 
 
 Captain Fenwick was too thoroughly distressed to be 
 consolatory, feather-brained heads deserved to be snapped 
 off ; he rebuked his daughter sharply. 
 
 Jolting slowly over the rough path the cart now drove 
 off, the little company in the sunshine stood silent and 
 watched it out of sight. Then at their young mistress's 
 suggestion the men set off for home, carrying the spoil 
 and followed by the depressed and puzzled dogs. 
 
 There was some suspicious moisture in Bab's eyes, 
 which she shaded with her hand as she looked down the 
 road whither the cart had gone ; the boy was harassed 
 by the sight, and began to cheer his companion as well 
 as he knew how. 
 
 * I wonder where that woodcock's gone. Miss Fenwick 1 
 It was an awful pity you missed him ; but, don't you 
 see, petticoats are a beastly handicap : and I shouldn't 
 mind if I was you.' 
 
 A smile flickered round the hearer's lips. Lance was 
 encouraged to go on. 
 
 ' It would have been a jolly sight worse if you'd shot 
 a bit higher. Don't you know, now-a-days, they can 
 make splendid legs just like real, with springs and feet 
 as natural as anything ; there's a chap at school with a 
 beauty.' 
 
 Then Miss Fenwick laughed outright. 
 
 * Oh, Lance,' she said, * Pike draws such a long bow. 
 The shot will have to be taken out, and Mr. Holland 
 will have to lie up for a time, it won't be worse than 
 that.' 
 
 ' Then what is there to blub about 1 ' he leasoned.
 
 148 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 'Mr. Holland was nice to you about it, and Captain 
 Fenwick hardly jawed at all. It is rot to mind, it was 
 all an accident. I — I say, do you think they took the 
 lunch back in the cart ? It's a long pull home, and I'm 
 hungry, aren't you ] ' 
 
 * Yes,' slowly, half-heartedly. 
 
 * Then I'll just go down to the farm and see if there 
 is any food about. Don't you come, you sit down and 
 wait for me.' 
 
 She seated herself on the warm turf ; around her the 
 bright, companionable breeze was playing over the scented 
 gorse. Her eyes were dry, she was — and it is a joyful 
 thing to be — thankful she had done no permanent harm ; 
 at forty paces the shot must have scattered, and by the 
 time she reached Combe it would have been extracted. 
 She drove all apprehensions away, she would not allow 
 herself to worry ; she hated to feel anxiety. 
 
 There was a decidedly boyish touch about Bab : so 
 natural, so inconsiderate, so set vipon enjoyment was she. 
 
 When Lance returned with a ' daw lawf ' (dough cake) 
 and a mug of cider, he found her in good spirits, and 
 with a satisfactoi'y appetite. 
 
 He went up to Combe the following day, and cheered 
 the patient by telling him all about that promiscuous 
 meal on the common, about the walk home, the stoat 
 which he had chased, and the sodden blackberries which 
 he had eaten. The walk had been awfully jolly, only 
 they had met the Woodbury carriage, and it seemed 
 that Lady Young had had some difference of opinion 
 with Bab in the beech avenue. Lady Young had been 
 very ' shirty ' indeed. She had seemed to think that 
 Bab had missed that beastly woodcock on purpose. 
 
 ' That's how it is,' the boy had said ; ' if you do get 
 yourself in for a row, people think you tried to do it. 
 But Miss Fenwick didn't care a straw, bless you. She 
 didn't even take the fag to cheek her back.'
 
 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 149 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 Bubbles round a keel 
 Mean nought, excepting that the vessel moves : 
 There's more than passion goes to make a man. 
 
 Aurora Leigh. 
 
 ' It is better to fall from a window than the roof. ' 
 
 Scientific excursions after shot are interesting to tlie 
 doctor, and impressive to the patient. Jack had to 
 undergo much impressive unpleasantness with his un- 
 fortunate knee. Then he was put, dully, to bed with 
 his leg in a splint, and told to be very quiet, and get to 
 sleep. 
 
 Anxious, low-voiced, commiserating angels came in 
 and looked upon him and reassured him about his 
 wounds, pitying him and bringing him grapes, and then 
 stealing off with the great sick-room fiat on their lips, 
 
 * Now you had better try to get to sleep.' 
 
 It would have been as easy just then for Jack to get 
 to Timbuctoo as to get to sleep ; added to the hot, smart- 
 ing, well-known discomfort of the mind was the sting 
 of shot and ache of probe in his stiff, uncompromising 
 knee-cap. 
 
 For one short moment the miscreant Bab herseK 
 appeared at his bedside : she was uneasy, out of place in 
 a sick-room. She looked down at him with wondering, 
 apprehensive eyes, much as he had seen her watch a 
 long-clothed, crying baby. 
 
 ' Oh, Jack, I'm so sorry. I was such a clumsy, care- 
 less idiot. I shall never forgive myself.' 
 
 This was charmingly put, but she did not live up to 
 her penitence. At least she hurried away at the earliest 
 opportunity, saying, as her aunt had said, 
 
 ' Now you had better try to get to sleep.' 
 
 And he heard her laughing and talking in the passage 
 presently, on her way down to dinner.
 
 150 MAIiY FEN WICK'S DAUGUTER. 
 
 Next morning, betimes, she paid him a visit, full of 
 stereotyped questions, easily to be reassured by the 
 comfoi'table answers which he made her, and again on 
 the outlook for a civil and early method of retreat. 
 
 'IVIr. Bedford thought he must keep quiet to-day. 
 Should she send him up a book 1 Three Men in a 
 Boat 1 He had read that, he had always read every- 
 thing, what a pity ! Then he had better have the 
 morning paper. She would see if it had come, and send 
 it up to him.' 
 
 After all, a taste for reading does, in a sick man, 
 prove convenient. But the Daily Telegraph did not 
 dispel the twilight about his bed when the light of liis 
 eyes had left him. He turned his face to the wall and 
 lay silent. In the afternoon the invalid was brought down 
 to the smoking-room and ensconced upon the sofa there ; 
 later his mother and Alethea Young came to see him. 
 
 Finding him alone, they stayed a mighty long while 
 to cheer his solitude. They told him everything that 
 had been said about the accident, and Lady Young 
 spoke her mind, which was not a nice one, of Bab. 
 Alethea contradicted, and argued softly, and kept the 
 conversation flowing like the Exe. 
 
 Once footsteps paused at the threshold, and then stole 
 swiftly away. Jack did not hear them, nor did he 
 smell the bunch of violets which his intended visitor 
 had gathered for him ; he did not know that Bab had 
 heard buzzing, bleating voices in the smoking-room and 
 had beaten a retreat, driving off to golf at Burton with- 
 out the farewell she had planned. 
 
 It was a pity, perhaps, that fate ordained the matter 
 thus : not that the violets, or the farewell, could have 
 staunched a certain ugly gaping hurt — such a wound 
 as gave Jack a sleepless and wretched night : a night all 
 the more painful because the splint would not allow it 
 to be restless.
 
 MABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 151 
 
 Dr. Bedford was dissatisfied with his patient's con- 
 dition ; pain is not wholesome ; his mind and his knee- 
 cap between them had sent Jack's temperature up un- 
 usually * high.' The remedy the doctor ordered for such 
 threatening symptoms was perfect peace, a day in bed 
 and pei-fect peace ; the doctor's idea of perfect peace 
 were drawn blinds, a liquid diet, and — Mi's. Fenwick. 
 
 So Jack's gentle hostess sat beside him, reading softly 
 soothing sick-room literature. Her voice was like unto 
 her daughter's ; to it, not to the words which it articu- 
 lated, Jack lay and listened. 
 
 The low-pitched voice, the down-drawn blind, the 
 enforced stillness of the prostrate man, all alike spoke 
 of the perfect peace prescribed : the only drawback to 
 the restful scene were the patient's eyes, which glowed 
 and shone, and were not peaceful. They and the com- 
 pressed lips beneath them distressed his nurse, and 
 when later on in the dusky afternoon a blithe cry of 
 * Dan, Dan, Dan, come out for a run, you old dear, I 
 want you,' came up to the quiet room, and a flush 
 coloured Jack's face dark from brow to chin, ]\Irs. 
 Fenwick broke off suddenly in her story, and at length 
 spoke out of what had been in both their minds from 
 first to last. 
 
 ' I didn't hear them come back. Jack.' 
 
 * The carriage came in half-an-hour ago.' 
 
 * Dr. Bedford told them that you were to be kept 
 quiet to-day.' 
 
 * A most convenient order.' 
 
 * If Dr. Bedford had allowed it, Bab would have come 
 to see you.' 
 
 * Yes, she'd have come all right.' 
 
 * You are angry with her.' 
 
 * Yes — no, angry with myself. You seem to have 
 forgotten what you said to me, Mrs. Fenwick, but I 
 remember.'
 
 152 MABY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 * Don't talk about it now.' 
 
 * Do you think it's more wholesome to keep it to 
 myself 1 ' 
 
 ' Things seem so ill when one is ill oneself.' 
 
 * They seem no worse to me than they had done for 
 weeks. Captain Fenwick spoke out pretty plain, and 
 he was right. It must be one thing or the other, he 
 said. You, and he, and I can see that it can't be the 
 one thing, and so it must be the other. I drive myself 
 wild as I lie here looking ahead.' 
 
 * Don't think about it now. Jack.' 
 
 ' I'd give my soul to forget it if I knew how.' 
 
 He lurched impatiently in his physical as well as in 
 his mental bondage, and Mrs. Fenwick laid her hand 
 gently, kindly, upon his. 
 
 'Jack,' she said, trying to brace her charge, 'far off 
 and with your work, you would forget it in time. In 
 time you might find some one who would suit you, and 
 who would ' 
 
 This suggestion was more than he could stand just 
 then. He could go, he would go, but he could not plan 
 for the future ; he could get through the present, per- 
 haps, living from hour to hour. He broke into Mrs. 
 Fenwick's rational prophecy fiercely. 
 
 Bab was like no other woman, and his love for her 
 was, of course, abnormal, exceptional. Get over it, forget 
 it, put a gentle, domestic woman into her place 1 Never ! 
 that was the one thing absolutely impossible. He could 
 go away and leave her, but as long as his body walked 
 the earth his soul would remain at Combe. He raved to 
 his patient nvnse. 
 
 Would he break away from this bitter existence now 
 while his pulses throbbed 1 In cold blood it is hard 
 to turn aside from the path, however steep it may be, 
 which leads to possible happiness. 
 
 ]\Ieanwhile, as though a brain-wave had come down
 
 MARY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTER. 153 
 
 to her from the sick-room, Mrs. Kaufmann followed her 
 niece out upon the terrace. 
 
 * Bab,' she said, ' come b:xck and have your tea. I 
 want to talk to you.' 
 
 ' I am going to put my chickens to bed. Corae 
 with me.' 
 
 * Chickens are uninteresting, noisy, insipid, greedy 
 people, but if you will promise to hurry up I'll come.' 
 
 They tiu-ned together off the terrace, crossing the 
 mossy turf under the cedars they passed through the 
 flower-garden, and walking by way of the ^vicket-gate 
 into steep, gi'azing land, reached the poultry-house. 
 
 * My dear,' said Mrs. Kaufmann, holding up her 
 dainty skirts very high and peering about with a dis- 
 dainful nose, *I believe you like a Plymouth rock better 
 than that nice man.' 
 
 * Which nice man 1 * 
 
 * There are not many nice men about, Bab. Can't 
 you guess which]' 
 
 Bab was shu-ing a stray hen from a bush to her 
 legitimate perch, and made no reply. 
 
 * I'm talking of Jack ; if you shoot your young man 
 in the leg, don't you think that you owe him a sufficient 
 compensation'? Surely he expects you to show some 
 lively interest in him. You ought to make a dreadful 
 fuss, you ought to be at his keyhole night and day. 
 He wants bushels of compassion, he wants to be kissed 
 and made well.' 
 
 * Jack was feverish to-day, he was to be kept quiet.' 
 Bab was locking the padlock of the poultry-house, 
 
 whence she had emerged with three new-laid eggs in her 
 hands which, in a business-like way, she marked with a 
 pencil ; her aunt, with lifted eyebrows, watching her. 
 
 'Bab, have you no sweet tooth ? Don't you like jam 
 with your bread? Where are all your instincts? What's 
 the matter with you 1 There is a chance for you of
 
 154 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 happiness, solid happiness, such as I or any healthy- 
 minded woman would have given my eyes for, and you 
 go and feed these horrid cocks and hens, and let it slip 
 away. Yes, I know all about it ; I'm an empty-headed 
 woman, but I know the real thing when I see it. Jack's 
 not the sort of man who shovels in a wife as a last 
 thought to his turn-out, who adds her as a sort of rough- 
 weather apron on the back seat, to be tucked round 
 his knees when she is wanted, to jolt and jar along, 
 cramped in a cart that doesn't suit her, till she is often 
 on the brink of jumping out. I've driven along myself 
 like that for years and years.' 
 
 They were moving down the hill towards home, the 
 collie came rushing up to Bab, fawning upon her ; she 
 took no notice of the dog, her eyes were on the grass at 
 
 her feet. 
 
 ' Dan,' said Mrs. Kauf mann, with a soft, half bitter 
 laugh, 'good old dog. — You know that fat old Major 
 Ogilvie, your father's friend, after whom that dog was 
 called. Would you believe that he gave me a very vile 
 heartache, Bab, a very long time ago? No wonder 
 you are laughing, those things are amusing in retrospect, 
 it is much better to laugh than to cry, and I don't sup- 
 pose I would know him now if I met him in the street. 
 Yet it was bad at the time ; I hardened my heart, or he 
 hardened it for me. Don't harden Jack's, you have no 
 notion how bad life is with a hard heart.' 
 
 ' My dear Avmt Cis, don't, don't ; I haven't done any- 
 thing — it's all right, it is indeed.' 
 
 ' For you, yes, all right for you, and if your turn 
 should come (we all get it — it's like the measles, as that 
 funny man says, best to get it over when you are young, 
 you don't take it so badly, it is a lighter form in your 
 youth) and things go wrong, don't try to mend matters 
 by marrying the wrong man, it makes a mountain out- 
 of a molehill ; marriage is — so difficult.*
 
 MARY FENWICICS DAUGHTER. 155 
 
 Bab stared, she flicked at her skirts with the whip in 
 her free hand, and opened her eyes very wide. 
 
 ' Don't you,' with appalling frankness, ' get on with 
 Uncle Oliver ? ' 
 
 ' I am talking of abstract, not personal matrimony. 
 Suppose a girl loves a king who has knelt at her feet as a 
 coui'tier, suppose she marries the king and finds he is no 
 king at all, but a clown who gives up kneeling as soon 
 as the honeymoon's over, and expects homage from her 
 in this new state of affairs. "What then] What 
 chafing, and bitterness, and secret tears. How grim to 
 face an earthly life with Paradise past, and faith shaken. 
 Don't stare, the idea is not mine, I read it. You have 
 no notion, Bab, what a toss-up it all is.' 
 
 * I thought you liked men so much,' dropping an egg 
 in her surprise. 
 
 ' H-um, I get on with them, I'm not troublesome, 1 
 don't specially like any one ; I am Grifiith, the safe 
 person. A woman who likes every one, likes no one. 
 How you hurry, Bab ; you are bored to death. As a 
 rule, a girl will sit up all night to discuss such questions ; 
 you are a dear thing, so superbly indifferent.' 
 
 Among the tea-cups in the morning-room they found 
 jyirs. Fenwick. 
 
 ' How's Jack 1 ' said Bab, plaintively, from the door- 
 way. * Shall I go up to him now 1 ' 
 
 * No, no, he is going to sleep, he sent me away because 
 he felt sleepy.' 
 
 ' Shall I send him up something 1 Where's a book 1 
 Anything about Ka's, scarabs, and sphinxes. Where is 
 that Pharaoh-Fellah thing 1 ' searching vaguely about 
 the writing-table. 
 
 ' It went back weeks ago to Mudie's.' 
 
 ' Aunt Cis, have you any book on Egyptology 1 ' 
 
 * Is she mad, Mary ? Doesn't she know that I read 
 nothing but French novels and society papers ; it keeps
 
 136 MABY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 up my self-respect, for I find I'm more moral than the 
 novels and less scurrilous than the papers, A book on 
 Egyptology as a companion 1 I'll take your hint and 
 get one, I think I should like it, I think I should like 
 to explore Pharaoh's kitchen where they cooked dinners 
 five thousand years before Christ, it must make one feel 
 emphatically young and fresh. Just now, Bab, I 
 wouldn't worry a hot-head with potsherds and pyramids ; 
 if he'd like a sphinx, go to him yourself.' 
 
 ' Here is your tea. Cicely. Hand her the sandwiches, 
 Bab.' 
 
 * Don't pull a long face, Mary. I have been very 
 serious, I have been preaching to Bab in the fowl-house ; 
 I have done her good. Didn't you notice that she came 
 in quite flurried about Jack 1 Take my advice, Bab, 
 send him a note, something tasty to put under his 
 pillow ; say that Dr. Bedford has forbidden you to dis- 
 turb him, but that with cock-crow you will be at his 
 side. Yes, tell a fib ; I always would rather tell a lie 
 than hurt a feeling. It is a weaknesg which makes me 
 popular with men.' 
 
 ' But with cock-crow,' said Bab, half laughing, half 
 worried. * I shall be at Brierley, we are cubbing.' 
 
 * Then don't cub, give it up, stay at home,' said Mrs. 
 Kaufmann. ' You and your clumsy gun must, between 
 you, have done a lot of damage ; bind it all up. Read 
 Browning to him, talk sentiment, be sad, be womanly 
 and weak, be wnnatural. Can't you act, Bab ? Most 
 of us can do nothing but act when there are men about.' 
 
 Queen Bab stood on the rug and looked from her aunt 
 to lier mother, then again at her aunt. She was a little 
 stunned at the serious part of the advice given to her, 
 she was not often recommended to give up that upon 
 which her desire was fixed. She reflected for some time 
 bet ore she spoke. 
 
 ' If Jack would really like me to stop at home, I will stop.'
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 157 
 
 And stay at home she did ; wasting the morning 
 hours in loitering near the house, while the doctor paid 
 his visit, and the victim of her craft was brought down 
 once more to the improvised couch in the smoking-room. 
 
 Jack lay listening for the steps which he had been 
 told to expect ; he knew that her Majesty had not gone 
 a-hunting, and why. Perplexed, uncertain, hot-headed, 
 his mind was hard to balance. 
 
 Too overwrought to be tolerant, too deeply earnest to 
 be moderate, too moved to be patient, he was in that 
 condition of nerve which requires infinite tact — the tact 
 of an infinite love to soothe and pacify. He was dis- 
 traught by an extraordinary activity of mind, such as 
 assails a fevered man when his body chains him to 
 inaction. 
 
 Patience had forsaken him, he was ready to do any- 
 thing rather than wait peaceably for developments. 
 
 And Bab came in to see him with every intention to 
 please. With a blue Persian kitten in her arms and 
 her freshest friendliest smile, she bade him a genial 
 ' Good-morning.' 
 
 'Why had she stayed at home on such a charming 
 morning ] ' 
 
 Of course she told the truth, never lapsing from strict 
 fact. 
 
 * I thought — I mean they thought you'd like to have 
 me with you for a little while.' 
 
 ' Did you give up Brierley for ine ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, it didn't matter. I deserved anything for shoot- 
 ing you. Jack ; you mustn't let me off scot-free.' 
 
 The confession took away his breath for a time. He 
 lay and watched her at play with her kitten — the 
 gambols of the pair were well worth watching ; but he 
 saw very little charm in the scampers and the frisks. 
 
 When the zest of the kitten had waned, as it had tired 
 of play, Bab sat down and looked at the invalid ; he had
 
 158 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 been deadly silent, she saw be was pale as ashes, and 
 that his eyes were sunk and hollow in his head. 
 
 * Does your knee hurt you much, Jack ? ' 
 ' No, it is nothing.' 
 
 * Are you tired 1 Shall I go away ? ' 
 
 * Not yet. I want to talk to you.' 
 
 She put up her hand and patted the small plaits of 
 hair, which were bound round and round her head — a 
 nervous gesture this, for every plait was perfectly tight 
 and trim. 
 
 * Jack, let me ring ; you should have some soup, or 
 something. I am sure you want your lunch ; you look 
 ill. Talk after lunch. I'll,' graciously, ' I'll come back 
 if you want me.' 
 
 She felt uneasy. His eyes were burning. He raised 
 himself on his elbow. He wanted something less plentiful 
 than soup. What was the matter 1 She had tried to be 
 so particularly obliging. 
 
 ' I'll talk now, Bab. After all, there is not much to 
 be said. My tongue has never been any good to me. 
 You wouldn't understand me, if you can't feel. I may 
 as well cut explanations short, for you won't know what 
 I mean. It is this : I am going to leave Combe — the 
 sooner the better. All our old ideas about the future 
 can be dug up and thrown away ; they are good for 
 nothing.' 
 
 She looked uncomfortably away, and bit her lip. 
 
 * I don't know what I've done. Jack, or why you wish 
 to go.' 
 
 ' You have done nothing. I was as thick-headed as I 
 am thin-skinned, I was too confident ; it was my fault 
 from the first. I see it now. However, no harm's done 
 as yet; we'll turn that page of fiction down, and I'll 
 go out into the world, like the men of old, and seek my 
 fortvine.' 
 
 * Why do you suddenly talk like this ? I don't see
 
 MARY FENWICK'S DAUOHTER. 159 
 
 any reason why it should be altered. Most people get 
 on all right in double harness. We don't bicker, Jack ; 
 you are not like some men who might turn out horrid. 
 You are not always at brandies-and-sodas, you are not 
 unreasonably tiresome about your food, you are not 
 jealous, and you don't lose your temper. Your wife 
 would be a very lucky woman ; they were saying so to 
 me half-an-hour ago in the garden.' 
 
 Jack laughed, but even to her dull ears the laugh was 
 not reassuring. 
 
 * No, no, she would be a most wretched woman if she 
 were you, Bab. Not jealous 1 I am jealous of the very 
 air you breathe. Let all that alone. I won't talk Greek 
 to you, but plain English. If we were married, I should 
 expect you to leave this place and live with me in 
 London. I should be an intolerably intolerant, exacting 
 husband. You are far happier as you are. There is 
 nothing else for it, I must go.' 
 
 The kitten, wearied out with play, had nestled down 
 in a corner of her skirt, curling itself up and falling 
 asleep. Bab was glad to lower her eyes to the calm 
 sight, for she did not know what to make of Jack's face. 
 
 * You are going back to London,' she said. ' It's very 
 sudden. Jack.' 
 
 * Not very ; I knew it weeks ago.' 
 
 * / haven't changed ; ' somewhat stiffly. 
 
 * Exactly so, you have not changed at all.' 
 Puzzled, a little angry at some faint injustice in all 
 
 this, she said, slowly, 
 
 ' Perhaps you are right, perhaps you think it better to 
 be only friends, but ' 
 
 'There is no "but" for — you. Why did you say 
 but ? Are you afraid of those " climaxes " from which 
 a wedding-ring would save you 1 If you married me, the 
 '^ climaxes" would be weekly, daily, chronic, perpetual. 
 Have you ever thrown cold water on a firel Do you
 
 160 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 know tlie unpleasant effect] Before the fire goes out 
 there is a great commotion in the grate. I must go 
 without the commotion, and the bugbear of memory it 
 would leave behind it.' 
 
 ' But you will come back for Christmas 1 We need 
 not alter, we can forget this new sort of plan which 
 came to nothing.' 
 
 He did not answer. She looked up anxiously into his 
 face. 
 
 * Jack, you will come back 1 ' 
 
 ' Some day — not just yet. When I have begun to 
 forget " this new sort of plan which came to nothing." * 
 
 ' But I shall miss you, Jack.' 
 
 Her mouth quivered. She had given up her cubbing 
 for this. Her one great friend was going away ; he 
 spoke about it as though he was speaking of a day 
 in Exeter. It was true that Jack was careful to be 
 moderate in speech ; he did not want to distress her, nor 
 to let her feel herself to be in the wrong. Besides 
 which he was proud, and pride is as good as a pot of 
 whitewash for beautifying sepulchres. 
 
 But when her lips quivered, when she said, 'But I 
 shall miss you,' his moderation left him ; he overstepped 
 the bounds within which he had kept these many days. 
 Words are wretched instruments of expression ; over- 
 whelming feeling never works itself out by word of 
 mouth, the tongue stiifens, articulation fails, the brain 
 is hampered by the mechanical part of its machinery 
 getting out of oi'der. A gesture, an inarticulate cry, a 
 contorted muscle do most of the eloquent talking at a 
 tragedy, or even at a melodrama. Therefore it was that 
 Jack said nothing beyond a phrase which is always sweet 
 in the haarer's ears, ' My darling, my darling,' and 
 those well-used words wore broken and indistinct. Then 
 ho put his arms round her, and drew her face to his, and 
 kissed her gently, saying, * God bless you, Bab, good-bye.'
 
 MARY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTER. 161 
 
 And she made no remonstrance, but when she was 
 released, said, ' Good-bye, Jack,' and hurried away from 
 .his vicinity out of the room. The startled kitten 
 stretched itself, and waddling to the hearth, finished 
 its nap there. 
 
 Bab was several minutes late for lunch ; she came in 
 with heightened colour and shifting eyes. She had the 
 burden of a secret; it was not heavy but it weighed 
 on her mind, and she did not relish meeting Mrs. 
 Kaufmann's keen eyes. However, nobody seemed to 
 scent change or trouble in the air ; the rattle of knives 
 and forks went on as usual, so Bab settled down to her 
 lunch with a good will, a little surprised and ashamed 
 to find that she could still eat. 
 
 But it was difficult to realize that one Combe inmate 
 was going away until his room was empty, his place 
 void, his voice silent, and he had actually gone. Tliere 
 would be time to miss such a person when he was out 
 of reach : she would put off missing so long as possible. 
 When a friend went of his own free will, he did not 
 deserve to be missed. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 What ? Gone without a word ? 
 
 Ay, so true love should go : it cannot speak. 
 
 Tico Gentlemen of Verona. 
 
 * A small cloud may hide both sun and moon.' 
 
 When the world is asleep, and you keep your watch 
 in a sick-room, it may chance that your duty sets you 
 to the boiling of a cup of milk for your charge. 
 
 You soon see the way in which the warmth works 
 on the soft white fluid, how fii'st a ruffled finnge of 
 irritation comes and goes, playing round the edges of 
 the saucepan. Later waves of heat rock the glowing 
 
 M
 
 162 MARY FJ^N WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 milk ; bubbles from below come fizzing to the top : nov» 
 the time has arrived when a trained hand should set 
 the angry, agitated, reckless mass on a hob to cool and 
 recover. 
 
 Should the opportune moment be missed the boil-up 
 will become the boil-over, and there will be a disastrous 
 overflow of that spilt milk over which, we are often 
 reminded, 'tis waste of time to weep. 
 
 Somewhat after the manner of milk our passions boil 
 over. Jack's emotions had boiled over, there had been 
 no watcher to place him on the hob to simmer down to 
 a marketable temperature, and to prevent the burning, 
 or waste of good material. 
 
 After luncheon LIi'S. Kaufmann and Bab had driven 
 off to see some distant neighboxirs, whilst Captain and 
 Mrs. Fenwick after paying the smoking-room a visit 
 had pottered amongst their shrubs and flowers, their 
 live-stock and their hot-houses, discussing, as they loved 
 to do, the improvements, the alterations for the perfecting 
 of this dear home of theirs, about which they planned 
 together. 
 
 Godf ray had a day off the multitudinous * Meetings * 
 which now-a-days over-filled his idle hours, and he gave 
 it to his wife ; she appreciated the gift, and on into the 
 dusk they strolled, and talked, and dawdled out the 
 happy afternoon. 
 
 When at length they turned their sauntering steps 
 homewards, they found the Woodbury chariot at the 
 door, and within the hall a bustle of portmanteaux 
 and servants. Lady Young's declamatory voice reached 
 their ears, addressing Thomas. 
 
 * Some one must go at once and look for Mrs. Fenwick. 
 Mr. Holland wishes to see her before we start.' 
 
 Lady Young had experienced what small children call 
 * a great surprise ' that afternoon. She had driven over 
 to Combe on purpose to suggest her son's removal to
 
 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 163 
 
 "Woodbury, she had said 'that it seemed a little hard 
 that she should be tortured with anxiety six miles olf , 
 as the crow flies, from her poor sick boy,' and her poor 
 sick boy had not contradicted her. 
 
 * Did she want him at Woodbury 1 * 
 
 * Would not any mother long for her child in time of 
 trouble 1 ' 
 
 ' He was quite ready to go to Woodbury, he would go 
 back with her in the carriage at once. K she would 
 ring the bell, he would order his portmanteau packed.' 
 
 His line of conduct astounded her, she had prepared 
 to take a grievance home with her, but she had not 
 dreamed of taking her son. 
 
 Astonishment was lost in gratification when she 
 found how Captain and ISIrs. Fenwick received the 
 annoimcement she made to them, in triumphant staccato, 
 in the porch. 
 
 'Jack going?' Of course it was the master of the 
 house who let out his rancorous feelings, the guile and 
 duplicity of his wife made her hold her tongue. ' Going 
 without his doctor's leave? Going when he had been 
 ordered perfect repose, absolute quiet ? It was a 
 heinously suicidal thing to do. Captain Fenwick hoped ' 
 — the hope was a threat — 'that Jack would not be 
 seriously injured by such folly.* 
 
 Lady Young sighed ; ' But what was to be done ? ' 
 
 ' Of course,' she said, ' I know to what such a wound 
 may lead : amputation, lock-jaw, gangrene are common 
 consequences of so disastrous an accident. But in pain, 
 illness, or suffering, a son naturally tvu-ns to his home, 
 to his mother. I long to have him under my own roof, 
 and he longs to come.' 
 
 Jack was in earshot now ; he came hobbling out to 
 the carriage, helped on either side by a sympathetic 
 hand, pale as a ghost and emphatically cheerful. 
 
 Jlis hostess's deep eyes, shadowed, but very kindly.
 
 164 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 looked into his ; she had a knack perfected by practice 
 of reading the minds of her nearest and dearest. 
 
 And she hurried the start ; she knew what she was 
 about, no doubt, though she took her husband's breath 
 away, for she speeded her parting guest. She herself, 
 with her skilful hands, settled the deserter scientifically 
 in the landau, and held his hand in hers, and wi-ung it 
 as she spoke her last, low words. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Jack, and take care, and be patient. You 
 won't be — like this — ^for long, it will be better soon — 
 o?ili/ be 2^cutient.' 
 
 She stood watching the carriage as it turned the 
 Bweep of the drive, and dwindled out of sight in the 
 dusky shade of the afternoon. 
 
 * Come along in, Mary. I believe the shock hag 
 stunned you. What a woman that is, lugging off the 
 poor chap when he isn't fit to be moved. Upon my 
 soul, I've been living with you for a qviarter of a century 
 and I've not plumbed you yet. You can hold your own 
 as a rule ; I thought you'd stop the whole thing, but 
 no, you were as soft as butter. Very odd of Jack — I 
 say, Mary, wasn't it very odd of Jack to bolt off at a 
 moment's notice ] ' 
 
 * I don't think he ' She went over to the tea-table, 
 
 not finishing her sentence. 
 
 ' Off his head, I should say. He looks like a corpse.' 
 
 'I don't think he is off his head, but she— she always 
 acts as an irritant upon him.' 
 
 The break in his wife's voice sent her lord to his feet 
 at her side. 
 
 *Do you mind, Maryl Are you distressing yourself t 
 You held your tongue, so I held mine. Why didn't 
 you give me a cue? I'd have put my fist down and 
 quashed the whole idea.' 
 
 * Your fist, Godfray,' taking the member in question 
 between her hands as if it was a most important factor
 
 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 165 
 
 in her life, though she was about to disparage it — * Your 
 fist would have quashed nothing. Neither you nor I 
 are any good. The best that we two old fogies can do 
 is to shut our eyes, and hold our tongues. It seems 
 hard, it is hard that Bab gets off without a scratch, and 
 that he, poor man, should have the heartache.' 
 
 Once, long ago. Captain Fenwick had been the hero 
 of a romance, but even in those by-gone days he had 
 been neither a romantic nor a sentimental hero. He 
 had always spoken out, he had never thrown dust over 
 fact, magnified fancy, nor minced matters. 
 
 * What ] Have they had a row 1 ' 
 
 ' You know you put this mighty fist of yours down 
 a few days ago. Jack felt it at the time, and now wo 
 have just seen him drive away. Why do you think he 
 went 1 It is plain enough.' 
 
 'You suspect there has been an uproar? And the 
 whole thing is over ] ' 
 
 *I am sure of it.' 
 
 ' What's to be done 1 ' 
 
 ' Nothing, absolutely nothing. He has gone, he won't 
 come back. She will be content without him, he was 
 very little to her.' 
 
 ' Why on earth didn't she say so, and not play the fool ? ' 
 
 * Godfray, Bab played nothing, she does not know the 
 way to play. She is ready to marry him to-morrow, but 
 she is not in love, not in touch with him. You can 
 imagine the sort of thing Jack has had to endure.' 
 
 ' Umph. Ai-e they going to wreck everything on th;\t 
 sunken rock 1 ' 
 
 * It is a rock where love-affairs have often come to 
 grief.' 
 
 When Captain Fenwick heard this split in his house- 
 hold catalogued under the serio-comic name of ' love- 
 affair,' he took the matter more lightly, and asked for 
 his tea. ''
 
 166 MARY FENWIOK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 From the comfortable common-sense period of middle 
 age so many of the tragedies of lads and lassies seem 
 trivial as the tragedies of the nursery. From the far 
 end of the telescope, men look back upon the objects on 
 the path they trod in the past and see them dwarfed, 
 they forget their true size. Captain Fenwick's heart 
 was young, but points of view change vastly with the 
 changing years. 
 
 * Poor Jack, I never was more annoyed in my life ; it 
 is time the girl was married, and he is the very sort of 
 fellow to make her happy and look after her. Another 
 cup of tea, Mary. But I shan't give it up yet awhile, 
 perhaps she is going to take a page out of her mother's 
 book, and refuse her fences till she's driven him beside 
 himself.' 
 
 Very soon the culprit and Mrs. Kaufmann came into 
 the room ; the former wore no guilty air, but listened in 
 silence to her aunt's quick questions. It seemed that 
 they had met with Mr. Campbell, that Mr. Campbell 
 had seen the "Woodbury chariot, through the open 
 window of which he was positive he had caught sight 
 of Jack Holland. 
 
 * I told him that it was impossible for him to have 
 done so. I told him that Jack is to lie by for ages, that 
 he had had no business to leave his bed, and that Dr. 
 Bedford was mad at his having done so.' 
 
 Bab was carrying tea-cake to the speaker. She paused 
 midway, and listened to her mother's condensed explan- 
 ation of the invalid's departure, as though the news 
 hardly surprised her. Thi-ee paii^s of eyes observed her 
 closely, they fancied she was a shade less debonair, a 
 thought less blithe, they hoped she ate her crumpet 
 slowly, and without relish. This hope was extinguished 
 when she went to the tea-table and deliberately chose 
 the most buttery scone; it was abominable of her to 
 have chosen that particular scone.
 
 MABY FENWIGK8 DAUGHTER. 167 
 
 Instead of going off to her chickens or to the stable, 
 Bab waited on in the morning-room until her father and 
 his sister-in-law left her alone with Mrs. Fenwick ; then 
 she went over to the dusky window-seat, and fired her 
 shot from there. 
 
 * We had an anti-climax, mother, and that is the 
 reason why Jack has gone.' 
 
 * I thought so. I'm very sorry, Bab.' 
 ' So am I.' 
 
 Generally Bab's news came out whole, with no reserves 
 and nothing left to tell, but she held her tongue now 
 and wanted questioning. 
 
 * Why did you choose such an unfortunate time as this 
 to drive him away ? A time when he had so much to 
 foi-give you, Bab.' 
 
 'It wasn't anything to do with me. I didn't want 
 him to go. I never was so astonished in my life. He 
 didn't seem to mind, he just said it didn't do, it didn't 
 answer, he'd rather forget all about the idea of being 
 married to me and go back to the old days. No doubt 
 he knows what it all means better than I do.' 
 
 There was chagrin in her voice. 
 
 * Your father and I are terribly disappointed — the end 
 has been too abrupt.' 
 
 * I suppose a smash is always abrupt, it is only a crack 
 that is gradual. An engagement,' thoughtfully, ' may 
 take weeks and months coming to pass, and then it is 
 all gone to pieces like this in a moment.' 
 
 * We shall miss him, Bab. I don't think you realize 
 what it will be without Jack backwards and forwards, 
 in and out, like one of our own ; dear fellow.' 
 
 ' I don't see how one can realize things which have never 
 happened. But, of course, I know that I shall miss him.' 
 
 Then she went out of the room and out of doors ; it 
 was waste of time to discuss such a complicated mystery 
 as a lover.
 
 168 MAEY FENWIGK'S LAUGHTER. 
 
 But her three elders talked in and out the maze, and 
 round about the maze untiringly, they moaned and 
 mourned, — it is the only consolation the impotent on- 
 lookers at a deplorable affair of this sort can have. 
 
 Narrowly they watched the dear daughter of the 
 house as she pursued her daily round of robust delights. 
 Alas ! there were no dreamy moments, no pensive eyes, 
 no flights of unfounded merriment, no bitterness, no 
 restlessness, not one blessed sign of weakness to reward 
 their scrutiny. 
 
 Jack had gone. It was a pity, as a blight on fruit- 
 trees, a rot in potatoes, or distemper in the kennel are 
 pities; but she did not make a fuss over either evil. 
 Jack was out of sight, he had often been out of sight 
 before and had come back again. If he could no longer 
 ride with, and talk to, and squire Miss Fenwick, there 
 was always some one about who took his place. 
 
 But she would not discuss the absentee ; his name fell 
 out of the general conversation, although every evening 
 she asked, during dinner, 
 
 * What news from Woodbury ] ' 
 
 And when she was told that the knee was bad, and 
 that Dr. Bedford thought gravely of it, she said, ' I am 
 very sorry to hear that,' and talked of something else. 
 
 Later, when the account of the invalid improved, 
 when Captain Fenwick said that he had walked a 
 hundred paces, with only a stick to help him, upon the 
 drive at Woodbury that morning, Bab changed her 
 commentary to, 
 
 * I'm very glad to hear that.' 
 
 This commentary lasted for a week. Then came fresh 
 news, better still, perfectly reassuring. 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick had had tea at the Youngs' that after- 
 noon. Jack was going to London on Monday, he was 
 looking quite himself. He had had a brief, 'about 
 which Lady Young talked,' said Mrs. Fenwick, *as
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUOllTER. 1G9 
 
 though a brief was a most extraordinary appendage to 
 a barrister, and one which you would least expect to 
 find in connection with his profession.' From this 
 remark people concluded that there had been some 
 slight unpleasantness during the visit to Woodbury. 
 
 Tlie following day (Saturday), Bab came home from 
 cubbing late for luncheon ; though she had been out 
 since eight o'clock in a blustering wind she was not 
 spent, but blithe, fresh, and more than usually alert. 
 She hurried over her lunch, and rushed off to change 
 her habit, reappearing in an incredibly short time, clad in 
 a neat Harris tweed gown and a light coat of many 
 capes, innumerable pockets, and monster buttons ; a felt 
 hat of puritanical plainness was tilted over her sunny 
 eyes. 
 
 * Mother,' she said, clearing her throat, * I'm just going 
 to drive over to Woodbury. Mother, you are not in the 
 chamber of horrors, why do you glare at me 1 ' 
 
 But still Mrs. Fenwick looked at her in wonder. 
 
 * To Woodbury 1 Now ] You are going to-day ? 
 You surprise me.' 
 
 ' I want to see Jack before he goes. I should think 
 it would surprise you more if I let him go away without 
 saying good-bye.' 
 
 She broke off in momentary embarrassment. 
 
 ' I don't see why I should not see him again.' 
 
 * Think of him, Bab. Under the circumstances, is it 
 possible that he should care for a farewell visit from 
 you 1 Alethea will be with him. His mother may be 
 there. It may be awkward. Don't go.' 
 
 ' I don't think it need be awkward ; it never has been 
 awkward. And I'm sure Jack will be very glad to 
 see me,' 
 
 * Dear, you can't throw away your cake and then 
 re-cook and eat it ; he feels far too much to be glad 
 to see you. Leave well alone. Lady Young is sus-
 
 170 MAEY FENWIOEPS DAUGHTER. 
 
 picious ; slie may be rude. He will hate that. Let him 
 go in peace.' 
 
 * But / want to see him, and I'll lay any odds that 
 he wants to see me. I've got some songs to take to 
 him ; and he has my fly-book, I must get that. Now, 
 mother, I know you are as wise as Solomon, but I'm 
 going, because it will be all right.' 
 
 Where did this headstrong, heart-whole daughter 
 of Mary Fenwick come from] She lacked pride (of 
 which her mother had had an unfortunate abundance), 
 with many other maidenly possessions. Then she, who 
 was chary of caresses, silenced Mrs. Fenwick's lips with 
 a swift kiss, and the elder woman said no more. 
 
 Bab was of age, she must judge for herself. Advice 
 is about as profitable as a share in a Cornish mine ; 
 nothing but ' experience, the school-master who takes 
 such dreadfully high wages,' can teach youth. Mrs. 
 Fenwick stood at her window, calming her eyes with the 
 peace of the eternal hills, and casting her mind back to 
 her first few months of life at Combe. Perhaps, after 
 all, the girl was right, and that however startling, how- 
 ever unwholesome, however painful that meeting at 
 Woodbury might be, yet to see the desire of his eyes, 
 and to hear the sound of her voice might, if only for 
 some insane seconds, rejoice the heart of that young man 
 and make him ' very glad.' 
 
 She sighed over that form of * very gladness.' 
 
 Jack, when Mrs. Fenwick had seen him of late, had 
 not spoken of anything more stirring than his health, the 
 weather, and the ' news.' Indeed, there had been no 
 opportunity for confidences, for Alethea had been in and 
 out of the room, and Lady Young had glued herself and 
 her prickly tongue at the side of his sofa. 
 
 Heigh-ho ! Mrs. Fenwick watched the cart turn the 
 corner of the drive, and stood there watching, thinking, 
 vaguely hoping, and wasting good, valuable time in worry.
 
 MAEY FENWIGICS DAUGHTER. 171 
 
 For the idle moments of which, at a Great Day, we 
 must give account, how many, alack ! have been flung 
 away in the vast, useless, bottomless abyss of Worry, 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 * Sweet, thou hast trod on a lieait. 
 
 Pass I There's a world lull of men, 
 And women as fair as thou art 
 
 Must do such things now and then. 
 
 Thou only has stepped unaware, 
 
 Malice not one can impute : 
 And why should a heart have been there 
 
 In the way of a fair woman's foot ? ' 
 
 ' It is not easy to straigliten in the oak the crook that grew in 
 
 the sapling.' 
 
 With all becoming deference to his superiority, his 
 advantages, his greatness in many walks of life, yet it 
 has been whispered among women-folk that as a casual 
 invalid man is not great, he is not grand, he does not 
 excel. 
 
 The pre-eminent sex do not take amiably to being 
 * poor dears.' Coddling, compassion, care, and specially 
 remedial measures are distasteful to them. As serious 
 sufferers men have shone creditably ; but out-of-sorts — 
 a man who is merely out-of-sorts is pitiable, despondent, 
 the butt not even the servant of his fate. 
 
 The knee at Woodbury was a grim ailment, and 
 there were other ailments yet more austere which filled 
 the dragging days with pain, such as would allow Jack 
 no relaxation in which to let himself go and luxviriate 
 in grumbles and murmurs. 
 
 He was no dismal Jimmy with a long face, a putty 
 eye, a martyr's voice, and a rooted determination that 
 he was * no better.' The worst his mother could find 
 to exasperate her step-daughter by saying was,
 
 172 MAEY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 'That Jack was as depressing as the weather.' 
 
 But the illness was a grave one, and he took it 
 gravely. The times were bad with him, and for the first 
 ten days the efforts made to improve them by his 
 attentive nurse were not successful. 
 
