AUTHOR OF 
 
 "THETRUTH-TELLE 
 
 noir 
 
 mm 
 
 ■MMMMMMBMMmMMMNMMMNM 
 
 "h NAME TO CONJURE WITi
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
 L^ 
 
 J t/V-U^ v//UC~-y C AJ\~. 
 
 MARTY 
 
 #
 
 MARTY 
 
 H IRovel 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN STRANGE WINTER 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "BOOTLES' BABY," "THE TRUTH-TELLERS," "HEART AND SWORD," 
 
 "INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD," "A MATTER OF SENTIMENT," 
 
 "A BLAZE OF GLORY," "CONNIE THE ACTRESS," ETC. 
 
 FIFTH EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 
 F. V. WHITE & CO. LTD. 
 
 14 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C. 
 
 1903 
 
 [All Rights Reserved]
 
 Go 
 
 MY GODCHILD 
 
 SHEILA BETTY HUMFREY DEELEY 
 
 I AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATE 
 
 THE STORY OF 
 
 "MARTY"
 
 
 P£ 
 
 no3 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. The Beginning of Marty 
 
 
 PAGE 
 1 
 
 II. No. 28 RoSEDIAMOND ROAD 
 
 
 
 8 
 
 III. The Inevitable Young Man 
 
 
 15 
 
 IV. A New Client 
 
 
 
 23 
 
 V. A Crumpled Rose-Leaf 
 
 
 
 31 
 
 VI. The Unpalatable Truth 
 
 
 
 39 
 
 VII. True Blue . 
 
 
 
 47 
 
 VIII. A Pledge . 
 
 
 
 55 
 
 IX. A Bombshell 
 
 
 
 63 
 
 X. Family Feeling 
 
 
 
 72 
 
 XL Irrevocable . 
 
 
 
 80 
 
 XII. A State Visit 
 
 
 
 89 
 
 XIII. A Fellow-Feeling . 
 
 
 
 97 
 
 XIV. A Trial Trip 
 
 
 
 105 
 
 XV. Married 
 
 
 
 113 
 
 XVI. A Little Talk 
 
 
 
 121 
 
 XVII. Something on Her Mind 
 
 
 
 129 
 
 XVIII. Gone ! 
 
 
 
 136 
 
 XIX. Marty's Letter 
 
 
 
 144 
 
 XX. The Lonely Furrow 
 
 _ ,. 
 
 
 151 
 
 XXI. An Asylum . 
 
 
 
 159 
 
 XXII. The Reverend Mother 
 
 
 
 166 
 
 Vll 

 
 Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Harking Back 
 
 174 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Mrs Etherington's Advice 
 
 182 
 
 XXV. 
 
 On the Track 
 
 190 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Drawn Nearer 
 
 198 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Smashed Up ! . . . 
 
 206 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Brought Together . 
 
 214 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 So Far and Yet so Near 
 
 222 
 
 XXX. 
 
 A Difficult Patient 
 
 230 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Amenities .... 
 
 238 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 A Good Idea 
 
 246 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 An Invitation 
 
 254 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 A Silver Frame 
 
 262 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Nurse Vincent's Suspicions 
 
 270 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 A Little Outing . 
 
 278 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 A Bright Thought . 
 
 286 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Joy Cometh in the Morning 
 
 294
 
 MARTY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF MARTY 
 
 Marty was very young. Now, there is a great 
 difference in youth. Some people are never young ; 
 with others youth is an evanescent quality, and 
 others again are young as long as they live. Marty 
 was one of these. 
 
 She began life in London; indeed, I think only in 
 London could such a being as Marty ever have 
 evolved itself out of the common ruck of humanity, 
 for London is a wonderful hotbed, and brings forth 
 many and varied types of men and women. Where 
 will you find the equal in sharpness and wit of your 
 London omnibus driver ? Perhaps only in the person 
 of the boy who sells newspapers and matches at the 
 corners of the streets. 
 
 But the wonders of London production are not 
 confined to the class which provides either omnibus 
 drivers or newspaper vendors ; one can go higher up 
 in the social scale and find types of true-bred 
 Londoners as far out of the run of ordinary humanity 
 as the omnibus driver and the newspaper boy. And 
 Marty was one of these. As I said, it happened 
 
 A
 
 2 MARTY 
 
 when she was very young. What happened ? Well, 
 the love-story of Marty Benyon. 
 
 Her earliest recollections were of a back parlour in 
 Great Castle Street. You perhaps know that delect- 
 able spot, my reader — the long dingy row of houses, 
 so tall that they seem to have been built with the 
 special view of shutting out every possibility of a 
 gleam of sunlight ; so featureless that, excepting for 
 the lower storeys, it is not possible to tell one from 
 another ; so noisy, so bustling, and yet teeming with 
 the class of life that is not especially interesting or 
 desirable. 
 