 Alethea devoted herself to him. Her one fault, alas ! 
 was an incurable ill — she was the wrong woman. It 
 seemed to him that the wrongness affected everything — 
 when he wanted to think, she read to him ; when he 
 tried to brood, she set herself to keep his thoughts 
 moving ; when he felt fractious, she argued with him ; 
 when he closed his eyes for a nap, she brought him 
 his soup ; when he longed for solitude, she kept him 
 company. 
 
 For the first week, trying to be decently grateful 
 was as hard as trying to keep his temper. 
 
 Then Jack grew saner and less self-absorbed. He 
 began to understand that she was not trying to irritate 
 him ; he began to like the flowers she brought him, 
 and to look forward to the soup. He was a sympathetic 
 man, and he soon found himself once more capable 
 of wincing at the snubs dealt her, and dreading the 
 eternal bickerings which came and went with his mother. 
 Those verbal mustard-poultices set on his personal ills, 
 were no doubt as wholesome and curative as they were 
 hot and offensive. 
 
 For a day or two a sick-room had been a novelty, and 
 then Lady Young haunted it. Later on, Alethea was 
 left in sole possession save when the Combe people 
 paid their daily visit, during which Lady Young sat 
 by Jack's side, superintending the interview, and making 
 a dread ceremony of that hour of the endless twenty-four 
 for which alone^ at this weak stage of his life, her son 
 existed. 
 
 Womanlike, Alethea's perceptions were acute, but she 
 was loth to allow her friends to guess the full extent
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 173 
 
 of their acuteness. She never scared people, as some 
 women will, by anticipating an intended confidence, 
 calling the cat by name before the owner has opened the 
 neck of the bag. 
 
 Jack never knew that Bab herself had sharpened 
 Alethea's perceptions, but it came about that before ten 
 days had passed he had opened his heart to his intelligent 
 nurse. Then he grew greedy of her company ; he 
 poured into her luckless ears, from sun to sun, the same 
 old story ; ' Bab, Bab, Bab,' was the theme of the im- 
 mortal tale. 
 
 And Alethea listened patiently. Her attention did 
 not wander ; if she said little, he forgave her, for the 
 little she did say had not been altogether to his mind. 
 
 Later, when he was up and out of his room, he wished 
 that he had held his tongue. Why had he not been 
 self-contained, reserved f Not like the men, indeed, with 
 whom he associated, but like those others, the heroes in 
 books, of whom he read, and with whose secrets the 
 reader alone was on terms of intimate knowledge. 
 
 As he lay, tied by the leg, it had been hard to prevent 
 his seething mind from overflow, but as Alethea could 
 not appreciate her Majesty, as she seemed zealous to 
 drop the sacred subject, he kept silence about it and took 
 to reading aloud poetry to his comrade, talking when he 
 did talk of abstract subjects, and only cruising about 
 the Fenwicks perpetually, without touching upon the 
 daughter of the house. 
 
 On Monday he was going back to London ; on the 
 Saturday afternoon preceding his departure, with rugs 
 and chairs and cushions, pen and ink, books and papers 
 all ready to his hand, he ensconced himself in the con- 
 servatory. Without, the garden was a damp and di-eary 
 wilderness, full of decay and death, good for nothing 
 Bave for the tillers of the soil to earn their daily 
 bread in.
 
 174 MART FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 The raw blustering discomforts of cloudy November 
 were not aggressive here amongst the mimosas, amongst 
 the brilliant flowers and bursting bulbs. Jack took his 
 prescribed exercise, pacing up and down the long avenue 
 of flowers, and pausing at the doorway to look down the 
 meandering drive beyond which, shut out by many hills 
 and oaks, lay the West Hill, belted darkly with tall firs, 
 and decorated with a grey Elizabethan house shrouded 
 in creepers. 
 
 '"Were I a cloud I'd gather 
 My skirts up in tlie air, 
 And go I well know whither, 
 And fly I well know where.' 
 
 But he was not a cloud, he could not die in happy 
 raindrops upon any waterproof suiting, therefore he 
 would go to Combe no more ; no more. 
 
 To the tune of ' The Girl I left behind me,' practised 
 feet march cheerily enough. Jack knew that this was 
 the case, in time it might be his case, but his feet were 
 heavy as lead as they paced the tiled pavement of the 
 conservatory to and fro. 
 
 He opened the Times and read a leading article on 
 Combe, he cut a new Temph Bar and found a story 
 solely about Bab, He tried to write a letter and his 
 sentences were blocked with Bab, stultified with her. 
 Then he held up his head and listened ; here she came, 
 only one pair of wheels in the universe could roll so 
 light, so fleet, only one quartette of hoofs could pelt at 
 such a pace. 
 
 Jack's eyes and ears had taken to playing cruel tricks 
 with him, they had cheated him of late, awake and 
 asleep ; he did not altogether believe in them now. But 
 he opened the glass-door wide and stood there, with bare 
 head, listening. The sounds were real, substantial, for 
 up the drive came the cart, her cart, his cart, the driver 
 sitting high and square, with erect head ; this was the
 
 MABY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTER. 175 
 
 real thing, it was her Majesty, and she must pass him 
 on her way. 
 
 He had dethroned her, and he had told himself that 
 he would be perfectly calm if ever such a meeting as 
 6his should come about ; — he was calm enough, save for 
 all sorts of unsuspected pulses which throbbed about 
 his head. 
 
 She had but brought a civil message of inquiry ? She 
 was merely there to leave a note ? She thought him 
 already gone ] He bore the pang of these three de- 
 ductions, and then — she saw him where he stood. She 
 was in a line with him by that time, and, drawing the 
 horse up short upon his haunches, she waved her hand. 
 
 No reasonable doubt remained, he was the person 
 whom Bab sought. She was out of the cart now, and 
 giving Phil his directions. 
 
 ' Don't put up, drive up and down ; I shan't be long.' 
 
 She had come two steps towards Jack when she turned 
 again, looking up at the sky and round the horizon. 
 
 ' I think it's beginning to drizzle, Phil ; put the 
 waterproof apron over the seat.' 
 
 As she gave these directions, a certain wild leaping 
 under the spectator's ribs tamed down. 
 
 * How are you. Jack 1 ' 
 
 She was not constrained, the only sign of the times 
 was a slight blush as she reached his side, stretching out 
 her hand in warm greeting. 
 
 ' Perfectly all right, thanks.' 
 
 The people at home had contrived to make her feel 
 guilty of grave offence ; she looked at him as critically 
 as did his doctor, he certainly seemed much as usual, 
 though his hair was longer than ever, 
 
 ' What a nice little crib you've rigged up in here ; ' 
 stepping thi'ough the door which he held open, and pre- 
 ceding him, but with her head turned to mark his gait. 
 * Js your knee really well, Jack 1 You are dead lame.'
 
 176 3IARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' A bit stiff, nothing more.' 
 
 Like its proprietor, who had developed some knack for 
 keeping her at arm's length. 
 
 * I hear you are going to London on Monday, I came 
 to say good-bye ; ' feeling for the fii'st time that some 
 explanation of her arrival was necessary. 
 
 ' I am very glad to see you again.' 
 
 A commonplace remark which his voice made imposing. 
 
 ' Where are your people ] ' 
 
 * They are entertaining a lot of Hughes and Hardings.' 
 ' Will they come here ] ' 
 
 ' I shouldn't think so.' 
 
 * That's all right,' she said, pleasantly, seating herself 
 in his deck-chair under a palm. ' I mean that I can't 
 stay long, and I only wanted you.' 
 
 The young green Roman hyacinths set to ringing joy- 
 bells in his ears. 
 
 ' Do you know that you have my fly-book, Jack t 
 Where did you put it 1 I told mother to ask you, but 
 she forgot ; ' the hyacinth bells stopped their offensive 
 jangling. ' Don't you remember that you promised to 
 stock it and to catalogue it 1 Of course I don't want it 
 now. But bring it when you come.' 
 
 * It is somewhere with mine. I will look for it, and 
 send it.' 
 
 She smiled, a wide sunny smile of conciliation. 
 
 ' Don't send it, bring it when you come.' 
 
 *I am — not coming.' 
 
 ' I shan't want it till March. You will,' the ' will ' 
 was singularly persuasive, ' be down for Christmas. One 
 brief won't take you six months.' 
 
 ' I am going abroad at Christmas.' 
 
 For one very long minute Bab considered this intelli- 
 gence. Jack had certainly set up some barrier between 
 himself and her, over which she tried to vault. 
 
 * I didn't like to worry you, Jack, with saying, " How
 
 MARY FENiFICK'S DAUGHTER. 177 
 
 sorry I was, how very sorry, how dreadfully sorry." I 
 thought you would have understood.' 
 ' I understood perfectly.' 
 
 * The children's puppy at the lodge is lame too. What 
 a clumsy person I am.' 
 
 * You mustn't call yourself names ; the puppy got in 
 the way of the wheel, so he deserved to be trampled on.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Basten has not made any excuses for me, slio 
 called me in there yesterday, and told me pretty straight 
 what she thought of me. " Dawnt 'ee gaily volk wi' ail 
 zorts wot idden vit vur maidens. Dawnt 'ee duet, hive 
 off, avore yii be avorced til." ' 
 
 Bab spoke the dialect like a native, she looked at Jack 
 to laugh and he did laugh. 
 
 ' Jack, 1 wish you'd say what you mean, because I 
 know you're angry, and it would let off all the steam 
 and start fair.' 
 
 These overtures of hers did more harm than good ; if 
 she had been capable of understanding the mere rudi- 
 ments of his feeling, would she have reiterated sorrow 
 for the shot as though that was her oif ence ? and would 
 she have come for that disastrous fly-book 1 
 
 Alethea had thrown many a gentle pat of dirt at her 
 Majesty, they were more likely to adhere than the 
 formidable lumps of mud his mother hurled, and none 
 of which stuck at all. 
 
 Me, me, me, could Bab talk of no one else 1 
 
 Why should she talk of any one else? she was the 
 centre of the universe, the subject of which he would 
 feign talk and think, year in year out, till Doomsday. 
 
 ' Jack, you are angry.' 
 
 ' No,' he said. ' I told you how it was last time I saw 
 you. You don't want to have it all over again, there's 
 nothing new to say. I don't want to curse and swear, 
 and talk more Greek. You wouldn't like it, and it 
 would do no good.' 
 
 IT
 
 178 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 That wild, demonstrative farewell of his at Combe 
 made small impression upon her compared with his 
 determination that this good-bye was final, that he 
 meant to go and was going, for this attitude of his made 
 her suspect herself of having done wrong. 
 
 Since her coral and-sock days of babyhood Jack had 
 known hers for a large and generous mind. If she could 
 be convinced of her error, she was eager to own herself 
 sorry. 
 
 To some eyes penitence seems a sign of weakness, not 
 strength ; humility is a quality which exists solely to be 
 trampled upon, a man down invites a kick. Embarrassed, 
 apologetic, a giant may be hunted into a corner and 
 yapped at with impunity. 
 
 These were the views of Lady Young, and she came 
 into the garden at this juncture followed by her guests, 
 and hemmed in the unfortunate pair in the conserva- 
 tory. Finding that Miss Fenwick was uneasy, nervous, 
 quenchable, Lady Young set to work to speak out as 
 Mrs. Basten had spoken out ; she attacked Bab and 
 routed her with slaughter. Bab was at a loss for words, 
 she had never before found herself in need of fence or 
 parry, she stood and received the elder lady's attack in 
 silence and surprise. 
 
 Then, as she had the enviable faculty for being ' per- 
 fectly natural,' she gathered herself together, perfect 
 nature prompting her to make a bolt for her cart. 
 
 * I could not wait for tea,' she said, looking appeal- 
 ingly at Jack for help. * It will rain, it is getting dusk.' 
 
 ' Why not put up 1 As you have come all the way to 
 see Jack, you should not hurry off. Jack, remind her 
 that no duck is afraid of wet weather ! ' 
 
 * I must get back,' her eyes still on her only friend at 
 this alien court. 
 
 ' It is Saturday,' of course Jack came to her rescue, 
 speeding the parting guest as he had been speeded one©
 
 31 AMY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 179 
 
 at Combe, * it is a stable grievance to be late on Saturday. 
 Good-bye.' 
 
 ' Don't go out, Jack, you were warned against a cliill. 
 Miss Fenwick will excuse you.' 
 
 Only too gladly, he saw, was she ready to excuse him. 
 The grey, creeping mist entombed her as she hurried 
 away, and the clatter of tongues drowned the last roll of 
 the wheels. 
 
 It was a Woodbury custom to discuss a person who 
 had quitted the roof -tree as soon as she or he were out of 
 earshot, and the womenkind settled like living bees on 
 Bab ; they ' broke her bones afore ever she was at the 
 bottom ' of the drive. 
 
 Lovers are not divinely reasonable, nor severely logical ; 
 the trivial holes picked in Bab by his visitors drove Jack 
 into a frenzy of adoration for the maligned. 
 
 She might be selfish, unimpressionable, spoilt, she 
 might be loving or she might be loth, whatever she might 
 be, whatever she was, she poured fire into his heart and 
 smoke into his head, and he loved the hem of that fright- 
 ful waterproof skirt of hers better than a universe of 
 womanly, well-disciplined, and willing maidens. 
 
 It took him all he knew to reason himself calm. 
 Reason is, one is sometimes tempted to fancy, a doubtful 
 blessing, a certain care. Instinct is no charge to its 
 owner, there is no responsibility in its possession. 
 
 Now, whilst reason was under Jack's control, he knew 
 it would be well for him to get away, to get to work, to 
 soul-saving, heart-salving work ; he was ready to be 
 envious of the pick, barrow, and shovel of a navvy. On 
 Monday he was about to put two hundred good miles of 
 solid earth 'twixt him and — Woodbury, 'twixt him and 
 home, 'twixt him and folly.
 
 180 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Out, out, into the open air 
 The only dream is liberty, 
 Thou carest little how or where. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 ' Neighbour once over the hedge, neighbour over it again.' 
 
 'I've heard from Jack,' said Miss Fenwick, at the 
 breakfast-table, looking thoughtfully at a letter, and 
 dropping it down on the cloth beside her plate of savoury 
 omelette. ' He is as repressive and stand-off as a 
 monkey-tree.' 
 
 Mr. Holland had not been at Combe for many weeks, 
 yet his name was constantly on the lips there. Captain 
 Fenwick quoted him diligently. 
 
 * An admirable growth a monkey-tree,' said her father, 
 under his breath. ' More appreciated by most women 
 than a weeping- willow. What,' aloud, * has he written 
 about 1 ' 
 
 • You know I asked him to get my new saddle. It's 
 precisely what I wanted ; but nothing came with it 
 except the bill. I did think he might have written a 
 line, and when I thanked him I told him so. Here is 
 the answer.' She tossed the letter on to the crockery 
 behind the virn. ' You read it, mother.' 
 
 This was it : 
 
 *My dear Bab, — I did not understand you wanted 
 anything besides the saddle. I am glad it is satisfactory. 
 Don't apologize for trouble ; something to do is exactly 
 the thing for which I am on the look-out : very hard to 
 find in this country : over in the Far East we " paid 
 liars " get an earlier chance. Many thanks for renewing 
 your invitation for Christmas, but I'm going to Cairo 
 with Mitchel-Innes on the 20th, en route for the pot- 
 sherds. Mrs. Kaufmann was good enough to ask me to
 
 MARY FENWICETS DAU&HTER. 181 
 
 dine last week, but I could not manage it. I have not 
 seen her since you were up. You seem by all accounts 
 to be having a lively time down in the west. I heard of 
 you all from Peel. — Yours as ever, 
 
 ' Jack H.' 
 
 IVIrs. Fenwick read the last sentence over four times, 
 and digested it uneasily. 
 
 ' That letter is not like Jack, mother.' 
 
 * People's letters are seldom like them,' treating the 
 question generally. ' I often wonder which is genuine, 
 the manner of the letter or the manner of its writer ; 
 because they are, sometimes, so totally different.' 
 
 ' Jack only came once to the flat all the time I was 
 with the Kaufmanns.' 
 
 * I should let Jack alone,' said her father, holding out 
 his hand for this public epistle. ' He has had a rough 
 time ; you hurt him with your horse-play. If you shoot 
 a man, you can't hang him in your larder as you would 
 have hung that woodcock.' 
 
 ' He,' Bab was always talking of Jack, but agreed 
 with nobody's opinion about him, and had only con- 
 tradictory theories of her own to ofEer in their place, ' is 
 unsociable.' 
 
 ' We poor men can't let our hair down, and our waists 
 out, and wring our hands, and bury our faces in pocket- 
 handkerchiefs ; so, when we are down on our luck, we 
 get unsociable, short in temper and beastly unsociable.' 
 
 ' Jack is not down on his luck.' 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick did not raise her hand to heal the 
 breach between Bab and this young gentleman ; but her 
 husband was, and had been ever since the rupture, intent 
 on manufacturing a plan for entrapping his daughter's 
 evasive heart on Jack's account. His schemes had 
 ' gone a-gley.' 
 
 Early in December Captain Fenwick had found out
 
 182 MARY FENWICrS DAUGHTER. 
 
 that he and Mary must pay a long-deferred visit to the 
 Ogilvies at Woodcote, and that, during the fortnight 
 they were away, Bab had better go to her aunt's flat in 
 Kensington. 
 
 And thither Bab had gone. She was out of her 
 element in London ; after a week amongst the houses 
 her spirits and the roses on her cheeks had waned. She 
 put lack of * go ' down to the fogs, the pavements, the 
 gas, and the noise : but the people, the many strange 
 people who came and went, who talked of things in 
 which she had no part, who levelled her to country-cousin 
 rank, impressing her own insignificance upon her, had 
 something to say to her depression. 
 
 At first, when she found herself amongst the Kauf- 
 manns' friends, her easy conversation had flowed as it 
 was wont to do at home, but no one had seemed to find 
 her pleasant, nor were the remarks she made always 
 answered ; it was evident that a country-cousin who 
 expected people to talk on her own subjects was a bore, — 
 a strange woman was a bore. 
 
 After the first week spent under these strange auspices, 
 Bab listened more and talked less. Mrs. Kaufmann left 
 her niece ' to do exactly what she liked.' There seemed 
 to be nothing within her reach that she did exactly like ; 
 she felt flat and ' out of it.' 
 
 Bab's skin was not thick, nor her self-confidence deeply 
 rooted ; it was chiefly because no one had ever found 
 fault with her that she had concluded there was no fault 
 to find. 
 
 A ball was in prospect ; nothing very smart at that 
 time of year, but Mrs. Kaufmann showed a keen anxiety 
 about Bab's appearance, as infectious as it was dis- 
 quieting. 
 
 The intolerable thought that her hair is dressed some- 
 what too low, and her skirt fashioned an inch too skimpy, 
 weighs like a crime upon the mind of a conscientious
 
 3IARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 183 
 
 woman. Rawle and her mistress had an anxious time 
 over the white satin gown. A criticized possession 
 looks ill in its owner's eyes. 
 
 * What a washed-out rag I look, Rawle,' Miss Fenwick 
 said, resignedly ; she had been dressing for an hour, and 
 was dissatisfied with the result. * Hold up that candle. 
 I can't think why electric light is always near the ceiling, 
 you can't see anything in the glass. I hate my hair like 
 this, it will dance down, I'm quite sure it will dance 
 down.' 
 
 But when Bab had got to the ball, she found that she 
 had no need of worrying herself over the possibility of 
 dancing her hair down. 
 
 The ball-room was small and much overcrowded. A 
 nervous little man, to whom she was introduced by her 
 aunt, assured her that ' dancing was out of the question,' 
 and when she insisted upon attempting it, he got away 
 from her as soon as he decently could do so. Con- 
 sequently she was left alone, and presently found ample 
 time to reflect and observe. 
 
 At home, in her crevice of the universe, every face, 
 every voice, and most of the clothes were familiar. 
 Here were thronged nice-looking people whom she did 
 not know, and who did not care to know her. No men 
 came flocking to fill and refill her blank card. Enviable 
 girls stood near, whom beautiful, slim, well-groomed 
 partners claimed and hurried off. 
 
 Miss Fenwick had stood through so many dances that 
 she got on her hostess's nerves, which hostess bickered 
 a little in a pleasant way with a lazy, good-looking friend 
 about the poor wallflower, and within her earshot. ' That 
 poor girl in white, she's really quite nice-looking, and 
 she hasn't stirred once. Do be kind, Charlie, do.' But 
 * Charlie ' was obdui-ate, and finally took a turn with the 
 hostess herself by way of quieting her. 
 
 Somewhat sobered by all this — hei* self-esteem was not
 
 184 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 sufficient to allow her to be amused — Bab had addressed 
 her neighbour, a chaperon, hoping to cheat her hostess 
 into thinking that she liked conversation better than 
 waltzing, but the woman addressed looked surprised, and 
 put this unsuccessful damsel into her lowly place by a 
 curt answer. 
 
 Beginning to feel burdened with her own immovable 
 presence, Bab had thought to thread her way out upon 
 the staircase in search for Mrs. Kaufmann, or for an 
 imaginary friend. 
 
 But a wedged mass of congested polka traffic had 
 blocked her road ; she had looked forlornly at the 
 struggling dancers, longing to join their fray. Then 
 in the heart of the crowd she had seen a familiar face, 
 suddenly she had seen a friend in this inhospitable 
 wilderness, his eyes had met hers. With a spontaneous, 
 brilliant smile she had recognized him, nodding an eager, 
 friendly welcome. 
 
 Henceforth Miss Fenwick was not upon any one's 
 nerves, she took to dancing ; dance after dance she 
 might have been seen with a dapper little man who 
 appropriated her. Mr. Stanhope Peel was a fellow- 
 traveller in a strange land, he was not a proud person ; 
 if Bab had not jumped at him as a husband, she had 
 jumped at him as a partner that night, and it was 
 ' awfully good luck running up against her in the squash.' 
 
 His sister, IVIrs. Dalrymple, with whom he was staying, 
 had brought him to this dance ; she was a woman of 
 sense ; she had watched the pair, and the next day she 
 h;ul called upon Mrs. Kaufmann. The remainder of 
 Bab's visit to town was pleasant enough ; she rode with 
 ]Mr. Peel, and Mrs. Dalrymple took her out to theatres, 
 and she had enjoyed herself almost as well as though 
 she had been at home. 
 
 No grudge was borne her by Mr. Peel, he had an 
 idea that a girl who had pluck enough to refuse biro
 
 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 185 
 
 must be a girl in a million ; and Bab gave herself no 
 airs about it, she ignored that letter of his ; she was 
 just *as jolly' as she had been before the crisis. There 
 •was no nonsense about her : she did not care about any 
 ' sentimental rot.' Her domestic and commercial value 
 were alike desirable. If she could only be brought to 
 see things in his light, what a thoroughly good sort of 
 couple they might make. 
 
 He liked a country life himself, much preferred it. 
 Though he was an eldest son his father was but twenty- 
 five years his senior, and as hale as one of his own oaks. 
 
 Who could tell how long his son might have to wait 
 for Tregarvis 1 who could tell whether the heavy charges 
 on the place would ever permit him to live there 1 
 
 And Mr. Peel liked Bab quite as well as he liked 
 anybody, except himself ; he knew quarters at Combe 
 were first-rate ; old Fenwick was a nice, easy-going old 
 chap, with a good stable and an excellent cook. The 
 hunting was execrable, but they must get off to the 
 shires for the winter. 
 
 Mrs. Dairy mple was heart and soul in the project, 
 she raved about Miss Fenwick — a small fortune, of 
 course, but of quite a useful size. Stanhope must, 
 indeed, be off courting to the west and throw over all 
 other engagements. 
 
 And Stanhope fell in with her views. Nearly every 
 fellow got married sooner or later, it could not be an 
 arduous task to get a woman to wife, but he wished 
 Bab was less like quicksilver : it was hard to get a hand 
 on her anywhere. 
 
 Her farewell was not reassuring. He worried down 
 early all the way to Waterloo to see hor off : he had 
 told her he would be there. He thought all women 
 liked to be at the station half-an-hour before their train 
 started, but Bab rushed her departure; she had come 
 and gone without breathing-time. He seemed to have
 
 186 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 seen little save smoke and heard nothing but whistle, 
 he had had no time to say anything serious. 
 
 Disappointing Bab had come home just as she had 
 gone, there was no sort of change about her. One of 
 her masculine attributes was her wretched faculty for 
 disclosing intelligence. She did not return with an array 
 of assorted fragments of detail dove-tailed into an 
 interesting story ; any item of news had to be questioned 
 out of her. Not that she was reserved as was her 
 mother, it was not that. But there was always some- 
 thing pleasant to be done in the immediate future, so 
 that she never wished to re-enjoy the past. She had no 
 time to make inexpensive fun out of the small incidents 
 of life, all her amusements were legitimate, recognized 
 amusements. She was by no means observant, unless 
 it rained she never saw a cloud. 
 
 * Yes, she had seen Jack, he had come to tea, he had 
 got his case, and he had sent messages to everybody.' 
 
 That was all the satisfaction Captain Fenwick's 
 strategy had won. Later Mrs. Kaufmann wrote. She 
 owned a ready pen as well as a ready tongue — this dual 
 possession is by no means a common one — and she was 
 in the habit of writing pages of what Godfray called 
 * nothing in particular,' over which Mary was wont to 
 pore, reading between the lines, and trying to make out 
 in what mood the sprightly pages had been filled. 
 
 For Mary knew her sister well, too well. There were 
 great shadows in life, tlie eternal fluttering from the 
 pursuing shade must be weary work for a creature not 
 born a genuine butterfly through and through. 
 
 The letter that came this time was marked Private, 
 and ran thus : 
 
 * My dearest Mart, 
 
 * I did my best and failed. Of course Godfray 
 said very little, but I understood j Jack used to be
 
 3IARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 1S7 
 
 tractable, open to influence, but of course now that he is 
 in love nous avons change tout cela. The backings, the 
 startings, the rearings, the jibbing of a man in his case 
 baulk any would-be helper. Imagine a sensitive plant's 
 sensations if clipped by Basten's blunt shears into a 
 peacock — and draw, you know what parallel case. Bab 
 saw nothing, suspected nothing, she was bored as I 
 meant her to be ; I ignored her myself, and you know 
 how ready people are to follow a bad example, so they 
 sat on her politely. But my coup was a grim failure. As 
 soon as Jack heard that she was at the De Crespignys' 
 dance he went home ; so I suppose, for I never saw him, 
 but I found her with Stanhope Peel perfectly satisfied, 
 and with him, alas, alas ! she has spent most of these 
 last days. "Will she slide into being Mrs. Peel 1 Sliding 
 (I know all about sliding) means slippery ground on 
 which one may chance to trip. There is no sliding on 
 the break -neck obstacle course that used to be called 
 true love. She is a most provoking young person, she 
 just takes what comes like a happy child, not pliilo- 
 sophically. The day will come, I suppose, when she 
 must take life with a wry face, on faith, as we take it — • 
 and our medicine ! However, Mr. Peel is a harmless, 
 conventional man, and he may be the right one. It is 
 no use trying to play at Providence, it is as unprofitable 
 as the dear "pretend" game of one's childhood. Most 
 marriages are a misfit, never just what we had bcou led 
 to expect. You know the " cherishing" and " worship- 
 ping " and " endowing-with-all-the-worldly-goods " of 
 the wedding-service mislead youth. We are not " wor- 
 shipped" or "cherished" for long, and we are expected 
 to keep the books low, even if we don't pay them. You 
 are furious by this time, yes, yes, yes, the people who 
 have evil moments choose to believe that the whole 
 creation groaneth and travaileth and doeth little else. 
 You may believe what you like ! This is a grumble at
 
 188 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 Jack ; he's like a pin, for his head will never let him go 
 too far. Well, stave off Stanhope if you can, if not 
 make the best of it — it's the thing we have to make 
 large supplies of in this planet. 
 
 * Your affectionate sister, 
 
 ' Cicely Kaufmann.* 
 
 This letter had come days ago, and nothing further 
 had as yet been heard of Mr. Peel. 
 
 A sharp frost had taken a grip of the country, such a 
 frost as is rare in the west, and the prospect of skating 
 occupied all energetic minds. 
 
 When Bab had finished breakfast she rose and went 
 to the window, — the window was the next best thing to 
 the open air, she had no hankering for cosy firesides. 
 With critical weather-wisdom she scanned the country- 
 side, the frost was black as frost could be. Jack Frost 
 had hung no rime, no hoar-frost to beautify the vigly 
 weather which was as unbecoming to the landscape as 
 to the human race. East wind swayed the clumps of 
 shrub and whistled through the bare woods ; on such a 
 day most womenkind make for warm corners and stay 
 in them. 
 
 * It's too cold to drive,' Bab said, * and the roads are 
 in a shocking state, father, the hill's a sheet of ice 
 beyond the village. I shall walk over to Tipton before 
 lunch.' 
 
 ' Why to Tipton, Bab 1 What on earth can you want 
 there ] ' 
 
 ' To begin with, I want exercise, and so do the dogs.' 
 Her eyes were sparkling, she was in such good humour 
 on this bitter morning, it was so amiable of her to revel 
 in such detestable weather, that her father's smile was 
 most indulgent. ' I sent my skates to be ground and, 
 as the ponds will bear to-morrow, I may as well go and 
 fetch them,'
 
 3IABY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 189 
 
 • What energy ! Remember the wind's clean in your 
 face the whole way, your cheeks will be flayed alive.' 
 
 ' My cheeks are hardened, father, they won't hurt, 
 and the wind will be behind me coming home.' Bab 
 never grumbled at anything; perhaps this was small 
 credit to one ' in glowing health, with sufficient wealth,' 
 but it was a nice companionable quality of hers. 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick watched her daughter set out with the 
 bounding dogs at her heels and tramp off down the 
 drive, watched her holding up her face to feel the keen 
 rush of the cold wind. She was a daughter of whom 
 to be proud ; how fast, how vigorously, how well she 
 walked ; the Scotch cloak was almost graceful as Bab 
 wore it. Her even tread could be heard in the clear air, 
 on, on, out of sight now. 
 
 With her heart in her eyes, INIrs. Fenwick watched, 
 thinking, wondering, apprehensive. Dear Bab, her dear 
 little girl, who but the other day was a bundle of 
 flannel and nainsook, taking an airing, in her mother's 
 arms, upon the terrace. 
 
 Tramp, tramp, tramp, tall, straight, independent, she 
 strode out into the world away from the nest. 
 
 ' To-day thou girdest up thy loins thyself. 
 And goest where thou wouldst ; presently, 
 " Others shall gird thee," said the Lord, " to go 
 Where thou wouldst not." ' 
 
 Those words !Mrs. Fenwick had read long ago, she 
 remembered them now she knew not why, and fell to 
 brooding on the by-gone days. She thought of Bab, of 
 Bab as a mere baby-thing, scouting her dolls, hating her 
 nursery, clamouring for ' out, out,' as soon as she could 
 speak. Of Bab toddling off after the browsing cattle, at 
 work among the hay-makers, raking the hay with a tiny 
 rake, deserting the flower-garden for the farm, begging 
 her father not for the sweetmeats in his pocket, but to 
 be taken to the horses in the stable. Of Bab later
 
 190 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 cantering across the turf on the Exmoor pony, its shaggy 
 mane flying and its rider's mane flying too as it took the 
 ha-ha in its stride. Of Bab fishing for carp in the pond, 
 watching her float for patient hours with Jack beside 
 her. Of Bab in the school-room working well through 
 her lessons, if only she was bribed with a ride through 
 the woods as a reward. How often the mother had 
 given leave for an extra hour in the fields, snatched 
 from bed-time or school-room, for this out-of-door child 
 of hers, because Bab came to her for so little, she asked 
 so little of the care which is a joy to give. She seemed 
 to have small need of a mother, she had no overwhelm- 
 ing sorrows to be comforted, no desires for petting. 
 Over her childish illnesses she hardly asked for Mary. 
 She had plenty of pluck. Measles, or mumps, or whoop- 
 ing-cough were quite endurable by aid of the dogs. She 
 swallowed any remedy so long as the big stable-yard 
 retriever was brought to the night-nursery to be witness 
 of her heroism. 
 
 ' Mary,' a well-known voice broke her train of thought, 
 * ah ! there you are ! I could not find you. Come here 
 for a moment, I want you.' 
 
 Had it been because of that eternal ' want ' and its 
 owner 1 had it been because of her fathomless love for 
 her husband, that their child had grown up so alone^so 
 far-off 1 
 
 "With her boy-like indifference to fixed times for food, 
 Bab came into the drawing-room at half -past two, threw 
 her cloak and stick down on the sofa, declared 'she 
 wasn't tired, but she had had enough, and would mother 
 come and sit with her whilst she had lunch ] ' 
 
 Mother and daughter went off arm in arm to the 
 dining-room, the former saying, 
 
 • My dear child, take off those heavy boots. What 1 
 You don't feel their weight 1 There can be no doubt, 
 Bab, you should have been a man. You haven't got
 
 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 101 
 
 over the days when you prayed twice every day, " God 
 make me a good boy," and would pray nothing else.' 
 
 There was never a demonstrative affection between 
 these two ; but Mary's voice was very gentle and 
 caressive. 
 
 ' I saw Lady Young at the library ; she's a funny 
 woman.' 
 
 ' She never amuses me.' 
 
 * It's such a high horse you ride, mother,' bantei-ingly, 
 * when yoii ride to Woodbury.' 
 
 * Did you hear anything of Jack ? ' 
 
 * A great deal. Alethea is in London. Mother, do 
 you think Jack likes Alethea ] ' 
 
 ' I should suppose he has always liked her.' 
 
 * Alethea is fond of talking things inside out, so is he.' 
 
 * Lady Young's imagination is her only greatness.' 
 
 ' A little more soup, please, mother. I hope tb.e baro- 
 meter is steady. Mr. Peel is down at the " Plough " 
 again. I met him, too, in Tipton. He's coming out to 
 skate to-morrow, and I have asked him to lunch.' 
 
 CHAPTER XYin. 
 
 Winning should put any man into courage. 
 
 Cymlditie. 
 
 'One ploughs, another sows, who will reap no one knows.' 
 
 Obstinate as fate this December frost proved to be, 
 lasting over Christmas and well on into January. The 
 Fenwicks kept open house for the skaters ; as the 
 Combe ponds provided the only available ice for miles 
 round, thither people flocked daily. 
 
 Bab began by being a keen, she ended by becoming 
 an accomplished skater ; she diligently set to cutting 
 hieroglyphics, and achieved many dangerous gymnastics 
 on skates.
 
 192 MAEY FEN WICK'S DAXIGUTEB. 
 
 As long as tlio frost lasted she was engrossed by her 
 art and took small interest in her neighbours ; but all 
 this time they watched and whispered about her, lifting 
 or knitting their eyebrows, sometimes perplexed some- 
 times astonished. 
 
 It had been long settled in that part of the country 
 that Miss Fenwick would eventually marry Mr. Hol- 
 land, it was an understood thing, the match had been 
 made in her cradle, and nobody, save perhaps the 
 mother-in-law elect, took exception to the plan. Tlie 
 wedding seemed a natural and inevitable result to such 
 a convenient friendship. 
 
 No wonder foreheads were wrinkled and tongues 
 lowered. 
 
 ' ]Mr. Holland in Egypt, what could it mean 1 ' 
 * Mr. Peel at Tipton, there could be no sort of doubt 
 what he meant.' 
 
 He flaunted his attentions to Bab boldly before every 
 one : he was always at her elbow, and it was by no 
 means a stationary position. If he did not actually put 
 on and take off her skates, he saw that the abominable 
 duty was performed. 
 
 He tutored her in wondrous evolutions, and caught 
 her when she fell ; he did everything which a devoted 
 swain should do, and he did it openly day after day. 
 Any attention he could spare from the daughter he gave 
 to her people ; he was awfully civil to Mary. She tried 
 not to be frightened, but as time passed and the frost 
 continued Mrs. Fenwick's former hopes grew very faint 
 and far off. 
 
 She did not meet Mr. Peel half-way, but he did not 
 discover that he was in disfavour ; he was not keen- 
 sighted nor at all diffident. He was good-looking enough, 
 but he was undersized and little people are masterful, 
 making up in will what they lose in stature. He was 
 not overburdened with intellect, though he was suffi
 
 MAEY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 193 
 
 ciently sharp. If Bab did not mean to have him now, 
 she was behaving vilely. But she was safe enough, 
 LIi's. Dalrymple had assured him ; he would go away 
 for a day or two, and come back and have another shot. 
 He liked her very much, quite enough to satisfy any 
 reasonable woman's requirements. 
 
 For Christmas week Mr. Peel went down to Tregarvis ; 
 and while he was away game, and notes, and chocolates 
 arrived daily for Miss Fenwick, who amazed her mother 
 by the matter-of-fact way in which she received her 
 presents, and by her extraordinary faculty for living in 
 the present. 
 
 It was difficult, against the grain, for ]\Irs. Fenwick 
 to put her natural reserve aside, and to speak of that 
 which lay deep in her mind. But it was impossible to go 
 on as they were doing ; it was impossible, wrong, criminal 
 not to warn Bab whither all these vine-leaves, and double 
 eights, and outside edges must eventually land her. 
 
 Driven home by darkness, the daughter of the house 
 had returned from the ice, and was lolling on a low 
 chair near the lamp in the morning-room, playing a lazy 
 game of ' snatching ' with Fritz. JSIrs. Fenwick stood 
 in the shadow watching the pair ; here was an opportu- 
 nity for those few words which, though spoken in season, 
 are, alas ! the sort of words that are sadly and freely 
 wasted on headstrong youth. 
 
 ' "What a long time this horrid frost lasts, Bab.' 
 
 ' The glass is as steady as a rock. Stanhope Peel says 
 we shall have another month of it. Really, I've learned 
 everything he knows, there is nothing left to do.' 
 
 * Why did Mister Peel come back 1 ' 
 
 Bab tried to see the speaker's face, but it was in 
 shadow still. 
 
 * To skate, mother.' 
 
 * He could skate at Tregarvis. Bab, have you for- 
 gotten everything 'i Have you forgotten that letter ] ' 
 

 
 194 MARY FUN WICK'S DAUGHTEE. 
 
 'No, but he has.' 
 
 ' He hasn't, he hasn't ; that is the one thing a man 
 would never forget. If you have not changed your 
 mind it isn't fair that you should spend every day, and 
 all day long with Mister Peel.' 
 
 * I suppose you wish me to marry some one 1 He — he 
 ^he's all right.' 
 
 When Bab saw her mother's tragic face, she got up 
 to her feet and said the most surpris-ing thing of all. 
 
 ' I don't believe in you, mother ; you are far too 
 cautious. If you had let us, Jack and me, tell every one 
 about it, we should have been married by this time, and 
 he would not be baking in Cairo, and losing all the 
 skating.' 
 
 'But, my darling ' 
 
 'Don't advise me,' putting up her hand with a for- 
 bidding gesture, * I am afraid of you j last time you 
 spoilt it all.' 
 
 ' Spoilt, Bab, you say spoilt 1 You are angry with 
 me for sending Jack away — and yet — and yet, my 
 dearest ' 
 
 ' I am not angry, — and when you call me " my 
 dearest" I know something serious is in your mind. 
 There will be plenty of time to talk about this expected 
 erisis when it comes. It may be like Jack, and never 
 come.' 
 
 ' Promise me, Bab, you will do nothing on the spur of 
 the moment ; you will wait.' 
 
 * Wait, what for 1 Till Jack comes back 1 No, 
 mother, I always thought it was all a fancy, and it is 
 all a fancy. Dan,' addressing her collie, ' your mistress 
 doesn't say "good dog," "good dog," "good dog," all 
 day, and yet you've the sense to know she likes you. 
 Some silly dogs, Dan, want such a lot of stroking.' 
 
 ' Do you think any man would be satisfied with such 
 affection as you, Bab, give the dogs V
 
 MAHY FENIVICK'S DAUGHTER. 195 
 
 'It's a good, lasting sort.' After a moment's thought, 
 * A little condescending, perhaps, and dictatorial,' 
 
 Misgivings and low spirits are, as a rule, extremely 
 contagious maladies, but Bab did not catch them, her 
 mental health was so sound and buoyant that a whole 
 column of local tragedies could not infect her ; her 
 mother failed to impress her with her own fears and 
 forebodings. 
 
 Of course the crisis came, and it came with the break- 
 up of the frost, with cold drizzling rain, with all the 
 relaxation of nerve consequent upon a thaw. 
 
 "Whatever was, was right with Bab, she hailed the 
 thaw complacently ; ' it was beautiful rain, the ground 
 would be as soft as butter in a day or two,' she said, 
 turning her mind from the cutting of hieroglyphics to 
 the stables and the hunting. 
 
 Only a duck could find the raw rain and the slushy 
 surface of the ground enjoyable, but out Bab sallied to 
 feed the waterfowl in their corner of the pond, and to 
 visit all the animals within range. 
 
 Ankle-deep in the drenched grass Miss Fenwick stood, 
 scattering her scraps amongst the bustling birds ; the 
 flapping of their wings, their splashing of the water 
 drowned the sounds of approaching hoofs. Not until 
 the black nozzle of a horse, and the outstretched hand of 
 his rider, were within a foot of her, did she guess their 
 vicinity. 
 
 She neither blushed, nor paled, nor trembled, nor 
 did anything that it is orthodox for a startled woman 
 to do. 
 
 ' Oh, how de do ? ' she said ; * wait one moment ; ' and 
 continued with dexterous aim to give the waterfowl 
 plenty of exercise, as well as crust and biscuit. 
 
 ' I really did expect to find you at home to-day,' 
 he said. He was as sure of his answer now as he was 
 of his own good looks, and of his tailor's excellence.
 
 196 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' It's such beastly weather you'll catch cold, you really 
 will, I'm as hoarse as a crow myself.' 
 
 He cleared his throat. A Muscovy duck was bolting 
 the last bit of bread. Miss Fen wick's hand was now 
 available, she put it up and stroked the horse's sleek 
 neck affectionately. 
 
 * Why did you ride over if you have a cold 1 ' 
 
 * I came to see you.' 
 
 He got hold of her hand successfully ; from the vantage 
 height of the saddle he looked down upon her. 
 
 ' I came because I've something to say to you. I 
 know you are not the sort of girl not to be straight with 
 a fellow. I know you wouldn't have let me worry about 
 here all this time unless you meant business. After that 
 letter, don't yer know? I like to be on the straight 
 myself. If you can remember,' he could not remember 
 one word himself, * what I put down in black and white 
 that time, I tell you, upon my soul, I meant it — not that 
 I think you care about all that sort of thing — and I 
 mean it still. Now I'll do my duty to you, Bab, if 
 you'll make it square. "We get along all right, don't 
 we 1 "Will you marry me ? ' 
 
 She was not going to jump at him even now, she 
 released her hand and looked him straight in the face. 
 
 * Do you like me jiist as I am ? ' 
 ' Eather.' 
 
 * You don't want me to change 1 ' 
 
 * No, by Jove.' 
 
 * You know all there is to know about me, everybody 
 does.' 
 
 'Just the sort of wife I want; no past, don't yer 
 know, and no rot.' 
 
 * Do you understand that I am not at all clever ? ' 
 ' Yes, yes,' reassuringly. 
 
 * I don't care for reading. I can't think, and discuss 
 the why and wherefore of everything.*
 
 MAEY FENWIGK'S DAUGETER. 197 
 
 ' Calling life names don't improve it. And it is quite 
 good enough for me.' 
 
 ' I'm not sentimental, not at all.' 
 
 He began to see what she meant ; it was quite gratify- 
 ing, she was trying to set what she took for her deficien- 
 cies before him, and the deficiencies were but advantages 
 after all. 
 
 ' Sentimental,' he said. * Great Scott ! I should rather 
 think you weren't sentimental. JSTobody is sentimental 
 now-a-days.' 
 
 * Yes, but they are ; ' she contradicted him shortly, 
 with absolute decision. * It's not obsolete, but if you 
 don't care about it, that's all right.' 
 
 She was looking beyond him now through the driving 
 mist at the house, and as she spoke began to move in 
 that direction. He walked his horse alongside of her. 
 
 * Before we get to Combe, I say, won't you give me 
 my answer ? ' 
 
 * When I said it was all right, I meant yes ; ' she 
 walked at a smart pace ; ' but it's rather quick, and it's 
 so bitter cold down by the ponds. You had better hnrry 
 on to the house, you are sneezing again. Don't dawdle 
 here with me. Pv.ide on.' 
 
 But he knew his duty better than to leave her now. 
 Before they reached the porch, he found that Bab would 
 only marry him if he particularly wished her to do so, 
 and that she took the whole affair as coolly as the frigid 
 weather. 
 
 'Is your governor in? I want to do everything on 
 the straight, don't yer know ; and I'll go to him at once.' 
 
 ' He is in, but don't tell him to-day.' 
 
 * There's no earthly reason to wait. I went to my 
 lawyer at Christmas, and got hold of some particulars. 
 I can satisfy him, don't be afraid.' 
 
 * I really think you had better wait till next week. 
 He'll be so surprised.'
 
 198 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Gammon ! he must pretty well gtiess how the land 
 lies. No chap would put up at the " Plough " all this 
 time unless he was dead-serious. And didn't he ever get 
 to know about that letter 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, they all knew about it.' 
 
 This gratuitous frankness was annoying to a man 
 whose vanity was out of all proportion to his liking. His 
 was a masterful, or, rather, it was a determined and 
 obstinate mind ; he did not verbally ride rough-shod 
 over his lady's wishes, but he disregarded them, and 
 went off straight to this momentous interview in the 
 smoking-room. 
 
 Bab, Queen Bab, whose will had for more years than 
 she could recollect been law for her boon comrade, was 
 surprised at this line of conduct. She thought about it 
 as she changed her wet things. It was so odd, so new 
 that she should wish the bit of news to be kept quiet, 
 and that, nevertheless, it should be blazoned abroad. 
 
 Before night all the household knew of it. As there 
 was no adequate reason for declining this sleek, good- 
 looking eldest son, with his presentable past, present, 
 and future, he accordingly was accepted. His reception 
 was not enthusiastic. Captain Fenwick stared and 
 muttered, and hummed and hawed ; Mrs. Fenwick said 
 ' Oh ! ' three consecutive times, and said little else ; but 
 he was asked to stay on for luncheon in civil, if not in 
 cordial, terms. 
 
 Luckily, there were no sensitive feelings to be con- 
 sidered, and civility, as long as he got his way, was every 
 whit as acceptable as cordiality to Mr. Peel. He was, 
 indeed, a bold lover ; for when, on coming from his su'i- 
 cessful and lengthy interview with the authorities, be 
 encountered Bab in the hall he kissed her, then and there, 
 before her people ; and a passing servant saw him do it, 
 and tore off to spread the news in the back regions of 
 Combe.
 
 MABY FENWIGKS DAUQHTElt. 199 
 
 Bab found much more that was ' new ' and ' odd ' upon 
 this first afternoon spent tete-cL-tete with her beti^othed ; it 
 was so wet and dreary ; she had suggested going out, but 
 he sneezed and cleared his throat, and thought ' it was 
 too risky with such a cold as he had.' Her serenity was 
 seldom ruffled, but there was nothing to do, and Llr. 
 Peel's plans for mapping out his future career with her 
 fitted into it, and jVIr. Peel's caresses were so ' new,' so 
 * odd,' so unsettling a combination. 
 
 She had elected to be engaged and, of course, these 
 kind of long afternoons were inevitable accessories to 
 her election. But she had always declined * planning ' ; 
 she had shunned receiving or bestowing any sort of 
 caress. He smoked like a chimney all the time, this 
 masculine occupation was forbidden her ; unless she was 
 absolutely tired out, she always liked to be ' on the go.' 
 It did not seem to matter at all what she liked. 
 
 About four o'clock she got him into the billiard-room, 
 and things brightened then. Later he rode off, and left 
 her to hurry out into the dusk after air and exercise, 
 returning to find her father and mother sitting in the 
 fii-elight, talking in monotone as though there was an 
 outbreak of anthrax on the farm, or a revolution in the 
 servants' hall. 
 
 These two forms of anxiety had, within Bab's recollec- 
 tion, visited Combe. 
 
 If the authorities were grievously disappointed they 
 held their tongues about it, and were much as usual in 
 their manner to Bab ; she saw they were subdued, she 
 was a little subdued herseH, she did not want to discuss 
 anything or to look ahead, and they fell in with her mood. 
 
 That nisht, Becket, ' one vast substantial smile,' came 
 into the green and white room. Though she shook her 
 head and threw up her hands, yet she was overflowing 
 with that unquenchable rejoicing over the prospect of a 
 wedding which is an inherent weakness of our sex.
 
 200 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' For slyness, miss, for slyness no fox could shame you. 
 Fie, Miss Bab, leading me to think you were your mother 
 over again. Dear, dear, the hours 'pon hours I've talked 
 of poor Mr. Jack in this very spot. But, there, it is not 
 the regular in-and-outs, the come-and-go old friends that 
 carry off young ladies. Yes, indeed, you soon can see 
 too much of a gentleman ; the less you see the more you 
 are apt to fancy. Oh, but Tm fond of Mi-. Jack, and he 
 was fond of you, dear ; there, we all have our disappoint- 
 ments, and he'll get over his, no doubt. I can vouch for 
 it, for I've got over mine scores of times. Tregarvis is 
 a fine, big place. Miss Bab, they tell me, and he's a hand- 
 some gentleman, not so tall, but dapper as can be. Rides 
 like a centre-piece, so Phil told Harris.' 
 
 ' We can talk about Mr. Peel for the rest of our lives,' 
 said the bride-elect, yawning and half smiling, ' so we 
 will give ourselves a rest now.' 
 
 Then old Becket threw her fat arms round her young 
 lady's long neck, and kissed her on both cheeks. 
 
 * Bless you, my dear ; you pretty thing I've carried in 
 my arms, don't hide your heart from Becket. God bless 
 you ! There, I'll go, you want to think — not to talk ; I 
 know you now. Many and many's the time your mother 
 has sent me off, and sat up thinking and pondering till 
 the candles have guttered down to their sockets, and 
 when the morning came she would frown when I showed 
 them to her. What a heart she had, and what a peace- 
 able couple they've turned to, bless them ! I can't wish 
 you no better than them.' 
 
 ' Good-night, Becket.' 
 
 At eight o'clock next morning the old servant herself 
 brought the early cup of tea to Miss Fenwick, but the 
 disappointing candles stood tall, prim, and forbidding on 
 the dressing-table.
 
 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 201 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 I am ashamed that women are so simple 
 
 To offer war where they should kneel for peace. 
 
 Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 ' A whip for a horse, a bridle for the ass, and a rod for a fool's back.' 
 
 Even when Dr. Cupid throws his glamour along the 
 path of plighted love the lovers find their route of daz- 
 zling sunshine is intersected with considerable tracks of 
 shade. 
 
 But should Dr. Cupid have nothing to do with the case 
 the path of a plighted pair is soon found to be steep, and 
 honeycombed with pitfalls. 
 
 So much is expected from an engaged couple. In 
 society they must appear demonstratively joyous, but 
 then they must shun society ; their exclusive aim must 
 be to secure a solitude d, deux, it is understood that they 
 long to be together and alone. 
 
 They must submit to be treated with a smiling in- 
 dulgence as though they were a pair of harmless lunatics. 
 Mr. Peel and Miss Fenwick were conscious of absolute 
 sanity, and the attitude of their neighbours towards 
 them was half ludicrous and half irritating. 
 
 These superficial inconveniences were a part of Bab's 
 betrothal, but by no means the most serious part, and 
 there were really quite serious consequences to this new 
 state of affairs ; at least, the consequences seemed serious 
 enough to the bride-elect. 
 
 She had found out that she was not by any means so 
 charming a person as she had thought herself, that she 
 was not intended to be merely a centre-piece of the 
 universe, that she had aggressive faults of temper, of 
 will, of egotism, which had not been pointed out to her 
 by the foolish prejudiced people amongst whom she had 
 been reared. 
 
 She had found her master.
 
 202 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Wholesome, discipline maybe; bixt it is bitter, p\m- 
 gent ; an unpalatable tonic ; and it is apt to leave a bad 
 taste in the mouth. 
 
 There had been no need, no blessed, saving need of 
 yielding, of unselfishness in the Combe nursery. No 
 small fry clamouring for their games, for their share of 
 its little lady's good things. 
 
 Bab had not cared over-much for other children, her 
 animals had been her chosen comrades. The nursery 
 cat, the harmless necessary cat, lugged upside down in 
 any Anglo-Saxon attitude whither its despot would . . . 
 The noble-minded dogs submitting to small tortures as 
 their dear mistress's odd form of taking her pleasure. 
 The birds singing in prison and tweating gratitude for 
 very small mercies. 
 
 She had queened it amongst these dumb playfellows. 
 Why notl The law makes the crime, and dumb things 
 have no protecting laws, unfortunately for them. 
 
 Without, Bab fell in readily with Nature's moods. 
 The wind's will is the boy's will, and so it was with her. 
 Her prime minister, Jack, when in office, had been guar- 
 dian, protector, courtier, and had rarely collided with 
 inclinations over which he had been only too fond and 
 foolish. 
 
 By her surroundings, by fate, she had — alack that it 
 was so ! — been spoilt ; and as she had been shown her 
 faults frankly, she well and readily believed in them. 
 She did not spar or wrangle with Stanhope Peel ; not 
 being a reasoning, observant, or reflective young person 
 she hardly knew what had happened to change the com- 
 plexion of life. She did not understand it was possible 
 that her betrothed's affectionate solicitude for himself 
 was in fault, and that if her surrouaidings, if her fate 
 had spoilt her, he, too, had been equally spoilt, but 
 by himself. 
 
 When two spoilt children elect to play together the
 
 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 203 
 
 result is obvious, the weaker goes to the wall ; with wonder 
 and a sore sense of injustice done, the weaker child ia 
 driven to the lowest place, and if he will play at all, 
 must play second fiddle. But Bab did not tussle for 
 mastery : she was not purposely obstinate nor despotic : 
 she was possessed of that sort of faculty for unquestioning 
 acceptance of the circumstances of life which makes the 
 best of * things ' when ' things ' are bad. 
 
 Once or twice, far back in the past, she had had 
 qualms of uneasy fear that Jack, should she marry him, 
 would want her to change, to be other than she was : she 
 had had a vague idea that she did not understand Jack. 
 But with this gentleman there was no such fear ; he 
 would not trouble himself over-much about her mental 
 and moral endowments. And so long as a man could 
 ride straight to hounds, and shoot, and dance, and fly- 
 fish, and skate, and talk small-talk fluently, and so long 
 as he had a good tailor, he was all a man need be ; she 
 never cast a thought to his character, his qualities. She 
 knew little of the value of these latter et ceteras, and 
 was slow in learning more. 
 
 Unluckily, upon close and daily intercourse accom- 
 plishments and nice features have small effect ; it is not 
 the outside of the platter that supplies the necessary 
 food for successful life. 
 
 There was no harm in Mr. Peel, none at all ; there 
 was indeed very little of anything in him except a 
 mighty strong will. ' He had his ways,' he said, and he 
 expected his companions to fall in Avith them ; it never 
 seemed to strike him that there could be two opinions 
 about anything. Bab had had ' her ways,' but had never 
 thought them original or peculiar, until she found them 
 snapping, and cracking, and giving Avay around her 
 everywhere. 
 
 He made plans, and with them Bab fell in ; she could 
 not argue (but he could) ] she was eager, quick in her
 
 204 MAEY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER 
 
 methods, as early for every start as he was late, as 
 vigorous and keen as he was lazy and indolent. 
 
 Rather than dispute any subject, she would give way ; 
 it seemed as though she, who could not be led, might yet 
 be driven. 
 
 So it came to pass that she would find herself at 
 Hembury when she had hoped to golf at Burton ; or she 
 would be cantering Scamp on the hill-top when she had 
 meant to be trotting on Tiger in the valley ; or she 
 would be playing piquet in the smoking-room, too sleepy 
 to hold up her head ; or she would be calling at Wood- 
 bury when she had intended to be on Combe terrace 
 with her dogs. Or she would be shooting when she had 
 purposed hunting, and vice versd. 
 
 She was thwarted at every corner and turn of the day, 
 and grew somewhat subdued under such novel treatment. 
 
 Though loving comes * easy as lying ' to most women, 
 yet Mr. Peel was not easy to love; he had none, or 
 rather he had but little of what the female sex calls 
 * niceness ' about him. 
 
 He had not outgrown a weakness for his clothes, 
 though he was full old for it ; and he had reached the 
 age for a mighty interest in his food, though he was full 
 young for it. 
 
 This absorbing interest in his meals and his obstinacy 
 were his only large attributes, and he was proud of both 
 interest and obstinacy. 
 
 The neighbourhood received the news of the engage- 
 ment much in the same way as Becket had received it : 
 as long as the spectacle was likely to be pleasing, it 
 really did not matter to any outsider to whom was 
 allotted the most subordinate part of the ceremony. As 
 long as there was to be a bridegroom, it could not 
 concern any one but the bride who he was. 
 
 But Lady Young and her step-daughter joined hands 
 and tongues for once in unison, picked Mr. Peel into the
 
 MARY FENWICKS D AUGHT ER. 205 
 
 smallest of pieces, and trod him underfoot before their 
 friends. And when they met the bride-elect they did 
 not congratulate her. She did not care a jot for Lady 
 Young's coldness, but she drew Alethea aside. 
 
 ' Won't you say something nice to me, Alethea ? You 
 know I am going to be married.' 
 
 * I have nothing nice to say. T have never spoken to 
 Mr. Peel, so I have no opportunity of judging how much 
 or how little you are to be congratulated.' 
 
 So this was Alethea's attitude ; it was wrath, not 
 forgetf ulness which had closed her lips. Bab thought in 
 silence for a moment, then she made an abortive effort 
 to set herself right in these pale, disparaging eyes. 
 
 ' It was not my fault about Jack, Ally ; he would go 
 away, he insisted upon going. It was his doing.' 
 
 ' " Tlio'^e spendthi-ifte who their acres lose, 
 Blame not their folly, but the Jews." ' 
 
 * I don't know what you mean. I was not blaming 
 any one ; it is fate, this sort of thing, fate ; I can hardly 
 believe it myself sometimes.' 
 
 * Fate is a word only fit for shiftless, unprincipled 
 people to cover their failure with ; I don't think some 
 women ever exert themselves to fully believe anything.' 
 
 Bab stared, and Alethea walked away from her with 
 her nose in the air. From that day to this — and the 
 Combe news had grown to be a stale tale of two months' 
 standing — Miss Fenwick and Miss Young had * walked 
 no more as friends.' They got out of each other's way 
 when they could do so, and if this was not feasible, they 
 "were civil on the surface of things, ignoring the im- 
 mediate future which was of paramount interest to both 
 of them. 
 
 Mr. Peel, meantime, was getting through a trying 
 period of a man's life fairly well ; Bab let him off pretty 
 easy, on the whole, he was not dragged about at her
 
 206 MARY FENWICK'S DAXJGllTMU. 
 
 chariot-wheels at all. His quarters at Combe were, as 
 he had anticipated they would be, comfortable ; he got 
 on with the old people, and he liked the place. His 
 people patted him on the back, and opened their arms to 
 Miss Fonwick, figuratively, by pen and ink ; they had 
 not been able, hitherto, to welcome the bride-elect at 
 Tregarvis, but as soon as March came, and the last case 
 of influenza was well over, she was to proceed thither to 
 be overhauled and sampled. 
 
 The settlement path was smooth ; in fact, Mr. Peel 
 was quite satisfied with his bargain. Of course, if a man 
 marries an only child, he must expect to get the rough 
 with the smooth of that position. Of course no fellow 
 ought to expect perfection, and equally, of course, an only 
 child must be a bit spoilt. Mr. Peel had begun as it 
 was meet he should go on, a man whose will was not his 
 wife's law was a pitiable spectacle. As a matter of 
 principle, he firmly insisted upon his rights of govern- 
 ment ; if there seemed any chance of mutiny, a few 
 sharp words would efiect his purpose ; he had seen the 
 colour rush into Bab's cheeks on these occasions, he had 
 seen her hasten to fulfil his pleasure, vanquished in a 
 moment ; she was amenable to reason. 
 
 As a sign of the times, Bab never drove her cart 
 now-a-days. The box-seat was by every law, both human 
 and divine, the seat of predominancy, of government, the 
 man's seat. 
 
 * Nothing,' to Mr. Peel's mind, ' looked such bad form 
 as to see a girl driving a fellow about as though he was 
 a tame cat.' 
 
 Once or twice she had remonstrated, but it had done 
 no good, he had said, magnificently, 
 
 ' If you want me at all, you must take me as you can 
 get me. I am not going to be tooled about the country 
 as if I was on the sick-list.' 
 
 It had sounded too rude to say * she really did not
 
 MARY FEN-WICK'S DAUGHTER 207 
 
 much want him at all,' so he had taken the reins and 
 his own way. 
 
 It is so good for a woman to be broken in, so im- 
 pi-oviiig, so wholesome ; but then, alas ! great love is 
 never sufficiently clear- sighted to tame, to train, to braak 
 in its object. Love, in its weakness, is desperately 
 afraid of hurting; and even objects to inflicting that 
 curative sort of pain which is cruel only to be kind. 
 
 Bab had had views on successful matrimony, give and- 
 take easy views. But it takes two of a mind to strike a 
 bargain on that practical system, and Stanhope Peel 
 considered that he, as the lion, should have the lion's 
 share of taking. Perhaps he was right, she seemed to 
 have made a mess of her affairs ; perhaps he knew best. 
 A big dog may, generally, be bullied with impunity by 
 a small one, supposing the latter does not go too far ; 
 and Bab was, by comparison with her lord, quite a big 
 person. 
 
 But one afternoon IMr. Peel did overstep his privileges, 
 and the lovers fell out, coming to an open disagreement, 
 as they drove homewards elbow to elbow in the T-cart. 
 They had been golfing at Burton. Bab was tired, she 
 had been round the links just once too often, and the 
 weather, late in February, was warm and enervating. 
 I^Ir. Peel was a great talker ; Bab was hearing all the 
 glories of the rounds re-drove as she was wont to hear 
 them. Her eyes were upon Pickles, the cob ; she would 
 have liked to feel the reins between her fingers. Pickles 
 was nice to drive, so free in his paces, so strong, so sure- 
 footed, though he had his faults like other people, possess- 
 ing a temper of his own, and a mighty prejudice against 
 a bicycle. 
 
 Brunette had an easy time when Mr. Peel was staying 
 at Combe, for Bab knew better than to trust that skittish 
 person to his guidance ; he was a good whip, but he 
 drove, as he did all things else, with a high hand, and
 
 208 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 with no toleration for vagaries or ebullitions of un^ 
 educated feeling on the road. 
 
 That day, as bad luck would have it, when they n cared 
 the village of Combe and were descending the hill which 
 led thither, a cyclist, pushing one of those machines (of 
 the cob's aversion) before him, turned the slope of the 
 lane and met the cart face to face. 
 
 Coming suddenly upon this modern invention which 
 he distrusted, Pickles did not behave with courage. He 
 reared, backed, bungled up against the hedge, and then 
 bolted violently forward beneath the whip which did not 
 reassure him, though it forced him on — on abreast with 
 that horrid legless horse, the bogie which brave men 
 rode unfrighted. 
 
 With her sporting proclivities Bab would not, natur- 
 ally, be expected to have any * hysterical sentiment- 
 alities ' about the necessary sufferings of her animal 
 dependants. She, who could hunt one unoffending 
 quadruped to death, could own no justifiable reason for 
 objecting to the just correction of its erring fellow. She, 
 to whom the crack of a gun was pleasing, should not 
 dare to wince at the mere swish of a thong as it cut a 
 fine wale across Pickles' sleek side. 
 
 But we are not of the reasoning sex. One of the most 
 prized advantages of ovu* mental weakness is the per- 
 mission * to have no reason but a woman's reason.' "We 
 trade, considerably, upon it. Bab, justifiably or not, 
 did object strenuously, boldly, actively to the sound of 
 swish and thud. 
 
 ' Push that thing of yours back into the hedge, man,' 
 she cried, addressing the unoffending cyclist fiercely, 
 * don't you see that you are frightening the horse 1 
 Stop, Stanhope,' passionately, * stop. Don't touch him. 
 / won't have it.' 
 
 Hurriedly the cyclist lugged his wheel of torment into 
 the ditch, but the other hearer straightened his well-cut
 
 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 209 
 
 lips and tightened the grip of his hand ; again, again, 
 and yet again the whip cut lightly through the air and 
 left its mark on the glossy bay coat of the sinner. 
 Pickles. 
 
 These stripes were the last struck by this special 
 instrument of man s mastery ; for Miss Fenwick dis- 
 graced herself, she tore the whip from the firm hand of 
 justice, snapped it violently in twain, and flung it down 
 upon the road : and there it lay in two pieces to bear 
 witness to her ignominy. 
 
 Temper is a large attribute, but it has a knack of 
 making its possessor feel uncommonly small. Mr. Peel 
 kept his feelings well in hand, but he looked as he felt, 
 outraged and disgusted, and with much dignity he gave 
 the reins to his choking neighbour. 
 
 Then she, knowing herself to be in the wrong, tried 
 to excuse her shame, her cheeks as red with embarrass- 
 ment as they had been white with anger. 
 
 * Pickles was afraid, only afraid, — he was terrified of 
 a bicycle. He wasn't, indeed he wasn't used to the 
 wliip, — she was so fond of Pickles. Stanhope had better 
 go on di-iving ; she couldn't change places now, they were 
 so close to home.' 
 
 So Stanhope drove on. Yery grand and totally in the 
 right, it was no wonder that he felt it was advisable to 
 improve the occasion, and to say some crushing things 
 about viragos, and henpecking, and tempers generally. 
 
 Poor Pickles was not more nervous and ill at ease 
 during the remainder of the journey than was his guilty 
 partisan. 
 
 On reaching the house JNIr. Peel had, as a vexed man 
 has every right to have, ' letters to write,' and he went 
 straight off to the smoking-room, leaving Bab standing, 
 aimlessly, at the front door. While daylight lasted she 
 liked to be out. As Stanhope disappeared she drew a 
 long breath, half a sigh, half something even less
 
 210 MARY FENWICICS BAUGRTER 
 
 reassuring to her wondering ears, and then she went oS 
 to forage in the back premises for sugar and apples ; for 
 such consolation as she could carry with her to the 
 stables. 
 
 She found Pickles, later, much as usual in his stall, 
 eager to munch an apple while his visitor stroked his 
 neck and his nose, gently patted his sides, and kissed 
 him, softly, between his eyes. 
 
 ' Poor old Pickles,' she murmured to him, and she 
 pronounced that first adjective as though she, she of all 
 people in this happy world, she with a golden spoon 
 between her lips, had yet some dawning inkling of that 
 wretched word's significance. 
 
 If the cob's feelings, as well as his coat, had been 
 rufiled by discipline, the dainties betwixt his teeth 
 smoothed out all tangles. Pickles was himself again, 
 but his mistress had become she knew not what. Into 
 what sort of untoward womanhood had she drifted ] 
 
 She had told Stanhope she was penitent. Hitherto, 
 had she apologized for an indiscretion, she had ever been 
 met three parts of the way, she had been assured that 
 an apology was a generous, a beautiful thing to make, 
 which swallowed up offences the most heinous. 
 
 A strange, newly-developed faculty had lately afflicted 
 the bride-elect, she had once or twice found herself to be 
 doing nothing and yet to be fully occupied, she had 
 found herself in thought. 
 
 Neither to plan her trousseau, nor to arrange a varied 
 course of ordinary pleasures would break this latest 
 unwelcome accomplishment. 
 
 Ti'ains of thought, unsought, tyrannous as an evil 
 dream, now and again ran, substantial in their weight, 
 through her buoyant mind. 
 
 Here, with her firm hand laid gently on the cob's soft 
 nose, with Brunette whinnying to her mistress from a 
 stall near by, with the fresh wind sweeping by the open
 
 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 211 
 
 door, with the soft twilight creeping over the drowsy 
 earth, here, in this favourite haunt of Bab's, a sudden 
 suspicion, a dull fear of the future crept into her mind, 
 turning her chill and cold. 
 
 She remembered the thong and the swish of the 
 whips which work with a will, work night and day in 
 London j the swish with its sequence of hasty, pained, 
 uneven clatter of weary hoofs, she remembered it well 
 and shivered. 
 
 There was light work, good corn, gentle handling for 
 these dear beasts around her, but for those others, heavy 
 labovir, harsh usage, and then — rest. 
 
 A worm cut in two by the stable-spade, a dead mouse 
 in the bucket, a lurch in the walk of the groom passing 
 the door, such trivial shadows as these had crossed her 
 path a hundred times, but she had never felt this hard 
 suspicion of life, this need of courage, of pluck to face a 
 big world of possibilities. 
 
 Bab had been shown the way she should go, she 
 knew many truths by rote the wisdom of which might, 
 presently, be learned practically. When things went 
 wi'ong she did not huid the blame at her Creator, but 
 had a vague misgiving that the root of such evils as 
 were lay with her. 
 
 She did not dream of wriggling out of her engage- 
 ment, she had never faced a difficult situation, not 
 because she shirked her responsibilities, but because she 
 had had no difficulties to confront. She had left much 
 that was good behind her on the road. She had no 
 shadowy plans in her disturbed mind for the illegitimate 
 recouping of those losses. 
 
 She shook all the cobwebs off her mind as she 
 tramped through the high-lying beech-wood, walking up 
 the steep hill behind Combe, with the fresh wind tearing 
 by her across the dark country to the twilight sky. 
 When the darkness drove her homewards, she loitered
 
 212 MAEY FUN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 on the terrace, loth to leave the companionable wind 
 that had blown the cobwebs into tattered far-off clouds. 
 
 ' Bab,' her father's voice startled her, he came off the 
 turf by the cedars, and was standing at her side, ' Bab, 
 I have been on the look-out for you. I drew the 
 stables, and the garden, and the poultry-yard blank. 
 What have you been doing? Not sulking, eh?' 
 
 She laughed, but guiltily — perhaps she had been 
 sulking, she was not exactly sure in what sulking 
 consisted, but it did not sound a comfortable thing to do. 
 
 * I have a crow to pluck with you, Bab. You seem 
 to have an extravagant way of showing feeling. Where 
 is my whip 1 * 
 
 It was too dusk to see her face, and she had turned it 
 away. 
 
 ' I will give you a new one, father.' 
 
 ' So you have been mutinous, Bab, fighting Stanhope 
 and ousting Jack. It won't do, Bab, it isn't like your 
 mother's daughter to be heartless, thoughtless. Do you 
 think men's hearts are like whips, that you can break 
 them in two and throw them away, and get new ones 
 when you go shopping ? It won't do, Bab, I came out 
 to blow you up. Peel won't stand any nonsense. You 
 can't take your own way in everything now-a-days. 
 Fact is we have spoilt you, you've had your head all 
 along the road. You are spoilt.' 
 
 Here were her cobwebs, repaired, condensed, put into 
 these words. They sank deep into the recently furrowed 
 soil of her mind, never had a home-truth been thrust 
 deeper. 
 
 * You are spoilt,' that was it. For two-and-twenty 
 years she had been spoiled. It was an accomplished 
 fact, her father himself said so. Spoilt meant damaged, 
 ruined, useless ; horrid signification. 
 
 The next moment her accuser was kissing her and 
 patting her hands in his, very angry with himself, very
 
 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 213 
 
 tender with her because his foolish heart was wrung, for 
 he heard how her voice broke, though she answered 
 with a laugh — 
 
 ' Spoilt ? That is very bad, father, and I never 
 guessed it till lately. I — I hardly know how to unspoil 
 myself now, it's so late in the day.' 
 
 'Peel will show you the way,' dragging her hand 
 through his arm. ' He will show you the way, never 
 fear. Matrimony isn't quite such an easy thing as you 
 fancy, Bab, you won't get all your own way as you have 
 had at home. There, don't take fright ; you ask your 
 mother how to tame a husband, she knows how it's done. 
 It's all a trick, but violence won't do it ; never show 
 temper. Come along in and make it all up, I can't bear 
 to think you have got into hot water.' 
 
 Next morning Becket made a discovery which she 
 summoned Rawle to witness : there stood two stumps of 
 candle-ends upon Miss Fenwick's dressing-table — two 
 stumps that had been tall wax giants but ten hours ago. 
 
 * 'Tis a sure sign,' said the old woman. ' Miss Bab's 
 found her master this time. Let out her fire and burnt 
 out her lights. It's the same thing, and over-night she's 
 done both of it. Dear young lady, I always told you 
 so. No feeling"? She's as feeling as a tooth.' 
 
 * A tooth hasn't no sort of feeling while it's sound.' 
 
 * Soon as it softens, there is nothing feels like a tooth,' 
 sticking to her ugly symbol. 
 
 * But then it feels nothing but pain.' 
 
 * All feeling is pain. What a woman you are to 
 argue. Do you think it's pleasure as keeps a lady up 
 staring at nothing and letting out her fire, and mooning 
 till dawn ? All feeling is pain, and when you've come 
 to my age you'll know it.'
 
 214 MABY FEN WICK'S DAUGRTEB. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 The good are belter made by ill, 
 
 As odours crushed are sweeter still. — Rogers. 
 
 ' The last shuts the door.' 
 
 * We used to fish pool and pool.' 
 ' Whom do you mean hj we? ' 
 'Jack and I.' 
 
 * Odd chap, Holland. Pretty rotten way that of 
 catching fish, I spoil your sport, and you spoil mine ; 
 but I suppose we must pretend to like it — throws us 
 together, eh, Bab ] Everything and every one throws 
 us together. Holland used to fish pool and pool with 
 you, did he? But then Holland wasn't keen.' 
 
 ' He got a pound fish last time we were out ; you'll 
 be lucky if you do it in our stream. Jack wasn't 
 particularly keen, but he was good enough.' 
 
 Mr. Peel was standing in the hall, engaged in getting 
 his rod and fishing gear into portable order. Bab 
 awaited him, as she had already done for ten impatient 
 minutes, at the door of the porch. 
 
 ' Make haste, Stanhope.' 
 
 * My dear child, we've got the whole blessed day before 
 us. You are always in such a flurry to be off.' 
 
 She opened the porch door and looked out ; then 
 she whistled a long, shrill, ear-tormenting summons to 
 the dogs. 
 
 * Come, dogs,' whew- whew- whew. ' Dan, Dan, hie on, 
 old man, we are going to the river.' 
 
 Then Mr. Peel left the manipulation of liis tackle, 
 and went out into the porch. 
 
 * Bab,' he said, ' I draw the line at the dogs, they 
 can't come ; upon my soul, I can't have them worrying 
 about. They never do one mortal thing / tell them. 
 They'll get off to the coverts, or they'll hang about in
 
 MAEY FENfVIGICS DAUGHTER. 215 
 
 the way, or they'll want a swim. I know those dogs 
 of yours, they're a beastly nuisance.' 
 
 Her eyes were cast upon the ' beastly nuisance ' at 
 her feet, her mouth was serious and drooping. 
 
 ' If we are to fish, dearest, let us fish. If you've set 
 your mind on having the dogs, I'll put your basket and 
 tackle back in the hall, and we'll take 'em a walk. Of 
 course I will do what you like, but I ain't going to try 
 the two things at once.' 
 
 * We always used to take Dan, Stanhope ; he keeps to 
 heel the whole time. Really and truly he's never any 
 bother.' 
 
 Mr. Peel did not answer this interrogatory piece of 
 intelligence, but he shrugged his broad shoulders and 
 bit the corner of his fierce moustache, Dan was an 
 elderly dog, too elderly to win fresh hearts, though dear 
 to those who had learned in his youth to appreciate 
 him : long-grown affections will bear a strain. The 
 dog's rough coat, faded eyes, his deafness, and his veteran 
 bearing appealed to his mistress's compassion ; in reason 
 they could merely irritate an indifferent acquaintance. 
 
 ' Can't we take Dan, Stanhope 1 ' 
 
 ' He'll be far better off by the fireside, Bab. He's so 
 stiff he can hardly get along. A day by the water 
 won't be any treat to him. He's getting a bit past 
 larks, you can't make much but a door-mat of the old 
 chap.' 
 
 She swallowed the door-mat allusion with a gulp, and, 
 stooping, caught the collie gently by the collar. 
 
 *No, Dan, no, Fritz, none of you can come. All 
 right. Stanhope ; but I'll take them in and give them a 
 biscuit or two, they are disappointed.' 
 
 While the biscuits were crunched piecemeal, Bab 
 wondered whether these greedy dependants ever hungered 
 for their freedom, or whether the whip had, plying from 
 generation to generation, shaped them into the dear and
 
 216 MABY FENWIOK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 noble friends their masters loved ; whether discipline 
 was as wholesome as it was galling ] 
 
 It was not a propitious morning on which to go 
 a-fishing, but the betrothed pair, with their baskets 
 slung on their shoulders and rods in hand, went out 
 and faced the sharp wind which blew from the north- 
 east. Thin, tattered white clouds drove across the 
 vividly blue sky, the sun was hot, the atmosphere clear 
 to excess so that the colours were intensified, till the 
 chimneys of the lodge looked red, like scarlet, and the 
 dull slates of the roof heliotrope. The shadows were 
 black and clearly defined. 
 
 Basten came out of the lodge as they passed, and 
 gave the lovers greeting. 
 
 * Agwaine feeshin' be 'ee, thin, miss 1 Thir bant over- 
 much water, I'm aveard, zur. Us 'ants rain, us dii. 
 Ess, 'tez a warm zin, but a cawl win'. Thir's rough 
 wither commen, rough wither, zure ; I've a-rade et 
 pun Moore's almanac. Winter bant over, niver 
 vear,' 
 
 * Down in the west the weather forecasts are all from 
 Jeremiah,' said Bab to her betrothed. 'Basten always 
 cries wolf. East is the one dry quarter. Basten, you've 
 no right to prophesy evil to-day.' 
 
 * Yli bide a bit, miss, and yii zee how et'll be.* 
 Basten went back into his house, called to his wife, 
 
 and pointed with his thumb at the departing figures of 
 man and maid. 
 
 * Dii 'ee think, missus, 'er'll take thet thir futy, itimy 
 little gintleman 1 Dii 'ee think 'er'll take 'un in church 
 stid o' t'other ? ' 
 
 * Ess, til be zure. Th' wedden's tU Aisetur, an' 'er's 
 agwaine visettin' til 'es place next wik. I dii sim 'tez a 
 pity 'er cudden take Muster Jack, us be usen tii 'ee. 
 But 'ee stiid tli hard vur she, 'er's nothin vur scholards, 
 I'm tawld.'
 
 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 217 
 
 * I'd rayther zee Muster Jack long ov she, missus. 
 He were terrabul zot on Miss Bab, 'ee were.' 
 
 ' Bless 'un, thin, why diddenee bide 'ere, and not lave 
 'er? He habben zaid nought, zo far es I kin 'ear.' 
 
 * 'Tez them ballo\vin' cows as allers vurgets thir calves 
 the vurst, missus. Muster Jack ant a ballowin' zort.' 
 
 * 'Ee shud 'ave 'ad a bit ov patience thin, 'er'd hav' 
 got Used tiien. Yii kin iisen yerzel tii eny man, scholard 
 aw naw.* 
 
 ' Thir's rough wither commen, yii mark my wurds,' 
 and he went out into the sunshine. 
 
 Basten had no right to be discontented with the day, 
 whatever the fishermen chose to be. 
 
 Bab's spirits rose, she was gay and genial on the 
 road, she did not object to the wind, or to the blustering, 
 dry, dusty month of well-hated March. Upon this 
 eventful year the month of February had been memor- 
 ably warm, genial, pleasant, deceiving the west-country 
 folk into a belief that winter was over. 
 
 The season, consequently, was an early one, song 
 thrush and blackbird, lark, and chaffinch sang all round 
 the country-side, the buds were fat upon the trees, the 
 snowdrops already over, and the daffodils showing colour 
 in their oblong calyx. 
 
 Mr. Moore might prophesy evil and the country- 
 people might groan, but they did these lamentations 
 every year, it was not likely that anybody at all would 
 believe in them. 
 
 Across the meadows, away to the banks of the trout 
 stream that brawled, and smiled, and slumbered, and 
 growled, and fought its way through the wide vale to 
 the sea, Bab piloted her lover. He had not fished this 
 water hitherto, it was new to him, and Bab did the 
 honours of her river very graciously. 
 
 Civilly she indicated the best pools, the most well- 
 • stocked and likely reaches of the stream ; he was
 
 218 MAEY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 intelligent enough to make the best of her information, 
 and was soon thirty yards ahead of his lady-love, 
 whijiping an excellent stretch of water ; out of humour 
 with nothing save the weather. 
 
 Waiting, where bushes fringed the rotten bank and 
 the river ran like oil, his hostess, intent as usual on 
 making the best of things, though somewhat sobered 
 by the queerness of her novel circumstances, overhauled 
 her cast and px'actised the saving art of patience. 
 
 The slopes of the meadow, the winding of the stream, 
 the hedgerows and the distant hills were familiar, too 
 familiar to strike her eyes, but the auspices of her 
 craft were fresh, so distinctly fresh as to catch her 
 attention. 
 
 She had found out that she must have been a grasping, 
 greedy, overbearing person in the past, or why should 
 the hindermost place be distasteful to herl Or why 
 should she not take kindly to playing second fiddle, 
 which had to be played by some one after all ] 
 
 Heigho ! Mr. Peel was out of sight now, so she 
 walked on past the awkward withies and the oily water, 
 and set to fishing in a merry, rippling turn of stream. 
 Casting a long, straight line across the shady pool 
 beneath the opposite bank, her fly — a blue upright, a 
 delicious morsel such as a Devon trout epicure much 
 relishes — fell softly on the water. 
 
 A fisher's imagination is often as lively as his prey. 
 When Bab felt a tug at her line, when she felt some 
 lusty fellow dash off with his luncheon (as well as his 
 heart) in his mouth, she cried out that, 
 
 ' She had hooked a big fish, a pound fish ! ' 
 
 At any rate, he was a fish with a taste for freedom 
 and a will of his own. 
 
 He wanted a deal of playing, and as she exercised her 
 art, in vain and boastful mood she called for ' Stanhope, 
 Stanhope,' eager for those congratulations which had
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGETEB. 210 
 
 always been one of the best parts of her successes in the 
 days of long ago. 
 
 The wind was with her voice, it carried well and 
 reached the young man, who, when ho heard the 
 summons, said something natural, but hasty, between 
 his teeth, and set his rod down on the ground. 
 
 * A — cow, — or she has caught her cast.' 
 
 lie swung along up the bank at a good round pace, 
 for the ringing call abruptly ceased, and there followed 
 a silence such as shook his nerves. 
 
 However, when he reached Miss Fenwick's side and 
 found no tragedy at all, no cow, no entanglement, no- 
 thing but a meagre trout flopping about in the grass, he 
 cried, * Is that all 1 ' and laughed at his betrothed. 
 
 And * that ' was all, she faltered, explaining how far 
 bigger is a fish on the hook than a fish in the hand, till 
 he burst out laughing again, and patted her shoulder 
 and chaffed her, too amused to be angry. 
 
 Bab shrunk morally to the size of her prey ; she had 
 behaved witlessly, inconsiderately, and was ashamed of 
 herself, she allowed it, murmuring apologies. 
 
 ' Will you kill the trout before you go back, Stan- 
 hope 1 If you don't mind, just stop it moving, Jack 
 always does.' 
 
 He did as she desired and, with a caution, left her to 
 herself. 
 
 'I'll fish on to the hut and wait for you there,' he 
 said. * Lunch ought to be down by that time. I will 
 see your basket then. Ha, ha, ha ! I say, my dear, 
 don't lose your head again unless you hook a whale or 
 an otter.' 
 
 He hurried off and left her to her craft. It was a 
 craft of which she had, in the past, spoken in eulogy. 
 Now she fished till her arm ached and no fish rose. 
 
 Patiently she re-fished the stream, growing apathetic, 
 careless as time passed, till presently, catching her line
 
 220 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER 
 
 in a thicket, she freed the rod at the loss of her cast. 
 Then she sat down on the turf, setting to work to make 
 up a new one, such as must lure a troutling to his 
 death. 
 
 Thoughtfully she turned the leaves of her fly-l)ook, 
 selecting her flies slowly. Fishing was — it was an — 
 occupation — merely an occupation, nothing more. 
 
 All sorts and kinds of amusements had turned to 
 occupations. 
 
 Alas for the metamorphosis that transforms amuse- 
 ment to occupation, entertainment to pastime, when 
 time is found to be a tyrant not a treasure, when he 
 has to be slaughtered not lengthened out and used 
 voraciously. 
 
 But the fisherwoman had no fault to find with time. 
 If the sport fell flat, the fault must lie with her. The 
 stream was as usual, the meadows had not changed, the 
 recently-fished water sparkled like ice in the sun, and 
 rippled and rushed on its musical course. 
 
 The recently-JisJied water, — she had no business to harp 
 on the circumstances of her position, some one must 
 take the back-seat by rivers, coverts, in carts alike. 
 
 There was no earthly reason why she, she, she should 
 expect to be allotted the best of things by land and 
 river. She had been spoilt, barbarously spoilt by — 
 every one. 
 
 ' While it lasts,' she smiled a plucky little smile, * it 
 is nice and seems natural.' 
 
 The wind was gusty, when she had fashioned her cast 
 and was rising to her feet, it blew sharply, puffing the 
 line out of her careless hold and driving it up about her 
 face and head. She caught at it roughly as it went, and 
 dragged it back ; as she did so she felt a sharp prick, 
 nay, more, a stab in the nape of the neck. 
 
 Indeed, it was a miserable day for fishing, and she 
 had hooked herself ; a March brown was buried in her
 
 MAIIY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 221 
 
 flesh, a most uncomfortable and tenacious visitor. She 
 pulled off her gloves and tried her best to extricate the 
 barb, but it remained deeply embedded, hurting her 
 when she touched it, but not budging from its tenement. 
 
 The wind flecked the other flies unpleasantly near her 
 face ; she cut the line with her knife, reeled it up, un- 
 hitched the joints of her rod ; that March brown must 
 be got out, — and Bab was certain that Stanhope would 
 dislike the task as much as he disliked an interruption ; 
 angling to him was a serious profession, and a companion 
 an impediment. A clumsy exacting young woman had 
 better spare him unnecessary woi*ry, she would leave the 
 gentleman undisturbed and sJie would go to Dr. Bedford, 
 straight to Dr. Bedford. The hook was in, it must be 
 cut out. Compassion will not do the work of the knife. 
 
 With the broken knees, with the bumps and bruises 
 of childhood what bindings up there had been in the 
 foolish past ! She smiled to think of it as she turned 
 away from the stream, smiled — and yet — and yet was 
 she sick for the worthless compassion, for the sympathy 
 which helps a hook out of flesh as it helps a flounderer 
 through the diflicult ford of life 1 
 
 Nay, but she was sick because of her clumsiness, and 
 because she had to face the consequences of that clumsi- 
 ness, sick with apprehension ; but, withal, a little com- 
 placent at her own line of conduct, which was as new as 
 it was commendable. 
 
 Off by herself with her ills, she took a short cut 
 through a lane to the village ; being a little over-full of 
 herself, she forgot that she had missed the servant with 
 the luncheon basket for whom she had had directions, 
 forgot all about the importance of food, forgot every one 
 save her doctor, her hook, and herself. 
 
 ' Dr. Bedford was not at home,' his servant said, ' but 
 he would be in directly, she was sui-e of it.' 
 
 * What sort of directly 1 ' knowing how the length of
 
 222 MARY FUNWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 a doctor's directly varies, and guessing at the diplomatic 
 necessity of the maid. * Does directly mean a minute 
 or an hour? Well, never mind, I must wait, however 
 long he may be.' 
 
 As she was shown through the hall, a poor woman 
 sitting there, with a small child on her knee, rose and 
 curtsied as she passed. Bab nodded an absent good-day, 
 her collar was rubbing the adhesive March brown, and 
 the hurt smarted. 
 
 The verb to wait had been conjugated at Combe of 
 late, and Bab would have waited in patience had not the 
 child in the hall without set up a tiresome, wailing cry, 
 a cry intermingled with a cough. She bore the noise 
 for some time without remonstrance ; at length she 
 could bear it no longer, but went out into the lobby and 
 accosted the mother. 
 