 Marty was born in the thirty-third of this little-to- 
 be-desired row of houses. Her father was a quantity 
 which does not enter into the necessities of this story. 
 Before Marty was ten years old, Mr Benyon had been 
 carried away to the long and narrow home in which 
 he would lie until the Day of Judgment. His widow 
 made a great profession of grief, but she was a busy 
 woman, and had not only Marty, but two little girls 
 of four and five years old, entirely dependent upon 
 her ; and after the day of the funeral she expressed 
 herself simply, and with a certain dignity, to the 
 effect that, " People that have children depending on 
 them can't afford to sit down and wipe their eyes 
 with a black-bordered handkerchief." So Mrs 
 Benyon set herself to be up and doing, and as the 
 business which occupied the large room with two 
 windows, situated at the left-hand side of the 
 entrance-door of number thirty-three Great Castle 
 Street had been hers, and entirely separate from her 
 husband's estate, she continued to attend to it as 
 heretofore, and as if nothing out of the ordinary had 
 happened.
 
 THE BEGINNING OF MARTY 3 
 
 The business was one of deep interest to the 
 feminine population ; that is to say, Mrs Benyon 
 conducted a second-hand clothes business — not the 
 class of goods that reeked of old memories or was 
 in any way offensive to the senses, but a respect- 
 able up-to-date establishment, whose clients were 
 on the one hand the tirewomen of ladies of rank 
 and fashion, and on the other ladies whose object 
 in life was to understudy the fashions with as 
 small an outlay as possible. 
 
 " You know, Mrs Benyon," said one of her 
 customers, not very long after the demise of the 
 respectable Robert, "you really ought to move into 
 a better neighbourhood. You can't want this great 
 house." 
 
 " I don't, madam," said Mrs Benyon, " I want a 
 house just half the size. I'm always in trouble with 
 my tenants, and they are far more nuisance than they 
 are worth. But what am I to do ? I can't afford to 
 leave the upper part empty, and apparently they 
 can't afford to pay their rent, and between the two, 
 I'm always on the wrong side." 
 
 " Why don't you move ? Why don't you go to 
 a better locality, where you would have more chance 
 of getting good clients ? " 
 
 " I find no fault with my clients, madam," said 
 Mrs Benyon. " Where ladies find good things, there 
 they will go to look for them again. If a lady goes 
 into Regent Street or Bond Street she has to pay 
 accordingly. Here she finds Regent Street and Bond 
 Street at Great Castle Street prices." 
 
 "But if you could get a small house?" persisted 
 the lady. 
 
 " If I could get a small house for what this costs
 
 4 MARTY 
 
 me, I would move to-morrow," said Mrs Benyon, 
 decidedly ; " as it is, I haven't the time to look out 
 for a place. I have three little girls, madam, and if 
 Marty didn't happen to be as sharp as a needle and 
 as good as gold, and as dependable as a woman, I 
 think I should have gone over Waterloo Bridge long 
 since. As it is, I must just worry on until something 
 happens, or until a likely place drops in my way." 
 
 "Now, look here, Mrs Benyon," said the other, 
 quietly, " I am a woman of limited means — I can't 
 afford to spend large sums on my clothes, and I don't 
 know that I would if I could — but I have plenty of 
 time, and I'll look you out a few places. There's no 
 obligation to move, you can take them or leave them, 
 but I'll spend a few afternoons looking round likely 
 neighbourhoods and seeing whether there are any 
 vacant houses that would be likely to suit you." 
 
 Mrs Benyon expressed herself in suitable terms of 
 gratitude. And she really was grateful. Believe 
 me, if you wish to render a service to somebody who 
 will thoroughly appreciate it, go to a busy man or 
 woman, to whom time is money and spare hours an 
 unknown luxury, and do something for them which 
 they have no time to do for themselves. Such a 
 kindness is never thrown away, and Mrs Benyon 
 expressed herself, as I said, in suitable and cordial 
 terms of gratitude and thankfulness. 
 
 " Believe me, madam," she said, " you are one of the 
 kindest of my ladies. I have always thought highly 
 of you, and many's the bargain I'll put in your way, 
 as you'll see later on. I should," she went on, drop- 
 ing her voice to a more confidential tone, " I should 
 be glad to get out of Great Castle Street. You see, 
 my Marty is nearly ten years old, and it's high time
 
 THE BEGINNING OF MARTY 5 
 
 I began to think seriously of her future. When I 
 was maid to the Duchess of Yorkshire," Mrs Benyon 
 continued, " I used to take note of the way the 
 young ladies were brought up, and I made up my 
 mind then that if ever I had a little girl of my own 
 there were some things I would and some things I 
 wouldn't do in the training of her. Mv lines led me 
 into Great Castle Street, and in Great Castle Street I 
 have been stuck and might stick to the end of my 
 days. If you can find me a suitable place, Mrs 
 Browne, I shall bless you more on Marty's account 
 than I shall on my own." 
 
 Whether it was from some feeling of amour 
 propre, or whether it was from a consciousness that 
 she would be doing a service to Marty, I cannot say, 
 but Mrs Browne, being as she had herself said, a 
 woman of leisure, set out on her quest the very day 
 after her conversation with Mrs Benyon had taken 
 place. When one sets out in London or the neigh- 
 bourhood in search of a new domicile, the task is one 
 which may well be dignified by the name of a quest. 
 It is as the quest of the Holy Grail. One starts with 
 a light heart, hope running high, and good luck in 
 the ascendency ; one frequently returns chilled to the 
 bones, both of one's body and soul. 
 
 Mrs Browne had many conditions to fulfil in her 
 quest. The rent must not be more, as Mrs Benyon 
 expressed it, than the premises which she used in 
 Great Castle Street " stood her to " ; the neighbour- 
 hood must be convenient for her clients ; the children 
 yearned for a bit of garden ; and Mrs Benyon wanted 
 a kitchen on the ground floor, but this was not a 
 sine qua non. 
 
 At last, after weeks of patient search, Mrs Browne
 
 6 MARTY 
 
 lighted on what she declared was the exact thing — a 
 small semi-detached house off the Hammersmith 
 Road in that portion of London which describes itself 
 as " West." The rent of the villa was forty-five 
 pounds a year, it had a diminutive scrap of garden 
 in the rear boasting of two lilac trees and a laburnum, 
 a patch of scrappy turf and a great many smuts ; it 
 had also a kitchen on the ground floor. Eventually 
 Mrs Browne carried off the purveyor of fashions to 
 see her find. She was modestly enthusiastic herself, 
 knowing full well that, setting aside the question of 
 neighbourhood, the house was all that could be desired. 
 I had almost said that Mrs Benyon was neither 
 modest nor enthusiastic, but that scarcely conveys 
 what I really mean. She was certainly not modest 
 or retiring in expressing her wants. She considered 
 that forty pounds a year was an excellent rent to pay 
 for a house such as she wanted. Perhaps, had she 
 been born a little higher in the social scale, she 
 would have thought it polite to be more enthusiastic 
 than she was ; possibly she had a vague idea that 
 Mrs Browne might have some slight collusion with 
 the owner of the selected abode ; be that as it may, 
 her remarks while she was in the empty house were 
 distinctly uneucouraging, and if I tell the truth I am 
 fain to confess that more than once the lady who had 
 found the delectable family residence known as No. 
 28 Rosediamond Road experienced a sudden sense of 
 restriction about the throat such as is not unusual 
 to feminine natures who feel themselves thoroughly 
 snubbed. 
 
 In the end, however, Mrs Benyon accompanied Mrs 
 Browne to the house agent who had the arranging of 
 the property, and having thoroughly disparaged
 
 THE BEGINNING OF MARTY 7 
 
 every nook and corner, having driven the hardest of 
 all hard bargains as regards matters of papering, 
 painting, whitewashing, chimney-cleaning, garden- 
 tidying, roof -overhauling and other possibilities 
 relating to house property, she took No. 28 Rose- 
 diamond Road on a three years' agreement, and 
 Great Castle Street was doomed to pass into the 
 things that had been and would be no more. 
 
 That night when the little girls were in bed, when 
 the shutters in the front room had been decorously 
 closed, and the bit of supper which was Mrs Benyon's 
 greatest indulgence was set upon the sitting-room 
 table, Mrs Benyon took Marty into her confidence. 
 
 " Now, Marty," she said, " I want to have a plain 
 talk to you, and a straight talk to you. You and 
 me are going to turn over a new leaf ; you and me 
 — and particularly you — have got to forget that we 
 ever heard of such a place as Great Castle Street in 
 all our days — you and me are going into what's 
 almost private life. I'm going to live in a private 
 house, I'm going to do a genteel business upstairs, 
 right out of sight, and, so far as you children are con- 
 cerned, everything depends upon what sort of an 
 example you set to your sisters. From the day that 
 we go out of Great Castle Street , Marty, you will 
 remember that you are a young lady."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 NO. 28 ROSEDIAMOND ROAD 
 
 From the day that Mrs Benyon took possession of No. 
 28 Rosediamond Road she never, in a worldly sense, 
 looked behind her. The business, which had flourished 
 and thriven in the undesirable atmosphere of Great 
 Castle Street, grew like Jonah's gourd when it 
 reached the genteel locality wherein Mrs Benyon had 
 pitched her tent. 
 
 Mrs Beuyon was a woman of remarkable decision 
 of character. In her younger days she had ruled 
 that great lady, the Duchess of Yorkshire, with a rod 
 not of iron but of cold steel, and from the moment 
 that she became the mistress of No. 28 Rosediamond 
 Road she never flinched or swerved from the course 
 which she had set before her. The faithful old 
 servant who had been with her since the birth of 
 Madge, the elder of the two little girls, was not now 
 the sole domestic of the establishment ; a younger 
 servant took charge of the rougher work, leaving 
 Sarah free to aid her mistress in the business, and 
 Sarah was bound over by a string of fearful oaths to 
 reveal nothing to the newcomer of Mrs Benyon's 
 history or the details of her past life. 
 