 'What's the child crying about? Oh, it's you, Mrs. 
 Peek, how do you dol Come in here by the fire, the 
 boy is coughing. Are you, too, waiting for the doctor 1 ' 
 
 It filled the time, it deadened the pricking of her 
 captor, it presently interested Bab to hear the woman's 
 story. She had the west-country gift of the gab, the 
 unpremeditated flow of words which lacks neither humour 
 nor pathos. The wondrous way of talking where the 
 truth seems the only thing to say (though it may not 
 show the speaker at her best), so that the ' beauties ' and 
 the * uglies ' of humanity get mixed up close in the story. 
 
 Bab heard the story of the child's illness, all the cause 
 and effect of the sickness, all the details of the suffering 
 and the tending ; it was a grim recital. 
 
 ' I spares 'un nothin', miss, I tell 'ee that. I denies 
 myzel' es naw one naws. 'Er can't ayte, but 'un drinks 
 quarts ov mulk, an' a gud drap ov bafe-tay yur mother 
 zinds. Lukee zee 'ow miity and fainty-like 'un be. 
 I've cUm atter an ordur vur port-wine the doctm* 
 promised, I cudden let 'un bide wi'out et.'
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 223 
 
 The ■woman was naturally as independent as Miss 
 Fenwick herself, but independence is a luxury which 
 the poor mother of a sick child cannot afford. Her face 
 brightened when she saw Bab's hand «i her pocket, 
 where she, with her odd masculine propensities, carried 
 a supply of loose and chinking gold and silver. 
 
 ' It is very sad,' said Miss Fenwick, slowly, looking 
 at the boy's wizen little face. * Don't say all that, IMi-s. 
 Peek, don't thank me, it is nothing.' 
 
 Now a feel in a well-filled pocket is not an action for 
 which any one need bestow lively gratitude. Did not 
 such gratitude spoil people ? There was nothing * filthy 
 in lucre,' look at the woman's face and see. Might not 
 the filthiness about lucre lie with its possessor, soiled 
 by unnecessary gratitude, spoiled by thanks for that 
 which cost her nothing 1 
 
 She would, she would indeed, she would do more than 
 dip her hand into her pocket, she would try to think, 
 Miss Fenwick would tax her memory. 
 
 Then Dr. Bedford came into the room, and up Bab's 
 hand involuntarily went to her neck, where the smarting 
 and pricking increased as she did so. 
 
 Dr. Bedford took the March brown from her flesh 
 much as he would have performed that operation for 
 a fish, he neither cut nor sliced, but he hurt her con- 
 siderably ; she set her teeth and held her tongue, and 
 when it was all over, and the fly had frizzled in the fire, 
 she went home. 
 
 She found Combe vacant, no one was there to listen 
 to her tale of woe, so she had ample time to perfect her 
 new faculty for thought, while she sat ciu'led up in a 
 corner of the drawing-sofa, with no one but the dogs 
 beside her. 
 
 Of course every one would be extremely concerned 
 when they heard of what had happened to the daughter 
 of the house 3 ajid she rather fancied that she had
 
 224 MABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 behaved heroically, for she had worried nobody, she had 
 borne her pangs alone. Her people would be wrung to 
 the heart by the sight of the little plastered scar above 
 her collar. 
 
 However, it was a season of surprises, times had 
 changed ; no one came to her except Stanhope Peel, 
 and he came indignantly, as a man who has had neither 
 sport nor lunch has a right to come. 
 
 * Here you are then, I've been looking for you for an 
 hour.' 
 
 * I have been at home for a long while.' 
 
 'Upon my soul, Bab, I don't understand it. If you 
 did get sick of whipping that rotten stream, why didn't 
 you let me know 1 I waited in the hut, as hungry as a 
 hunter ; why on earth did you send lunch back 1 If t/ou 
 didn't want to stay out, / was there.' 
 
 ' I didn't meet James,' she explained, much startled. 
 ' You see, I went back through the lane ; I forgot all 
 about lunch. I can't think why he didn't take it down. 
 I am so sorry ; ring the bell. Stanhope,' she rang it 
 herself, ' and I will ask what it means.' 
 
 It meant that the man, having heard that Miss Fen- 
 wick had been seen with rod and basket on her home- 
 ward way, drew a lazy conclusion, from the state of the 
 weather and the look of the sky, that fishing had been 
 abandoned, and that he might return whence he came. 
 
 *Go and scold James, Stanhope,' said Bab; 'it will 
 be a relief to you, and then Barnes will get you some 
 food.' 
 
 * Lunch — now ? How like a woman,' he growled. 
 ' Spoil my dinner at this hour 1 ' 
 
 'Then have a glass of claret and a sandwich. I,' 
 and there was an emphasis on that important pronoun, 
 * shouldn't mind spoiling your dinner ; I should eat 
 when I'm hungry.' 
 
 * Oh, you, you,' he said, by no means graciously, as
 
 MABY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTER. 225 
 
 he left the room, ' you can be trusted to take very good 
 care of yourself.' 
 
 Later on in the dusk, soothed, perhaps, by sandwiches 
 and claret, at any rate in chastened humour and softened 
 mood, the half-starved gentleman came back with a flag 
 of truce to his betrothed, and found the blemish on her 
 fair throat, and found also some traces of repentance 
 about her lashes, and thought that, on the whole, he 
 might have been more forbearing in word and deed. 
 
 ' Hooked yourself, Bab 1 Then why didn't you holloa 
 for me 1 I wish you had, you shouldn't have gone off 
 alone to the doctor.' 
 
 * I hadn't caught a whale or an otter, I thought I was 
 forbidden to holloa.' 
 
 Nice girl, she had taken him seriously, sensibly ; she 
 was a good sort, he was pleased with his bargain, and, 
 frankly, he told her the flattering fact. Then he kissed 
 her a great many times as an easy, inexpensive method 
 of consolation. 
 
 * I am awfully sorry I cut up rough, but no chap's 
 temper will stand starvation, don't you know.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 ' Oil, wasteful woman, slie who may 
 On her sweet self set her own price, 
 Knowing he cannot choose but pay — 
 How has she cheapened Paradise ! 
 How given for nought her priceless gift. 
 How spoiled the bread and spilled the wine 
 Which spent with due respective thrift 
 Had made brutes men, and men divine.' 
 
 ' A friend is not known until he is lost.' 
 
 Since the unlucky catch by the trout-stream a week 
 had passed, a busy bustling week, for the approaching 
 ■wedding filled time and mind alike at Combe. Upon
 
 226 MAEY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 the following day the bride-elect was to pay her long- 
 deferred visit to Tregarvis : as yet she had seen none of 
 these new relations-in-the-law, and she somewhat grudged 
 the ten long days which it would take them to overhaul 
 her. 
 
 It had been arranged that Bab should travel westwards 
 alone so far as a certain junction which bordered the 
 sister county, and that there her betrothed should meet 
 her, travelling down for the purpose from Dorsetshire, 
 where he was making the most of a few last days 
 hunting, and personally conduct her to his Cornish home. 
 
 Mrs, Fenwick's writing-table was littered with lists, 
 patterns, estimates, and Mrs. Fen wick sat with an elbow 
 set amongst the chaos of paper, and her head on her 
 hand. Godfray had gone to London on nuptial business, 
 the anxieties of the trousseau seemed to weigh heavily 
 on his wnfe. Bab decided nothing, she agreed with 
 every suggestion made, and said ' all right ' universally. 
 She was really less interested than the weed-boy in the 
 garden in the wedding function. 
 
 ' Mother,' Bab had come unexpectedly into the morn- 
 ing-room, and found the dejected inmate in a tell-tale 
 attitude. ' What's the matter 1 What are all those 
 letters about 1 Can't they match the lace 1 Never 
 mind, get anything, it won't show. There,' and she 
 took up one of her mother's letters, * there,' smiling, 
 * that is from Jack. May I read it ? ' 
 
 * I think,' Mrs. Fenwdck put out her hand for her 
 possession, ' I think that letter was only intended for 
 the person to whom it is directed — for me, Bab.' 
 
 'He has not written once to me since — those con- 
 gratulations.' 
 
 The congratulations had been kind but short ; there 
 had been nothing more than the usual benediction, 
 nothing fervent, nothing frosty. 
 
 ' Jack writes very often to me.'
 
 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 227 
 
 * Is there anything wrong ■? 
 
 * Yes, at least it seems very wrong to me. Jack is 
 going to India.' 
 
 ' To India 1 why to India ? Isn't Egypt far enongh 1 ' 
 ' He wrote about it, asking me for my opinion, a 
 month ago, but he hasn't taken my advice. He is 
 going to practise at the Indian bar, there is more 
 opening, an earlier chance for him there, he says. He 
 has done it all in such a hurry ; it is a serious thing to 
 decide on in a month. If he would only wait a little.' 
 
 * Jack,' slowly, thoughtfully, * always does everything 
 in a hurry. He is — contradictory.' 
 
 * He is impulsive by nature, cautious by — art.' 
 
 * Let me read — ^yes, do let me read his letter ] ' 
 ' No, no.' 
 
 * Write to him, mother, here, now, there's the paper. 
 Tell him he must not go, tell him you won't let him go, 
 tell him that no one ever swears anything but perjury 
 in India. That will make him think, and that will 
 stop him. Tell him that.' 
 
 How had Bab found out this? what new light had 
 come tc show her reason for the use of such arguments 1 
 
 * It is too late ; he sails this very week. He went 
 down to Woodbury last night, he is coming here this 
 afternoon to say good-bye.' 
 
 A long silence followed, "Mis. Fenwick still sat with 
 her head on her hand, her eyes down-cast ; her daughter 
 stood before her motionless as a rock. The noisy birds 
 outside broke the stillness with their songs. It seemed 
 to the elder woman as if the silence was alive with a 
 quick fear, a dread which set her heart beating fast. 
 She held her breath and trembled most unnecessarily. 
 Nothing came of the silence ; there was nothing about 
 which to excite herself. When at length the girl spoke, 
 she did so with the utmost calmness. 
 
 * Then I shan't see him, mother,' she said. * Stanhope
 
 228 MARY FUNWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 has written to ask for his clubs ; I broke his putter at 
 Burton, so I must take it to Tipton, and get it set to 
 rights and send it off. He wants it at once.' 
 
 ' Could you not hurry back, Bab ? To be out seems 
 so — so indiiierent.' 
 
 ' To be in would seem more — indifferent, mother.' 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick sighed. 
 
 * You must do as you like, Bab.' 
 
 * No,' rapidly, ' no. Just for once not as I like, but 
 what is best.' 
 
 ' You may be sure that Jack won't say, or look any- 
 thing uncomfortable,' bracingly, * You are out of reach 
 now ; he is not the sort of man who would cry for the 
 moon. Not one man in ten thousand marries his first 
 love. They get over their little and they get over their 
 great disappointments : you need not be in the least 
 afraid of a scene.' 
 
 As Bab walked to the door, she changed colour : was 
 friendship valueless to men, so that they were ready to 
 throw it awayl Must they have all, or nothing] 
 
 ' I go to Tipton at once, mother, and get back in time 
 to see him.' 
 
 Early in tlie afternoon Jack Holland came tramping 
 up the drive as though no shot had ever peppered and 
 irritated his knee-cap, as though no associations save 
 ordinai-y, neighbourly ones lay around and within the 
 grey house, his destination. 
 
 The eternity through which he had passed since last 
 he saw those sepia waterfowl floating on that sapphire 
 water had left no visible mark upon him. He was 
 bronzed by Egyptian suns ; he was flushed with expecta- 
 tion. All his vigour was alert to keep his mind, his 
 manner, his eyes, his voice, his woi-ds in satisfactory 
 order, in decent tiim. 
 
 He was in his sane mind, but it was a trial to visit 
 the haunt of his former insanity. To pull up the roots
 
 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 229 
 
 ■ — the long-grown, -wide-spread roots — of association with 
 the only home he had known, was such a wrench as set 
 him bleeding within. But it was a wrench that he 
 meant to get over quickly, to get away from, to have 
 done with, and to forget. He was a voluntary exile, 
 banished by fate ; a little pluck was what was wanted. 
 Good-byes, and eternal ones, were going on from pole to 
 pole, and yet the world was not wailing aggressively. 
 
 Dear old Combe ! He had planted that thorny, 
 blossomless rose-tree which clambered up the stone-work 
 by the porch. It was high above his head now, he could 
 not reach it ; so much was out of reach : the seeds which 
 he had sown had withered in the ground. He — he 
 must, in his guise of caller, ring the bell. A white 
 poodle, a stranger, came with friendly Thomas to the 
 door, growling oflficiously at the visitor's gaiters, and 
 following Jack to the drawing-room whither he was 
 shown. There he found Mrs. Fenwick, no one but 
 her ; flushed, expectant, with outstretched hands she 
 went to greet him ; Jack's manner nipped any gush, 
 any demonstration on her part, like a blight. 
 
 She could be checked easily : she, who ever found it 
 difficulb to drag her feelings to the surface ; she, who 
 had no knack of baring her mind, or wearing her heart 
 on her sleeve. She saw that Jack had come as a caller, 
 and that he meant to act his part to the life. He talked 
 as a caller. He did not allow the dialogue to drop or to 
 languish. He asked after every one ; he touched upon 
 his travels, upon his prospects, upon the weather — a 
 storm was prophesied, but a weather prophet was a false 
 prophet. 
 
 He would not keep this sort of chat up long. Mary 
 was waiting for the break which must come, she knew 
 the impetuous, impulsive nature which underlay the 
 caution better than he knew it himself, and she set 
 her mind to patience ; the farewell should be genuine at
 
 230 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 the last. Civility between old friends at such a juncture 
 was a farce with which to usher in the tragedy of parting. 
 
 She sat waiting with her eyes on his ; he did his part 
 well so far, — but now his voice vibrated and broke 
 suddenly, there was a sound of coming steps and voices, 
 the door was opened and a brace of callers, a brace of 
 genuine callers were shown into the room. 
 
 These unwelcome guests had come from a distance, 
 and they stayed a weary while. Jack, in his weakness, 
 was glad of their presence, and sat down to a repertoire 
 of fluent dialogue at his colloquial best. 
 
 Presently, he rose to take his leave. She was out, it 
 was where she had best remain. 
 
 ' Don't go,' said Mrs. Fenwick, * not yet, Jack, wait a 
 little longer.' 
 
 Though no man ever loathed a duty more, yet it was 
 so old a custom of his to try and please his hostess, both 
 by will and deed, that Jack reseated himself. 
 
 * Wait for tea,' she urged ; then, addressing the trio 
 generally, ' My daughter was obliged to go into Tipton 
 this afternoon, but she will hurry home to see Mr. 
 Holland.' 
 
 To Mrs. Fenwick's candid lips the simple truth came, 
 though against her will. Diplomatists deny that truth 
 is wisdom, and in this case its effect was unfortunate. 
 
 * As there is a chance of seeing Miss Fenwick, Amelia,* 
 said one lady to the other, ' we really must stay on until 
 she comes.' 
 
 * Yes, mamma, I want to hear all about the wedding.* 
 Then the unlucky women began to talk of the 
 
 wedding, of nothing but the wedding. They dragged 
 forth from the unready lips of the bride-elect's mother 
 every arrangement, every detail concerning the event. 
 
 Jack knew now that Combe would be the Peels' 
 head-quarters, he knew that they would spend some 
 months of each year in London; he knew that the
 
 MAEY FENWIGKS DAUQETEB. 231 
 
 bride's satin dress would be trimmed with Honiton lace, 
 and that she would wear real orange-blossom. He knew 
 of the frocks, of the names, of the number of the brides- 
 maids. He knew the route of the honeymoon and the 
 colour of the go-away-gown. 
 
 He also knew the train by which Bab would set ofE 
 for Trogarvis on the following morning. 
 
 Jack was sorry for Mrs. Fenwick, for she was 
 reluctant with her facts and loth to look him in the 
 face. He bore it all like a stoic, discussing Bab's 
 wedding with as much interest as a dying peasant 
 discusses a funeral — his funeral, the one luxury, the one 
 festivity which surely shall be his. 
 
 "When the daughter of the house came into the room 
 she found visitors, tea-cups, small talk, no awkwardness 
 at all. 
 
 Those who knew Bab well could read her mind at 
 will, she assumed nothing, pretended nothing. She had 
 hurried home to say good-bye to an old friend who was 
 at variance with her, she met him with a serious, even a 
 slightly constrained greeting. 
 
 How tall she was and fair ! Her eyes were on a 
 level with his own, her cordial hand was warm in 
 his, but — she had changed. Yes, yes, her eyes had 
 changed, her lips, her voice, her very attitude was 
 different. 
 
 The hazel eyes had quickened, the dewy lips were 
 less careless, her face spoke deeper things than it 
 had done in his day, his — his day when he had failed, 
 when he had lost, when his sun had sunk for good 
 and all. 
 
 So Peel had brought about this alteration ; this was 
 precisely as it should be, but Jack found it execrably 
 difficult to speak when Bab sat down beside him, 
 watching him not with dissecting, disconcerting scrutiny, 
 but with eyes such as might roam over a familiar sight
 
 232 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 when seen from a new point of view, eyes that search 
 for the old landmarks that are taking new forms when 
 newly focussed. 
 
 Again the wedding topic burst upon the room, and 
 Bab was drawn into it ; she kept her eyes on Jack, but 
 she talked obvious duty-talk to the womenkind. 
 
 The Queen Bab of yore had talked only when she liad 
 something which she wished to say, ignoring duty in 
 conversation as elsewhere ; and that sovereign whom 
 Jack had served had possessed infinite assurance, no 
 diffidence at all. How he hated change ; she had 
 suffered, he was sure of it ; he saw it in her eyes ; 
 inevitable, natural pain from which he could not save 
 her. 
 
 Presently, when the visitors had gone, Bab plunged 
 into the subject which filled her mind. She hated his 
 going to India, she opposed his plan, she thought he was 
 altogether wrong, and, in the midst of her vehemence, 
 broke off flatly, and said, ' perhaps he knew best, no 
 doubt he knew best, of course he knew best.' 
 
 Jack flung away from the Eastern question, hating 
 her humility, loathing this unknown submission, irre- 
 levantly shifting the conversation. 
 
 ' That's a good-looking poodle, Mrs. Fen wick,' he said 
 — Bab loved the great bird and beast topic — * but he 
 gives himself airs, he growled at me, he thought I'd no 
 business at Combe.' 
 
 * He is a bad-tempered dog,' said Mary, quickly, ' he 
 growls at every one, strangers are always officious.' 
 
 Bab laid her hand, with a suggestive hoop of beautiful 
 pearls encircling her finger, on the dog's head. Jack 
 got up, hurriedly, he understood to whom the brute 
 belonged. 
 
 * He is very wise,' she said, ' he belongs to Stanhope, 
 not to me. Marquis, will you do yoiu* tricks for this 
 gentleman?' then for the second time she ended a
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 233 
 
 vigorous start tamely. ' No, Marquis, go and lie down, 
 there is too great a sameness about tricks. Jack is sick 
 of tricks.' 
 
 It was an odd leave-taking ; Jack was standing np, 
 it was all so abrupt, he was gone in a moment, no ono 
 snid anything but just good-bye. Tiiere was no sign to 
 show tliat his handshake was the final farewell to a long 
 dream of youth, that the first page of life had been 
 turned down and was over, over as the daylight would 
 be over with the sinking sun. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Bab,' he had said, ' I must get off now or 
 I shall be late for dinner.' 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick had gone out with him, leaving Bab 
 alone ; presently they passed the window, they were 
 talking to each other, and they walked slowly down the 
 drive on out of her sight. ' He must go, or he would l)e 
 late for dinner.' 
 
 Bab put her hand upon her side, there was a weight 
 there, she drew a deep bre;ith that hurt her, it was so 
 hard to draw. 
 
 Did not people cry when they said good-bye 1 In the 
 old days she had not cried when Jack had gone tramping 
 down the drive, for then, then he would soon come 
 back again. Lately she had missed him, she had wanted 
 him, and ' he must go, or he would be late for dinner.' 
 Because she was married, was that a reason to leave 
 her 1 was she to have no friend but Stanhope 1 She was 
 half-way across the hall, — she would run after Jack, 
 she would say another good-bye, a real good-bye this 
 time, — when her intention was, happily for those two 
 people without, arrested by a servant, who came towards 
 her with a telegram. Mr. Peel did most of his com- 
 munication with her by telegram. She felt no qualm 
 of apprehension as to what that missive might contain, 
 but paid the porterage, and then opened the envelope 
 absently. The message was not alarming.
 
 234 MABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Bring putter and Marquis. Come four train ; will 
 meet you at junction as arraiiged. — Peel.' 
 
 It * was not much, but 'twas enough ' to intercept 
 her intention, her impulse to follow Jack was at an end. 
 She went back into the drawing-room and wrote a 
 couple of letters. The first to her mother-in-law-elect, 
 saying that Stanhope had altered her train for the third 
 time, and that her hour of arrival on the morrow would 
 be late ; the second letter which she wrote was full 
 of minute directions about a certain dress for the trous- 
 seau, and was directed to her dressmaker. 
 
 She carried out her letters to the post-bag, dawdled 
 for some minutes about the hall ; nay, it was bleak and 
 cold out of doors, she would not go out, not out to-night ; 
 so she returned to the drawing-room, and — took up a 
 book, — that refuge of the destitute, a book. 
 
 How many hours of the living day had Jack been 
 wont to waste with his head in a book I Why had he 
 read 1 As a refuge, as a consolation 1 For knowledge, 
 for pleasure, for help, for f orgetf ulness ? She was not 
 athirst for knowledge, unless it might be that she could 
 learn how spoilt women could find an easy way to un- 
 spoil ; unless she could learn how to shift a burden, that 
 neither exercise nor society could lighten, off her 
 shoulders ; unless she could be taught how to get rid of 
 the last year of her life as though it had never been, 
 and begin it all over again. 
 
 The book which she had hold of was well worn, its 
 purple binding and its gilt edges bore traces of use. Its 
 title, /Sesame aoid Lilies, told her nothing, conveyed 
 nothing to her mind ; but when she turned the pages 
 and saw the heading ' Of Queen's Gardens,' she sat 
 hei'self down and began deliberately to read. ' Of Queen's 
 Gardens,' she had been nicknamed by her lost comrade 
 Queen Bab, and with gardens she was familiar; the
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGRTER. 235 
 
 title was a likely one. Self in some disguise is the 
 person whom, the egotistical reader seeks between the 
 covers. Bab wanted to read something that others read 
 for knowledge ] for pleasure 1 for help] for forgetf ulness ] 
 
 The book was full of wonderful things ; Jack had 
 talked in that sort of manner to her once, talked what 
 he had called Greek to her in the kitchen amongst the 
 dish-covers and beetles, and beside poor old Venom's 
 death- bed. 
 
 That once-dead, once incomprehensible language was 
 writ on the pages here, now she had got hold of some 
 kind of a crib by the help of wliich she could spell out 
 the meaning. She was not a practised reader, she read 
 slowly, re-reading and pausing to think, all her mind in 
 her book. 
 
 'Reading, Miss Bab,' said a voice at her shoulder. 
 * You, reading ] ' 
 
 * I learned to read, Becket, a long while ago,' 
 
 * There's better things in life than in print, miss. 
 Here's a parcel for you, four and threepence to pay too : 
 how the presents do begin to come in.' 
 
 When Mrs. Fenwick came into the room she found 
 Bab and Becket on their knees before an open box, in 
 which shavings and tissue-paper and Dresden china 
 abounded. Her poor, shallow Bab ! what gifts, both 
 rich and rare, had been wasted upon her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXn. 
 
 All of us have cause 
 To wail the dimmiDg of our shining star. 
 
 Richard III. 
 ' You must shift your sail to the wind.' 
 
 A RAILWAY journey is the sort of infliction which its 
 rictims shoidd, if possible, tackle, not anticipate. Bab
 
 236 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 wished, on the morning of that ninth of March, that 
 her betrothed had let his old directions stand ; dawdling 
 through half an idle day in apprehension of shake, and 
 shunt, and whistle, and relations-in-the-law was weary 
 work, she wanted to be off, and to get her trials over. 
 
 Of course she spent her morning out of doors, the 
 house was never big enough for Bab, but the warmth, 
 the spring-like atmosphere of the air had been blown 
 away by a risen, and ever-rising, north-east wind, which 
 brought with it, ever and anon, a scud of fine snow that 
 melted as it fell on the still warm earth. 
 
 The quivering gentian and crocus shrivelled in the 
 sharp gusts of wind, even the dogs sneaked away from 
 their mistress and stole indoors to the great fire in the 
 hall. Overhead the sky was imprinted with prophetic 
 mare's tails ; within, the barometer was unsteady, 
 threatening. 
 
 Chilled and somewhat disgusted by this sudden return 
 of winter, Bab went up to her room before lunch to give 
 Rawle directions for the strapping of the rugs and cloaks 
 such as would be necessary for the comfort of the journey, 
 and found her poor maid flushed, heavy-eyed, hoarse as 
 a crow, and fit for nothing. 
 
 ' Are you ill 1 What's the matter 1 ' 
 
 ' My tlu-oat's as raw as a steak, miss, and my head is 
 working like a traction-engine, and I never closed my 
 eyes all night.' 
 
 These symptoms were in truth alarming ; Bab sent for 
 Mrs. Fenwick and for her clinical thermometer, of which 
 a little knowledge is so disquieting a thing. 
 
 Bab was more independent of a maid's services than 
 are some girls, but, nevertheless, it was tiresome that, 
 on this special occasion, Rawle should knock up. For 
 Rawle's temperature being found to be half a point or 
 so above normal, she instantly grew worse and was put 
 to bed and the doctor sent for ; her young mistress
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 237 
 
 undertaking the care of her own bag, her own rugs, her 
 own trunk, and ill-humoured Marquis and his chain, all 
 the long way to Tregarvis. 
 
 Becket would dearly have liked to take Rawle's place, 
 and had a look at Tregarvis and its inmates for herself, 
 but Bab would have none of her. 
 
 ' You are wanted at home, Becket, especially if Rawle's 
 going to be laid up. No, I won't have you. I can 
 manage all right.' 
 
 Becket, poor old Becket, over matutinal chocolate, 
 over pig- tailing, over every duty of hers how she would 
 talk, how she could talk, how she did talk of Peels, of 
 Peels, of Peels. Silence was — Bab had heard the 
 proverb, and knew now something of its meaning — 
 silence was golden. 
 
 The train by which Bab was to travel left Tipton at 
 four o'clock. As the hour for the start drew near, the 
 wind blew very high, and was so cold that Mrs. Fenwick 
 stripped Bab of her smai-t coat, with cape on cape, with 
 pockets innumerable, with buttons large as crowns, and 
 induced her to put on a long, heavy sealskin, a luxury 
 of the trousseau, which covered her from her little ears 
 to her ankles, and which was warm enough for the 
 Arctic regions. 
 
 It was a shapeless garment, concealing the trimness 
 of the tweed gown, muffling the lines of the graceful 
 figure, but, withal, most becoming to her charming face 
 and in tone with a brown, red-winged hat. A hat that 
 had, now that snow was on the ground, a robin-redbreast 
 seasonable sort of aspect about it. 
 
 ISIrs. Fenwick had not lived for a quarter of a century 
 amongst the hills and vales of Devon without becoming 
 weather-wise. As they drove together, her daughter and 
 she, to the station, she looked out of the carriage-window 
 at the landscape with unsatisfied, apprehensive eyes. 
 
 ' Bab, I can't bear your starting off alone on such a
 
 233 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 cold, wiudy day ; if your father had been at Combe, I'm 
 sure he would have kept you at home. The wind is 
 fierce and bitterly cold.' 
 
 But Bab was warm, eager, even a little excited. She 
 pooh-poohed her mother's fears ; she was not inclined to 
 shirk the journey — she wished to get it over, that 
 was all. 
 
 * At five-forty Stanhope meets me. Cold 1 Oh, no, 
 not very. Hot-water tins and rugs will keep us 
 comfortable.' 
 
 ' The sky looks threatening, listen to the wind. I'm 
 afraid of more snow, Bab.' 
 
 * It's March, mother ; it's too late for snow, and this 
 wind will blow the clouds away.' 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick pointed to the thick, lowering fog 
 which, pale and yellow as a young daffodil, blotted out 
 the hills. 
 
 * You never see clouds, Bab, you never did ; but I do, 
 and I hate your travelling to-day. You must send me 
 a telegram the moment you arrive.' 
 
 ' Five foot eight and nine stone eleven, mother, won't 
 get blown out of the carriage- window — she won't, 
 indeed ! I like a storm, I love it ; my spirits rise with 
 the wind.' 
 
 * And mine go down, Bab. A wind always depresses me.' 
 It depressed the poor Marquis too. Illegitimately 
 
 shorn of his coat he sat, shivering, on the seat opposite 
 to the speaker, pricking his ears when the wind howled, 
 and looking wretched. 
 
 Tipton Station was sheltered from the north-east by 
 high ground. The strength of the wind was not felt on 
 the platform, and Mrs. Fenwick had time to feel re- 
 assured by the comparative calmness of the weather, 
 before every sensible or lucid idea of hers was banished 
 by the sight of a certain rough frieze coat, and a certain 
 dear, unlucky young man within it.
 
 MAEY FEN WICK'S DAUGUTEB. 239 
 
 Jack Holland, to whom she had said a dreadful good- 
 bye, with a wrung heart, only a score of hours ago, was 
 getting his ticket in the booking-office. He was saying 
 'How d'ye doV to Bab just as an unconcerned ac- 
 quaintance might do, and answering her genial questions 
 cheerily. 
 
 * Yes, he was going by the four o'clock train, going to 
 Plymouth, he had some things to do there, Mitchel- 
 Innes was there, — he did not sail till Friday.' 
 
 Bab was, unreservedly, delighted to meet him ; vm- 
 reservedly delighted that they could travel part of the 
 way together, quite incapable, of covirse, of dreaming 
 that he had selected such an inconveniently slow and 
 late train for the purpose of avoiding the very possibility 
 of this disturbing encounter, — over which she, demonstra- 
 tively, congratulated herself and him. 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick stood open-eyed, a dumb spectator of 
 the little scene in the booking-office, Bab was smiling 
 into Jack's face. 
 
 * I'm so glad, it is lucky to have come across you, 
 Jack ; mother has been flurrying herself because the 
 wind's rough. Mother, I shan't get blown away with 
 Jack to block the window. Jack, that's a third-class 
 ticket — third-class. Then I shall come third myself — 
 yes, third and smoking, if you mean to smoke.' 
 
 This was to be her attitude towards him, this insipid 
 friendliness, these empty genialities were his portion, 
 as they had ever been ; they would be offered to 
 him for two hours, such as they were he would take 
 them. 
 
 ' You shan't do that, I'll change my ticket,' said Jack, 
 with a glance at Mi'S. Fenwick, to see what she thought 
 of the situation. 
 
 As he spoke, the train came into sight, and in a bustle 
 and turmoil the travellers took their places, for the 
 Marquis flew at the guard before Bab got him into her
 
 240 MABY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 own carriage, and there was a scramble for Bab's 
 dressing-bag, and a scare about a lost-and-found port- 
 manteau. Meanwhile, a sudden sweep of furious wind 
 assailed Mrs. Fenwick on the platform, wrenching at her 
 bonnet and blowing her back from the train, out of reach 
 of Jack's outstretched hand. 
 
 There was no time for farewells, there was no time to 
 think about the situation before the situation itself — 
 Jack, with his white constrained face, and Bab, radiant 
 and somewhat excited, opposite to him — were out of 
 reach ; Mrs. Fenwick stood and watched the train as it 
 curved round the hill out of her sight. Mary had been 
 warned not to play at Providence, and now she wondered 
 why Providence had planned this meeting ; she would 
 not have dared to send such a couple spinning westward 
 alone, with a parting before them and a long, long trail 
 of memories in the past. She thought of her future son- 
 in-law, that man of two ideas, that man who cared so 
 little for anything save for himself and his dinner. Her 
 sense of honour was dwindling in her breast ; had she 
 been Providence it would have fared ill with poor Mr. 
 Peel ; but the wind blew frostily, starving the vague 
 fears, that seemed half hopes, with which she had no 
 business to trifle. 
 
 Paradise was vibrating, oblong, and dx'aughty ; for the 
 first few minutes of their journey Jack and Bab were 
 occupied in getting such comfort as rugs and hot- water 
 tins would afford them. The Marquis was an ofiicious 
 chaperon, he growled when the stranger intei-fered with 
 any of the lady's belongings, and showed his teeth at 
 every fresh blast of wind ; ho was cross, unfriendly, and 
 not to be propitiated. Though the noise of the storm 
 half drowned her voice, Bab talked a great deal, she did 
 most part of the conversation. 
 
 Jack leaned forward to catch her words, one hand 
 fidgeting with the strap of the window, the other
 
 MABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 241 
 
 clasping a roll of newspapers ; his head was bai-e, his 
 cap lay on the seat beside him. 
 
 He was settling down to the circumstances which she 
 had taken quite as a matter of mutual congratulation. 
 
 The storm was a great help to him, it was a sort of 
 third, constraining presence, louder than the beating of 
 his heart, sti-onger than the tumultuous rush of old 
 emotions — a presence to remind him that this carriage 
 did not hold the whole wide world on a quartette of 
 cushions. 
 
 Bab shouted her news to him in so rational a way as 
 to calm that first flow of feeling, just in the old strain 
 she told him all the small bits of news concerning birds 
 and beasts ; after all, she had not altered, not much at 
 least, her hazel eyes were clear and straight and fearless, 
 they met his. Suddenly in the midst of a sentence she 
 broke off, her lips faltered, she hesitated. What was the 
 matter? The rugs were round her, he stooped to feel 
 the tin at her feet, she was not cold, physically she was 
 all right. 
 
 ' What did you say about Brunette 1 tell me — or are 
 
 you tired'!' 
 
 * Isn't the wind worse than it was ] ' 
 
 * A regular gale — are you tired ] ' 
 
 *No, but I thought I was boring you, you weren't 
 listening, were you 1 Stanhope hates to be talked to if 
 he's travelling. It makes his head ache.' 
 
 Her face took an unfamiliar expression even as she 
 spoke, as though her words had brought with them a 
 serious train of thought. What had Bab in her mind 
 to which he was a stranger 1 What underlying current 
 of thought shadowed her eyes 1 
 
 Jealousy can burn in the teeth of a north-easter. Why 
 should a man be unreasonably jealous of a thought, or a 
 change of mind, who has not been downright jealous of 
 a rival in flesh and blood 1
 
 242 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 * You will not make my head ache, Bab.' 
 
 But she was not to be reassured, she leaned forward and 
 looked wistfully, yes, wistfully, questioningly into his face. 
 
 * I have been spoilt,' she said. * You spoilt me, every 
 one spoilt me. I have found it out. Jack, — at least 
 Stanhope found it out for me — and I read the book you 
 used to read aloud to mother. I'm— I'm — you'll write 
 sometimes from India, Jack ] ' 
 
 The rushing wind mingled with, half-smothering her 
 words, which Jack evidently did not wholly catch, for he 
 did not say that she was not spoilt, he did not seem any 
 longer to be interested in her morals, for he called her 
 attention to the outside world across which snow was 
 driving. 
 
 * It's nearly dark already, the sky's like a feather-bed, 
 and it's ten degrees colder than when we started.' 
 
 * There is going to be a real storm.' 
 
 * Yes, it's getting more genuine every moment. Move 
 a little to the left, will you, Bab, the snow is as fine as 
 powder, it's filtering tkrough the crack of the window. 
 I'll stuff a Daily Grajjhic down.' 
 
 The wind blew intermittently, though the gusts 
 followed each other in quick succession ; presently when 
 the line ran across a high, unsheltered track the carriage 
 shook and trembled in the gale, with a nasty suggestion 
 of insecurity. 
 
 * I think you had better get out at the next station, 
 Bab, and put up for the night.' 
 
 * Stanhope is going to meet me at the junction.' 
 
 * Send him a wire.' 
 
 She pondered for a moment. 
 ' Do you think there is any danger ? ' 
 'No, but it's beastly cold and uncomfortable, you 
 would be better at a hotel.' 
 
 * I'd much rather go on, the wind may drop at any 
 moment, but if you think I ought to '
 
 MAEY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 243 
 
 ' There is no ought, do exactly what you wish.' 
 
 ' Ah, that was just what you always let me do,' 
 laughing for a moment, and then awed to gravity by a 
 headlong rush of wind. 
 
 When the elements get out of hand, we very big 
 people dwindle in our own conceit, we forbear tall talk, 
 we no longer spell humanity with a capital aitch, we feel 
 that our awe is the largest part of us. 
 
 ' The stoutest heart may quail ' when it is summoned 
 to face a power the limit, the strength, the purpose of 
 which is all alike a mystery. Bab stopped laughing 
 abruptly, and just then the train slackened speed and 
 ran into the shelter of a large station. 
 
 Walls broke the force of the gale, the snow was shut 
 out ; here, where the wind was not threatening but 
 merely facetious, where it did no more damage than to 
 scud off hats, flutter cloaks, and pinch the faces it 
 touched blue with cold, the aspect brightened. There 
 was a small group of willing travellers upon the platform, 
 waiting to take their seats in the train, and ready to 
 defy the weather. 
 
 ' This is Lexmindon,' said Jack, beginning to collect 
 his goods. 
 
 ' Then you think that I had better not go on ? ' said 
 Bab, rising, but most reluctantly. ' It's very awkward, 
 Jack, Stanhope will think it is absurd to be afraid when 
 all these people are travelling. Do let us go on, at any 
 rate a little further.' 
 
 ' But I change here.' 
 
 She reseated herself. 
 
 * Ah, yes, I had forgotten.' 
 
 Heretofore she would have put the transparent wish, 
 which was written on her tell-tale face, into plain words, 
 but now she said the most eloquent thing in the world 
 that could be said, according to the understanding of her 
 comrade, she said — nothing.
 
 244 MARY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 The force of her eloquence was so mighty that it thrust 
 aside the score which he had set against her, so that he, 
 falling back into his old weak ways, returned his sticks 
 to the rack and his dressing-case to the floor. 
 
 * I'll go on with you, Bab, as far as the junction. You 
 are under my care, and Mrs. Fenwick will expect me to 
 look after you.' 
 
 * But how will you get to Plymouth ? ' 
 
 * I could only catch the 5.10, it's an awfully slow train, 
 I couldn't go by it, anyway, in this weather. No, no, 
 I'll come to the junction and put up there, and go down 
 to Plymouth first thing in the morning, it will suit me 
 just as well. You need not say all these nice things. 
 Do you think it's a punishment to see you into legitimate 
 custody, Babi' 
 
 He talked her thanks down, and tore off to see to his 
 luggage and his ticket. 
 
 For how many minutes, hours, weeks, months had he 
 not been wrenching himself free from bondage, servitude, 
 captivity, had he not torn out the bleeding past by the 
 root and filled the gap with calm, cool, healing reason. 
 Only that morning, that very morning he had called 
 things by their right name, only that morning he had 
 been clear in the head, steady about the heart. 
 
 He had laughed at a dead infatuation, he had stamped 
 upon the corpse and found it cold, nay, frozen first and 
 melted later, as those flakes of snow had melted on the 
 still warm earth. 
 
 But now, now, a miracle had befallen that buried 
 miasma ; it was — it was glowing, alive, deep-rooted, dear, 
 indestructible, its owner gloried in its possession ; a man 
 may rejoice who regains his inheritance, but there is little 
 joy in finding his birthright in a neighbour's holding. 
 
 Feelings are misleading, facts are stubborn and clear ; 
 amongst the porters and portmanteaux Jack recovered 
 his mental balance. He was on escort duty, a duty
 
 MAEY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 245 
 
 which compelled him to deliver Queen Bab safe to a 
 kingdom which she had elected to govern ; he had no 
 right to feel anything but moderate interest in her 
 remarks ; if she had changed, if she was a thousandfold 
 more dear, if he swore that he would cherish his long- 
 grown love for her as an honour, not fight it as an enemy, 
 yet for all that she was bound for Tregarvis, and he was 
 bound for the Far East. 
 
 He must get off to a smoking-carriage and pull him- 
 self into order. The unexpected was said to happen in 
 this world, it had certainly happened to him ; yesterday, 
 to-day again he was bewildered by the unforeseen, the 
 unprepared-for j he must get away and collect his wits. 
 
 Great heavens, what a hurricane blew ! the air, stifE 
 with cold as a snow-laden nor'-easter alone can be, chilled 
 him to the bone. 
 
 * Rough night, sir, not many travelling,' a porter said. 
 ' Take your seats.' 
 
 Jack went back to the train and found that an 
 oldish man and a fat, shivering woman, with a basket, 
 had been domiciled by a friendly guard in Bab's com- 
 partment. 
 
 'I'm going to have a pipe, Bab. See you again 
 later on.' 
 
 He slammed the door to. 
 
 * The train doesn't stop till the junction,' she said ; but 
 the reiterated order to ' take your places ' was the only 
 response she got. 
 
 Jack hurried on to his smoking-carriage, somewhere in 
 the fore-part of the short and empty train.
 
 246 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 For now the wind begins to blow ; 
 Thunder above, and deeps below. 
 
 Pericles. 
 
 ' Have not thy cloak to make when it begins to rain.' 
 
 Now began such a night as no west-country man or 
 woman had ever experienced, or learned to dread ; a night 
 that is unique in the annals of their counties. Now 
 began such a journey as men and women, whose ill-fortune 
 led them to travel westward-ho ! during that disastrous 
 ninth of March, will remember so long as they can 
 remember anything. 
 
 Though the women forget their age and the men their 
 dinner, yet will they have tales to tell of the great 
 blizzard — the impressive, the expensive, the inexorable 
 blizzard. 
 
 It was impossible even to British travellers of distinct 
 caste to hold their tongues on such an abnormal night, 
 in such a stress of weather, Bab soon found out the 
 history of her companions. It seemed that the dame 
 was a small farmer's wife on her way home from a visit 
 to a married daughter, and that the man, her brother, 
 was a traveller for a London firm of wine-merchants. 
 The woman's heart was with her sheep, and fowls, and 
 calves, and lambs, and crops. She moaned and groaned 
 her apprehensions, mingled with her reminiscences of 
 the destruction wrought by the storm of eighty-one. 
 Her brother had no personal anxiety; he was intelli- 
 gently interested in weather, full of ugly prognostications 
 which pleased him as much as they disquieted his hearers. 
 
 As soon as the train steamed out of the temporary 
 shelter of the station, it became apparent that, during 
 the few past minutes, the storm had increased in violence. 
 
 Sheets of fine snow — condensed, thick as a London fog
 
 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 247 
 
 — whirled overhead from every quarter at once, driven 
 by conflicting winds at a prodigious rate. Never lessen- 
 ing, the fall grew each moment faster, wilder, more fierce. 
 
 Heavy, indigo clouds drove across the dull, yellow 
 atmosphere, skimming the tree-tops and shutting out the 
 landscape like a curtain. The snow enclosed them ; from 
 north, and south, and east, and west the gale beat it 
 earthwards. The cold was intense, and Jack had left his 
 rug behind him. Bab offered it to her fellow-travellers 
 who sat to leeward, roaring their dread remarks to one 
 another and to her with chattering teeth. Poor Jack ! 
 no rug on such an arctic night. Poor bride-elect ! alone, 
 beguiled of her protector by a pipe ; left in the loud, 
 continual uproar of the menacing hurricane, alone. 
 
 Well, she had been alone a good deal off and on of late ; 
 to do her justice, her fortitude was great, she could ' suffer 
 and be still ' as well as her less pampered sisters could do. 
 She could keep a firm lip and a bold front though she was 
 frozen, deafened, and solitary. 
 
 There was no bombast left in the poor Marquis ; he 
 curled himself into a ball in her lap, shivering and 
 shuddering. 
 
 * Look at the snow, William, driving like crumbs of 
 ice, there's not a flake the size of a pea. 'Twas bad 
 enough in eighty-one, but then it fell, reasonable, in 
 flakes. This would blind a body. Dear, dear ! there'll 
 be a dale of trouble getting to the outlying fields.' 
 
 ' Nothing but an engine could make head against this 
 hurricane, Susan.' 
 
 ' It is too bud to last,' said the third of the party, 
 quoting a very hopeful theory she had heard. ' The 
 wind must drop presently.' 
 
 But the wind did not drop ; on the contrary, it lashed 
 itself to great and ever greater violence, howling and 
 bellowing overhead. 
 
 Hitherto the train had kept up its usual rate of speed,
 
 248 3IAEY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER 
 
 but gradually it began to slacken pace, halting on its way; 
 it did not stop, but kept creeping slowly forward along 
 the line. 
 