 For her part, Marty had no longer definite duties 
 as the warden and caretaker of her younger sisters ; 
 on the contrary, she now went to a genteel day-school, 
 
 8
 
 No. 28 ROSEDIAMOND ROAD 9 
 
 and the two little girls to the nearest kindergarten. 
 They bloomed out into a prefix before their name, 
 and never went out without their hats on ; as to 
 playing in the street, I am sure that Mrs Benyon 
 would have fainted at the mere suggestion of such a 
 thing, although she had put up with it happily 
 enough in Great Castle Street, when they had 
 nothing but a dingy backyard in which the children 
 could take recreation, and miles of streets lay between 
 them and a blade of grass. No one who had seen 
 the three little girls, well dressed and well cared for, 
 go oft* from the neatly-kept house with its smart lace 
 curtains and its pretty flower-boxes to their respec- 
 tive schools, would have believed it possible that six 
 months before they had from time to time grubbed 
 in the gutters of Great Castle Street with all the 
 relish of street arabs. But, as Mrs Benyon expressed 
 herself to the excellent Sarah, " what had to be had 
 to be, and it's silly to go on doing things when one 
 needn't." 
 
 So the years went on, and Marty quite forgot the 
 old times and became a young lady, as her mother 
 had intended her to be. Sarah would no more have 
 dreamed of calling her anything but " Miss Marty " 
 than she would have tried to fly ; and Ada, long ago 
 married and replaced by a competent cook, would 
 have found it hard to believe that Miss Marty had 
 ever done anything to soil her dainty ringers. 
 
 So time went on until Marty was fifteen years old. 
 Then her mother hardened her heart and sent her 
 from home to an expensive boarding-school at Folke- 
 stone, and there she remained for a couple of years. 
 At this school Marty learned many things. She 
 learned to talk a little English French, to dance very
 
 io MARTY 
 
 well, to sing quite prettily, and to do various kinds 
 of needlework. She also acquired — it was a speciality 
 of the school — a knowledge of domestic bookkeeping 
 and management. 
 
 Was Marty pretty ? Well, no, I can't say that she 
 was. She was a little person, round of figure, slender 
 of throat, dainty as to her hands and feet. She had 
 plenty of shining light brown hair, a pert little face, 
 a constellation of dimples, and a smile so ready and 
 so expansive that it completely cloaked the fact that 
 her mouth was wider than accorded with the strictest 
 cauons of beauty. She was fair, with an inclination 
 to freckle. Her nose was pert, even nondescript : 
 and she had excellent taste in dress. This might 
 have been due to the fact that the habiliments of a 
 certain duchess, well-known in the great world, fitted 
 Miss Marty to a nicety ; so much so that Mrs Benyon 
 always gave her daughter the first choice of any 
 fresh consignment from the maid of " the little 
 Duchess," as they always called her at Rosediamond 
 Road. 
 
 Had Fate not ordained otherwise, Marty might 
 have become a great factor in her mother's business. 
 Mrs Benyon, indeed, had always planned and pro- 
 jected that Marty should become her right-hand man, 
 but Providence frequently disposes other than man 
 proposes, and in Marty's case fate ordained that she 
 should not find her metier in life as a purveyor of 
 fashions. I do not know whether I have fully ex- 
 plained that Mrs Benyon's business was of a strictly 
 private nature. No gowns like spectres of the past 
 hung in her sitting-room window, no door-plate 
 disfigured her house ; she never advertised or issued 
 leaflets to be handed from door to door ; she relied
 
 No. 28 ROSEDIAMOND ROAD 11 
 
 simply and solely on what she herself called a 
 "private connection," on the belief that one lady, 
 who would be a butterfly and was content to buy the 
 cast-off chrysalis of a more brilliant butterfly than 
 herself at a price which was absurd when compared 
 with that which had originally been given, should 
 tell another lady, and she others, until like the snow- 
 ball the name of Benyon was spread through the 
 land, not noised abroad, but spread stealthily and 
 as a personal favour to those who heard. 
 
 The two large bedrooms on the first floor of No. 
 28 were entirely devoted to business purposes. 
 There was a tiny slip of a room over the hall, in 
 which Mrs Benyon slept. There was a single room 
 at the back of the upper storey, a room under the 
 gables, and in this the two maid-servants reposed; while 
 of the two front rooms, which had a communicating 
 door between them, Marty occupied the larger of the 
 two, while the younger girls, who were only home 
 during the holidays, shared the other. For after the 
 return of Marty, Mrs Benyon had somewhat launched 
 out, and had packed off' Madge and Teresa to the 
 school at Folkestone which had done such great 
 things for their sister. 
 
 I have described Marty Beuyon's personal appear- 
 ance; to describe her mind is a task of much more 
 difficulty. I think the dominant note of her whole 
 disposition was that of youth. She was so young, 
 so bubbling over with that delightful quality of 
 juvenescence which, as a rule, lasts so short a time, 
 scarce longer than the rose-blush upon the cheek of 
 girlhood. Another of Marty's qualities was her plain 
 outspokenness. She kept nothing back ; with her 
 to think was to say. It had its inconveniences —
 
 12 MARTY 
 
 what good quality has not ? — but the frankness of 
 her speech was a good match for the freshness of her 
 face. It was strange that Marty should have been 
 the child of her father and mother. The defunct 
 Mr Benyon, who had filled a respectable niche in life 
 in a manner which had won the esteem of all who 
 knew him, had been a person of singularly indefinite 
 parts, who had always looked upon his wife as the 
 " grey mare " who was indisputably the better horse. 
 If the excellent Sarah had asked him whether he 
 would like a second egg for his breakfast, he would 
 certainly have replied, " You had better ask the 
 missis ! " And it is on record that once, when his 
 brother-in-law suggested that they should take a 
 walk as far as Hendon one fine holiday morning, 
 Robert Benyon had promptly called up the stairs to 
 his better half, with the words : " Charlotte ! Mother ! 
 Am I likely to be wanted this morning ? George 
 wants me to walk up to Hendon with him ! " 
 
 As for Mrs Benyon, although she was a woman of 
 very decided character, she was not, and never had 
 been, troubled by any originality, either in her views 
 or her disposition. She had fixed principles in life, 
 and would as soon have thought of trying to tweak 
 her nose off her face as of facing Shrove Tuesday 
 without pancakes. Another of her rules of life was 
 summed up in the old-fashioned adage, " Least said 
 soonest mended." Indeed, Mrs Benyon had a way of 
 shutting her mouth like a steel trap, of turning off 
 the steam of her speech, so to speak, of doing it in a 
 way which conveyed that wild horses wouldn't 
 extract another single word out of her. And the 
 child of this couple was Marty ; Marty, who prefaced 
 every remark with a smile ; Marty, who saw the
 
 No. 28 ROSEDIAMOND ROAD 13 
 
 humorous side of every situation ; Marty, who rapped 
 out one smart little speech after another without 
 having the least idea that she was saying anything 
 out of the ordinary. Truly the ways of Nature are 
 most extraordinary ! 
 
 Now Marty had been at home nearly two months 
 when something happened. It was a dull January 
 afternoon, business for the day was over, for Mrs 
 Benyon's hours for receiving clients were those be- 
 tween eleven and four. Mrs Benyon was enjoying 
 her afternoon tea and some hot buttered toast. It 
 was really the first comfortable meal of the day. 
 Breakfast she partook of as a solid duty, one which 
 would carry her through until the welcome tea and 
 toast, which she could enjoy without fear of being 
 disturbed by " a lady who wants to see you most 
 particularly, and hasn't a minute to spare." " No, I 
 wasn't at lunch, I assure you," said Mrs Benyon one 
 day to a lady who greeted her entrance with a com- 
 punctious apology for disturbing her at that meal. 
 " I used to get my lunch years ago, but I gave it up, 
 for I never was able to enjoy it without getting up 
 three or four times. So now I have just a sandwich 
 and a glass of stout, and it doesn't matter if I eat 
 that standing or not." 
 
 Well, as I said, Mrs Benyon was seated near to the 
 fire in her little drawing-room, looking over the 
 newspaper, and enjoying her tea and toast, when the 
 door opened and Marty came in. 
 
 "Ah, is that you, Marty ? " she remarked, although 
 the fact was obvious. 
 
 " Yes, darling," Marty replied. 
 
 It was one of the habits that Marty had picked up 
 at Folkestone, a habit of calling everybody by some
 
 14 MARTY 
 
 term of endearment, generally the one that she used 
 then. " Yes, darling," she said, " and I've got such a 
 piece of news for you. Amabel Leigh has asked me 
 to go to a ball with her — and her mother, of course — 
 on Thursday week." 
 
 " To a ball ? " said Mrs Benyon, doubtfully. 
 
 " It's a subscription ball, darling," Marty went on, 
 throwing off her fur-trimmed coat, and drawing an 
 easy chair up to the other side of the hearth. " Yes, 
 I'll have some tea, darling, thank you. I thought I 
 should be in time for it. Well, this ball, it's a sub- 
 scription ball at the Beatrice Rooms — guinea tickets — 
 and Amabel has had two given her, so she's asked me 
 to go with her." 
 
 Mrs Benyon's thoughts turned to business immedi- 
 ately. " You had better have that pink and silver 
 dress of the little Duchess," she remarked. 
 
 " Too old," said Marty, unhesitatingly, " much too 
 old. There's a little white crepe dress, with a bit of 
 silver embroidery across the front of the bodice." 
 
 " I thought that wouldn't be good enough." 
 