 The lamps in the carriage had not been lit, premature 
 darkness had set in, it was no longer possible to see 
 aci'oss the compartment. The lack of light at such a 
 time added to its wretchedness ; even the sight of the 
 blue, awe-struck faces of the petrified strangers would 
 have been better than no sight at all. 
 
 Nevertheless, Bab kept vip her spirits, and when she 
 did yell a remark, she yelled it hopefully. 
 
 'We aren't getting along much;' the woman had 
 buried her face in her shawl, she was beating her cold 
 feet on the floor ; * we shall pull up in a moment, and 
 then the Lord knows what will become of us.' 
 
 * 'Tis wonderful,' roared her reflective brother, * how 
 man's servant can hold his own against nature's ; the 
 train keeps on where none of us could stand, Susan.' 
 
 ' Don't call this nature,' retorted the dame, * if 'tisn't 
 from the Almighty, it's straight from Satan, that's what 
 'tis. Nature don't send snow with the birds building, 
 and the lambs about, and the flowers out. Oh, my sakes, 
 how it blows ! there's a draught fit to cut my legs off, 
 William.' 
 
 ' Never mind your legs if you save your head. Did 
 you hear that crash alongside the carriage 1 A fir-tree 
 down, maybe, or yet a telegraph-pole. This is a gale, 
 and no mistake. You come down to leeward, ma'am ; if 
 there is any safety for us 'tis to be had this side of the 
 train.' 
 
 Bab did as was suggested; on the train crawled; 
 laboriously, slowly on. 
 
 ' I wish it would stop,' she said, * just for a moment.' 
 
 ' The gentleman little thought 'twould tiu"n out such a 
 business as this,' the woman compassionated her deserted 
 neighbour, ' or he wouldn't have left you, I warrant.'
 
 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 249 
 
 * No,' said Bab, ' I'm sure he would have stayed. At 
 any rate, I'm sure — he would have taken his rug.' 
 
 For one blessed minute the wind lulled ; the man lit a 
 match, by the light of which he looked at his watch. 
 
 * We are two hours behind time already ; it's eight 
 o'clock. Even at this rate of going we ought to be at 
 Kidford Junction shortly.' 
 
 He got up from his seat and tried to peer out through 
 the blurred glass of the window. 
 
 ' Can't see your hand before your face, Susan ; but 
 I reckon we must be the other side of Brigston. I 
 wouldn't be in the engine-driver's place, not for the 
 wage of a Prime Minister.' 
 
 As he spoke, back came the wind with tenfold fury. 
 Like volley after volley of artillery it thundered up 
 from afar off, and broke against the reeling train ; the 
 carriage shuddered, rocked, paused, and then crawled on 
 again, the tempest shrieking overhead. 
 
 The woman caught hold of Bab by the arm, holding 
 her tight and crying, ' God save us, we are crossing the 
 viaduct, the high, bare viaduct, — close home, William, 
 it's close home.' 
 
 The forward motion of the quaking train continued. 
 
 * We haven't left the line,' said Bab, ' it's all safe, we 
 are on the rails.' 
 
 * The lady's right, Susan ; another hundred yards and 
 we turn down the deep cutting into covert.' 
 
 ' So near — home,' cried the woman, * so near, please 
 God we'll get in safe now, we are so near.' 
 
 She had forgotten her live stock and her crops, poor 
 soul, looking at a grim end of swedes, and rent, and 
 cattle face to face. 
 
 Bab laid one firm hand on the trembling Marquis, the 
 other clasped her neighbour's ; she sat cold, speechless, 
 but xindaunted, staring into the darkness, the blackness 
 of the utter darkness around her.
 
 250 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Then the tottering train grew steady, it jolted and 
 strained, but the sickening insecure rocking on the rails 
 was over, done with ; and they told each other that they 
 were entering the shelter of the deep cutting, that the 
 viaduct was past. 
 
 There was but little talking amongst the trio now ; 
 the man's imagination could suggest nothing more 
 appalling than the present state of affairs, the woman 
 was breathing thick and fast, and sobbing over * Sydney 
 and the children.' Bab's tongue stiffened beneath her 
 chattering teeth, the horny hand in hers was the hand 
 of a stranger, it was bad luck that if she had got to die, 
 she could not feel a friend's hand in hers through the 
 valley ; Jack was so near and yet out of her reach : she 
 should not have felt a qualm of this cold fear had he 
 been a sharer in the rugs. 
 
 Hitherto, the travellers had, heaven be praised, made 
 continuous progress, but now this one hopeful part of 
 a terrible journey was to be brought to an end ; for, 
 after one or two premonitory jolts, the train came to a 
 standstill. 
 
 ' It's all right, we are at the station.* 
 
 ' Bless her heart,' said the woman, * she says " it's all 
 right " every time she opens her lips ; we must be a 
 couple of miles from the junction if we are a step.' 
 
 * I don't know why they pull up here, 'tis a wildish 
 part of the moor here about,' the speaker had his nose 
 against the window-pane, though he might as well have 
 pressed it against the woodwork as far as a chance of 
 seeing went. ' Maybe there's a tree or a telegraph-pole 
 across the line : 'tis a miracle we haven't got blocked 
 before now.' 
 
 * In eighty-one the snow drifted in the cutting here 
 twenty feet high and more ; the snow's a worse barrier 
 than a tree, William. It's the snow that's stopping us, 
 depend upon it. Oh, dear, dear, I wish they'd push on ;
 
 MARY FENWIGEPS DAUGHTER. 251 
 
 when the engine stops, her wheels get clogged up and 
 scrambed. In the dark here we forget there's snow as 
 well as gale to kill us, if God Almighty minds to.' 
 
 In truth, for many hours now masses of thick snow 
 had been whirled earthwards by the blizzard. The fury 
 of the wind was such that it blew the vapour in the 
 atmosphere into solidity, it consolidated the vapour, 
 without allowing time for the formation of a snowflake, 
 and hurled it in vast masses across the land, sweeping 
 the powdered snow in sheets off the exposed tracks and 
 rolling it up in huge quantities against house, or hedge, 
 or hill, wheresoever a barrier was found. 
 
 But these three prisoners could only guess at causes 
 while they suffered effects. 
 
 * They are backing the train,' said the man, * we got 
 jammed in a drift, that's what 'tis ; they will have 
 another go at it and force a track through.' 
 
 Jolting uneasily, the train laboured back, cutting 
 through snow on its way ; then there was a pause, fol- 
 lowed by a rush forward, during which the travellers 
 held their breath. Two or three times the manoeuvre 
 was repeated, but to no purpose, though the train went 
 gallantly at the unseen barrier j the third push forward 
 was checked harshly, the carriage jarred, vibrated, shud- 
 dered, and stopped. 
 
 * We are tight in now, and no mistake.' 
 
 * Do you think we could go to the others t * 
 
 ' No, no, my dear ; ' the dame was becoming motherly 
 in the intimacy of misfortune, * you couldn't stand in 
 the storm. We're better off where we are. The gentle- 
 man will come here to you if there is any chance for 
 him to do it, you may be sure. Get out, you'd get out 
 to your death.' 
 
 The carriage was steady now, and it was stationary ; 
 as the wretched minutes passed, misfortune took a fresh 
 aspect. They no longer battled through the blast, they
 
 252 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 were beaten by it. The din and tumult were no longer 
 right about their ears ; the gale blew like fury, but it 
 did not blow against the carriage. 
 
 * We have got into a regular bed of snow ; ' the man 
 was letting down the window to leeward, and putting out 
 a reconnoitring hand ; 'it's right up past the window 
 already, and falling like Niagara. There'll be no getting 
 out, and no getting home for any one of us this night.' 
 
 * Well, we are safe enough here, anyhow,' said Miss 
 Fenwick, breaking cheerfully through the lamentations 
 of her neighbour. ' Come over this way,' hospitably, 
 * into the corner out of the draught.' 
 
 * And into the snow. Dear heart alive, I'm cramped 
 so in my jints I can't move. There, I'd give every acre 
 we've got for a candle and a cup of tea.* 
 
 Neither candle nor tea were to be had, yet these 
 wayfarers were not left to starve inert on this disastrous 
 journey. Bab suggested that as they had to spend an 
 indefinite time in a snowdrift, it would be nice to have 
 something to eat. No one came near them, nothing 
 happened; it was difficult to be energetic when the 
 blood ran cold in shivering veins, when feet and hands, 
 congealed and stiff, ached heavily, and were too numb 
 to use. 
 
 But the man and Bab were both adepts at making 
 the best of things, they worked in harmony. She took 
 her spirit-lamp from her dressing-bag and lit the feeble 
 flame, a poor light enough, but by it they stuffed up 
 cracks and crannies through which the snow indrif ted ; 
 they must, if possible, exclude the snow which molted 
 in the carriage, adding dampness to the biting cold. 
 They beat their numbed arms upon their breasts, circu- 
 latiug their blood by that painful method, and talking, 
 with mutual confidence, of the coming deliverance, press- 
 ing their unfounded cheerfulness upon their weeping 
 comrade.
 
 MAliY FEN WICK'S DAVOIiTER. 253 
 
 Then the man found his bag on the rack overhead, 
 and searched in it for some small sample bottles of wine 
 which it contained. A draught of port had good effect 
 upon the damo's spirits ; though much against the grain, 
 she presently unearthed in her basket a sitting of choice 
 eggs, which she was taking home to set beneath a hen, 
 and offered them to her companions. 
 
 * If ever I do get back, my dear, they won't come to 
 nothing now. Take one, do ; you must eat to live at 
 such a time as this.' 
 
 Bab, remorselessly, sucked one of the prized embryo 
 houdans, it was sickly food. Then she drank a good 
 draught of wine, but she, who was a water-drinker, was 
 so wearied out by the strain of that calamitous night 
 that she felt small effect of the stimulant. 
 
 So often did the lamp blow out that the matches were 
 exhausted ; in darkness and dreariness they settled 
 themselves down to wear out the night. Sleep was 
 impossible, the bitterness of the piercing cold, the 
 deafening uproar, the keen anxiety drove it out of the 
 question. Every posture the poor people essayed was 
 more uneasy than the last, each passing hour more hard 
 to endure. 
 
 Bab had had a snubbing for one of her reiterated false- 
 hoods about the all-rightness of the intolerable situation, 
 and had relapsed into silence. The wine which had 
 cheered the man and woman had gone in some unac- 
 countable way to her head ; she did not want to think ; 
 but above her the blast bellowed, taking human tones 
 in its cries, despairing human tones, and she did think, 
 she thought of the sailors at sea, of lonely travellers, of 
 the terror of the night, great throbs of compassion for 
 those who had no wine, no eggs, no shelter moved her. 
 
 Twelve hours for sleep, twelve hours for amusement, 
 had been her way of taking existence. If this was the
 
 254 MABY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTEB. 
 
 end of the world, if this was her last night upon the 
 pleasant earth, what had she to show for her life ] 
 
 What 'Of Queen's Gardens ' 1 
 
 She was too wholesomely straight and frank to be 
 morbid, she did not pick up the manifold miseries which 
 mankind creates, fosters, cultivates by disobedience to 
 given laws, and lay them a great obscuring blot between 
 herself and light. But she had begun to see that the 
 world was not a playground, she had begun to find life 
 was serious, she had begun to suspect that she would do 
 well to take it seriously, she had begun to recognize 
 that hearts as well as frozen hands and feet can hurt. 
 
 She knew that the terrible shrieking of the blizzard 
 made her extremely disinclined to be cheerful. 
 
 And all the while she stared out into the darkness, 
 waiting. 
 
 At length the looked-for moment came, the door to 
 leeward was pulled open for a little space, in a whirling 
 circle of snow a dark figure thrust itself with difficulty 
 through the aperture, closed the door to behind him, 
 and turned the light of a lantern upon the travellers. 
 
 The incomer was none other than the guard of the 
 train ; he stood there looking critically at the wretched 
 trio, dazed, overloaded with responsibility, and dismally 
 uncommunicative. He was concerned for his passengers' 
 bodies which were in his charge, but he could not under- 
 take the soothing of their minds. 
 
 In good sooth he was a man of ice, snow was on his 
 head, his hat, his coat, he was white as an iced cake, 
 his blue face was contorted with the cold. 
 
 A terrible night 1 he should think it was ; he'd been 
 the best part of two hours in getting from carriage to 
 carriage, they were the last lot in the train, the engine 
 and the two foremost carriages were embedded in a 
 drift ; the gentleman in the smoking compartment waa 
 safe in one of them, and likely to stay there till he was
 
 MARY FENWlCSrS DAUGHTER. 255 
 
 dug out. Spend the night there 1 the Lord save them, 
 they'd be more like to spend a week there. Get out ? 
 they must be mad ; blinding damnation was blowing 
 and no man could stand, let alone a young lady. The 
 poles were strewn about like rotten twigs. The Lord 
 alone knew how the speaker should get help, but things 
 might change with suni'ise. 
 
 ' Wine, port wine ? yes, yes, not for him, but for the 
 wretched engine-driver, who was clammed with the cold 
 and dying,' so ho feared, ' in his van.' Bab, in her 
 generosity, gave away a bottle of her neighbour's store, 
 which was not a very popular move. 
 
 ' (Wouldn't you give some to the man in the smoking- 
 carriage too, guard % do try.' 
 
 But he would promise nothing, save to return himself 
 at daybreak, and he and his blessed lantern, with its 
 cheering light, went out again into the darkness. 
 
 Slowly, painfully, gloomily, that night of fear, of 
 danger, of necessity, wore to its close. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIY. 
 
 • . . . Never more a queen 
 Than in the laying down 
 Of sceptre and of crown.' 
 
 ' "Winter finds out what summer lays up.' 
 
 Dazed and dull, conscious of but one great longing, and 
 that neither for deliverance nor for daylight, but a weak, 
 miindane desire for a cup of taa, a steaming cup of hot 
 sweet tea, Bab saw the daylight creep into the carriage. 
 
 Slowly the darkness lifted, the outlines of her sub- 
 stantial neighbour showed against the window ; the 
 candid dawn stole through the driving masses of snow 
 without, through the hoary panes of glass, and illumined 
 the grim condition of the ill-fated trio.
 
 256 MARY FENWICK'S DAXJOBTEli. 
 
 If the sun was rising as usual in the heavens, if 
 nature was not revolutionized, they might abate their 
 awe ; the storm was not a forerunner of terrors, the last 
 day was not at hand, after all. 
 
 Cold, weak, ill they might be, but they were no longer 
 tragic. They talked in odd hoarse voices, not afraid to 
 look forward, not afraid to speak of their past fears, 
 able to trust themselves to self-pity. 
 
 The travellers could open the window to leeward and 
 clear out thence the drift of melting snow which, through 
 ventilator and roof, through unsuspected cracks and 
 crannies, had penetrated the compartment ; they could 
 suck another egg apiece and lament the want of wine. 
 
 Daylight meant hope, it brought comfort, with it 
 deliverance must come ; but their deliverance came 
 tardily, the dawn was an old story, light was strong 
 before the guard, with Jack Holland at his heels, 
 brought them greeting. 
 
 The womenkind showed their inferior strength by 
 their silence, they could neither of them speak at the 
 first glimpse of their visitors ; for once in a way the 
 men had all the conversation to themselves, and they 
 did not waste any time over the past, they talked of the 
 future. Both were ruddy with exercise ; since dawn 
 they had been at work with spade and shovel, digging 
 a way down the side of the train ; their haggard eyes, 
 bloodshot and heavy, told a tale. 
 
 Still the wind blew like fury, still it whirled the snow 
 at a blinding gallop north, and south, and east, and 
 west, but in daylight it was an easy matter to avoid the 
 drifts and to steer clear of fallen and falling trees, ' and 
 it would be best,' Jack said, ' to get across to a farm- 
 house which lay handy to the rail, it would be best to 
 get to warmth and shelter even if the struggle thither 
 was rough.' 
 
 The cramped, weak, worn-out women did not jump at
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 257 
 
 the thought of the battle to shelter ; the dame would 
 not budge from her corner of the carriage. 
 
 ' I'm half mazed with the cold, and I'm fallen abroad 
 and not so spry as I was. I'll bide where I am, if you 
 will let me. My master will come after mc soon, please 
 God. I'll wait where I am, and William with me, I 
 don't doubt.' 
 
 ' To be sure,' said the brother, ' I'll stick to the train. 
 The company will be sending relief gangs with the 
 snow-plough ; we are not more than a mile and three- 
 quarters to Kidford at most.' 
 
 * Tisn't three hundred yards to the farm,' said Jack, 
 pointing across the iields. ' Come, Bab, come, the storm 
 is lighter, we can manage that distance. I don't think 
 it wise to let you stay here, perished and starving. It 
 will want a most almighty snow-plough to cut up these 
 growing drifts. Heaven knows when the train will get 
 off. Come on.' 
 
 * Good luck go with you, my dear ; it most made me 
 cross to hear the young lady back along, sir. " It's all 
 right," said she, when the carriage was blowing off the 
 viaduct ; " It's all right," said she, when we got dranged 
 up in the snow. Good-bye, my dear ; if we can't get 
 along home, and if the wind drops a bit, I'll follow you 
 where you're going.' 
 
 ' You'd far better go to the farm,' said the guard : 
 'but we've sent along for help here, and it mayn't be 
 long coming.' 
 
 ' Come, Bab,' Jack was persistent ; it seemed likely 
 that the storm might return at any moment. He meant 
 to get his charge to shelter. 
 
 She rose slowly ; it was difficult to talk, her jaws 
 shuddered and shook. Her head was light, she was 
 exhausted, incapable of reasoning, it was not pleasant 
 to face the tempest thus. 
 
 Jack took the snarling but feeble Marquis under his 
 
 s
 
 258 MAEY F£NWIGK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 arm, and with his free hand helped Bab to get out of 
 the carriage. 
 
 She saw nothing but a great whiteness, white 
 pyramids towering above her, white clouds circling 
 round her head. Furiously the snow attacked her, 
 blinding her, cutting her face and ears. 
 
 'That's right, Bab, don't be afraid. Hold up a 
 moment, you are stilf at starting. Behind the drift 
 here there is a clear, sheltered pass, to the right ; a 
 little to the right. There is not room for two abreast, 
 but follow me ; catch hold of my coat, it will help you. 
 That's capital, you are feeling your feet.' 
 
 If those frozen encumbrances were her feet, she was 
 certainly feeling them ; but she could not help herself 
 by aid of his coat, her hands were too numbed to be 
 tenacious. She plodded on painfully, following him. 
 
 But when they emerged from the comparative shelter 
 of embankment and snowdi-ifts into the teeth of the 
 wind, Bab gave a cry for help ; she was as powerless to 
 stand against this fearful hurricane, as though she had 
 no five feet eight of sinewed stature to call to her aid. 
 The wind lifted her off her feet, and blew her a<;ross the 
 turf upon her face. 
 
 Jack dropped the Marquis and helped her up; she 
 gave a faint, nervous laugh, she had no breath for 
 words, and clung to him — without his hand, literally, 
 she could not stand. Linking his arm in hers, step by 
 step they battled along in the blast : now unable to 
 make an inch of way and barely capable of preserving 
 their footing ; now whirled along at a run ; now at- 
 tacked on the flank ; now beaten downward, for the 
 blizzard stuck to no special quarter, but veered con- 
 tinually. 
 
 There was no snow at all on the many-acred, high- 
 lying field which they forded, but up against the house 
 whither they made their way it lay piled, stacked high
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 259 
 
 over the ground-floor windows, in places reaching to the 
 very eaves. 
 
 Struggling round to leeward, they found the back 
 door open and accessible ; in the yard were a couple of 
 men digging a passage, through comparatively thin- 
 lying snow, to the out-houses. A ladder was placed 
 against an upper window, a ladder which had been the 
 only egress for the inmates of the farm until the spades 
 had cleared a milky-way below. 
 
 The farm was a small one, and its owners were nearly 
 mad with their woes ; small blame to them if their 
 hospitality wanted warming, if they looked askance at 
 guests in their desolation. 
 
 The sheep and lambs were out, the Lord knew where ; 
 but half the cattle were housed ; the dogs and poultry 
 were silent under the snow. All night the poor souls 
 had been up, barricading doors and windows ; awaiting 
 their doom in the indrifting snow and the petrifying 
 cold ; no fire could live on such a night, the wind blew 
 flames and smoke into the rooms. 
 
 The gale had lessened, it was more manageable now, 
 and the farmer, and the farmer's wife and daughters, 
 were hard at work saving what might be saved out 
 of the havoc wrought : mitigating what might be 
 mitigated of the damage done within and without. 
 
 On the weather side of the house the devastation was 
 complete : great elms were torn up by the roots ; the 
 apple-trees in the orchard lay like cabbages strewn on 
 the ground, the garden was wrecked ; the glass of the 
 lean-to greenhouse had been shivered, the framework, 
 leadwork, and woodwork had alike disappeared. Slates 
 and tiles were ripped off the roofs of the out-houses, 
 windows had been damaged by the scattered branches of 
 falling trees. 
 
 Jack heard, with a show of patience, the farmer's 
 history of that night of ruin, then he soothed his host's
 
 260 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ear with a mighty big promise, which cleared the way 
 for poor tottering Bab to shelter and to rest. 
 
 * Poor Bab,' said her pilot, leading her over the flags 
 to the kitchen within, ' you aro glad to get indoors at 
 last, I know.* 
 
 Their host showed them into the kitclien, where a 
 bucket of live coals on the hearth did duty for a fire. 
 He begged that his guests would make free with what 
 they could find ; and he set some bread and cheese, a 
 piece of cold pork, and a jug of cider on the deal table ; 
 and then, with that dour self-possession born of supreme 
 affliction, he left them, saying that all hands were 
 wanted without, and that he couldn't bide loitering 
 about, whatever. 
 
 The infinite peace, the wondrous relief of shelter ! To 
 stand unbuffeted between walls with a roof overhead, to 
 hear the tempest screaming and yet not to feel it, to be 
 shut off from the dazzling snow, to have a wickerwork 
 chair, with a patchwork cushion in it, drawn close to 
 glowing coals ; to be at rest, how good it was ! And 
 yet Bab was so foolish as to shudder and break down in 
 the midst of luxury. She was crying, she knew not 
 why, nor wherefore. She must be a little off her head 
 to cry in the wicker-chair, when she had not cried 
 without in the bitterness of wind and snow, but she 
 covered her face with her hands and sobbed her heart 
 out. 
 
 * It's all over now, Bab, don't cry now.' 
 
 ' There isn't anything — th — the matter, only I'm such 
 an — such an — idiot.' 
 
 He was shaking the snow off her coat, undoing its 
 fastenings, and throwing it back from her throat. The 
 smart robin hat was all on one side, the scarlet wing 
 was broken ; dexterously he got out the long pin that 
 held the battered shape to her plaits, and he put the 
 patchwork cushion behind her head. She let him unlace
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 261 
 
 her wet boots and take them off, not thanking him for 
 his offices, but crying on weakly all the while, as a child 
 cries who is tired out. 
 
 Then he went out of the room, and was absent for 
 some minutes, returning with a heavy blue and green 
 plaid shawl and a carpet footstool ; the latter he put 
 under her feet. Then he got off the sealskin coat and 
 wrapped her head and shoulders in the shawl. She was 
 half asleep now, her tears were dry, her eyes drooping 
 and dull, the hot fire was taking effect; the painful 
 weariness was losing itself in drowsiness, the wholesome 
 fatigue of that frantic battle through the wind was 
 overcoming her. 
 
 He did not attempt to talk to her, he set, noiselessly, 
 to work about her welfare, he let her, just for a time, 
 forget all her burning anxieties, let her forget who was, 
 insane, no doubt, with apprehension, on her track ; who 
 was, no doubt, facing blizzard and frost-bite, even 
 possible annihilation, to reach her. Poor Peel, poor 
 fellow ! Jack had had a bad night of it, but the former's 
 tortures were prolonged till now, till now. He was 
 leaning over the coals with a saucepan in his hand, it 
 rattled against the scuttle. Bab looked up dreamily. 
 
 '•Mother will be frightened, Jack, won't she 1 ' 
 
 'She won't know that you did not get to Tregarvis 
 last night.' 
 
 * You must try to send her a telegram, and ' 
 
 ' And— what 1 ' 
 
 ' One to — yes, you had better send it,' disconnectedly, 
 ' to Stanhope too. He won't worry, he never worries ; 
 he'll know that I shall t\irn up all right.' 
 
 To her weary ears the gale no longer dinned and 
 clanged, its roar grew musical, melodious, a lullaby that 
 forced sleep upon her, that drugged her power of 
 thought. She hated to be distvirbed, but, nevertheless. 
 Jack perversely disturbed her with a mug of hot cider,
 
 262 MABY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 which he insisted upon her drinking to the dregs. Tlio 
 cider, though tart and rough, was not unpalatable to 
 her Devonshire throat, but she protested against the 
 bread and cheese which her caretaker forced upon her, 
 nibbling reluctantly through the prescribed portions. 
 
 ' I do so want a cup of tea, Jack.' 
 
 * Tea would keep you awake ; it might keep you awake.* 
 
 'Nothing would keep me awake,' with a faint smile. 
 * Give Marquis that.' 
 
 He did so, and held his tongue ; and presently, when 
 she was sleeping like a dormouse, within the folds of 
 her shawl, he set to work to attend to his own require- 
 ments. He ate diligently of pork, of bread and cheese, 
 and drank well of the cider. He had plenty of work 
 before him, and could not keep his strength by a diet of 
 air, he concluded j and an appetite comes with eating. 
 He passed his hand over his head several times, he must 
 be sure to keep that organ steady, not to lose it, though 
 there Queen Bab, from whom he had parted for good 
 but two days since, this woman of a thousand dreams, 
 of hopes and fears, of heartaches and bitternesses, lay 
 curled in a wicker-chair slumbering, within two feet 
 of him. 
 
 Her cracked, dry lips, lier rough hair, her swollen 
 features, her discoloured cheeks, her blue, dirty hands, 
 disfigured by the incongruous purity of that pearl ring 
 — God bless her, how well she slept— spoke of the evils 
 she had undergone ; please heaven she would be none 
 the worse for that dreadful night. The glow of the hot 
 «ioal was upon her, she had fought her way to shelter, 
 the blood had been forced to circulate by the great 
 exertion of the fight. She was no lady of cobweb, he 
 had reckoned on her strength when he had ordered the 
 retrograde movement to covert ; but had he done the 
 best for her, poor child? Unfortunately there was a 
 great deal more which must be done ; he replenished the
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 263 
 
 scuttle with coals, kneeled down and felt the brown 
 tweed skirt to assure himself of its dryness, touched the 
 hot cloth with his lips, and then went out of the room 
 and fought his weary way back whence he had come. 
 
 The draughty kitchen of a demoralized farm is an odd 
 place wherein to sleep continuously and well, but there 
 Bab slept on hour after hour. 
 
 People came and went, they ate and drank, the storm 
 lulled sufficiently to allow the fire in the grate to be 
 kindled, the house was set in some sort of order, and 
 still Bab slept, with the Marquis awake, suspicious, at 
 her feet. 
 
 No one heeded her, nor were they interested in her, 
 they did not hush their voices, the wicker-chair was no 
 hallowed spot to these distraught people ; they made no 
 more of their guest than the blizzard had made of their 
 comparative ruin. 
 
 In the early dusk Jack came back and found that 
 Bab had been taken up-stairs ; the farmer's wife had 
 rigged up, 
 
 ' A sofa-bed in a cupboard-place that was loo and 
 warm, but small enough ; the front-room was not habit- 
 able, and they were pushed for space, the gentleman 
 must make shift in the parlour for to-night. The lady 
 wasn't complaining, she was well enough, but dead asleep.' 
 
 So Jack went off with the farmer and his men, and 
 lent a helping hand in picking sheep out of the snow ; 
 the poor scared creatures had gone to the hedges for 
 shelter, and had been overwhelmed in the snowdrifts 
 there. 
 
 Driven in later, partly by the gathering darkness, 
 partly by great personal fatigue, Jack, thinking the time 
 for a little rest had come to him, went off to his allotted 
 quarters, and there found Bab in possession of the 
 parlour, and as wide awake and as vigorous as the wind 
 itself.
 
 264 MABY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 Through the livelong day he had been sick with 
 anxiety, pictiiring every ill that overwrought, frozen, 
 starved female flesh is heir to as hers ; he had left her 
 a huddled, dishevelled, tear-stained object, worn-out, 
 dull-eyed, dead asleep ; he found her kneeling before the 
 fender, blowing with an unwieldy pair of bellows at a 
 newly-lit fire; he found her fair, fresh, alert, not a 
 penny the worse for her rough time. In sooth she was 
 no lady of cobweb, but hardy, and perhaps as hard as 
 the rosy-cheeked apples on the dish behind her. He did 
 her wrong — hard] no, not that, for she turned clear, 
 soft eyes to him. 
 
 ' At last,' she said ; ' how long you have been out in 
 the dark. Jack ! You look such a wreck. Come here, 
 to this chair, it's for you, and sit down. The fire is 
 sulky, it won't blaze. No, don't touch the bellows, it's 
 my fire, I got the peat and the wood myself.' 
 
 ' Why aren't you in bed and asleep ? ' 
 
 And why, in the name of heaven, why was he not in 
 the Three Towns of the west, out of reach of the sound of 
 her voice ? And why, in the name of reason and com- 
 mon-sense, should his spirits rise and his heart beat 
 high 1 And why should the hubbub without, and the 
 stuffy little parlour within, form a temporary paradise 
 for one fool, at least, in his exile 1 
 
 She knelt there puffing sparks and flame out of the 
 wood, and talking over her shoulder to her companion, 
 scouting the idea of the necessity of additional rest and 
 sleep. Her hair was newly brushed and combed, and rolled 
 up in a loose untidy coil round her head, she still wore 
 the plaid shawl wrapt round her shoulders, her feet were 
 encased in a roomy pair of her hostess's prunella shoes. 
 
 He obeyed his orders. He leant back in his chair, 
 and listened, and looked, and half wished that a mighty 
 blast might come and blow the past and the future, all 
 things, off the face of the earth, save Bab and him.
 
 MARY FSNWIGK'S DAUGHTER. 265 
 
 A victim of the storm turned into spatch-cock, and 
 very good to eat, was brought to the pilgrims for their 
 supper, this, with a jug of cider, with home-made bread 
 and blue viney, made a regal feast, eaten to an accom- 
 paniment of Queen Bab's voice ; she was excited, radiant, 
 so at home with Jack, so sure of his interest in her 
 revelations, so certain of his approval, so anxious to look 
 after his welfare and to do her share of the work, that 
 the young man had to gather his energies, to pull him- 
 self together, and to tell himself that her very friendli- 
 ness should rather quench his riotous feeling than 
 stimulate it. 
 
 She sat opposite to him, her chin resting on her hands, 
 her elbows on the table, her eyes shining, animated, and 
 busy with him. He was not good to look upon, his 
 crumpled collar and dirty shirt, his overgrowth of beard, 
 his haggard face, and blood-shot eyes did not become 
 him ; he was taciturn and silent, poor hard-worked Jack, 
 she had to drag his news from him. 
 
 * And you got to the junction, did you 1 Wasn't it 
 rather unnecessary ] You say there was a gang of 
 relief -men, I would have sent one of them.' 
 
 ' I wanted to find out what ]VIr. Peel was doing, and 
 whether there was any possibility of telegraphing.' 
 
 ' I knew Stanhope would not be there ; he would think 
 me mad for starting in bad weather, but, you see, I hoped 
 the wind would drop. Did you telegraph 1 ' 
 
 ' No, the poles are down — no one knows exactly what 
 damage has been done — I am afraid we shan't get away 
 to-morrow, Bab.' 
 
 * I don't mind,' smiling, * I am enjoying myself, and 
 now you've brought me my dressing-bag I'm in clover. 
 It is a genuine adventure — do you remember how hard 
 I used to try for adventures, how I never could get lost 
 in the woods, or upset from a boat, or kidnapped ] Once 
 my foot got jammed in the fork of the cedar, up you
 
 266 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 came at once and pulled it free, and did me out of a 
 sprained ankle, Jack.' 
 
 Jack said ' he was glad that one person in the west 
 appreciated the blizzard, but that she had better keep 
 the fact from the farmer's ears. For the loss to farmer 
 and squire was untold, ungau gable.' He said, ' the 
 cows in their stalls were embedded in snow which had 
 blown down through dislodged thatch, covering crib and 
 manger ; that the cart-shed in the yard sheltered flocks 
 of small birds, tom-tits, yellow-hammers, and robins that 
 had come to his very feet for food, poor ruffled, dim-eyed 
 starvelings.' He said ' they would hear of wrecks at 
 sea and by land, such a blizzard spared neither life nor 
 fortune.' 
 
 He sobered himself and his comrade alike by these 
 observations. She rose and began, in an unprof essionable 
 but ingratiating way, to collect the supper-things on a 
 tray. 
 
 'I was like a child,' she faltered, biting her lip, 
 ' enjoying my adventure, liking the newness. I forgot 
 how dreadful it all was, and how it has kept you about 
 here.' She paused, with the bread platter in her hand, 
 beside him, and said with that dangerous frankness 
 habitual to her, * You see that you and I are all right, 
 and a gang of men and snow-ploughs are clearing the 
 drifts, and our fellow-passengers have all been taken on 
 to Kidford Junction ; they are quite safe there anyhow 
 till the lines are cleared, so don't you think we may 
 allow ourselves to be cheerful ] ' 
 
 ' Aren't we fairly cheerful, Bab 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, but don't you, too, find out how selfish I am, or 
 how I think of no one but myself.' 
 
 ' Too ? ' why did her voice break over that lamentable 
 Hoo "? Who had had the presumption to hector her ] 
 
 ' Bab,' he said, speaking fast, ' don't talk to me like 
 that. Is it selfish to keep up your pluck after endvu-ing
 
 3IABY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 267 
 
 that fearful niglit as you endured it 1 Isn't it splendid 
 of you to be here quite lively, and well, and putting the 
 best face on a bad job ] It is just like you to make the 
 best of everything.' 
 
 She opened her eyes, he was contradictory. 
 
 ' Ah, you always smooth me down the right way. 
 No, sit where you are, I won't be helped, you've been 
 working all day, and all the other people are tired out. 
 I said I would clear away the debris and take it to the 
 kitchen. You shall not stir. Shut your eyes and have 
 a nap.' 
 
 Though the flayed eyelids were hot and weary he did 
 not close them ; men do not shut out the sight of royalty, 
 they do not close their eyes when they find themselves 
 on a short visit to court. Jack would not shut out the 
 sight of Queen Bab as she turned parlour-work into a 
 fine art, deftly stacking her tray, scooping up crumbs 
 with the bread-knife, folding the table-cloth, and then 
 bearing off the tray in her strong hands out of his sight, 
 clattering her loose shoes on the flags. 
 
 A sweet fluty-toned cuckoo-clock struck eight o'clock, 
 only eight. The fire blazed up crackling hot, a smell of 
 peat and wood filled the room ; he ached in every limb 
 as he dragged his chair to the hearth, and without the 
 wind howled and beat against the window. 
 
 She returned before long and dragged her chair along- 
 side of his, putting her feet, in the prunella shoes, on 
 the brass fender, hitching her shawl close round her, and 
 resting her eyes on the fire ; she was subdued and gentle. 
 
 * That poor man. Jack, — he is sitting with his face in 
 his Jiands, he won't speak, his wife's crying, at least she 
 has been crying, poor soul,' 
 
 ' I told you that you were the one woman in the west 
 who liked a blizzard for a change.' 
 
 * You know,' reproachfully, ' I don't like change, I 
 hate it — Jack.'
 
 268 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' You change your friends.' 
 
 * Never, never, — you went away, — I did not change.' 
 He put his hand down to pat the Marquis at his feet, 
 
 but the unsociable poodle showed his teeth and would 
 tolerate no advances. 
 
 * Jack-^-India is so far away.' 
 
 ' It is — but not too far, I think.' 
 
 ' It is, it is too far, thousands of miles off, people 
 forget every one at home. Absence doesn't make 
 friendship firmer, and you never write to me — now. I 
 wisli you'd write sometimes.' 
 
 * I will write, Bab.' 
 
 ' You spoilt me. Stanhope says it, they all say it. I 
 aui spoilt.' Her eyes were wet. ' I think ' 
 
 He interrupted her. 
 
 ' I think,' he said, ' that, instead of sitting here 
 abusing yourself, Bab, and toasting your pale face, you 
 would be wiser to go to bed. You've no idea how much 
 this sort of thing takes out of you, and what heaps of 
 sleep you want to make up for such a night.' 
 
 She opened her lips to disparage his advice, but he 
 went on, 
 
 ' 'I'm dead tired myself. I shall be glad to turn 
 in.' 
 
 Then she rose, her lips drooping ; she was wide awake, 
 she had much to say to him, and he was sick of her. 
 In bygone times he would not have talked of what was 
 ivisest ; by any artifice, by stratagem, by crook or hook 
 he would have done his best to keep her in that chair 
 beside him. 
 
 As she was going to be married he had done with her, 
 he washed his hands of her — he, her old friend, her 
 favourite friend, he banished her at half-past eight 
 o'clock ; he had nothing more to say to her. 
 
 ' If you're so sleepy I will go,' she said, lamely, * but 
 — but it's the only time I've seen you for so long. You
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 269 
 
 needn't go all the way to India to cliange, Jack. I 
 think you are rather changed now.' 
 
 * Yes,' he said, ' I am.' 
 
 ' But you are not angry with me now 1 We are just 
 the same as we used to be' 
 
 'Except that you will be here in England, and I in 
 the Far East.' 
 
 ' When shall you come home again 1 ' 
 
 ' I don't know. Bab, there is something I want to 
 tell you.' She stood up, and drew up her head, instinc- 
 tively feeling the hoop of pearls on her finger. His 
 hoarse, rough voice startled her. * I must tell you. 
 You'll wonder at me — God knows, I wonder at myself. 
 A night or two ago I asked a woman to marry me. I 
 asked Alethea to marry me.' 
 
 'Alethea — oh, Alethea ; and ' 
 
 ' And she would not have me. She said no.' 
 
 The cuckoo-clock called the half -hour, and Bab walked 
 over slowly to the door. 
 
 * Alethea — Alethea,' she repeated ; * how odd, it vxis 
 Alethea.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, 
 
 The higher he's a-getting 
 The soouer will his race be run, 
 
 The nearer he's to setting. — Herbick. 
 
 * It is an ill wind that blows nobody good.' 
 
 Day broke calmly ; beneath a mild sky the ravaged 
 country lay at peace. Jack was not loth to leave his 
 couch at cock-crow, for around his flock mattress, which 
 was laid upon the floor, draughts had played brightly 
 through the sleepless night. 
 
 At the earliest opportunity he arose, making a toilet
 
 270 MARY FENWIGITS DAUGHTER. 
 
 of want and discomfit, and wondering, as he did so, why 
 a lack of barber should create, in a couple of days or so, 
 such a ruffianly villain of aspect as a century of evil-living 
 is incapable of achieving. 
 
 Though Jack was up with the lark, he found his 
 host was out before him ; the poor man stood stock 
 still, paralyzed by the force of his feelings, amongst the 
 ruins of his farmyard. 
 
 ' Good-day,' said Jack, and then could have bitten his 
 tongue out for the inappropriate greeting. 
 
 * Well, sir, the good-day's come too late for we ; ' he 
 pointed with a sweeping gesture to the tragic vale of 
 desolation around. ' I swear to you I shudden know 
 this land of mine from Adam. The orchard's down as 
 though 'twas mown with a scythe, a jungle of good 
 apple-trees, with a stump of trunk here and there, the 
 heads of 'em wrenched off as you'd wrench off a turnip- 
 top. This sun, sir, takes the heart out of me ; I could 
 bear up in the roaring and the row, but this here seems 
 most as though God A'mighty wasn't 'pon our sides, 
 after all. Look at them drifts, the country is like a 
 growed-out cripple, lumped with humps of snow, and 
 underneath, sir, lies the rent and our meat. Tidden 
 much us farmers have, and the most of it's under them 
 dazzling sepulcres.' 
 
 The farmer cursed the white, glittering, transfiguring 
 destruction around him ; it deserved execration. Jack's 
 mood lent itself readily to lamentations, and presently 
 the pair went off to the meadow together, and began, in 
 company with the shepherd and a couple of labourers, 
 to dig out imprisoned live-stock from their ' dazzling 
 sepulcres.' Many of the poor buried sheep and lambs 
 were dead, but here and there they showed great ten- 
 acity of life ; weak and drowsy lambs, after a dose of 
 gin, cheered up and ran off bleating for their mothers. 
 The shepherd and the couple of labourers talked as they
 
 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 271 
 
 •worked, and Jack thought, and the farmer groaned. 
 The work was hard, it set the rescuers' blood rushing 
 warm through their tingling veins. Though hands 
 were cracked and bleeding, they did their duty and 
 toiled on. 
 
 ' I haven heard she zince Zinday,' said a man, when 
 the clock on the church in the valley far away struck 
 eight. ' 'Tez rale hungry wither, thease yer.' 
 
 * The maidens are bringing us out a bit of breakfast, 
 sir,' said the host ; * but, perhaps, you'd rather go in- 
 doors and sit to your food.' 
 
 * Sitting to food ' is, according to a certain standard, a 
 luxury, but Jack did not avail himself of the proffered 
 honour, for just then the 'maidens' came forth from 
 the house laden with baskets, and with tin cans which 
 steamed suggestively, and one of the twain had a cloak 
 of many vile colours over her head, and she walked at 
 such a pace over the ground as only one pair of ankles 
 in Devonshire could accomplish. 
 
 Jack, with a foot on his idle spade, stood and watched 
 her approach, telling himself that she was pure-hearted, 
 white-souled, spotless as the snow she trod. Telling 
 himself, too, that she could sting, and blind, and destroy 
 as it had done, and knowing that lady of icicles and 
 frost though Bab was, yet he loved her so well that he 
 blessed fate, or Alethea, who had left him a lunatic at 
 large, who had no just cause or impediment in the in- 
 dulgence of his mania. He preferred picking out sheep 
 from the snowdrifts to any form of amusement which 
 could be proffered him ; it did not tire him, and he was 
 thankful to preserve the small mercy of freedom which 
 he had been rash enough to jeopardize. How well 
 Alethea had understood him ] he was grateful for her 
 common-sense, though her words had not been altogether 
 gratifying. 
 
 * You want to marry me ? ' she had said, even a little
 
 272 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 querulously ; and when he had assured her that such 
 was his desire, she had not shown any symptoms of 
 pleasure in his words, but had denied his suit fiercely. 
 ' You want me so that I may be at hand when you wish 
 to talk of Bab, to rave of Bab, to be weak and wild 
 about Bab ? ' 
 
 Then he had inquired whether she had heard Bab's 
 name pass his lips of late. 
 
 *No,' Alethoa had replied, 'you have said nothing, 
 but you have had moods and broods, and I have known 
 of whom you have sat and thoiight. Lonely, yes, you 
 may be lonely, you are not the only person on earth 
 who has to live on air.' 
 
 ' I would try to make you happy,' he had said, gently. 
 'You would make me absolutely miserable,' she re- 
 torted. * You forget my health, my one great interest, 
 my health, the heat of India would finish it ; I should 
 be some one to nurse, not some one to confide in. When 
 my head ached you could not rave at me, I should break 
 down, so I should be in the way, and no safety-valve 
 when your heart overflowed about number one.' 
 ' Alethea, you are talking rather at random.' 
 ' I feel rather at random, you see. Hush, Jack, be 
 patient, wait. You will find Queen Bab the Second 
 some day, a new liege lady who neither knows of, nor 
 believes in your broken heart, because of the neat 
 patches upon its fragments which you have given 
 hond-fide to her, for her very own.' 
 
 He had been chafed by Alethea's allusion to Queen 
 Bab the Second, and there his wooing had ended ; the 
 remainder of the interview had been stiff and unsocial, 
 the parting emotional and disquieting ; but thank the 
 propitious stars for his freedom, though it was of no 
 more practical avail than that of the floating crow over 
 his head, which flew as it listed but found no foot on 
 the hard, cold ground.
 