 Marty helped herself to a bit of toast, and looked 
 at her mother with laughing eyes. " It's better to be 
 not good enough than to be too good, darling," she 
 remarked. " There's plenty of time to get the little 
 white dress cleaned if it needs it. It's astonishing," 
 she went on, " how fond the Duchess is of silver. I 
 suppose because she's fair."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE INEVITABLE YOUNG MAN 
 
 In due course of time Marty, arrayed in the white 
 crepe frock which had once graced the person of " the 
 little Duchess," made her debut in the world of 
 fashion. She was an unqualified success. No, I 
 don't mean to say that she went straight away and 
 fascinated a duke, or that she was the only girl in 
 the ballroom who had an unlimited supply of 
 partners, but she was very much admired, and she 
 had as many partners as she had dances, which, after 
 all, is as much as any girl need wish in that direction. 
 
 She came home, duly escorted by Mrs Leigh and 
 Amabel, at something after four o'clock in the 
 morning, and Mrs Benyon, who, if I tell the truth, 
 had not been in personal touch with a fashionable 
 ball since the old days, almost forgotten, when she 
 had been head tirewoman to the Duchess of York- 
 shire, got out of bed, and, turning up her little gas 
 fire, insisted upon making Marty a cup of tea. 
 
 " I really don't know that I want it, darling," said 
 Marty, who was full of compunction at her mother's 
 unselfishness, " I really don't know that I want it." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Mrs Benyon, " you will be the 
 better for it. When I was young," she added, " and 
 had to do with balls, it was always a cup of tea that 
 
 15
 
 16 MARTY 
 
 was the thing best liked and most looked for. Be- 
 sides, I want to hear how you enjoyed it, and whether 
 your frock was all right among the others, and — " 
 
 " Oh, mother ! " cried Marty, " you know that lovely 
 blue dress of Lady Rickmans worth's ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, that was there ! " 
 
 " You don't say so ! There now, did you ever hear 
 the like of that ! And now tell me, Marty, what did 
 Amabel wear ? " 
 
 " Oh, she wore the pink frock. You see, it wasn't 
 her comiDg out." 
 
 " No, no," said Mrs Benyon ; " and that was a pretty 
 frock, the pink one. And your partners, Marty — were 
 there any young gentlemen there that you liked ? " 
 
 Marty beamed all over her piquant face. " That 
 water's boiling, darling," she said. " No, I'll put it in 
 the pot." 
 
 " No, no," said Mrs Benyon, " sit there and tell me 
 about the young gentlemen. You needn't dirty your 
 frock ; it looks so nice and fresh. Sit you there." 
 
 " Well," said Marty, taking up the story with relish, 
 "there were three or four for the matter of that that 
 were nice, but there was one, mother — oh, darling, he 
 was a gem ! " 
 
 " There now ! " said Mrs Benyon. " See what it is 
 to go out in the world and have chances. I always 
 did say when I read the Society papers and I see Lady 
 This and the Duchess of That praised up as being such 
 lovely women, I always did say that it was oppor- 
 tunity and nothing else that made them ' My Lady ' 
 and the Duchess." 
 
 " Yes," said Marty, " it's a great thing to have op- 
 portunity. That is what I felt to-night when Mr
 
 THE INEVITABLE YOUNG MAN 17 
 
 Etherington was brought up to me. I don't know 
 how many times I danced with him," she said, with a 
 happy little giggle at the remembrance of the whole- 
 sale way in which she had flirted with the said Mr 
 Etherington. " But Amabel's mother did whisper at 
 last that I wasn't to make myself too conspicuous 
 with him, and so we retired into the conservatory, 
 and there we sat through the next three or four 
 dances. I've had a great time, darling," she said, 
 leaning back in her chair and staring in a contempla- 
 tive way at the gas tire, " yes, I've had a great time." 
 
 "Well, that's what you went for. And, tell me, 
 how did Amabel get on ? " 
 
 " Oh, all right. You see, she had all her own boys 
 there. Charley Hurst made himself a bit of a nuisance, 
 but Amabel puts up with it very willingly. You see, 
 darling," said Marty, stirring her tea round and taking 
 little delicate sips between her words, " you see, 
 darling, when a girl's in the way of going about, she 
 naturally has her own young men, her own partners, 
 those who know her step, those who like her and 
 whom she likes ; but the first time a girl goes to. a 
 ball she has to say ' Yes, if you please,' and ' Thank 
 you' for whatever comes in her way." 
 
 " But you liked what came in your way, Marty ? " 
 said Mrs Benyon, rather wistfully. 
 
 Marty dexterously stifled a yawn with a broad 
 smile. " Oh, yes ! Mr Etherington's a gem ! " she 
 declared, "and he's coming to see me on Sunday 
 afternoon. I told him we were always at home. He 
 asked if he might, and I thought I'd like to see him 
 in my own house. All paste looks like real gems in a 
 ballroom ; it's the wear and tear of home life that 
 tells whether they are gems or not." And then Marty 
 
 B
 
 18 MARTY 
 
 yawned again, such a yawn this time that not even 
 her best smile could hide it. 
 
 Mrs Benyon stooped and turned out the fire. " I 
 daresay it will be all right, Marty," she said. " Go 
 and get to bed, my love. I am glad you have enjoyed 
 yourself." 
 
 "I have had a lovely time," said Marty. "Good- 
 night, darling ! I'm sorry you dragged yourself out 
 of bed to wait on me." 
 
 " Come, come," said Mrs Benyon, " it isn't much that 
 I do to wait on you; it's generally the other way 
 round. Good girls deserve good times now and again, 
 and your mother isn't one that will ever grudge them 
 to you." 
 
 So Marty went oft' to bed and slept far into the day, 
 long after Mrs Benyon had got up and arrayed herself 
 in her customary toilet of neat black, and was hard 
 at work making up the minds of ladies who could not 
 make them up for themselves, extolling the virtues of 
 this and the beauties of the other, and, in short, making 
 the wherewithal with which to provide the wants of 
 her little brood. 
 
 At last Sunday afternoon arrived, and with it came 
 the young man whom Marty had described to her 
 mother as a gem. He was a pleasant-spoken young 
 man of the ordinary public-school type, had an ap- 
 pointment in one of the Government offices, and was 
 in all respects personable enough. Mrs Benyon had 
 a certain inclination to address him as " sir," but she 
 manfully choked it down and received him with a 
 manner which was redolent both of graciousness and 
 dignity. Amabel Leigh and one or two other girls 
 came in during the course of the visit, and the after- 
 noon was very merry indeed.
 
 THE INEVITABLE YOUNG MAN 19 
 
 " I may come again, Mrs Benyon ? " said Mr Ether- 
 ington, as he took her hand at parting. 
 
 " Why, surely," she replied. 
 
 " My people are all out of London, you know," he 
 went on, still holding her hand and looking at her 
 with eager, almost anxious, eyes. " I know what it is 
 to be dreadfully dull, dreadfully lonely, especially in 
 the evenings." 
 
 " Perhaps you live a long way from this ? " said 
 Mrs Benyon. 
 
 " No, no, not ten minutes' walk away. If you 
 would let me come in after dinner now and again, I 
 — it would be such a — you don't know how kind it 
 would be." 
 
 " Then come," said Mrs Benyon. " We don't go out 
 very much in the evening, Marty and me. I some- 
 times go to a theatre and enjoy myself, but most 
 evenings we are here sitting by ourselves." 
 
 " Thank you, so much," he said ; " it is kind of you. 
 I — don't know how to thank you enough." 
 
 And then as he finally took himself off, and the 
 door was closed behind him, Amabel Leigh looked 
 stonily at nothing. " A clean case of out on strike I 
 should call it," she remarked presently, in a wooden 
 kind of voice. 
 
 Marty giggled. It wasn't an irritating giggle, but 
 a gay little bubble of laughter, a something which 
 was there and had to come out, an ebullition that was 
 as young and as full of good spirits as herself. "Some 
 people know how to ask for what they want ! " was 
 her remark. 
 
 "And how to get it," rejoined Amabel. 
 
 And then the two giggled again as if no such joke 
 had come in their way for many and many a day.
 
 20 MARTY 
 
 Mr George Etherington took Mrs Benyon at her 
 word. It was wonderful how many excuses he was 
 able to invent for knocking at the door of No. 28 
 Rosediaraond Road. First it was that it would be 
 polite to avail himself of the lady's kind permission 
 to join their society ; then it was a new song for 
 Marty ; then it was something in Punch that he 
 thought Marty's mother would appreciate ; then it 
 was tickets for a concert, or a dance, or a theatre, or 
 a few flowers, or the feeling of loneliness that he was 
 sure they would help him to dispel — always some- 
 thing. 
 
 And so the short winter days developed into spring, 
 and the long spring days went by, and the London 
 season was in full swing. It is a time which affects 
 everybody— those in the beau monde and those in 
 humbler circumstances. Mrs Benyon was up to her 
 eyes in fashions, and Marty was up to hers in engage- 
 ments ; and in all Marty's engagements there was one 
 dominant note — George Etherington. He seemed to 
 pervade the girl's whole life, was on the friendliest 
 terms with the excellent Sarah, treated Mrs Benvon 
 herself with an air which seemed to defy all fears of 
 future relationship, squired Marty everywhere, and 
 had not the faintest idea of the way in which the 
 Rosediamond Road establishment was kept up. 
 
 " He is a dear boy," said Mrs Benyon one evening, 
 when George Etherington had just left them, having 
 escorted Marty back from a little evening party at 
 the house of Amabel Leigh. 
 
 " Yes," said Marty, rather absently. 
 
 Mrs Benyon looked up. " You think so, don't 
 you ? " she asked a little anxiously. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I'm very fond of George. I — I — "
 
 THE INEVITABLE YOUNG MAN 21 
 
 " What is it, Marty ? " asked her mother. 
 