 MABY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 273 
 
 Bab's content with her own achievement was infec- 
 tious. When she had induced Jack to seat himself on 
 the trunk of an elm, which had been blown down at a 
 convenient angle hard by, she unpacked her basket, 
 recommending the smoked ham, the fried potatoes, the 
 toast, and the coffee, with an enthusiasm which was 
 appetizing. While he ate his breakfast she stood before 
 him, digging fitfully, with aimless bursts of vigour, at 
 the shallow snow with his spade. 
 
 ' You are looking none the worse, Bab.' 
 
 ' I think I'm the better, Jack, I am as fresh as paint.' 
 
 * You are out very early.' 
 
 ' I like to get up if there is anything to do. Have 
 you got enough toast 1 Shall I go in and make you 
 some more ] ' 
 
 ' Bab, you are overwhelming me with honours.' 
 
 * Nonsense, I like making toast, it's a good excuse for 
 getting all the fire.' 
 
 ' But I couldn't eat any more.' 
 
 Her eyes were tired though they were alert and 
 animated, the shawl was pinned tightly across her 
 shoulders, swathing her head, arms, and falliug over 
 her hands. Behind her an odd unwieldy hedge, over- 
 lapped by tons and tons of powdered snow, formed a 
 cold background. 
 
 'The storm is over, Jack,' she said, dropping the 
 spade, and looking at the sky. 
 
 ' I don't kiiow that, the glass is still a bit jumpy.' 
 
 'It would be magniiicent — it would be the most 
 beautiful sight in the world, if one did not remember.' 
 
 ' What — do — you — mean ? ' 
 
 She pointed, with a sweep of arm, around her. He 
 could not see the landscape. He was heedless of the 
 wonder of the transformed country, he did not see the 
 tough, upstanding fir-tree with its crusted crown of 
 victory, the prismatic colours aglow in the glittering
 
 274 MABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 icicles that hung from its burdened branches; he did 
 not see the snow drawn, like a sheet, over sheltered 
 tracks ; or the snow rolled into dazzling mountains ; or 
 the snow streaking the hills afar off with white billows. 
 He did not see the cattle browsing unhurt and peaceful 
 on green pastures blown bare; or the trees laid low, 
 up-torn, their shattered dignity utilized for hungry 
 breakfast-tables. He saw none of these things. 
 
 She stood reflective, grave, talkative, and blotted 
 everything out of his physical vision. 
 
 ' How the wind did shriek and yell. I was frightened 
 to death as we struggled across the open. The snow 
 blinded me; it cut, and hurt, and froze — that soft, 
 innocent-looking snow. One can't realize how such a 
 wind can die away to nothing.' 
 
 'Nature soon rights herseK after a storm — sooner 
 than we do, Bab ; she turns over a new leaf with great 
 ease. We storm in the dark, and smile by daylight, — 
 when we get our snow laid. One can't keep at storming- 
 point for ever.' 
 
 ' How strange ! ' she was shading her eyes with one 
 hand, and gazing away to the horizon. * Other things 
 are as frantic as the wind, and they die out.' 
 
 * What is strange % ' 
 
 * Getting over it so soon. \STiat is the good of a 
 storm ? ' 
 
 *No good, so far as I know, Bab. Our forefathers 
 took it as punishment from Providence ; we take it as 
 kismet from America. It will take the land a long 
 while to get trim and taut, and there are landmarks 
 down, and "goyles" blocked up, and glens destroyed 
 which will never be the same again. The land will 
 answer its purpose and grow its crops, but to those who 
 know it best, to those who know it well, it is — changed.' 
 ' They will clear the line to-day. Jack, and we shall go ] ' 
 The remark was interrogative, not triumphant,
 
 MARY FENWIGKS DAUOHTEB. 276 
 
 *No doubt. I left telegrams to Tregarvis, and to 
 Combe, and to Woodbury, and to Peel ; the station- 
 master will send tbem off when the wires are set at 
 work again. I'm going over to the junction as soon as 
 this business is done, to see what news there may be 
 from the outside world.' 
 
 * And I'll go with you.' 
 
 He smiled, nodded, and rose, holding out his hand for 
 his spade. The men had finished their breakfasts and 
 gone back to toil, and so must he. Though the basket 
 was waiting to be carried to the farm, Bab stayed with 
 the labourers. She was interested in the work ; she 
 kept walking from man to man, suggesting and con- 
 gratulating, and driving off the sheep, so soon as they 
 were liberated, to their pens. How filthy the poor 
 beasts looked in contrast to their prison, how little any 
 one cared for them save in the guise of mutton or £ s. d. 
 
 The blue chapped hands of the labourers went to Bab's 
 heart, this steady, long, laborious picking-out took 
 hardihood and patience ; daily bread was hard to earn 
 and help was a substantial gift that day ; but one of 
 the quartette of toilers dug and delved in snow light as 
 air, and rejoiced to earn his twelve-o'clock dinner thus 
 by the sweat of his brow. 
 
 When noon was past, and Jack was preparing for his 
 tramp along the line to the junction, he found that 
 though the sky was serene, yet the barometer was not ; 
 neither fair nor foul weather can cast its habit as a 
 snake casts its skin, and he looked doubtfully at Bab, 
 who, with Marquis at her heels, stood without, in the 
 yard, talking to an apple-cheeked damsel, as she awaited 
 him. 
 
 ' Suppose it comes on rough again, Bab,' he said, * it's 
 a difficult two miles there, and you have to get back, 
 you know, as well as to get there.' 
 
 Her face fell. Out, out, out, how well he remembered
 
 •276 MABY FEN WICKS DAUGUTEB. 
 
 her cry ; out, out, out for the last time with him ; and 
 — and because her face fell, and because she did not 
 dispute the necessity to which he had alluded, therefore 
 did the infatuated young man reconsider his first, and 
 best thought concerning her. 
 
 * We've got plenty of daylight after all, and the after- 
 noons are long, and there are gangs of men along the 
 line, and,' getting out of the drawbacks with handy con- 
 junctions, * the course is fairly clear. I don't suppose 
 there's much risk of more snow.' 
 
 ' Then can I come ] ' 
 
 ' Why — yes ; but I wouldn't take the poodle,' he had 
 consideration but no love for the unfriendly Marquis ; 
 ' it's bitterly cold out of the sun.' 
 
 ' It will be a lovely walk,' she said, blithely, leading 
 the way along the cleared path betwixt the rails. 
 
 ' Yes,' and he wished it well over. 
 
 She was ahead of him walking along at a quick 
 vigorous pace, the strong crisp air set the blood ting- 
 ling in her red cheeks, her spirits were high and she 
 talked constantly as she led Jack through the white 
 world. 
 
 Was all this grinding jubilance merely the outcome 
 of anticipation ? Did she sparkle at the expectation of 
 a word from Mr. Peel 1 
 
 The icicles sparkled, but they, poor beauties, had no 
 warm expectations, they glittered in the joy of a most 
 precarious present. 
 
 ' If there is no news from Tregarvis,' said Jack, irre- 
 levantly, ' you will have had this long walk for nothing.' 
 
 'I like the walk,' she faltered, looking round in- 
 quiringly at the speaker, the manner, not alone the 
 matter of his abrupt remark puzzling her. 
 
 ' I hope you won't be disappointed — that is all.' 
 
 To rejoice with those who do rejoice is, occasionally, a 
 duty beyond mortal capacity,
 
 MARY FENWICICS DAUGHTER. 277 
 
 ' I don't think there can be any news of Stanhope,' 
 she said, ' as yet.' 
 
 'They hoped to get the line reopened to-day.' 
 
 * As soon as it is open, Jack, I will go home, straight 
 home.' 
 
 'Whyr 
 
 ' I would rather go home.' 
 
 Had she annoyed Jack] He was dead silent. No, 
 no, he was thinking, thinking of Alothea. Dull Alethea, 
 who talked of her hay-fever all the summer, and of 
 influenza all the winter — of course, he was depressed by 
 Alethea. Bab had no longer to account for Jack's 
 depression. Poor Jack ! She sighed, and the sigh was 
 audible, for in this white world all footsteps were 
 muffled, the spades of the men whom they passed at this 
 moment worked mum in the powdered snow. 
 
 ' What is the matter, Bab 1 Are you tired 1 ' 
 
 'No, I was thinking of — Alethea.' 
 
 'Oh!' 
 
 Now that Bab had taken to thought instead of speech, 
 the silence grew oppressive. The sun was hidden by a 
 passing cloud, the air was sharp with cold, and the walk 
 was long. 
 
 Jack half understood the di-ift of Bab's remark, and 
 set himself to reassure his companion by trampling his 
 own personal past, present, and future somewhere out of 
 sight in the snow, and giving her no cause to think of 
 Alethea. 
 
 No shadow of his should ever fall across her dear life. 
 Shadows must come, she was transparent as a child, and 
 he knew that they had already touched her, though but 
 transiently. The clouds were none of his, and not 
 through him had they fallen on her. Now that he had 
 found it easy to quench her spirits, he did not grudge 
 them to her. 
 
 But many a corner of the western world was dark
 
 278 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 with the shadows of the storm just then, and when the 
 pedestrians, at a curve of the line, found themselves in 
 sight of the junction, their destination, they came upon 
 a group of agitated, loud-voiced country people who were 
 standing together before the door of a small cottage, 
 which lay close beside the railway. 
 
 It seemed as though the snow had made a target of 
 the little hut, for it had drifted up to its thatched eaves, 
 and wreathed itself round the chimney. 
 
 A ladder had been stacked against the little place, 
 and a window had been dug clear of snow ; the men 
 were digging about it at this moment, and one of their 
 number was opening the lattice from without ; then he 
 clambered through the narrow casement into the house, 
 and as he did so the voices ceased in a hush of expectation. 
 
 * There is something wrong,' said Bab, who, though 
 within sight of Kidford, had yet drawn up and was 
 watching the cottagers. * Come down, Jack, we will 
 find out what it is.* 
 
 No wiseacre said that the sky was overcasting and 
 the wind rising. No one remarked that ' to find out 
 what it was ' did no good to any one. There was nobody 
 at hand who would not risk the chance of being eternally 
 blizzarded, rather than say Bab ' nay ' at this juncture 
 of his feelings. 
 
 So the wayfarers wasted their time by descending the 
 embankment, scaling the palings, and going towards, 
 rather than sensibly avoiding, a * something which was 
 wrong.' 
 
 They found the cottage tenantless, save for a dog 
 which had emerged from the window. It seemed that 
 the owner of the house, ' a widow-woman up in years, 
 had gone to market upon the morning of the storm. 
 She had called for help at a cottage on her homeward 
 way, help which had been given her. A neighbour had 
 seen her safely to within fifty yards of her own door,
 
 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 279 
 
 but even so close to shelter, in the snow and wind sht 
 had missed her way ; she had never reached home. 
 
 The neighbours had come out as a search-gang on a 
 dreary, hopeless track ; for to lose the road on such a 
 night meant to lose life itself. The cottage was empty 
 except for the woman's dog, and all around its walls the 
 snowdrifts were high as the hedges beyond. Amongst 
 this multitude of possible graves, where should they 
 look 1 how should they look ? The thaw alone could be 
 trusted to discover lost lives ; the thaw alone could lay 
 the secrets of the blizzard bare. And to the thaw the 
 people would have left the search, had not the dog, so 
 soon as he was set upon the ground, begun, with its 
 nose upon the snow, to seek some trail, as though where 
 reason taught despair, instinct was hopeful. Round and 
 round in wide and ever-widening circles the little mon- 
 grel pushed his way, increasing speed and excitement as 
 the men encouraged him in his efforts. 
 
 * We must go on, Bab,' Jack said, persuasively ; ' I 
 will get some men in Kidford to come out and help the 
 search.' 
 
 * Watch the dog, Jack ; wait a little while. Look, 
 he 3 going out through the gate down the lane ; there 
 he goes into the next field.' 
 
 They stood, expectantly, watching, and then a woman 
 cried out, * Dii 'ee follow him, for she did sim thickee 
 dug 'ed vound summat.' The group of waiting people, 
 slowly and half-reluctantly, it seemed, passed on into 
 the neighbouring meadow and gathered round the 
 frantic dog, which, with nose and paws at work, was 
 digging in a shallow drift, whining and howling as he 
 scattered the snow to right and left of him. 
 
 Then the men fell to with spade and shovel, and dug 
 the drift bare, while Bab stood like a rock, holding her 
 breath, and watched them, — watched them uncover the 
 dead ; watched them strip the poor dead woman of her
 
 280 MABY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 soft, cold shroud, looked down upon her where she lay, 
 with her basket full of her last marketings, her bit of 
 bacon, her candles, and her reel of thread, beside her. 
 The people were very quiet. It was a sobering sight to 
 see, and little was said that was articulate. 
 
 ' Bab, wo must go on ; the wind has risen, and it is 
 beginning to snow, wo must not wait hero any longer.' 
 
 She went then, walking very quickly and stumbling 
 as she walked ; tears stood hot and thick in her eyes. 
 
 ' Isn't it dreadful 1 ' she said, wringing her hands. 
 * Isn't it cruel, Jack 1 She was so near home.' 
 
 * She took the gate of the field for her own gate, she 
 must have wandered round and round those drifts look- 
 ing for the cottage, poor soul. It couldn't have lasted 
 long, Bab ; the cold was so great.' 
 
 But Bab was weeping over the first dead face which 
 she had seen, shuddering and crying, turning to Jack 
 for comfort ; for, with nerves shaken by the storm and 
 a heart wrung by the nearness of death, she wanted 
 strength, and that not physical. Jack had British 
 reserve in plenty, but he was ready to relinquish a 
 cherished characteristic, he was ready to rake out the 
 bottom of his soul to comfort his comrade, and he knew 
 no landmark of comfort but the gospel of consolation. 
 
 He said that the woman was old, that she was lonely, 
 that instead of missing her way home perhaps she had 
 found, and had been glad to find it. He said the sort 
 of things which Bab had heard in the drowsy atmo- 
 sphere of Coombe church, superfluous, unnecessary truths, 
 which she had left there in the pew all the year round. 
 He talked of his God as though he was not ashamed of 
 Him, of heaven as though he did not doubt its existence, 
 of life as though it was but the beginning of the end. 
 
 And Bab felt better, and struggled back to decent 
 composure, though she was tear-stained and pale enough 
 to worry her over-anxious protector, who hurried her
 
 MABY FENWIGEPS DAUOHTEB. 281 
 
 into the station and on to the platform, alongside of 
 which a train, drawn by a couple of engines, was just 
 about to di-aw up. 
 
 Station - master, officials, porters, and people had 
 gathered to cheer and welcome the incomer, for it 
 brought the fii^st communication from the outside world 
 which the prisoners at Kidford had had for two days 
 and three nights. 
 
 Jack and Bab hung back from the excited crowd, 
 watching the congratulations and gi'eetings, little anti- 
 cipating the great surprise which awaited them ; little 
 guessing that Bab was to have a share in the merry 
 meetings, at which they onlooked with a haze of snow 
 that chilled the exultation of the travellers in their eyes. 
 
 Bab had brought her unfailing good-luck with her 
 through the blizzard, for amongst the jubilant arrivals 
 was Mr. Peel himself. Stanhope, triumphant, excited, 
 pleased, self-congratulatory, sprung from a carriage ; 
 for once in his life, forgetting appearance, he caught 
 Bab's hands in his and kissed her on both cheeks. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 I shot an arrow into the air, 
 It fell to earth I knew not where : 
 I breathed a song into the air, 
 It fell to earth, I knew not where. 
 
 Long, long afterwards in an oak 
 I found the arrow still unbroke : 
 And the song, from beginning to end, 
 I found again in the heart of a friend. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 ' No one is a good judge in his own cause.' 
 
 The walk and its most vile conclusion was over. Jack 
 had tramped back to the farm through the snow and 
 wind alone. He had taken an awakened dread, and a
 
 282 MAEY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 smarting, hot, rancorous anger to keep him company, 
 and yet he had nothing to complain about, he had been, 
 treated considerately. Mr. Peel had thanked him with 
 gracious warmth for his kindness to Bab, and Bab liad 
 thanked him earnestly too, and — he had seen the last of 
 her, against her wishes she had been taken straight ofE 
 to Tregarvis. 
 
 Jack had seen her desires over-ridden, he had heard 
 her beg to be allowed to go home, straight home, and 
 he had found how easily her requests could be calmly 
 and quietly ignored. He had seen why Bab had found 
 her master, and it was not likely he would be altogether 
 just to that master. 
 
 He had stood a quiet third and listened to a dialogue 
 which had driven him frantic ; and yet Mx. Peel had 
 practical common-sense on his side, he did right to take 
 his betrothed off with him. 
 
 ' Don't argue, Bab ; for heaven's sake get into the 
 carriage out of the cold. You can't go home, the line 
 to Tipton isn't open. It's only an hour's run to Tre- 
 garvis, and I've sent a wire to say we are coming.' 
 
 * But my bag and Marquis are at the farm, Stanhope,' 
 Bab had persisted, * and I'm rather tired.' 
 
 ' Then ploughing a couple of miles through snow isn't 
 the way to get fresh. I came worrying down here as 
 soon as I got Holland's wire, and they are shunting the 
 engines now — we shall get off again in no time. What 
 a precious lucky thing it was you came over here. Get 
 in, get in. By Jove, you aren't looking any the better 
 for being blizzarded ; your skin is like a torn muffin — 
 and what a shocking hat ! ' He tweaked it forward as 
 he spoke, and addressed Jack, who was looking surly and 
 forbidding, ' Bab don't care a straw what she looks 
 like.' 
 
 Jack was unresponsive, and then LIr. Peel had again 
 urged Bab to get into the carriage and sit down.
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER 283 
 
 'Holland would see after the dog and the dressing- 
 bag. Her trunks were in the cloak-room, did she say ? 
 Then that was settled. Bab must get in at once, she 
 was looking done up, he had rugs for two.' 
 
 The wonder of it was that Bab did follow her con- 
 ductor, and did get into the carriage as she had been 
 directed to do, her lover talking all the time of his 
 adventures. He had been snowed up in his quarters, 
 he had not worried about Bab ; he had not dreamed but 
 that a pair of sensible women, such as the two Mary 
 Fenwicks, would have stayed at home in bad weather, 
 as he had done. Worried 1 Bather not, he had had 
 enough to do to keep warm. 
 
 He went off presently to get out the luggage, still 
 talking hard to Jack who accompanied him, and leaving 
 Bab, wrapped in his rug, shut up in her carriage. 
 
 When Jack came out some minutes later from the 
 telegraph-office upon the platform, he found Bab at 
 the window which she had opened, and she beckoned 
 to him. 
 
 * Jack, look how dark it is getting. Don't go back 
 to the farm. Come on with us in this train.' 
 
 ' But it's going the wrong way for me, Bab, I take 
 the other direction.' 
 
 Of course, she had forgotten. Jack's answer had posed 
 her for a moment, then she pointed down the platform 
 to the open country, where yellowish clouds were driving 
 up thick from the north. 
 
 ' Then go back now, don't wait, hurry. Jack, it may 
 blow again. Here, here,' she was shaking the contents 
 of her purse into his hand, ' give this to the people 
 somehow ; tell them why I went, and thank them very 
 much. Now go, please, go, while the snow lasts my 
 nerve has gone. Jack — hurry back.' 
 
 Loyal to her lightest wish he had obeyed, pooh-poohing 
 her fears.
 
 284 MARY FENWICICS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' There is a cutting all the way, Bab, and gangs of 
 navvies on the line, nothing to fear. But — good-bye.' 
 
 He would not allow himself the luxury of her anxiety, 
 and when Stanhope came back to the carriage Bab was 
 alone. 
 
 * Gone, has ho 1 Stupid sort of chap he is, too, he 
 holds his tongue too much for me. If a man has a 
 decent mind, why shouldn't he speak it 1 But he don't 
 cotton to me, I took the wind out of his sail, eh, Babi 
 You have got blown about, that's a terrible hat, my 
 dear. Holland made me wire to Combe for your maid, 
 he said you'd want looking after, for you had come across 
 a bogie-sight just now. He must have been a fool to 
 let you out, the country is full of them. Get back in 
 that corner, there, there, back to the horses. Why will 
 a woman go anywhere rather than where she is asked to 
 go'? What's the matter, darling 1 Don't get hysterical, 
 for heaven's sake.' 
 
 To some people tears mean temper, nerves, anything 
 rather than suffering. The word hysterical is offensive 
 to female ears, and as bracing as the orthodox dash of 
 iced water. Bab brushed the cuff of her coat nervously 
 across her eyes. 
 
 'There, that is better. Come, that's right, you are 
 one of the sensible sort, I never saw you make a fool of 
 yourself. There, kiss me, — no doubt you had a baddish 
 time boxed up with him, — shocking bad luck the whole 
 thing.' 
 
 Mr. Peel's form of consolation seemed good in his 
 eyes, and it was effective. Bab dried her swollen eyes 
 and steadied her rough lips. He was not an ardent 
 lover, but as she had said she would marry him, he 
 concluded that she loved him. Sometimes he was a 
 little sick of being kept at arm's length, he did not 
 want any nonsense, but he wanted to be made much of, 
 to be manifestly a hero ; self-assured though he was,
 
 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 285 
 
 occasionally his vanity was pricked by her want of 
 appreciation. 
 
 He had told his people that, 
 
 ' She was good-looking, well-groomed, nice-tempered, 
 and a fellow couldn't expect everything. Nothing in 
 her,' he candidly added, ' no sentimental rot. Nothing 
 spoony. By Jove, she is as hard as bricks.' 
 
 Hard, indeed, she must be, for his comely face, 
 exceptional figui'e, and peerless tailor had not softened 
 her at all. 
 
 Even now, when he, with his tendency to rheumatism 
 and his knack of catching cold, had exerted himself in 
 this beastly blizzard to fetch her to civilization, her 
 gratitude did not overflow, but she sat and wept herself 
 hideous — most hideous — over some miserable old woman 
 who had been lost in a snowdrift. 
 
 ' If you once begin to make yourself wretched about 
 outsiders, my dear,' he remarked, * you might cry from 
 now till nineteen hundred, there is no end to it. Dry 
 handkerchiefs in dozens over the daily obituaries in the 
 morning-papers. But it wasn't the old woman who 
 gave you the blues, you are out of form altogether and 
 off colour, you want a pint of phiz and a jolly evening.' 
 
 Miss Fenwick's visit to Tregarvis went off smoothly, 
 satisfactorily. She stayed there for a week, and won 
 such good opinions as a person of her prospects was, 
 under the circumstances, fairly confident of winning. 
 
 She was an unexacting, easily amused heiress. Stan- 
 hope was lucky to annex a young person who was so 
 energetic in exploring the white land without, that she 
 was no gene to her entertainers within ; the weather 
 kept on negotiable terms with mankind, and Bab walked, 
 and drove, and rode far and wide. 
 
 If ]\Ii-s. Peel found Miss Fenwick's mind a vacuum on 
 housewifery, and lamented the void in private, her 
 father-in-law-elect blazed out in her defence.
 
 286 MABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' She has got a pair of feet that are some good to her, 
 and eyes of her own. I'd take her opinion before 
 Stanhope's ; she'll improve the place, though we shan't 
 live to see it. She may not care for nonsense, and man- 
 stalking like our girls, but she takes more interest in 
 Tregarvis than they do, and knows more about it in a 
 week than they do, and so I tell you.' 
 
 Stanhope took credit for Bab's points as though he 
 were creator as well as proprietor of his betrothed ; if it 
 was satisfactory to remember that she had both will and 
 power to improve the place, it was not so gratifying to 
 hear that she was no man-stalker, — man is a unique 
 animal, he does not object to being chased. 
 
 The young man did not want an original IVIrs. Stan- 
 hope Peel, originality was a most angular domestic vice. 
 Perhaps Bab was inclined to be original, for she treated 
 his father precisely as she treated him, she was civil, 
 genial, friendly to them both. For the sake of his 
 sisters, who understood these matters, he wished that 
 Bab would twitter, and blush over attentions which he 
 elaborated in her cause. 
 
 His youngest sister, a pert damsel of sixteen, chaffed 
 her brother at his failure with great freedom. * Twit, 
 twit,' she sang at him over the banisters, with the 
 servants about and Bab herself in earshot. 
 
 ' Twit, twit, she don't care for you, 
 Fact she thinks you are a bore. 
 Twit, twit, you won't see her any more ! ' 
 
 He only laughed at the attack, and Bab smiled too, 
 and then they started for their last long ride in his 
 native county. 
 
 She was in a pleasant mood, more responsive than 
 usual, merrier too, and her figure was so good that it 
 looked best when least disguised, and her habit fitted 
 her absolutely. Then the exercise warmed her cheeks, 
 kindled her eyes ; he was pleased with his bargain, she
 
 MABY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 287 
 
 did not chill him upon this sunny afternoon. They rode 
 as the crow flies, making for the crest of a hill ; Bab's 
 thoughts were trained to rise to her tongue and to escape 
 thence, troubling her no more ; when Stanhope was 
 pointing out to her beauties and landmarks of his 
 domain, she leaned forward and patted her horse's neck, 
 her eyes betwixt his ears, not on the ridges of barren 
 moorland to which her attention was directed, and broke 
 in upon her guide's explanations irrelevantly, asking an 
 awkward question. 
 
 * Stanhope, have you ever been really fond of any one 1 * 
 This was exasperating, even alarming from the woman 
 
 who a fortnight hence would be his wife ; he screwed 
 the points of his moustache up sharp as bayonets, and 
 looked at her frank, hazel eyes. 
 
 ' Bab ! ' 
 
 *I mean before me,' hastily, as though to avoid 
 protestations. 
 
 * Oh, of course — well — don't you know, I'm like other 
 fellows.' 
 
 * You have — been 1 ' 
 
 * Yes — yes,' 
 
 * Many times 1 ' 
 
 'I'm blessed if I know how many. I suppose I've 
 thought myself really gone about a dozen times.' 
 
 * "What's the difference,' earnestly, * between " realli/ 
 gone," and fancying it ? ' 
 
 This was a puzzling question, but a happy thought 
 extricated him from his difficulties. 
 
 ' The other dozen were fancies ; you, Bab, you are the 
 real thing.' 
 
 She laughed in his face. 
 
 'Bab, I'm not chaffing.' 
 
 * No,' growing grave again, ' but you do not make it 
 clear by saying that, though it was a pretty thing to 
 pay. Stanhope, I'm not offended, but I know you are
 
 288 MABY FEN WICK'S BAUGUTER. 
 
 not so very, very, very fond of me. It is better £.s 
 it is, far better ; you are quite fond enough, and I will 
 try, I will try — I have thought about it a good deal 
 lately — I will try to make you happy, though,' she put 
 her hand on her side and drew a long breath, ' though I 
 am cold — rather cold.' 
 
 ' You weren't likely to thaw in the blizzard, Bab, you 
 got an extra chill. Here's a good stretch for a canter, 
 come on,' 
 
 In the ' fine fluent motion ' over the turf, Mr. Peel's 
 mind was busy, even he could see that a shadow lay 
 across Bab's transparent thoughts. 
 
 It was a precious good thing, he told himself, that 
 Holland was out of the country, and that the wedding 
 was so near at hand. Holland had been tame cat at 
 Combe since Bab was in long clothes ; how like a woman 
 it would be, should she find out that this old hanger-on 
 was a necessary adjunct to her happiness, so soon as he 
 had taken his passage for the East, and she had fixed 
 her fate. 
 
 To have taken advantage of the blizzard to make the 
 running was a blackguard thing to have done ; had 
 Holland done it 1 Before the canter settled to a trot, 
 Mr. Peel was hot and angry, and, for the sake of 
 justice, set upon showing Jack in liis true colours. 
 
 ' Heard from Holland since he went, Bab 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, he wrote when he sent my dressing-bag and 
 Marquis.' 
 
 ' What on earth had he got to write about ? ' 
 
 ' He said good-bye.' 
 
 'He said half-a-dozen good-byes that day at the 
 station.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' 
 
 ' Just what I say, and more than that into the 
 bargain. I mean it is time he gave you up. You 
 chucked him for me, and he's got to swallow that. It
 
 MAEY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 289 
 
 is awfully poor form of a chap to go sneaking after you 
 now-a-days, and I'd let him know it if he was going to 
 stay in this country.' 
 
 He was working himself to a red heat ; you need not 
 be very fond of a woman, and yet you can be very angry 
 with, and very jealous of her. 
 
 Mr. Peel's dignity was ten times greater than himself, 
 and he was not going to have it so much as pared off at 
 the edges. 
 
 ' You have no right to talk of him like that.' 
 
 ' I am just the one person who has the right to talk of 
 him as I choose, and I choose that no man should make 
 love — yes, love — to you.' 
 
 * I can't think why you are talking to me like this. 
 Did Jack, poor Jack, arrange the blizzard ] ' 
 
 ' No, but he took you out in it, and let you see all 
 sorts of bogies. Yes, you may be strong in the head and 
 a good goer, but you ain't anything after all but a girl — 
 and they are all alike. You had been crying, and Jack, 
 "poor Jack," as you call him, had had a good time of it 
 drying the tears.' 
 
 Bab's hand which held the reins shook with a gust 
 of anger, her eyes rebuked Mr. Peel, but she held her 
 tongue. She was not used to violent emotion, and when 
 her pulses steadied she felt sick at heart and spiritless. 
 
 Of course Stanhope would, naturally, dislike the idea 
 of any man making love to her, (her mind was just and 
 reasonable,) only Jack had not done so, would never do 
 so again, and she was tired of her dull thoughts, tired of 
 herself. Stanhope's grotesque suggestion that she had 
 got an extra chill in the gale and snow might be the 
 truth. 
 
 She must not cry again, there was no one now who 
 could di'y tears ; and Stanhope went fuming on, and she 
 said no word to defend her old friend, he needed no 
 defence, 
 
 U
 
 290 MABT FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 For the gi'eater part of this last evening she talked 
 wedding-business with the girls and their mother ; for 
 the Peels en masse were coming to Combe for the cere- 
 mony, and there were many arrangements to be made 
 and much to discuss. 
 
 Then the bride-elect was taken to the billiard-room 
 whither her lover had strayed, and, one by one, the 
 family, who knew their duty, left them ; left them to 
 the tete-cL-tete of which they got so considerable a portion. 
 
 Mr. Peel was knocking the balls about : Bab looked 
 at him critically from his smart head to his immaculate 
 boots, he was a faultless little man, there was no flaw 
 about him at all. He put his careless arm round her 
 waist and held her close, and kissed her warmly. 
 
 ' Come, kiss me and be friends,' he said. * I got a bit 
 angry, don't you see. I shouldn't have let out if I 
 hadn't cared, don't you see. I'm an easy-going chap as 
 a rule, ain't 11' 
 
 His justification was righteous, it was evident she bore 
 him no sort of malice, though she cut short the soft 
 scene by taking a cue and playing him a long, successful 
 game — for gloves, not love. 
 
 CHAPTER XXYIL 
 
 If there ever comes a grief to me, 
 
 I cry my cry in silence, and have done. 
 
 Guin&sere. 
 'Sweet flowers are slow, but weeds make haste.' 
 
 Upon the following day the lovers parted, having 
 travelled together as far as Exeter, from whence Mr. 
 Peel set out for a farewell visit of bachelor freedom to 
 London, while Bab was homeward bound. 
 
 The two remaining weeks of Bab's maidenhood must 
 be ground out amongst the toil and moil of plans, good-
 
 MABT FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 291 
 
 byes, clothes, notes, and acquaintances for a bride-elect 
 is fussed, and flurried, and harrowed out of girlhood ; 
 therefore laying up for herself a retributionary reaction 
 to be faced during the early months of matrimony. 
 
 Though the bridegroom is a mere cypher at his wedding 
 ceremony, yet is not his the better part 1 He is no worn- 
 out, jaded cynosure of eyes, uprooted whole, in a be- 
 wildering turmoil, from every dear association of life. 
 
 Bab's welcome home was very warm, as that momentous 
 twenty-minutes ceremonial approached, during which the 
 girl's fate was to be eternally riveted, her people grew 
 very tender of her feelings, very greedy of her presence. 
 
 The blizzard had not broken in full violence vipon the 
 Combe side of the county, though the telegraphic com- 
 munication had stopped, so that the Fenwicks had not 
 realized the extent of the storm until it was at an end, 
 and until Jack's reassuring telegram told them all was 
 well, yet they treated Bab as though they had received 
 her back from the jaws of death. 
 
 The telegraphic, disconnected, galloping letters she 
 had written from Tregarvis had told them little. She 
 must have suffered cruelly in that terrible night of dis- 
 aster ; surely she must have suffered some discomfitiu'e 
 in that ill-fated farm with Jack, 
 
 Those who knew something of the tinder-box propen- 
 sities of such a situation, could not but be ciu-ious to learn 
 how those long hours had passed ; but Bab came home 
 red as a rose, energetic, blithe, restless, but uncommuni- 
 cative. She remarked * that the storm had been pei-fectly 
 horrible,' and she told facts in answer to questions, but 
 within ten minutes of her arrival at Combe she had gone 
 off to the stables, and for a prowl with her father amongst 
 the animals, leaving Mrs. Fenwick unsatisfied, inquisitive, 
 anxious. 
 
 Driven in, presently, by the waning light, she camped 
 out in the misociable hall, and proceeded to unpack the
 
 292 MABY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 cases and parcels which had come for her during her 
 absence ; there were many of them and their contents 
 were interesting, her father and mother stood by watching 
 her, and helping her with hammer and chisel, occasionally, 
 
 * Mother,' said the bride-elect, fingering an umbrella 
 from which a pencil emerged with embarrassing readiness; 
 a silver shoe-liorn, a fish-slice, and a mustard-pot lay on 
 her lap ; on the carpet at her feet stood a tall lamp and 
 a brass coal-box, ' Mrs. Peel wanted to know such a lot of 
 particulars about the wedding, and I'd forgotten them all. 
 It is to be very gay, I said, I know it's to be very gay.' 
 
 ' It's to be imposing,' said her father, ' gay's a wrong 
 word.' 
 
 It is indeed, for if a match is the outcome of calculated 
 effort, then it is a triumphant ceremony ; again, if the 
 match be but a means of living, it is too serious a matter 
 for gaiety ; and if it be a love-match, then it is fraught 
 with every sort of beauty but that of mirth. 
 
 ' I tell you what,' said Bab, looking at her mother, * I 
 should like to feed every one.' 
 
 Captain Fenwick was on his knees, his head in a nail- 
 studded deal box. 
 
 * There spoke the voice of Stanhope, Bab, he shall be fed.' 
 
 * Bab isn't talking of him, she means ' hesitating. 
 
 * I mean everybody, all the people about, the poor 
 people who want feeding, and the others, the tenants who 
 don't.' 
 
 Caj)tain Fenwick took his head out of the straw and 
 laughed at Mary. 
 
 ' My dear Bab, did you think your mother would let 
 such a chance of entertaining pass 1 Every ragamuffin 
 within hail will be fed on your wedding-day ; they are 
 all invited and they are coming. I found the lists, she 
 was ashamed to show them. She always had an innocent 
 knack of drawing big cheques, because I never dare 
 mention the word cheque to her, that was the reason why.*
 
 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 293 
 
 ' Bab, I did talk it over with you,' said Mrs. Fenwick, 
 very gently, * Of course I settled nothing without asking 
 you.' 
 
 ' I'm the last person you need ask, I forgot evei-yfching. 
 I don't remember those soi-t of things. What have you 
 got there, father 1 Let me see.' 
 
 This spoiled child of fortune did not so much as rise, 
 she only stretched out her hand for the jewel-case which 
 her father had unpacked from its enfolding papers. 
 
 * Here you are, Bab, and a note too ; people are pelting 
 you with soft words and hard presents from every quiu-ter 
 — all this blarney will turn that small head of yours.' 
 
 Bab uttered an inarticulate murmur of admiration as 
 she unclosed the case ; within it, against a background 
 of turquoise velvet glittered a diamond dove, a heart of 
 pearls hung from his jewelled beak. 
 
 ' How pretty, how sweet, what a charming thing ! ' 
 
 ' Who sent it, Bab ? ' 
 
 She opened the accompanying note, read it, and handed 
 it in silence to her mother. 
 
 * My dear Bab, (it ran,) 
 
 * I am sending this peaceful person, glittering 
 bright (his only unruly possession out of harm's way, 
 for is it not in his mouth V) with my love. May it be an 
 emblem of future paths of peace and brightness. 
 ' Yours as always, 
 
 ' Alethea Cornwallis Young.' 
 
 'She's chaffing you. Miss Fenwick,' said her father, 
 reading and smiling ; * that little woman has a back-door 
 Bort of way with her tongue and her pen ; she's chaffing 
 you, Bab.' 
 
 If the wi-iter had meant to insinuate that the bride- 
 groom's heart was in his mouth, it was concluded that 
 Bab did not care a straw where it was located, so long as 
 it did not get in her way. Both the bride-elect's com-
 
 294 MABY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 panions saw that she did not see the fun, that she thought 
 such chaff quite gloomy, for she put the dove back in his 
 velvet trappings, snapped-to the case with a click, and sat 
 there in silence, her eyes upon the dusky outline of the 
 window above her, 
 
 'All tlio spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel ey€S.* 
 
 ' This dove is too much for you,' said Godfray, putting 
 his hand on her shoulder ; * you can't live up to him, eh, 
 dear 1 I like this picture of Jack's amazingly.' 
 
 * It was such a nice idea,' added Mrs. Fenwick. 
 
 The nice idea was a water-colour sketch of Combe, 
 painted in early dawn ; a faithful likeness of the grey 
 stone house with its background of wooded hill ; a picture 
 of rich colouring and great beauty. 
 
 ' Very nice,' said the owner of the sketch, ' but,' getting 
 up, * I think I will go to my room now and get off my 
 things, I have had my hat on since nine o'clock this 
 morning.' 
 
 She went off unthwarted, crossing the hall slowly 
 and wandering leisuiely up the staircase, stopping mid- 
 way to dip her hand into the high delf jar of pot-pourri 
 which stood in a recess, stopping to look at a Fenwick 
 ancestor overhead ; stopping to wonder whether a picture 
 would suffice to solace her when she was out of reach of 
 her beloved Combe. Nay, if she could not have the real 
 thing, a shadow of it would not do at all ; she would turn 
 the likeness of the desire to the wall and do without it. 
 
 Of what avail were muscle and sinew if the will was 
 weak? 
 
 * Fancy,' she said, weighing that word in her mind, 
 * fancy, what a poor, misex-able faculty one has for fancy. 
 I always knew it was fancy.' 
 
 ]\Ii'S. Fenwick left her husband with the hay and saw- 
 dust, with the things of beauty around him, and followed 
 the daughter of the house to her gi-een and white chamber.
 
 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 295 
 
 That energetic person was not brooding, she was at her 
 writing-table writing notes of thanks. Mrs. Fenwick 
 was not a demonstrative woman, but she put her arms 
 round the girl's neck and kissed her tenderly. 
 
 * My darling, my own,' she said, with a foolish gush 
 of feeling over dangers past and gone, ' thank God I 
 have you here again, safe, and well, and happy, dear 
 Bab, dearest Bab. You have had a dreadful time, you 
 have had a hard time, I see it in your face.' 
 
 Then Bab leaned her head against her mother's 
 shoulder, and told her tale with shuddering lips and 
 changing colour, but told no word such as the hearer 
 had prepared herself to hear. Not a word of Jack, only 
 a story of the storm, of the cold night, of the fight to 
 shelter, and of the dead woman in the snow, and of 
 death, pitiable, omnipotent death. Bab's voice vibrated 
 as she spoke, and Mrs. Fenwick listened, holding her 
 daughter's hands in hers. 
 
 Half a century of living, even of happy living, takes 
 much from the sharpness of death. Familiarity breeds, 
 if not contempt, at least some degree of indifference. 
 Death to the hearer was no new sight, she had no horror 
 of the end, and she listened, waiting to hear more, to 
 hear of the living with the dead, but she waited in vain. 
 
 Bab had never shown any faculty for reserve. Had 
 there been more to tell she would have told it. Could 
 not her mother measure her capacities? What is bred 
 in the bone will out in the flesh, and had not the elder 
 Mary Fenwick a taste for keeping her own counsel ? 
 
 Bab's confidences were disappointing, and they were 
 cut short by the advent of Becket. JMrs. Fenwick saw 
 her daughter no more alone that day, and upon the 
 following morning she ordered the cart round directly 
 after breakfast. 
 
 * I want to go into Tipton,' she said, ' I've some things 
 to do.'
 
 296 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Why are you going so early 1 ' her mother asked, ' if 
 you'd give me time to think and to consult Becket, I 
 would write you a list of commissions a yard long.' 
 
 ' Then I won't give you time. It's a nice fresh morn- 
 ing, I want to be off, and I must go on to Woodbury 
 and thank Alethea for my dove.' 
 
 Mrs. Fen wick made no more objections to the start, 
 but went out into the porch with the girl to see the 
 start. She found Captain Fenwick on the drive standing 
 at Brunette's head, and soothing her impatience with 
 sugar and patting. 
 
 ' Bab,' said he, combatively, ' I'm going to get rid of 
 this steed of yours. You must not risk your neck any 
 more, such high spirits as Brunette's are risky. This 
 is the last time you will drive her, make the most of it.' 
 
 His daughter shook her head, and then her face fell. 
 
 ' Brunette and Stanhope wouldn't get on much,' she 
 said, ' but I love her, we suit each other down to the 
 ground.' 
 
 Miss Fenwick was in the cart now, and Brunette was 
 mad to be off. 
 
 ' Charming mare,' said the master of the house, de- 
 risively. ' Phil is hanging on by his eyebrows and you 
 can't spare a little finger to lift your rug. Keep her 
 well in hand. Don't woolgather on the way. Good-bye. 
 Good-bye.* 
 
 The master of the house stood and watched the cart 
 out of sight, then he turned to his wife. 
 
 ' They are a splendid pair,' he said, proudly, * they 
 suit each other to a T, as the child said.' 
 
 But Mary caught her breath, not answering, then he 
 looked at her and saw the tears in her eyes. 
 
 *To bare, to rear, to love, and then — to lose,' she 
 said, under her breath, in answer to his wondering 
 look. 
 
 'But, Mary, she is coming straight back after the
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 297 
 
 honeymoon. This won't do, you can't tie that daughter 
 of yours to your apron-string and run her in a leash 
 with your husband.' 
 
 He was teasing her, but without any bitterness in his 
 banter. 
 
 Her smile was not successful. 
 
 * I wish,' she spoke out suddenly, passionately — * I 
 wish she had never seen that man, Godfray, I wish 
 she would never marry, she is happy, quite happy as 
 she is.' 
 
 ' What is it, Mary 1 Be reasonable. You don't want 
 Bab to grow into an oddity, you don't want her to grow 
 into a manly, tough, strong-minded old maid 1 Peel is 
 a steady fellow and she chose him, selected him herself. 
 She will have her ups and downs, no doubt, to keep her 
 commonplace ; if she went her own way she'd get a bit 
 eccentric in time, I fancy. Bless you, she'll be quite 
 happy. She's not like you, Mary, she's one of us, and 
 takes things uncommonly easy. Jack must find another 
 wife, there is plenty of choice even in India, he'll get 
 one before long, I know you are hankering after him, I 
 have myself. He played his cards clumsily or she would 
 have squared it with him, I verily believe, but it's no 
 use crying over spilt milk. We must take things as 
 they are and make the best of them.' 
 
 Godfray was a lazy, easy-going man who liked his 
 thinking mostly done for him, but he could, on occasion, 
 take command of both his will and his wife, with 
 authority which was wise as it was undisputed. 
 
 Mary was no woman of whims ; when she laughed 
 half-heartedly, and excused herself by saying, ' That her 
 head ached, that she had had a bad night and dreamed 
 of horrors, that she was tired and out of spirits,' he did 
 not count it waste of time to devote this sunshiny 
 morning to consoling her, even for an imaginary trouble. 
 
 He knew her face so well, he had learned through
 
 298 MABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 the pleasant years to perfect his kindly art, he could 
 pierce her reserve and heal the hurts wliich it was 
 natural to her to have hidden from him. 
 
 So if Mary was foolhardy enough to chose imaginary 
 sorrow for a playfellow she had some reason for the 
 choice. He took her off with him into the breezy, high- 
 lying garden where the spring flowers, none the worse 
 for their extra chill, were bursting, where the noisy birds 
 were singing a requiem for the dead winter, and tried 
 to soothe her back to her usual serenity. 
 
 The hot sun found its way to the last white streaks of 
 snow, which lay below the hedges and in the goyles and 
 glades, melting the frozen drifts tear by tear. The hot 
 sun was seductive and so was Godfray's company, so the 
 idle, mistress of the house loitered without all the 
 morning long, talking of Bab, of Bab's childhood, of her 
 tricks of baby talk, of her many escapades, of her 
 strength and courage, of her patience (not in tribulation, 
 but with fishing-rod, and racket, and club), of her beauty, 
 too, and frankness. Godfray tried to talk of the garden, 
 which was all planted with a view to the wedding, but 
 Mary was full of no one, of nothing but her daughter. 
 
 Here were the empty rabbit-hutches, here her small 
 plot of garden ; did Godfray remember how Bab had 
 climbed the deodara there for a bird's-nest, and had 
 fallen off a high branch, and how Mary had found her 
 lying on the ground, stunned, with her face pricked and 
 bleeding 1 
 
 '1 must have been dreaming of that,' said Mrs. 
 Fenwick, with an evident satisfaction in her own 
 suggestion. * I dreamt of it last night, and I had not 
 thought of it for years. Shall we walk down to the 
 lodge and meet the cart, Godfray 1 She ought to be 
 back soon, it is nearly lunch-time.' 
 
 * Perhaps she will lunch at Woodbury.' 
 
 * No,' quickly, conclusively, * she will come home.'
 
 MABY FEN WICK'S BAUGETEB. 299 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Is it so true that second thoughts are best ? 
 Not first, and third which are a riper first ? 
 Too ripe, too late : they come too Late for use. — TennysoN". 
 
 ' Tlio future comes not from before to meet us, but streams up from 
 behind over om* heads.' 
 
 Through tlie pleasant lanes the cart spun apace on its 
 way to Woodbury, The hand which directed Brunette's 
 course was accomplished and inexorable ; its owner sat 
 square, straight on the high box-seat, looking before her 
 with serious eyes. 
 
 Swift gusts of gorse-scented breeze rushed softly by, 
 the keen sun shone upon her, to her the birds sang boldly 
 of their throbbing joys. Spring stirred the heart of 
 Nature, and the heart of Nature in her turn touched the 
 hearts of men. 
 
 The last days of Bab's maidenhood were galloping past, 
 the busy, beautiful, short days of life. Filled full of 
 delights were they ; in truth, they had been just a little 
 overfull, for when a grain of sadness had, all unawares, 
 mingled with her happiness, it had ovei-flowed and run to 
 waste. 
 
 A tyrannous thought haunted Bab, she could not get 
 rid of a weight on her memory. That poor, dead woman 
 had tried to struggle home. Had she prayed and striven, 
 and yet stumbled and died 1 It tore Bab's heart to think 
 of her. 
 
 This arbitrary thought tinged the spring day with 
 melancholy. Bab's mind was too frank to altogether 
 deceive its owner, it assured her that she had no right 
 to trifle with ' the blues.' Such blues were cowardly ; 
 was she suspicious of a chosen track, scared by her own 
 shadow ? Bab worshipped at the shrine of the great god 
 Pluck, and she had no tenderness for her heavy heart, 
 she disliked it.
 
 300 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 A slow-built house stands firmest, there was a slow- 
 built house, founded on a rock, the doors of which were 
 shut to her, and which would, had it been open to hor 
 still, have made her exactly the sort of homo that she 
 liked. She was not going to hanker for that house, but 
 she was about to plant a creeper on the wall without ; 
 she was going to try to decorate it. 
 
 She was going to Woodbury, because she had a 
 cowardly distaste for Woodbury ; she had a qualm at the 
 thought of meeting Alethea, therefore it was, no doubt, 
 that she went thither. She would rush this difiiculfc 
 fence and get past it. The dove must be thanked for — 
 the civil must be done, — and besides this Bab wanted to 
 do what she could for the empty house. 
 
 Trit-trot, trit-trot, on, on. Up the long avenue, past 
 the conservatory ; as she drew up at the closed doors, she 
 found herself wishing that she had written her thanks, — 
 & p p c card would have done for farewell, but Phil had 
 rung the bell, it was too late now to turn back. 
 
 ' Yes, 'm, both Lady Young and Miss Young are at 
 home.' 
 
 Alethea was alone in the room whither Miss Fenwick 
 was ushered. She flushed painfully at Bab's genial 
 greeting, and then grew notably white. 
 
 * The dove is fascinating, Alethea,' Miss Fenwick went 
 on, with enthusiasm, ' how good of you to give me such a 
 lovely thing ; people are so kind ; the stacks and stacks 
 of presents that arrive are quite demoralizing,' 
 
 * They will be on view, I suppose ; we shall all have 
 our chance of depreciating — and envying— everything.' 
 
 Cynical and chilly was the little lady's manner upon 
 this glorious morning. She, too, found it hard, bitterly 
 hard to rejoice with those who do rejoice. 
 
 * Father said you meant to be suggestive when you put 
 the dove's heart in his mouth,' laughing. ' I shall tell 
 Stanhope.'
 
 MABY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTER. 301 
 
 ' What should I know of your dove's heart 1 If it is 
 in his mouth so much the better for him, you'll be sure 
 to have an excellent cook, Bab.' 
 
 The bride-elect thought for one silent moment, and 
 Alethea went on speaking. 
 
 * You are none the worse for the blizzard, Bab ; I 
 never saw you looking better.' 
 
 ' I'm all right, no rheumatism, no cold ; nothing. 
 Stanhope got lumbago for a day or two, and was very 
 sorry for himself. Have you heard from Jack 1 ' 
 
 ' Yesterday.' 
 
 * Has he gone 1 ' 
 
 * He sailed on Friday.' 
 'Was he all right r 
 
 ' I suppose so. Are you going to put up the cart and 
 stay to lunch 1 ' 
 
 ' No, no, thanks very much, but I must get back early, 
 I have never been so busy in my life, every one wants 
 me all day long, Alethea, I am so glad Jack is ' 
 
 ' Gone ] ' quickly, sharply, ' Glad he is gone 1 ' 
 
 'I am glad,' looking surprised at the interruption, 
 'that Jack didn't knock himself up in the storm. It 
 was fearful, Alethea, terrible, the snow was splintered 
 ice, it cut, and dazed, and blinded one. There was no 
 humbug about it, it showed itself in its true colours. I 
 can't describe to you what the wind was, fusillades and 
 cannonades, and real human shrieks ; the noise was 
 appalling, and the cold froze one's very muscles. When 
 Jack fetched me in the morning, I couldn't stand,' 
 
 'Eeally,' with a demonstrative indifference to Bab's 
 sufferings. 
 
 * Of course you've been overdone with blizzard in the 
 Gazette, I won't cram any more experiences down your 
 throat, but I am glad Jack didn't knock himself up 
 altogether. He worked so hard, picking out sheep and 
 digging the cows free in their stalls, and rushing to the
 
 302 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTEB. 
 
 telegraph-office. He got my poor frozen fellow-traveller 
 home, too. I believe he carried her for a quarter of a 
 mile, and she was a good deal " fallen abroad," as she 
 said 1 And Jack was quite well when he wrote to you 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' He told me about it. Alethea.' 
 
 Bab had had a trick of treating the great * it ' lightly ; 
 * it ' with her suitors had lightly come and lightly gone, 
 but as soon as this candid remark had escaped her she 
 felt that she had blundered. 
 
 ' What did he tell you 1 ' 
 
 Pale eyes can flash, and a hot indignation burn big in 
 a very small person. Alethea had a knack of dodging 
 about her meaning, of treating it sideways ; but now 
 she went direct as her comrade had done to the point. 
 Poor Alethea, she had buried her ' it ' so deep, it was 
 food on which to feed in secret, food to warm and fill 
 her empty life, and the ' it,' falling from those dewy 
 lips, hurt like a blow. — Jack had talked of ' it ' to this 
 glowing, comely bride-elect, with her ' stacks of pre- 
 sents,' and her ' Stanhope,' and her * thick skin,' and 
 her * hard heart.' Gall and wormwood, must Alethea 
 keep silence, nor speak 
 
 ' Some certam truths of her ' ] 
 
 "Was nothing but eulogy to fall upon those little ears 
 from cradle to grave? "Was this plunderer never to 
 hear what her annexations cost those whom she robbed 1 
 
 ' You don't like his having told me, Alethea 1 ' Bab 
 was answering her face, not her words. 
 
 ' Told you— what 1 ' 
 
 * He wanted you to marry him.' 
 
 ' He did not. He said so, but he did not want me at all.' 
 'Jack does not tell lies, Alethea.' 
 
 * What do you know about Jack, except that he can 
 take a message, fetch a coat, and open a door? You
 
 MABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 303 
 
 have never taken the trouble to find out anything more 
 than the convenient uses of the people about you. You 
 are selfish ; you are so absolutely selfish that I, even I, 
 old and ill and lonely as I am, I would not bo such a 
 woman as you are even for Jack's sake — and I would do 
 much for him.' 
 
 Not comprehending the attack made upon her, Bab 
 stood like a scolded child stands who is puzzled by a 
 sudden incomprehensible fall from favour, startled, 
 anxious, uneasy. 
 
 * I don't know what you mean,' she said, drawing a 
 little away from Alethea. 
 
 * No, I see you don't ; you can't understand, that is 
 your disadvantage. To you one man is the same as 
 another, he can carry and fetch, he is just as useful, 
 as necessary as his fellow ; no more, no less. No, you 
 can't understand the damage you do. Understand? 
 No, certainly not ; for you, you, you are the person to 
 tell me that Jack wants me to marry him.' 
 
 ' He told me so,' slowly, ' himself.' 
 
 * And why 1 To save you a qualm for your part in 
 his banishment : to save you a crumpled rose-leaf in 
 your bed. He would marry me for the same reason ; 
 no wonder I was, I am flattered by the project ; he 
 " wants " me so much as that. I hope some day you'll 
 find out the harm you have done him, and I hope you 
 may ' 
 
 ' Alethea ! ' 
 
 * I will speak out, you shall hear something besides 
 congratulations now. I tell you, you have banished 
 Jack, you have driven him from home, you have ruined 
 him, you made him weak enough to think that he could 
 compromise with me. What were you at when he told 
 you that from pity, in despair, he had asked me to 
 take your vacant place 1 What were you at when you 
 drove him to defend himself at my expense 1 You can't
 
 304 MAIIY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 remember 1 No, your memory is vague. I can imagine 
 it. I can imagine how glad you were that he had " got 
 over it," how you " hoped we should be happy." I can 
 fancy how you cut him to the quick. I know the torture 
 of tJiose bewildering confidences in the snow.' 
 
 ' Alethea ! ' remonstrating, hurt, amazed. 
 
 * Such a life as yours,' fiercely, ' f rittei'ed away in 
 lives you take and lives you spoil, is nothing but ' 
 
 Bab's pained and startled eyes had not checked the 
 passionate anger of the attack, but the sound of an ap- 
 proaching footfall crushed all antagonistic element from 
 the duologue as though it had never been. For the first 
 time in her life Bab was glad when Lady Young came 
 into her presence, she was glad to be cross-examined 
 about the wedding, she was glad to be guarded from 
 a tongue which had cut and hurt even more than the 
 tongues at Woodbury had a knack of doing. 
 
 Lady Young was angry with the bride-elect, but she 
 was athirst and hungered for the food and drink of her 
 soul, she was on the track of news, her blue eyes in 
 their old puckered lids had lost their beauty, but had 
 retained and increased their keenness ; she came for 
 wedding details, and she got them flowing in gushes of 
 preoccupied revelation from Bab's unsteady lips. 
 
 Lady Young noted the two faces before her, she who 
 loved to stir up strife all the day long chuckled softly 
 to herself, having some vague comprehension of the 
 situation which she had distiu-bed ; but the combatants 
 made common cause against the incomer, and she got no 
 rises, such as she soixght, from either woman. 
 
 It almost seemed that the bride's modesty had ruined 
 her manners, for Bab was constrained and awkward, 
 and yet she stayed on talking of frocks, and presents, 
 and guests, and Peels, until a tarantella danced by 
 frantic hoofs upon the drive became audible in the 
 drawing-room, when she abruptly rose to take her leave.
 
 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 305 
 
 ' We shall see you again before the 2nd ? ' said Lady 
 Young, interrogatively. 
 
 * I am not sure, I am very busy, there are so many 
 notes to write.' 
 
 * And so many fibs to tell, a wedding is made up of 
 duplicities crowned with the pretty, poetical vows which 
 we none of us keep. So this is a real good-bye.' 
 
 ' I am saying no real good-byes. We shall live at 
 Combe, you see.' 
 
 Lady Young shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 ' I am afraid I could not be content in a caged Happy 
 Family,' she said. * You must go 1 Well, I will wish you 
 good luck, which is magnanimous of me, for we bear you 
 a grudge in this house. We have an empty chair which 
 Alethea lays to your account. Good-bye. Good-bye.' 
 
 Alethea preceded the departing visitor, going right 
 out upon the drive by the side of the cart, and when 
 there holding out her hand as though she was not sure 
 what its reception would be. But Bab took the small 
 peacemaker politely. 
 
 * Bab,' said its pale owner, looking up straight into 
 her eyes, * you heard what mamma said. I bear you a 
 grudge, Bab ; you have everything in the whole world, 
 don't — don't despise me.' 
 
 Bab, not knowing what to say, wrung the hand she 
 held ; her throat was husky, she cleared it. 
 
 * Good-bye,' she said gravely, and stumbled up into 
 her cart, awkward in limb as in tongue. Then she took 
 the reins and drove off down the drive ; Brunette found 
 the fingers on the rein were unsteady, and she took 
 every advantage of the circumstance. 
 
 It was not usual for Miss Fenwick to receive advice 
 from Phil. Woodbury had been left three miles behind 
 before the man, who had been fidgeting and fretting 
 on his precarious perch for some time, could not any 
 longer restrain his tongue. 
 
 X
 
 306 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 * "Would you please to keep a bit firmer hand on her, 
 miss, she's up to anything/ he said anxiously, 'Joe 
 don't half exercise the 'osses.' 
 
 A firmer hand 1 How many more candid friends, 
 armed with bitter home-truths, would attack this 
 shattered bride-elect, whose shaky fingers betrayed with 
 what ease the spirit had been knocked out of her 1 
 
 Poor Bab, she had to face her new characteristics, 
 those parts of her which banished, ruined, weakened, 
 irritated, outraged her neighbours, and the presence of 
 which she had not recognized until they had been ■ 
 pointed out to her frankly. Of course. Stanhope had 
 told her of her blemishes, but it had been left to Alethea 
 to wound and bruise her with their ruggedness, to press 
 the blemishes home. 
 
 Of course, a selfish, empty young person had had no 
 sort of right to enjoy herself, and to be content ; every 
 one had grudged her her happiness ; they wished to 
 close the gates of a fool's paradise, which, after all, had 
 been paradise to her, and whither she would gladly 
 return. Life was beginning to be hard, she had come 
 to a turn in the sunshiny lane of youth, shadows lay 
 across the road before her ; her own shadow was cast at 
 her feet, it lengthened as the light went down. 
 
 Her hands would tremble, but she gathered the reins 
 in more tightly, in accordance with Phil's suggestion ; 
 and then her eyes brightened, for here before her in 
 the lane there strolled a small familiar figure, an un- 
 observant boy with whom she had much in common, 
 and who would be glad of a lift on his homeward way. 
 Bab wanted to talk, not to think, and Lance Campbell 
 had lots to say quite disconnected with that worn-out 
 topic, the coming wedding-day. 
 
 She drove on alongside the boy and pulled up, 
 addressing him. 
 
 * Halloa, Lance, do you want a lift ? I'll give you one.
 
 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 307 
 
 Brunette shied at tlie small figure, plunging and re- 
 bellious over the delay, objecting to a halt at any time, 
 but especially objecting to a halt on the hill down which 
 the stony road to Combe lay appetizingly before her. 
 
 * Thanks awfully,' said the boy, shifting the books he 
 was carrying, and pocketing his catapult. 
 
 Phil was at Brunette's restive head. 
 
 ' Diiee git up sharp, sir,' he urged. 
 
 'Hurry up. Lance,' said Miss Fenwick, leaning 
 forward to take some of the boy's books, which had 
 slipped from a confining strap. 
 
 The mare was backing away from the groom, shaking 
 herself ill-humouredly. Lance dodged up agilely into 
 the cart, but dropping a lexicon on the road as he did 
 so. Brunette testified her dislike to the thud of the fall 
 by a kick that rang against the shaft. 
 
 Bab touched the rebel with the whip to remind her of 
 her manners, but she had had her head all along the 
 road and did not choose to be meek under coercion. 
 
 So she kicked again violently, viciously, but the 
 kicking-strap held its own, there was no freedom of 
 heels on the hill-top. Her bit was her own, it was in 
 her power, she caught it between her teeth and reared 
 on end. 
 
 ' She's coming over on us,' said Lance, relishing the 
 chance and grinning widely ; but she did not come over, 
 down she went again, swerving sharply from Phil as her 
 hoofs touched the ground. 
 
 Frustrating the groom's effort to stop her, she bolted 
 past him and tore at a break-neck pace down the hiU 
 before her ; a flight of small birds rose from the hedge, 
 the whirr of wings breaking with a noise at which she 
 chose to take fright and to fly before. 
 
 Brunette had got out of hand on former occasions and 
 had taken her cargo home with her at her own pace, but 
 never before had Bab lost her nerve.
 
 308 MAEY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Hold on, Lance, hold hard,' she cried ; her wrists 
 shook, her fingers were unnerved, her hands swayed 
 clutching the reins, but impotent. 
 
 ' I am holding. Stop her — oh, do stop her.* 
 
 The light cart swam in the air. 
 
 * Hold tight, Lance.' 
 
 * I am holding. I am not frightened. Do stop her.' 
 ' Yes, yes.' 
 
 * I'm not frightened, but we shall get killed.' 
 
 Down that fearful hill, clattering over the loose flints, 
 they swung ; they reached the base in safety and turned 
 into the narrow, shady lane. The way was level, high- 
 hedged, rough, the cart rocked, and before them block- 
 ing, or seeming to block the lane, a waggon was ap- 
 proaching. Its driver shrieked out to them, drawing his 
 horses close into the hedge. 
 
 ' Jump out,' said Lance, in a whisper, ' do, jump out.' 
 
 *No, no. Hold on.' 
 
 She set her teeth for the crash. Fighting with 
 Brunette for her head, she strained at the reins, 
 strengthening her hands with a prayer. The wheels 
 of the cart tore out the ferns, scraped grating through 
 the clay soil of the hedge — and passed the waggon by. 
 
 * Don't touch me, Lance. Hold on, but not to me.' 
 The air rushed past them. Along the narrow lane 
 
 they galloped like the wind, on, on — breathless they 
 sat, waiting. Brunette was scared and reckless now, 
 she swerved at the shadow of a tree once, and Lance 
 cried out, they were so nearly over. 
 
 Before them lay the common, intersected with four 
 cross-roads ; they emerged from the dangers of the 
 narrow road and rushed into the open. Near at hand a 
 long ridge of stones lay piled around the sign-post. A 
 gust of wind came across the furze and fluttered a piece 
 of tattered paper out upon the road, it eddied forth from 
 the shadow and danced in the sunshine across the stones.
 
 MABY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 309 
 
 At this small scrap of whiteness Brunette took fright. 
 She darted away from it, plunging back and swerving 
 against the sign-post, backing against the stones. 
 
 It had come at last, the sickening crash, the struggle 
 — a fall, and then nothing — silence, stillness, a blank 
 unfilled. 
 
 Then the blank was full of sound, odd sound, that 
 roared in Bab's ears as the blizzard had done ; the storm 
 had come again. 
 
 But only for a moment did Bab lose consciousness, 
 only for a moment did she visit that strange country 
 that is neither dreamland nor death, but akin to both ; 
 then her power of thought returned unimpaired, she 
 could see, hear, reason, comprehend. She opened her 
 eyes, the sun shone on them, dazzling her vision ; she 
 found herself lying at length upon the ridge of stones. 
 
 'Lance,' she called, her voice was strong and clear, 
 ' Lance I ' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 * Lance.' 
 
 No answer. She must sit up and look for the boy. 
 Ah ! what was that on the flints close to her side 1 Was 
 that his arm 1 that doubled-up, awkward, unlif elike arm 
 that actually touched her coat ] She looked at it closely, 
 she looked again ; the glove, the cuff, the boxcloth 
 sleeve upon that arm were not Lance's. She knew them 
 all, they were her own, the arm was hers. Broken, 
 contorted, misshapen as the badly-shot wing of a 
 wretched bii-d, it lay useless beside her. Not a pang, 
 not a thrill of pain did she feel to tell her what had 
 befallen the numb and tingling limb. 
 
 ' Lance, Lance, do try and answer. I can't move, I 
 can't come to you. Where are you, Lance 1 ' 
 
 She heard a rustle in answer to her appeal, a rustle 
 behind her, followed by a long sigh, and then some one 
 seemed to be crying.
 
 310 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGETJER 
 
 * Poor Lance. Lance, can you speak 1 ' 
 
 * Kather,' gasping ; ' but, oh, I say, it knocked the 
 wind out of me. I was chucked here in the ditch : I'm 
 mud all over. She's bolted with a wheel, she has. The 
 rest of the cart is all mashed up on the road.' 
 
 * Are you hurt. Lance ] ' 
 
 * I'm trying to make out : there's blood, but it's only 
 scratches. I'll get up in a moment and help you.' 
 
 "What sort of help? she wondered, thinking of the 
 effectual help which mercy gives to a winged bird. 
 
 * Lance, are you hurt 1 ' Again she asked her question 
 louder still. ' Can you move 1 Do you feel 1 ' 
 
 'I'm coming over; I've sprained my thumb, that's 
 about all. It don't hurt,' reassuringly, * very much.' 
 
 Bab's mind was clear as air, her hearing acute. The 
 boy came stumbling over the loose stones towards her ; 
 she could hear in the far distance quick footsteps on the 
 road. She shut her eyes, the sun shone hot upon them, 
 then Lance's shadow screened her, and she looked up 
 into his face which was blood-streaked, quivering, but 
 unblemished. He knelt down at her side, biting his lip 
 at the sight of her tangled, twisted arm. 
 
 * You've got hurt.' 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 * Your arm's broken.' 
 
 * Yes.' 
 
 * You have fallen a bit awkwardly. Can I give you 
 a hand, and help you round 1 ' 
 
 * I think we had better wait ; but move the stone, it 
 cuts my cheek. There are people coming, look down 
 the road. You must send home for help.' 
 
 She shut her eyes again. 
 
 * I say, speak, do speak.' 
 
 ' All right, Lance, — I will.' 
 
 * Go on speaking, — I can't bear it if you don't ; I 
 can't help blubbing — don't you see. I wish, I wish
 
 MABY .FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER 311 
 
 you'd just move a bit, — your head's all tiu-ned wrong, 
 don't you see. You don't know how queer, how bad it 
 looks.' 
 
 * I can't move. Lance, don't be afraid, nothing hurts 
 me — at all — I can talk, don't cry, it's just a rick, I 
 ricked my back as I fell, it was a bad place to fall. 
 You must send home for help.' 
 
 And there, until such help did come, she lay as she 
 had fallen, Phil and half-a-dozen strangers flocking up 
 from fields and homesteads gathered round her, but none 
 had courage so great that they would be the ones to 
 touch her. 
 
 ' You must send home for help.* 
 
 Because the strength of love is unfathomable, because 
 tender arms are brave, strong, firm, and do not falter 
 at their work, because the task is grievous and the 
 burden heavy, * send home for help.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 For he said, ' Fight on, fight on,' 
 
 Though his vessel was all but a wreck, 
 
 And he said, ' Fight on, fight on.' — The Revenge. 
 
 ' Though God take the sun out of heaven, we must have patience.' 
 
 As they pass from cradle to grave, people often find 
 occasion to say, 
 
 ' This is the saddest tiling that I have ever heard in 
 my life.' 
 
 Such words as these were on many lips in Devonshire 
 now, for in truth a sad thing had befallen ' one of the 
 nicest girls in the county.' Such a calamity as it was 
 better to hear of, to talk about, to wring hands over 
 than to see face to face. If we value our peace of mind, 
 it is well to steer clear of those whom a supreme afl9.iction 
 has picked out from amongst us and made conspicuous.
 
 312 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 The poor bride-elect, the poor thing. At every 
 breakfast-table within a league of Combe her unfortunr 
 ate spill formed the topic of conversation, all the morn- 
 ing it was discussed ; and there were some young people 
 who could not get the weight of her misfortunes off their 
 minds for several days ; whilst others shed luxurious 
 though genuine tears, saying, 
 
 ' It really was too sad to think about, they wished 
 they could forget it altogether.' 
 
 For the inside of a week no acquaintance down in 
 the Vale of Combe passed each other on the road, car- 
 riages were di-awn up, pedestrians halted, every one 
 had something to tell or to ask, and all about Eab 
 Fenwick. 
 
 ' Wasn't it dreadful ? She had been carried home, 
 her father had reached the common in time to manage 
 the moving, the Adams had met them on thjir way to 
 Combe, the shock had made poor Mrs. Adams quite ill. 
 The broken arm had been a sickening sight, but of 
 course the injury to the arm was nothing, the back was 
 damaged too, and — and — well — she was as strong as 
 Hercules.' 
 
 * Why had she been allowed to drive that unsafe 
 horse 1 Every one knew that rashness was not pluck. 
 By a little caution the accident might have been averted ; 
 the speaker thought it was impossible to be too careful 
 on wheels. It was shocking to think of, and the boy 
 had escaped with a scratch, boys had the lives of a cat.' 
 The speaker was on her way to the rectory to hear (oh, 
 the consolation of hearing, the joy of tragic details to 
 the well-balanced mind,) ' all about it.' 
 
 * JNIi's. Campbell won't see any one ; it is a little 
 absurd, but one knows what she always is. The person 
 I pity is the poor young man. Susie saw him driving 
 through Tipton this morning. Sir Joseph Andrew has 
 been telegraphed for. Dr. Bedford and an Exeter doctor
 
 3IARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 313 
 
 have hardly left the house. I have been to inquire, but 
 there seems nothing much to tell.' 
 
 The multitude of interested neighbours had nothing 
 to do but to inquire : the lodge gates clicked perpetually. 
 Mrs. Basten had few minutes in which to rest. The 
 wedding itself could not have furnished more traffic ; for 
 close one upon another carriages bowled up the drive ; 
 close one upon another, coming and going, the village 
 folk came to the lodge for news. 
 
 Just as usual the beautiful, old, grey house stood high 
 with its misty background of wooded hills ; its blinds 
 were drawn up, its windows stood open. The water- 
 fowl floated on the ponds, the rooks cawed as they circled 
 about the beeches on the knoll. There was nothing 
 there to whiten faces, or to subdue the voices of the 
 people who came up in the sunshine, with cards and 
 questions to show their sympathy, and yet they shivered 
 at the sight of Combe, and were glad to keep the house 
 at arm's length ; they were glad to find that the gates 
 near the house were shut, and that a servant was 
 stationed there to guard all sound of wheel, or bell, or 
 voice from raaching a certain room, which must be kept 
 in perfect outward peace for the sake of its quiet inmate. 
 
 Barnes, who stood like a sentinel on the drive, was an 
 old servant ; he knew the inquirers, and could gauge the 
 quantity and quality of their feelings, but he treated 
 them all alike. 
 
 * Miss Fen wick's horse had run away ; the cart had 
 upset at the cross-roads. l^Iiss Fen wick had been 
 seriously hurt.' 
 
 That was all : he had a sort of half-shame over the 
 misfortune of * his family.' He had been proud of the 
 prosperity at Combe : the victims of the tower of Siloam 
 are, in a certain condition of society, much open to 
 suspicion. 
 
 But when a certain yellow chariot rolled up, and
 
 314 MARY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 there looked out thence a pair of pale, wan eyes, and 
 Miss Young, dumb, without an articulate note of voice, 
 yet questioned him, his face worked in response to her 
 unuttered words, and he forgot it was his duty to have 
 no feelings to show, he forgot himself. 
 
 * She is in the morning-room, m'm. They took her 
 straight in there. There are two nurses come ; the arm 
 is set. At first the doctors didn't think to trouble her ; 
 but ' — could Miss Young's dim eyes read between the 
 lines 1 — * now 'tis set. The London doctor is with her ; 
 he goes back by the night express. She is as clear as I 
 am. No, m'm, they see no one, no one at all. Mr. 
 Peel is here, he has been in there just a minute, but he 
 can't bear up at all. Turn here, coachman, this way, if 
 you please.' 
 
 Day after day carriages rolled up the drive, which 
 was dumb with straw. In lieu of Barnes was a bulletin 
 fastened upon the locked gates, which the people read. 
 The bulletin did not vary, it was always worded thus : 
 
 * Miss Fenwick continues very ill.' 
 
 The members of the household were waylaid, Mrs. 
 Basten was cross-examined, and the rectory besieged, 
 and yet there was nothing more to tell than the bulletin 
 had told — * Miss Fenwick continued very ill.' 
 
 Even behind the grey walls no more than that could 
 be said. Bab lay quiet, passive, sensible, painless ; and 
 the people who loved her best sat and watched her. 
 Passive, quiet, sensible, too. 
 
 Godfray and Mary marvelled at one another's 
 strength ; these impotent, anguished watchers played 
 tranquil, patient parts. Action was endui-ance, passive 
 endurance. Bab was to be kept quiet, and they were 
 to be beside her with calm faces, steady voices ; their 
 reassuring peace of mind must infect her. 
 
 So they lived from hour to hour, neither looking to
 
 MARY FENWICKS DAUGHTER. 315 
 
 to-morrow nor to yestei'day, but battling through the 
 bitterness of life minute by minute in the silent, trans- 
 formed room where their daughter lay. Bab was what 
 is called a good patient. Dr. Bedford, who knew her 
 restless propensities, wondered to see her lie, while the 
 day darkened to night and the night dawned to day, 
 helpless, motionless, and yet uncomplaining. He told 
 her, 
 
 ' How good she was, how she helped herself, and him, 
 and those about her by her patience.' 
 
 And she was pleased at the praise and smiled. She 
 did not talk much, but lay with her eyes fixed on the 
 down-drawn blind ; she seemed to be thinking. 
 
 Bab knew what guest was dreaded just now at Combe, 
 she knew who stood at her elbow waiting, she knew who 
 had come very close to her. So that her thoughts grew 
 strange. 
 
 Strange and sad are the long thoughts of those who 
 lie through days and nights, face to face with death. 
 Strange and sad are the dreams which flock to them in 
 sleep. To them the aspect of life changes, they stand 
 apart looking dispassionately upon it. 
 
 Eyes which have looked into their open tomb know 
 the wonder of the transformation ; those eyes see a path 
 strewn thick as autumn leaves with waste and rubbish, 
 with flowers unpicked, with weeds unhoed, with work 
 neglected. 
 
 The dying are restless for the deeds that are not done, 
 they repent them of the lost days in which men can 
 work. For to them come the coflin, the nailing, and the 
 sod, for such as they the words ' dust to dust ' were 
 wi-itten. 
 
 * How brave were those quiet people amongst whom 
 all mankind shall lie. How did they face their death ] 
 were they afraid? Had they too, perhaps, forgotten 
 they must die 1 Were they hungry for compassion 1
 
 316 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Did they remember that their fate was the common fate 
 of all, no tragedy at all 1 ' 
 
 Sad and strange were Bab's thoughts, she kept them 
 to herself as she lay watching the light behind the blind. 
 
 ' What if the bread 
 
 Be bitter iu thine inn, and thou unshod 
 To meet the flints ? At least it may be said 
 Because the way is short, I thank thee, God.' 
 
 A house of mourning is not a popular resort, and such 
 a house had Combe become, a most depressing house. 
 People stole about on tiptoe, hinges were newly oiled, 
 bells were muffled ; the silence lay like a weight on the 
 place. 
 
 To add to the crushing anxieties of poor Stanhope 
 Peel's position, his body was absolutely neglected. When 
 week followed week, and the demoralized household still 
 made the sick-room the centre of the universe; when 
 week followed week and still the doctors were vague in 
 their verdict, and his poor bride-elect was, at any rate, 
 no worse, he relaxed his high tension of wretchedness 
 about Bab, and began to talk a little of himself and his 
 own manifold discomforts. 
 
 A man whose published aim in life was to ' do himself 
 well ' was out of place at Combe just now, for man and 
 maid ignored Mr. Peel and his requirements, the cook no 
 longer put her soul into her legitimate trade, the meals 
 were bad and badly served, whilst old Fenwick and his 
 wife sat through them, talking that awful sort of chit- 
 chat which it is deemed etiquette to keep moving on the 
 surface of supreme anguish before our fellow-man. 
 
 At fii'st, in the shock and horror of the calamity. 
 Stanhope had been as insensate about the food as the 
 cook herself, he had felt no interest in his meals, he had 
 been profoundly depressed ; but no situation is so bad 
 that a man cannot get used to it, and now he began to ask, 
 
 ' How much longer a fellow could stand this sort of
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 317 
 
 thing and keep fit 1 He was conscious of getting liippe.l, 
 chippy, off colour, and off feed ; he rather thought he was 
 going to be ill ; if once he broke down he should be a 
 beastly nuisance where he was. He might as well be 
 underground himself, he was so down on his luck/ 
 
 Then, by Mary Fenwick's advice, he went to Tre- 
 garvis, and when there took counsel with his people. 
 They were shocked by his pale face and by his moodi- 
 ness ; he wished to do everything on the straight, but 
 what earthly good did he do poor Bab by dangling about 
 her sick-room door 1 She had not sent for him, he never 
 saw her, he only heard the hushing, and saw the nurses 
 pacing for constitutionals on the terrace ; all the acces- 
 sories of his misfortune were awful to him, they increased 
 his misery, they made his blood run cold. 
 
 He would do everything on the straight, and so, 
 groaning in spirit, he went back for just a night or two, 
 into the thick of the horrors. How he loathed that 
 dismal, sick house ; how he shuddered as he drove thither. 
 The straw which deadened the sound of his wheels set 
 his teeth a- jar. 
 
 The same everlasting bulletin fluttered on the locked 
 gates. Was this unhappy business to go on indefinitely, 
 and wear out the youth and health of the unfortunate 
 young man 1 
 
 Chillier, gloomier, more deadly than ever was the hall 
 he entered ; he wished he had never left it. Upon his 
 soul, it would have been better never to have turned his 
 back on Combe, than to have had to face it again after 
 his respite. 
 
 He was right, we get used to our bm-dens, and forget 
 their size ; but should we throw them aside and reload 
 later, then their weight is impressive, each ounce tells. 
 
 Poor Mr. Peel, he had such a great dislike to sickness. 
 Faugh ! what a poor place the world seemed on this 
 tanhappy morning. Stealthily and with hanging head
 
 318 MAEY FENWiaiCS DAUGHTER. 
 
 he 'crept into tlie house, dreading wliat it might be his 
 portion to come across in tliis place of shadows ; but 
 some one heard his entrance, some one who was bursting 
 with good tidings, some one who was off his head, and 
 who caught the young man's hand in a vice and wrung 
 it till it throbbed. 
 
 ' Stanhope,' and Captain Fenwick was within an ace 
 of making a fool of himself, ' she is better. Sir Joseph 
 is here again, he has seen her, he is with her mother now. 
 She is better, there is a chance for her, a good chance 
 for her.' 
 
 And the master of the house led Bab's lover across the 
 hall as though he was leading him to his wedding ; but 
 Bab was not in bridal trim just yet. 
 
 For two-and-forty days and nights Brunette, the 
 sinner, had lain, dead and still, in her grave on the 
 common. For two-and-forty days and nights Brunette's 
 mistress had lain, living and still, in her bed in the 
 morning-room. 
 
 For two-and-forty days they had fought and prayed 
 for her life, for her bare life, and it seemed that this 
 boon might be granted them. The great doctor had 
 been about her bed for an hour and more ; upon the 
 strength of his mighty self-assurance it was natural 
 that they should lean, he brought hope with him. Mary 
 had gone away with him, her hungry eyes upon his 
 placid lips of knowledge, and Bab lay waiting for his 
 verdict, waiting for her sentence. 
 
 The morning-room was transformed ; screens, and two 
 small beds — in lieu of cosy-corners, easels, and knick- 
 knacks — furnished it ; a gentle-faced nurse sat, knitting, 
 out of sight of the other bit of humanity who lay still, 
 tall, straight, in the quiet room. 
 
 The two-and-forty days and nights had brought about 
 great changes at Combe ; the sunny morning-room was 
 sliaded and metamorphosed, and poor Bab was changed.:
 
 MARY FENWIGIPS DAUGHTER. 319 
 
 There could be no doubt that the face on the pillow Avas 
 hers, for the clear, brave, hazel eyes looked straight as 
 of yore, looked straight at the new aspect of the morning- 
 room, and faced it 'like a man,' as we say. 
 
 She had been spilt on the road, she was not the first 
 gild who had come a cropper across country, or other- 
 wise, and had had to pay for it. She had fallen awk- 
 wardly and hurt her back, she would face her bad luck 
 * like a man ' ; her undaunted eyes were unaltered. 
 
 But the rounded, downy, wind-blown cheeks, where 
 were they ] And the dewy red lips and the heavy trim 
 plaits, where were they ? 
 
 Bab's face had fallen sick, not her courage ; it was 
 her face which told tales, not her unmurmuring lips. 
 Her face told of the two-and-forty nights, 
 
 ' When the house doth mourn and weep, 
 And the world is phinged in sleep, 
 Yet mine eyes the watch do keep ; 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me.' 
 
 Her lips kept their own counsel, her voice had acquired 
 the inevitable note of weakness, but it had the knack to 
 make the best of thintjs as it had done when it ranff 
 clear, strong as a bell. 
 
 Days and nights had no very distinct personality now, 
 they ran one into another and intermingled, so that 
 time was very long and burdensome. Bab wanted to 
 know what the great doctor of innumerable questions 
 and unlimited sympathy had decreed ; she had so much 
 waiting to do now-a-days that she was getting accustomed 
 to it, had learned to translate the hushed sounds of 
 the household, and this accomplishment employed the 
 minutes. She heard the doctor go, she heard Fritz bark 
 at him as he went, and then her mother came back into 
 the room and crossed to the bedside. 
 
 Mary's face told tales as did her daughter's — her 
 haggard, worn, aged face, whose tender mother-eyes
 
 320 MARY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 understood a language without words, — she answered 
 Bab's dumb question rapidly. 
 
 ' You have improved, my dearest ; he says you are 
 better.' 
 
 Bab smiled, and moving her hand on the bed-clothes, 
 watched it straying there a few inches at her will. 
 
 * I showed him I could move,' she said, ' so I must be 
 better.' 
 
 Mary laid her lips upon the feeble traveller. 
 
 Behind the down-drawn blind the window stood open, 
 the whirr of a mowing-machine was audible, the light 
 wind full of the scent of fresh-cut grass fluttered the 
 curtains softly. 
 
 * Am I going to get better, mother ] ' the weak voice 
 was steady, but a little shrill. 
 
 * Yes, with God's mercy. Yes, darling.' 
 ' Better,' faintly, ' or — or well 1 ' 
 
 A mother may be jealous of happiness for her own, 
 but it is an unfortunate mother who feels a jealous pang 
 at the sound of a mower's footfall on the turf. Mary 
 could not speak, she had been cruelly tried. Bab's 
 lover had met her on her way thither, and in his 
 disappointment and his pain, he had blurted out his 
 readings of Bab's sentence. 
 
 * I thought he meant she was going to be all right, 
 Mrs. Fenwick, they came out to me and seemed to 
 think it was all right. But it's worse than ever. What 
 is she to do 1 Bab, to lie like a log ? Bab, tied to a 
 couch 1 Bab, an invalid ? What will she do ? Great 
 God in heaven, what will she do 1 ' 
 
 Stanhope, in the wretchedness of this new aspect of 
 the future, had attacked Mrs. Fenwick ; what could she 
 say to him, what could she say now ? 
 
 * Better — or well, mother 1 ' 
 
 Still more faintly came the question the second time^ 
 but Bab's fearless eyes steadied her mother's voice, her
 
 MARY FENWICJTS DAUGHTER. 321 
 
 eyos asked for the truth and meant to face it. Bab's 
 eyes shamed the rush of Mary's tears. 
 
 *My own, my dear one, think what it is to us, we 
 shall have you here to — to love, — you will get better, 
 you are better. The rest, Bab, we must leave the rest ; ' 
 and then she bent her face very close to her daughter's 
 and whispered half -inarticulately, ' " His compassions 
 fail not, they are new every morning." ' 
 
 Bab looked at the fluttering blind ; so it was to be 
 better, not well. Compassion ] Unfailing compassion, 
 she needed it no doubt, but then so did other people. 
 Sick-beds were common and ' bed-liers ' not i-are. Com- 
 passion, but not self -compassion ; compassion from God 
 and courage from His creatures, just those two things 
 must get people over fences, however hard, however 
 high. 
 
 She closed her eyes, just then she would have liked to 
 turn her face to the wall, but this she could not do, that 
 spill on the stones had done for her, with a ricked neck 
 and a hurt back there was little left that could be 
 achieved; one thing there was, and it was a natural 
 thing for Bab to do : she might make the best of better, 
 she might make the better, good. 
 
 She had not made a god of Pluck from babyhood 
 without conciliating that deity ; he stood by her now, 
 he soothed all the worst aspects of the morning-room 
 and proved his worth, his high place amongst the gods 
 to every inmate of Combe. 
 
 No one, in all the annals of humanity, ever heard 
 of a bride-elect who was a — a cripple, of a bride who 
 could not turn to greet her bridegroom. No one, in 
 all the annals of humanity, ever heard of a permanently 
 damaged woman who expected to have a lover at all. 
 
 No fellow could spend his whole life hanging about a 
 sick-house on the off chance of a few words with an 
 invalid. 
 
 Y
 
 322 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 With love and marriage Queen Bab had done as 
 surely as she had done with much mortal fare vipon this 
 earth, this world of ups and downs, this perplexing 
 world where the unexpected happens and blue devils 
 range most freely. 
 
 Poor Mr. Peel got ' blue devils ' when he thought of 
 Bab's future, he pitied her with a pity that hurt him 
 so much that he felt it was his duty to shake it off, to 
 get away from it. Bab had been energetic, stalwart, 
 robust, restless, he could not picture her a prey to 
 languor, and aches, and pains, and nerves, to all the 
 miserable necessities of -ill-health. Of course some 
 women ailed a lot, there were frail, fragile girls he 
 had known who made graceful, natural invalids, but 
 athletic Bab was not one of these. Poor wretched 
 Bab, he only wished to God he could forget the whole 
 business. He only wished that he had never set foot 
 in Devonshire. 
 
 Something must be done, it was no good beating about 
 the bush ; ' he wanted to do everything on the straight,' 
 and so he told grave, white-lipped Captain Fenwick as 
 he talked his prospects over with him one summer 
 morning on the terrace. 
 
 Nothing could have been more reasonable than Bab's 
 father, he met Stanhope half-way, jumped agilely to 
 awkward conclusions, and smoothed the back-door exit, 
 making the sundering of the ties as easy as they could 
 be made to the unfortunate man. 
 
 So the farewell between the lovers came to pass, the 
 ceremony did not last long, mutually they did what they 
 could to shorten it. Though there had been no romance 
 about that engagement of theirs, yet in the severing of 
 it there was a pang or two to be borne. Bab did her 
 part gracefully, she was not agitated, she put aside his 
 pity, she made Stanhope feel that the parting was inevit- 
 able, that he was behaving ' on the straight.' She made
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 323 
 
 him feel pleased with himself, she said he had always 
 been awfully good to her, she sent messages to his 
 people. She treated him as chief mourner, and seemed 
 to take kindly to her own part of suffering, as so 
 many sufferers have an inestimable knack of doing. 
 Altogether, though he broke down when he left her, yet 
 he was immensely relieved by her attitude. 
 
 She was settling down quite comfortably in her prison. 
 
 It was natviral, it was inevitable that Mr, Peel should 
 go, but when he drove off that afternoon the master of 
 the house went off to the empty green and white room 
 up-stairs, and spent a bad hour there in sight of the 
 rough-weather coats and capes, and the hanging dresses 
 that had been cast off as the sunshine had been cast 
 from their dear owner's life, his heart failing him ; he 
 gave up the struggle for composure and cried over one 
 of the porpoise boots like a child, feeling better when he 
 had let himself go. That holding in hand is hard work, 
 and Godfray had had much of it. 
 
 Mr, Peel had gone and then the presents went back, 
 and Mrs. Fenwick sat writing note after note, note after 
 note to the kind donors. Amongst them was one note 
 which was far longer than its fellows, and which got 
 blotted in the writing ; it ran thus, — but it was not 
 sent, lyirs, Fenwick tore it up, and wrote a calmer, 
 shorter letter to her sister : — 
 
 ' Combe, Aug. 2nd. 
 
 'Dearest Cicely, 
 
 *We are sending everything back, they were 
 all pushed out of sight, but now that Stanhope has gone 
 they, too, must go. We cannot bear the thought of 
 them. Amongst the rest I find your buckle, she was so 
 pleased with it. I helped her to undo the case the 
 evening she came back from Tregarvis. I have just 
 left her, nurse is pleased because the couch is turned so 
 that 13ab can see the sky. I am a wicked woman — I
 
 324 MARt FENWIGK>S DAUGHTER. 
 
 came away. The inactive life brings on many ailments, 
 but she is wonderful, she never complains ; think of 
 Bab not able to stretch out her hand to pat her dogs, 
 and think of her always patient, always patient. And 
 we are getting used to it, we are beginning to think it 
 natural to see her as she is, to answering " And how is 
 Bab 1 " conventionally. Godfray drove to-day for the 
 first time ; I was glad that he should go, but for all 
 that I hated it. The sharpness of the pain is blunting 
 to us — but to her, poor darling, it will not blunt, but it 
 will get more keen till — till when ] Do come, Cicely, 
 do come, the summer days are so long, and Dr. Bedford 
 says we must do everything that is possible to keep her 
 as she is. If she loses heart, if her courage fails her 
 she will lose her best hope, her one chance. I have no 
 right to ask you to such a house as ours, but with no 
 excuse except that I want you, I think you will come. 
 
 ' Your loving sister, 
 
 'Mary Fenwick.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Can I approach thee, I, who cannot move ? 
 How shall I answer thy request for love ? 
 Look in my face and see. — E. B. Browning. 
 
 ' A slow-built house stands longest.' 
 
 In the quick days of strength and vigour, Bab had 
 never known how to say die. Through the hot violence 
 of summer, through an autumn when there was nothing 
 for sport but tough old Time, with a frame which took 
 much slaying, right on into the company of the bully 
 winter who attacks sickness, old age, and poverty, letting 
 health and wealth and youth go scot-free, Bab lay on the 
 shelf and made no sign of rebellion at her lot. 
 
 She got through the unutterable weariness of inaction
 
 MAEY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 325 
 
 much in the same charming way as she had got through 
 long days after hounds, or birds, or fish. Those who 
 knew her best of all looked at her, incredulous, amazed ; 
 such a faculty for endurance was a royal gift, A year 
 ago there were those who would not have accredited 
 Queen Bab with any patience at all ; but behold her as 
 she was ! No martyr on her bed, but merely one of 
 many unfortunates, an unfortunate who had a knack 
 for taking the rough precisely as she had taken the 
 smooth of her life. People had left off talking of the 
 accident, they had forgotten the wedding festivities of 
 which they had been defrauded ; after all, poor Bab had 
 everything which a damaged girl could have to make 
 existence a success ] that spill at the cross-roads was a 
 tragedy, but a tragedy of the past ; some recent event 
 was a more interesting subject for discussion. 
 
 One young woman in the prime of her life was 
 shelved, but remember the surplus female population ; 
 plenty of young women remained ; golf and tennis, 
 boating, balls and picnics went on just as they had done 
 in the past though Bab had dropped out of it all. 
 
 Once more visitors came to Combe, there was no straw 
 on the drive now, no hushed voices and pale faces, but 
 kindly people intent on doing their duty to the invalid. 
 Girls invaded the morning-room, bright and sweet and 
 sunshiny maidens who twittered to Bab of their doings. 
 Lance, shy of her in her new guise, came now and then 
 with a bird's-egg, or a fossil, or something that he was 
 sure would interest her as an offering, but backing away 
 and leaving her at the first opportunity with the repug- 
 nance of a young heathen for damaged humanity. She 
 heard of bags, runs, balls ; the nurse amused her with 
 tales of suffering to which her easy couch was a bed of 
 roses. Again she heard those calls for ' Mary, Mary,' 
 to which she had been accustomed from her nursery 
 days.
 
 32G MART FENWICK'S DAUOHTEB. 
 
 Even in those days when the hearer could have gone 
 in answer to her father's call, it had not been ' Bab ' 
 that he had wanted, he had not gone on the hunt for his 
 daughter whenever he found himself indoors. 
 
 Noisy life resumed its old sway at Combe ; people 
 were, mercifully for them, getting used to the morning- 
 room, with its screens, and flowers, and its two small 
 beds. 
 
 ' It was just like him,' Lady Young said, turning down 
 the corner of her little mouth to show that she did not 
 approve of his similitude, 'Just the sort of thing I 
 should expect of him. Insanely impulsive as his poor, 
 dear father, who proposed to me only the third time we 
 met. I am ashamed of him, he sacrifices his prospects 
 and his passage-money, and makes an utter fool of him- 
 self before the whole county. Coming home now ! The 
 girl wouldn't look at him as long as she could get out of 
 his way ; and my poor infatuated son hangs about her 
 room, fetching and carrying like an upper servant. It 
 makes me furious. If it goes on, I shall tell them what 
 I think of it,' 
 
 And it did go on. In the mist, and fog, and dreari- 
 ness of November Jack Holland had come back from 
 India ; he had come, he said, defiantly, ' home.' He had 
 not been invited to Combe, but he was there ; he had not 
 been asked to stay on, but there he abode. 
 
 He had followed Mrs. Fenwick into Bab's presence on 
 the day of his arrival, and had shown that complete self- 
 control which his mother might have, aptly, compared to 
 that of an upper servant, for he saw his lady of quick- 
 silver still as one of the uptorn trees by which they had 
 stood, he and she, in the blizzard ; he saw the tell-tale 
 face, understanding its language, and yet he only 
 said, 
 
 * How are you, Bab t ' 
 
 And when Mrs. Fenwick indicated by a gesture that
 
 MARY FEN WICKS DAUGHTER. 327 
 
 the hand on the coverlet was willing, but unable to 
 greet him, he took it gently in his, and only smiled when 
 its owner told him, 
 
 ' I can't shake hands. Jack, not yet, but I'm much 
 better.' 
 
 She was a little agitated at meeting her old playmate, 
 but he was quite at his ease, quite at home ; he sat down 
 at her side as though there was nothing to wring his 
 heart in the new arrangement of that well-remembered 
 room, and talked steadily with his white lips, though 
 there was a look in his eyes from which IMrs. Fenwick 
 turned away. 
 
 * Are you going to stay. Jack 1 ' asked the voice that 
 had been in his ears night and day, the voice which he 
 had prayed to hear again, and was praying now for 
 strength to answer comfortably. 
 
 ' Yes,' and he looked very straight at Mary, and the 
 * yes ' was glowing, rapid. 
 
 Then he calmed his voice, and made a dozen explana- 
 tions wherewith to account for his return. England 
 seemed to be good enough for him, he would never set 
 foot outside the British Isles again. 
 
 ' I'm so glad ; ' her eyes, which seemed the only living 
 part of Bab that was not a wreck, smiled. * I'm glad 
 you got sick of grilling and stewing amongst the niggers, 
 Jack. Are you going ] ' 
 
 ' Yes, I must unpack,' clearly. 
 
 * You will come back soon 1 ' 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 * If you go out, Jack, do take the dogs. Father forgets 
 them, and they miss their walks.' 
 
 This touch from the past sent him to his unpacking 
 speedily, sent him with Dan and the dachshunds out 
 upon the hills for such a walk as the poor old collie found 
 over-long and fast, and brought him back with eyes 
 flayed and swollen by the wind, but full of steadfast
 
 328 MAEY FENWICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 purpose, and bright with a steady light such as had not 
 shone in them for many a month. 
 
 Christmas would be a difficult epoch that year ; just 
 till Christmas Jack was left to work his own will, he 
 was, they all recognized the fact, a comfort in the house, 
 but he should not be allowed to become a necessity. 
 
 One winter morning Mary Fenwick came to him, and 
 pointed out the way which he must go ; the obvious way 
 which a wise man should go, — away, away from Combe. 
 She pleaded with him patiently, she did not tell him that 
 an offensive letter crackled in her pocket, a letter which 
 spoke truth and which drove Mrs. Fenwick to talk out 
 plainly, and to show the silent hearer what a wild thing 
 he was doing. He listened to her arguments with 
 kindling eyes and set, inexorable mouth. 
 
 ' You must not sacrifice your whole life. Jack, we 
 must not allow you to do it, you must be saved from 
 yourself. It would be kinder to go now, when she will 
 miss you less than she would do if you stayed on till the 
 spring. Because you are here, because you want to 
 stay, because you have come to such a house as this, 
 because ' 
 
 He interrupted her with an inarticulate mutter that 
 was not patient. 
 
 * Don't,' he said, * don't talk like this ; you never 
 understood, Mrs. Fenwick, and you don't seem to under- 
 stand yet. Why do you talk of such a house as this, as 
 though it's to be shunned? What do I sacrifice by 
 staying here 1 Am I not under the same roof as Bab ? 
 Can't I fetch and carry for Bab ] Can't I see her and 
 hear her talk 1 Don't you know that I care for nothing 
 on earth but Bab.' 
 
 ' But, Jack, — now ' 
 
 * Yes, now. Why should I change now ] Can I leave 
 off being fond of Bab now 1 It would be a strange time 
 to begin. Look at her, look at her dear eyes, I never
 
 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 329 
 
 saw such brave eyes. God bless her ! Leave her now 1 
 Go now ] Why ] I never dreamed that you would dare 
 to ask me to go now.' 
 
 In the Far East Jack had acquired calm, cheerful, 
 even spirits, which he had brought back with him as 
 novel possessions, but now he broke down and paced to 
 and fro the drawing-room, keeping his face from his 
 companion, and clearing his throat roughly once or twice. 
 Over his head was the picture of Guide's ' Sleeping 
 Christ,' at his heels was Fritz, the dachshund, looking vip 
 curiously at the young man. 
 
 * It may be for so long,' said Mrs. Fenwick, bravely. 
 ' You think that you can go on living from hour to hour 
 for Bab, living just to help her through her long days, 
 Jack ; it is good of you even to think it ; but you must 
 count the cost, it will cost so much, — I must speak to 
 you — it may be for so long.' 
 
 ' It will be,' passionately, ' till the day I die. If I 
 had married Bab — it was not my fault that I did not 
 marry her — would it not have been for better and for 
 worse, in sickness and in health? Could I love her 
 more if she was my wife 1 Don't drive me mad by 
 talking, the only way to bear it is to do, not to think, 
 and argue, and look ahead. I'd rather know she likes 
 me in the place and hear her say, " When are you 
 coming. Jack 1 " than be Chancellor. Can't I do what I 
 like best ] Can't I stay in the one home I've got, with 
 the one person I love, without being warned, and 
 thanked, and tortured needlessly ] ' 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick was silenced, rated and silenced, yet 
 she looked with a tender smile upon her accuser, and 
 took his hand in hers, lifting it to her lips, — and it 
 came to pass that the unreasonable young man continued 
 his abode at Combe, and Mary said no more. He 
 seemed to have no objection to being censured by his 
 mother ; nor to being stared at and talked about in the
 
 330 MABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 neighbourhood ; nor to being questioned by candid 
 friends ; nor even to being understood and commended 
 by Alethea Young. 
 
 Just at first Dr, Bedford was suspicious of Jack's 
 visits to his patient's precincts, but soon the suspicions 
 vanished and the doctor openly prized his presence at 
 Combe. For Jack was calm, jvidicious, practical, 
 possessing an unfathomable faculty for understanding 
 Bab's inclinations, together with vast tact and unfailing 
 cheerfulness. In fact, he owned an array of excellent 
 nursing attributes such as are invaluable in illness, and 
 svich as cannot be engaged at two guineas a week. 
 
 Between Jack's indomitable spirits and Bab's in- 
 domitable pluck the winter in the morning-room wore 
 away less tediously, less slowly than the autumn had 
 done ; though endless, dragging, uneventful, undramatic 
 suffering hung about a couch where vigorous life was 
 chained to inactivity. 
 
 Again spring ousted winter, again summer flushed the 
 flowers, again October came, stripping the trees bare, 
 and still Bab lay prone with steady, though pale lips, 
 and alert eyes before which the prospect had widened, 
 for the doctor had raised her head upon pillows so that 
 she could watch the coming and the going from end to 
 end of her room, and she could see such wayfarei'S as 
 passed her open windows. 
 
 A new life had come her way, the life of books ; capital 
 company were the people of whom Jack read to her, and 
 they did not bustle and twitter, and make her heart ache 
 vaguely as her occasional visitors had a way of doing. 
 
 Then the banjo was always within Jack's reach, he 
 twanged it very softly as he sang the songs of the West, 
 and the old plantation melodies, quiet tuneful ditties, 
 no violent love-songs now-a-days, but airs which she 
 hummed long after his voice had ceased to make music 
 about her prison.
 
 MARY FENWICKS DAUaHTER. 331 
 
 Jack fetched and carried, waiting upon her hand and 
 foot, while she lay and took his service, so it seemed to 
 the wondering bystanders, as a matter of course. From 
 her yoiath up she had taken his servitude as part of her 
 goodly heritage, only now she asked for Jack, wanting 
 him, watching for him much as in old days she had 
 asked for, wanted, and watched for her daily, hourly 
 employments. 
 
 There came a day upon which Dr. Bedford's patient 
 horse stood an unconscionably long while at the door, 
 while his master was closeted in the drawing-room with 
 Captain and Mrs. Fenwick. For so long a time did 
 the consultation last that Jack fidgeted about the hall, 
 asking himself what the delay meant, fretting himself 
 sick at heart, and knowing that he must not show his 
 cold, stiff face in the morning-room. When the conclave 
 broke up, Mary came across the hall, pausing beside 
 Jack with her eyes upon the ground. 
 
 * Well, what is it ? ' abruptly ; ' is she worse 1 ' 
 
 The re-birth of a dead hope is painful, the throbs are 
 acute, keen. When Mrs. Fenwick stammei^ed out, 'No, no, 
 she is not worse at all, but letter,' Jack could not speak. 
 
 The hope was not such as would turn a rational brain. 
 Dr. Bedford had declared that his patient had improved 
 beyond his expectations, that she might be moved, that 
 she might be promoted to a wheeled carriage, and when 
 the weather warmed she might be taken out. 
 
 ' Out, out, out,' Jack said these words incoherently, 
 they took his breath away ; and then he went back to 
 Bab to tell her these good tidings. In such a case a 
 mere scrap of hope fires the brain. 
 
 It seemed that he had not inherited from Lady Young 
 so much as her knack for telling news with dramatic 
 interest. He could not get out his scrap of intelligence, 
 he beat about the bush and broke it to Bab, as people 
 break calamity.
 
 332 MARY FENWIOICS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' What are you thinking about, Bab 1 ' 
 
 Her eyes were on the window, her hands, beautiful, 
 delicate, fine-grained, transformed, were folded together 
 on the coverlet ; he could never bear to look at her 
 hands, they told too much. 
 
 ' I'm thinking of — nothing,' and she smiled ; * you 
 know I never really think. If I thought, Jack, I should 
 get cross. I should think — oh, but I won't think.' 
 
 * Then what were you watching, Bab 1 ' 
 
 ' The clouds,' she said, * sailing slowly by the window, 
 tattered and thin, and going out of sight in a moment. 
 I'm glad you have come. Jack, I was getting cross, the 
 clouds move all the time. What did you sayT She 
 looked up, her features were peeked and worn, her thick 
 hair was parted and brushed very smooth, her lashes 
 looked ink-black on the extreme whiteness of her cheeks, 
 her eyes were over-large for health, but clear and lustrous ; 
 he looked at them earnestly. * Am I grumbling ] I did 
 not mean to grumble — I ' 
 
 * Dr. Bedford was here a long while,' he said abruptly, 
 for Bab broke off, unclasping her hands, it was an 
 accomplishment of which she was proud, evidently she 
 was reminding herself of her advantages. 
 
 ' Yes. I went through all my tricks like a dog, he 
 put me through them all, and then he said I may knit, 
 or crochet. Jack, you'll have to teach me how,' she 
 laughed a spontaneous merry laugh. ' Jack, I will knit 
 your socks, of course I will, that is a good idea.' 
 
 'Dr. Bedford has been talking about you, Bab, he 
 Bays you may be moved.' 
 
 Her eyes returned to his. 
 
 ' Moved 1 Where 1 When 1 ' 
 
 ' You can be moved when you like. You can have a 
 wheel-carriage and go out, out into the garden. Out 
 anywhere.' 
 
 He need not have been afraid, she saw no pathos in
 
 MART FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 333 
 
 her new advantage, she saw nothing but its mercy, 
 nothing but its merit. 
 
 * Out,' her voice vibrated in the word, ' out,' she drew 
 a vast breath, her eyes grew deep, awe-struck, they 
 shone. ' Oh, Jack, thank God.' 
 
 This was her way of taking it, she thanked God, from 
 the name of Whom Jack had of late shrunk for her sake. 
 
 ' You will be feeding your Plymouth rocks, Bab, in 
 the summer.' 
 
 Intentionally he touched merely upon the surface, 
 stirring depths and raking out the bottom of minds is 
 bad sick-nursing ; but his voice invested the Plymouth 
 rocks with the element which he had tried to avoid, and 
 Bab caught her breath and burst out crying, trying to 
 say something about ' never dreaming, never thinking, 
 never hoping,' and choking her words with sobs. 
 
 Tears were not easy with Bab, they were hard, hot, 
 stinging, and her sobs shook her poor, helpless limbs, 
 she was ashamed of them, but her patience was not 
 altogether the outcome of her nature, her foi'titude had 
 been the growth of effort, she had begun to dream of 
 the value of a Queen's Garden just as her plot was lost, 
 and 
 
 ' For God's sake, Bab,' said Jack, * do not cry. You 
 never cry. You are always so plucky, don't give up 
 now j now, when they tell you you are getting on.' 
 
 Bab struck him dumb by her unexpected words. 
 
 ' You must go,' she said, ' you 7nust go. If I'm really 
 getting better, you will have to go away.' 
 
 He was silent and she went on, less emotionally, to 
 explain her meaning. 
 
 'Every one thought, I thought that I should die, 
 ■Jack, then you came, and I let you stay ; I knew you'd 
 like to think you'd done all you could for me, that is 
 ^hy I let you stay. But I am not so vile as to keep 
 j^ou now. You must go. You must not waste your
 
 334 MARY FENWIGKS DAUOBTER. 
 
 life on a wheel-chair, and a sick woman. You have 
 done everything, but now there is no more to be done.' 
 
 * Nor to be said,' said he, lightly. * If she is rude to 
 me I shall waste nothing on any fair lady, and if she 
 doesn't mind her p's and q's she will get no promotion, 
 no wheel -chair at all.' 
 
 ' I mean it, Jack, I mean it.* 
 
 * I know your Majesty means it, I quite understand, but 
 I assure you I shall not take less than a month's warning. 
 At the end of the month we will reopen the question.' 
 
 * I mean it, Jack.' 
 
 * So do I, Bab. I mean it is hardly gracious to snatch 
 at the first opportunity to get rid of me. But leave the 
 question now, we will discuss it all another day.' 
 
 'I can never argue, Jack.' 
 
 *No, thank heaven,' said he, answering the smile in 
 her eyes with a low laugh. 
 
 And for many a long day no more was said on the 
 subject. 
 
 On a sunny day in June the grass at Combe was 
 down, and the haymakers were busy turning the new- 
 mown hay. The wheel-chair was out and about in the 
 fragrant air. Morning, noon, and night, ever since its 
 advent, the wheeled chair was siu-e to be found prowling 
 about, seeking for sheltered corners when the wind blew 
 high, making for sunshiny reaches should the day be 
 eold, resting in the shade when the sun burnt hot, 
 ■drawing up where a view of the misty, far-away hills 
 ■could best be caught, pausing where the roses bloomed 
 most richly and where the strawberries ripened reddest. 
 
 The ubiquitous carriage knew where the best of every- 
 thing was to be had at Combe. It had been down to the 
 lodge that morning, and Mrs. Basten had come out ' tti 
 tellee a bit ' to Miss Fen wick, to assure her * 'ur were 
 liiken up nice, that 'ur were,' in fact to exchange 
 pleasantries with ' th' paw craytur.'
 
 MARY FENWIGK'S DAUGHTEB. 335 
 
 The * paw craytur ' was far more cheerful than Mrs. 
 Basten, both she and Mr. Jack were, as Mrs. Basten told 
 her husband that night, 
 
 ' Naw given tU craking, an' I dii sim missie's th' 
 awpel ov his oye, Jan, vur awl 'ur's sich a paw craytiu-.' 
 
 ' I naw'd et,' said Basten, shortly. ' Th' t'other wint 
 up th' country, an' 'ee are marr'd a widdy woman wi' a 
 terrabul lot ov money, I'm tawld. 'Ee turn'd hisself like 
 a boret 'ull turn hisself, backsifor, wi' th' tide.' 
 
 * I up and sayde summat about 'un, Jan, til missie, 
 but 'er laffed.' 
 
 * Yii up and zay wot rummage zoever draps into yer 
 'ayde. Awl yer tongue an' let 'un be ; tidden tongues as 
 does it. Hundurds and hundiu-ds ov times I've azaed 
 et, *' 'tes they thir ballowen cows as vurgits thir calves 
 th' vurst." Mister Jack, 'ur wint away paceabul whin 
 'ur wadden wanted ; an' yer 'ur be now along ; that's 
 how 'tez.' 
 
 ' Jan, dii 'ee stid zo hard as 'ur did bygone along 1 ' 
 
 * Noa, 'ur doarn't.' 
 
 ' Awe,' Mrs. Basten smiled to herseK as she returned 
 to the cradle of her last-born. ' Poar maid,' she said, 
 rocking the sleeping infant gently, ' 'ur ain't much ov et 
 vur a swateheart; but thir, 'ur ain't a bedlier howsum^ 
 ever, and 'tez th' Loi'd's doings.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 I wondered at tlie bounteous hours, 
 
 The slow result of winter showers, 
 
 You scarce could see the ground for flowors. 
 
 Tennyson, 
 
 ' One way by different steps. ' 
 
 Cautiously and slowly the wheeled carriage rolled 
 homewards from the lodge ; the charioteer talked a gooc!
 
 336 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 
 
 deal, but Bab was quiet, ominously thoughtful. Once or 
 twice she looked at Jack's firm profile, and then away 
 from the familiar foreground of her vision to the blue 
 distance of the hills. 
 
 Jack drew up by the ponds, but Bab would not watch 
 the sepia watei'fowl floating under the shade of the 
 rushes, save with an absent eye. She hardly saw the 
 long line of haymakers i-aking even ridges of hay, or the 
 machines whirling the fresh-cut grass and scattering it 
 thin on the shorn turf to be baked in the burning sun- 
 shine, though haymaking was the sort of picture which 
 she liked best of all the many pictures which Jack spread 
 out before her, day by day. How would the landscape 
 look without its foreground 1 How should she get along 
 when she had smudged his face out of the scene ? 
 
 Far off she saw two figures busy cutting baskets of 
 roses from the garden near the house, her mother and 
 Aunt Cis were wandering leisurely on the turf, and the 
 master of the house stood on the high ground before 
 Combe, talking to the bailiff, scanning the horizon, 
 suspicious of the weather, deprecating the crop. 
 
 The wheel-carriage drew no special attention, it was 
 an old story now ; more impressive as a blot on the 
 scene to its occupant than to the others. She wondered, 
 with one cowardly pang, how long it would take her to 
 get so at home with illness that she would feel no shyness 
 in being left alone in its company. Then once more 
 she looked up at Jack, but he was watching the fowl 
 and looked serene, content, unconcerned ; he would not 
 help her. 
 
 No, Jack was a skilled thought-reader, he knew that 
 there was trouble in this balmy air — ay, even more 
 trouble than usual in the invalid carriage which he had 
 taken upon himself to pilot through the world, and he 
 could not go to meet it. He gathered himself together 
 for the conflict which must come.
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 337 
 
 ' When are you going, Jack ] ' 
 
 He turned and looked down into her face, he was 
 standing there above her ; this advantage of his struck 
 her as she spoke, and he knew that it had done so. 
 
 The dachshunds had taken advantage of the halt to 
 stretch themselves out in the sun and sleep, but at the 
 sound of his mistress's voice old Dan sat up on his 
 haunches and looked inquiringly at her ; he was always 
 alert for orders now-a-days, sui'prised when none came 
 his way, and inclined to blame his deaf ears. He 
 haunted the wheeled carriage ; lame and breathless 
 though he was, he never once shirked exercise, nor 
 sneaked away to his rug. 
 
 I do not think Dan's constancy surprised any one ; it 
 was no more than is expected from a dog. With a man 
 it is otherwise, every tongue was primed with amazement 
 at Jack's behaviour, faithfulness from a man is an 
 attribute to which experience does not give expectation. 
 
 The shadow from the hood of her carriage fell on Bab's 
 face ; her anxious, earnest eyes met his ; her face, from 
 which her nut-brown hair, long enough now to be plaited 
 trimly, was brushed back beneath a knotted lace hand- 
 kerchief, flushed red and hot ; her hands, her fair thin 
 hands, were tightly pressed together and trembling. 
 These signs of what had befallen Bab struck him afresh, 
 Bab with her nerves of steel, the Bab whom he could see 
 even now as a little maiden raking in the line of hay- 
 makers, with hands tawny with sun and air, with a sun- 
 bonnet falling back from a tangled mane of flying hair. 
 Mrs. Fenwick's ' little maid ' who tumbled in haycocks and 
 drove in the waggons, who was here, there, and every- 
 where, a white dab of quicksilver on the hot grass ; and 
 who now lay dependent, helpless, an object of pity to 
 the poorest labourer on her land. 
 
 Jack's compassion was godlike, it never failed him, it 
 was new every morning, it could not stand an increase 
 
 z
 
 338 MABY FENWICETS DAUGHTER. 
 
 and keep within bounds. He could not speak, and she 
 repeated, 
 
 ' When are you going ? ' 
 
 He did not pretend to misunderstand. He meant to 
 get to the bottom of her misgivings and root them out, 
 to be cast away once and for all. 
 
 * When you give me my marching orders, Bab, I will 
 be off when you are sick of me. When you can't be 
 bothered with me any more, then I will go.' 
 
 Again she changed colour, pressing her pale lips 
 together. 
 
 ' Don't be angry, Jack,' she said, earnestly. 
 
 * I am not angry, but tell me what I have done.' 
 
 * It is what I have done ; I have been odious, but I 
 don't want to be the same now.' 
 
 ' I like you " odious," if that is what you have 
 been.' 
 
 ' Don't put me off. You — you do too much for me. 
 It isn't fair. I can do nothing. I know what a 
 nuisance I am. I always want something done. I know, 
 I know it all ; illness is so long, it palls upon every one, 
 — it is all unnatural, it is not right for a man to be 
 wasting his life like this. Let me speak, holding my 
 tongue about it does no good.' 
 
 ' Do you think,' very gently, * that I don't under- 
 stand]' 
 
 ' You are a man, undamaged. Why * 
 
 'Why,' he interrupted her. 'Why, because — let me 
 remind you — because we are, you and I are friends. 
 Because in the days of which we are thinking, when 
 you were not the height of a haycock, Bab, I hung 
 about you on the chance that you might want a helping 
 hand, or a finger to hold to when you were tired out 
 with play. You never wanted a hand then, you only 
 took it of necessity ; you never wanted a finger unless 
 you came a cropper. You would not be helped. But
 
 MAEY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 339 
 
 now, Bab, be generous now. For the love of heaven, 
 don't turn away from me now.' 
 
 Jack knew of the trio of great physicians, Dr. Diet, 
 Dr. Quiet, and Dr. Merryman, but he could not carry 
 out the two latter gentlemen's directions just then ; he 
 spoke rapidly, pa.ssionately, and left Dr. Merryman to go 
 right away from the hayfield. 
 
 Bab knitted her forehead, still looking at the speaker 
 with intentness. 
 
 * Once,' she spoke slowly, under her breath, * when I 
 was well, you left me.' 
 
 ' * ' I built up follies like a wall to intercept the sunshine and 
 your face."' 
 
 * That is only — poetry.' 
 
 * It was only — but I won't confess, I won't say what 
 it was. Bab, I like to be here, I like to be at Combe ; 
 I like to keep out a hand in case by some good chance it 
 should help a brave, dear friend of mine.' 
 
 * Hush, — you spoilt me, Jack, but I won't spoil your 
 life, indeed I will not. Your life, yoiu' work, you used 
 to tell me of all the good, great things you would do. I 
 can't keep you from them all.' 
 
 * So I'm to get to work,' said he, getting back his 
 quiet voice, for her dilating eyes warned him to be care- 
 ful ; he must not protest but explain, speaking common- 
 sense, no heroics. ' My work, the pronoun gives it an 
 air, of course, but what is work, Bab 1 Bread-and-cheese 
 and occupation, not much else. Here is bread-and-cheese 
 and occupation at Combe in good company. Life — Bab ] 
 We talk tall about the little span that is rounded with 
 a sleep, and of such stuff as dreams are made ; we plan 
 out the sore riddle. 2fy life, the pain of it is mine, but 
 what else 1 ' 
 
 He took his hat off, shook back his hair, watching 
 her meanwhile; she was silent, listening, and he went on.
 
 340 MARY FENWIGE?S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Yes, I went away because you did not want me. If 
 you can tell me now that I must go, very well, I will go. 
 I will leave the things of life that seem great to me 
 here, behind me, and I will go away and live alone — 
 and try to bear you no malice, Bab.' 
 
 * I — I can't keep you here, I am ill.' 
 
 * I'll put it another way, Bab ; think, if your mother 
 had been hurt that day, if she had been brought home 
 as you were. If she was on those cushions as you are, 
 think that she looked you in the face and said, " Go, go, 
 I am too proud to take when I cannot give. Go, I am 
 strong enovigh to bear my fate alone. Go from your 
 home, go away from me, and live the big thing I call 
 life. The big, incomprehensible, great life, such as has 
 nothing to do with the little things of the little passing 
 moments, nothing to do with the little gives, and takes, 
 and hopes, and happinesses, nothing to do with the 
 disappointments, the anguishes, and the solaces of every 
 day." There is no such life, Bab, no great life at all. 
 Do not say " go." Do not say " I can do as I am alone, 
 I am strong, and will take nothing even from a friend." 
 Do not give me loneliness, solitude, banishment, and call 
 it by a wrong name. Be generous, Bab, and tell me 
 shall I go r 
 
 He saw her lips relax, their corners curving, and 
 pressed her hard for that which he sought. 
 
 ' You can't argue, Bab, allow that you are ashamed of 
 your suggestion, and I will overlook it.' 
 
 ' I am ashamed, but not of that.' 
 
 ' Haven't my arguments convinced you 1 You know 
 you are so easily convinced. Am I to pack this after- 
 noon and go 1 ' 
 
 ' No— not if ' 
 
 * No if s ; the question is settled. I understand, 
 Bab. 
 
 ' I know you do — you understand too well.'
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 341 
 
 * And I may stay in the corner of the world that I 
 like best of all ] ' 
 
 ' Yes, you help me, Jack ; it has been what you call 
 it, a — a sore riddle.' 
 
 * I don't think it's a conundrum we can guess, Bab, 
 the more guessing, the more we are puzzled ; but I'm 
 sure we can help each other on, two face it better than 
 one. And,' starting the wheeled carriage on its home- 
 ward route, ' if you'll be good enough not to give me 
 sudden warnings to be off,' smiling at her, ' it will be 
 very kind of you. I want a permanent place on your 
 Majesty's staff, more than ever, Bab, more than ever,' 
 
 IVIrs. Fenwick and her sister were coming across the 
 hay to meet the cavalcade of dogs, and knight, and lady. 
 Mrs. Kaufmann wore a widow's crape and muslin ; she 
 had lately come, subdued and quiet, from her husband's 
 death-bed. She was shaking off the first effects of her 
 widowhood in her sister's company, and talking of 
 settling down once more in Devon, within reach of the 
 grey house on the hill. She said the sight of a man who 
 knew his own mind and stuck to it was refreshing and 
 did her good ; she said, that as she was obliged to grow 
 old she might do it gracefully with Primrose-league, and 
 a parish-nurse, and flannel, and woolies, and Friendly 
 girls. 
 
 And, though this she did not say, the best half of 
 Mrs. Kaufmann was always lurking about her sister's 
 home, and she had an affection for her better part and 
 thought it would grow strong in the pure air, with a 
 tableau vivant of endurance, courage, and constancy to 
 keep up her faith in such attributes, always in view 
 amongst the hills and vales. 
 
 ' Frivolity, we like it very much so long as it likes us, 
 Mary,' she said, * but it's a bore when it won't meet us 
 three parts of the way. I can't go limping after it any 
 longer, it's a dismal object in the sere and yellow leaf.
 
 342 MABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 There is no such comfortable comrade after all as a 
 purring conscience on one's hearth, I am going to stroke 
 mine down with politics, philanthropy, and — and other 
 things.' 
 
 * Stroke it within reach of us, Cicely.* 
 
 * Yes, yes, you remind me of my possession, for years 
 and years and years I've forgotten it, it never was any 
 sort of encumbrance till lately. — Here comes that 
 wonderful man ; how did Bab bewitch him, how did she 
 do it? He is like a devoted woman, he has eyes and 
 thoughts for no one but for her. She is plucky, she is a 
 dear, but ' 
 
 * It is such an old friendship. Cicely, he was so fond 
 of her when she was a child. The slow-built house 
 stands longest.' 
 
 * She has a colour to-day, Mary ; she does, indeed she 
 does look better.' 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick nodded, and then the carriage reached 
 them, and they turned and walked up, talking together, 
 to the house. 
 
 An excellent constitution, intelligent nursing, Dr. 
 Diet, Dr. Quiet, and Dr. Merryman did not get so much 
 credit for Bab's recovery as did Dr. Bedford. He got 
 praise from all that country-side, and assured his 
 flatterers that he had done very little for her. Modestly 
 he spoke of nature and of nursing, but no one believed 
 in these factors of cure — hardly any one, at least. 
 
 Gradually, little by little, Bab picked up the threads 
 of full life. So gradually, so imperceptibly did she 
 improve that there was no special time of thanksgiving, 
 no actual period of recovery. 
 
 One by one her 'cannots' were turned into 'cans,' 
 one by one she shed her infirmities, one by one her 
 weaknesses left her, one by one she shook herself free 
 from her ailments. Then the wheeled carriage was 
 banished to the coach-house, and Bab sat up, and stood,
 
 MARY FENWIGKS DAUGHTER. 343 
 
 and moved across the room, gloating over the familiar 
 scenes which had never looked the same focussed 
 supinely. 
 
 There came a time when she could totter to and fro 
 the terrace with an arm, and cut the roses for herself, 
 and stoop to smell the tall lilies. There came a later 
 time when that useful arm of her companion went 
 round her waist, holding her more firmly than her 
 infirmities required, while its owner talked Greek to 
 her, as he had talked when the lilies were fresh planted 
 that were now full grown. 
 
 But now she had a crib to the language and could 
 translate freely. 
 
 * A wreck,' she said, * a ruin — I'm not fit. Jack.' 
 Her nurse had turned into another character, his 
 
 voice was soft enough, but he had dropped his suave, 
 guarded, and measured method of speech, 
 
 * Am I not the best judge for what you are fit 1 You 
 are getting so robust, Bab, you are getting so out of 
 hand that I'm on tenterhooks for fear one fine morning 
 you will be off without me. OS — off to Cornwall, Bab.' 
 
 She blushed, but looked him steadily in the face. 
 
 'I am damaged,' she said, 'I am tired now. I am 
 not like other women.' 
 
 'No, you never were, Bab, there is no one exactly 
 like you, if there had been I should have gone to her 
 long ago, she might have been less obdurate. Not 
 another turn, no, sit down here in the shade, you have 
 done enough walking for to-day. Bab, I want you to 
 have and to hold for better and for worse. I have 
 wanted you for 'a decade, but now, I think, I am on the 
 right track, I think I shall entrap you.' 
 
 ' I am always ill. Jack,' she said. ' I shall be a log 
 tied to your heel, I shall be entirely ** for worse." * 
 
 'You are the salt and savour of my life,' he said, 
 extravagantly. 'All I want to flavour it, Bab. For
 
 344 MARY FENWIOK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 better and for worse, the worst is over, it was that day 
 when I took a peppered knee and a peppery temper to 
 Woodbury.' 
 
 * The worst,' she murmured, tremulously, * has been 
 rather bad, Jack.' 
 
 * Bab, think about it again, think it out and then 
 answer.' 
 
 ' Think about which 1 ' 
 
 She was changing colour and her lips were white, she 
 took his muscular right hand in her delicate hands 
 firmly, and touched it with her mouth, answering his 
 face, for he did not speak. 
 
 * Do you like me at last, my darling 1 ' 
 
 * Yes,' she was frank with her tongue, and now, at 
 last, he could fully appreciate the candour with his 
 heart as well as with his understanding. * Yes, I do, of 
 course I do. — No, I can't explain when I began to 
 understand. — At the farm in the snow first — ^and later 
 and now.' She had lifted her eyes to the hills, they 
 shone and glowed like sunshine. * Wait and see.' 
 
 *My darling, I have waited nearly a quarter of a 
 century, my hair is going grey with waiting. Must I 
 wait now ^ ' 
 
 'Words are nothing, everybody can talk, they can 
 say " I love you." I should like something more strong 
 than words.' 
 
 * Words will do now, Bab. Say, " I will marry you. 
 Jack," that will do.' 
 
 * But I love you well enough to say,' and she was 
 actually crying as she said this, ' I won't marry you, I 
 cannot, I am not fit for you.' 
 
 ' Bab, pride is not come between us, that rock that 
 wrecks so many boats?' 
 
 *It is not pride,' she broke off, she was evidently 
 analyzing her motives and struck by the sageness of 
 his arg^unent.
 
 MABY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 345 
 
 She looked up at him for guidance as she had fallen 
 into the habit of doing, but his advice was wordless, for 
 his lips were closing hers and saying much that was 
 not articulate, nor argumentative. Bab gave in then, 
 she had had an idea from the first that she would do 
 so; of late Jack had had the better of her in most 
 things. 
 
 Although Bab had taken a long while to sink to the 
 level which she had once despised, although it had 
 taken her a long while to find her master, yet now that 
 she had done so she had accomplished it thoroughly. 
 Her surrender was natural, willing, absolute. 
 
 In the midst of his protestations she did once murmur 
 * Alethea 1 ' and look at her lord for his explanation ; if 
 Bab was a little dull of understanding when Jack 
 interpreted the episode of Alethea — her interlude — he 
 assured her that Alethea had been astute, and had 
 known what it all signified far better than he, himself, 
 had known. 
 
 It had been a great impertinence on his part, of 
 course, but Alethea had taken the proposition for what 
 it was worth ; she was a charming, sensible person, and 
 would be, next to Jack himself, more delighted than 
 any one in the world over the prospect of the coming 
 wedding. 
 
 And Bab believed him; she lacked some feminine 
 faculties even now. 
 
 No one was surprised : by this time every one knew 
 that poor Jack Holland was bent on sacrificing his 
 brilliant prospects to an invalidish woman, and no one 
 was overmuch startled when he added to the proofs of 
 his infatuation by marrying her. 
 
 After all, it was allowed his prospects had not been 
 exceptionally promising, and Combe was a comfortable 
 quarter in which to hang up a straw hat. 
 
 Lady Young was, truth to tell, fairly well pleased at
 
 346 MABY FUN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 the news, though she was unpleasant enough to the 
 chief actors concerning it. If Alethea was less pleased 
 than her step-mother, she was far more pleasant, and 
 she carried out Jack's expectation of warm congratu- 
 lations and great interest in the event. She constituted 
 herself Bab's defender at Woodbury, and tussled many 
 a time valiantly in Mrs. Holland's defence without a 
 pang of conscience, — a legitimate outlet for feelings was 
 a luxury to her. Jack's wife and she were undemon- 
 strative friends when they were together, but apart 
 they were staunch supporters of each other, and much 
 interested mutually one in the other, as women who 
 have divided the favours of ' the one man in the world,' 
 are sure to be. 
 
 The wedding was as quiet as a wedding can be, though 
 it was legitimately ushered in with presents, notes, and a 
 flutter of congratulations. The honeymoon was a health- 
 seeking cruise in the Mediterranean, a useful honeymoon 
 with an object, the sort of honeymoon which the bride- 
 groom told the bride she could appreciate. 
 
 When her young lady had been, and could be, nothing 
 but a pitiable topic of converse, a ' paw craytur,' Becket 
 had avoided her neighbours. She was, as are the majority 
 of humanity, unsociable in adversity, but now she de- 
 scended with a piece of bride-cake in her hand and a new 
 bonnet on her head to the lodge, and bragged to Mrs, 
 Basten about the bride's powers, as though a pair of walk- 
 ing legs and a fairly strong back were unique possessions. 
 
 Jack had the same way of bragging about his wife's 
 achievements, and his mother-in-law read aloud little 
 pieces of the honeymoon letter to her husband, smiling 
 faint, indulgent approval over that weakness of his — a 
 weakness which had brought strength, strength of several 
 diverse species, to their daughter. 
 
 Bab wrote, but short, telegraphic bits of news; the 
 sort of letters which are written to fill a five-minutes'
 
 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 347 
 
 wait, or to catch the post, letters characteristic of Bab. 
 Her husband's name set somewhere in each short sentence 
 was the only new phase in her communications, except- 
 ing of course the bold signature of Mai-y Holland, written 
 large to fill the sheet. 
 
 ' She never mentions her health,' said the master of 
 the house, with exultation. ' He will bring her back 
 well, Mary. She'll be out after the hounds again in the 
 autumn. If that's to be so, let him keep her to himself 
 now as long as he likes, though, heaven knows, the place 
 is strange without her.' 
 
 But Captain Fenwick was destined to be disappointed ; 
 when Bab reached a certain stage of improvement she 
 stuck there and did not advance ; henceforward she was 
 known to have more spirit than strength ; the out-of-door 
 life of vigorous exertion which she loved was impossible 
 to a delicate woman. She never rode again. That last 
 drive of hers had broken her nerve, she would not touch 
 the reins, but was not her husband at hand to drive her 
 whither she would through the country-side 1 
 
 ' Wait and see,' Bab had told Jack long ago when he 
 had been clamouring to be assured of a pleasant fact ; 
 he would not wait at that impatient moment, but he 
 remembered what she had said when, as time went by, 
 he ' watched and saw ' what she had tried to tell him 
 would be his. 
 
 Open-handed and generous she had always been, and 
 now she was lavish with the sort of favours for which 
 he had a capacious appetite ; she was happiest in her 
 husband's company, she was not at her liveliest and best 
 without him ; she liked him to make up her mind, she 
 allowed him the upper hand, which it was his natui'e to 
 appreciate, the whip-hand in all things domestic and 
 otherwise. She even interested herself in serious matters, 
 and was not disdainful when he entered vigorously into 
 such county work as came into his energetic way.
 
 343 MARY FEN WICK'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Her enthusiasm for him was such that it appeared to 
 awaken her reverence for the mistress of "Woodbury, to 
 whom she was attentive, gentle, kindly, and who, finding 
 that she could do so with impunity, descended as a wolf 
 on the Combe fold, taking every advantage of a mother- 
 in-law's perquisites of interference, detraction, and candid 
 speaking. 
 
 When Jack ' waited and saw ' Bab listening to her 
 mother-in-law's opinion concerning the Combe nursery, 
 he wanted no more sight-seeing ; he was satisfied ; Bab 
 was listening to advice about her son and heir, she was 
 hearing of his puniness, of his weakness, and she was 
 saying, amicably, 
 
 * Of course, I don't know anything about them myself, 
 Lady Young, but my mother says he is a particularly 
 sharp, strong, good-looking child.' 
 
 THE END. 
 
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