 ' What is it ? " said Marty, looking up with a ready 
 smile beaming out again. " Nothing at all, darling, 
 nothing at all. Do you remember the first time I 
 ever saw George Etherino-ton ? It was at that ball 
 in the Beatrice Rooms." 
 
 " No, I don't remember." 
 
 " Well, I wasn't sure then," said Marty, " and I'm 
 not sure now, whether George is true-blue or he 
 isn't." 
 
 " What makes you say that ? " 
 
 " One or two little things." 
 
 " What sort of things ? " 
 
 " You know," said Marty, " I went up to the Park 
 yesterday, as I've done many a time before." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " To meet George and walk about, and look at all 
 the fashions, and so on." 
 
 " Yes ? " 
 
 ' Well," said Marty, " I had that pink linen gown on 
 — you know, with the green and black embroidery." 
 
 " Yes. And a lovely gown it is, too." 
 
 "And I had the burnt straw hat with the black 
 velvet roses and the green leaves — you know, that 
 goes with it." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "And a plain black parasol. I was looking all 
 right." 
 
 "You always look all right," interposed Mrs 
 Benj'on somewhat fiercely. 
 
 " Yes, but sometimes I look all righter than others," 
 said Marty, " and I was looking very much all right 
 yesterday afternoon. And we met a lady, very 
 stylish-looking, and she had a real stylish young
 
 22 MARTY 
 
 man with her too; and George went on, he didn't 
 stop." 
 
 " Why should he stop ? He can't stop to speak to 
 everybody he knows when he's with a young lady ; 
 it wouldn't be manners," cried Mrs Benyon. 
 
 " It would have been manners in this case," said 
 Marty, " because it was his own sister ! "
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A NEW CLIENT 
 
 They say that small things rankle most in the 
 feminine mind. I have not always found it so my- 
 self, but we will not argue the point. Certain it is 
 that the fact that George Etherington had not 
 stopped when he met his sister and her husband in 
 the Park, but had passed her by as if she were but 
 an ordinary acquaintance — and not an intimate one 
 at that — did linger and did rankle in the mind of 
 Marty Benyon. Marty was no fool. She knew, no 
 one better, that if she had been the daughter of an 
 R.A., or of anybody quite of the Etherington level in 
 the social scale, her cavalier would have stopped and 
 would have made her known to his sister. If I tell 
 the exact truth — and, as you know, that is my usual 
 habit in telling a story of this kind — I must confess 
 that the quick, keen glance with which George 
 Etherington's sister contrived in the moment of pass- 
 ing to take in every detail of Marty's person, rankled 
 even more than the main incident itself. That very 
 afternoon she had gone up to her own bedroom and 
 had looked at herself in the long glass door of the 
 wardrobe. 
 
 " Why did she look at me like that ? " her angry 
 thoughts ran. " It wasn't rude, it wasn't horrid, it 
 
 23
 
 24 MARTY 
 
 wasn't even unkind, and yet — she looked me up 
 and down as if I had been a being out of another 
 world. My things are all right — good, quiet, taste- 
 ful ; they were good enough for a duchess before 
 me, and yet — Oh-h-h ! why is it ? Why is it ? 
 It was the same way that Agnes O'Callaghan 
 always looked over me at Folkestone. If ever I 
 forgot myself, no matter how little, she would lift 
 up her eyelids the eighth of an inch, and I used 
 to feel mad. What is it % Where do they get it ? 
 George has got it too. George thinks he's going 
 to marry me and be able to lift his eyelids at me, 
 and say, ' My dear girl ! ' " And then she stood 
 and looked at herself in the glass for quite a long 
 time. " Is George going to marry me ? Does 
 George want to marry me ? Is George true-blue, 
 or is he only — Oh ! I can't make up my mind." 
 
 And then she began slowly to unfasten the pretty 
 frock, for Marty was a good girl, and never wore 
 her outdoor garments in the house. 
 
 It was not until the next day that Marty so 
 much as mentioned the incident to her mother. 
 Mrs Benyon took rather a different view to Marty. 
 
 "My dear," she said, "you mustn't get failing 
 things. I don't see why it should be any more the 
 thing to stop and introduce you to his sister than 
 to introduce his sister to you. Some young men 
 don't like their sisters to know young ladies that 
 they are paying attention to." 
 
 " Perhaps that's it," said Marty ; " perhaps it 
 isn't. Time will show. However, we needn't talk 
 about George, darling. There's as good fish in the 
 sea as ever came out of it. He isn't the only young 
 man in the world, all said and done ! "
 
 A NEW CLIENT 25 
 
 "You are so sensible, Marty," said Mrs Benyon, 
 admiringly. 
 
 "It's a good thing I am," said Marty, in an airy 
 tone. " Girls need all the sense they've got ; most 
 of them," she added, "haven't got any. Now if I 
 were Amabel," she went on, and even the mother's 
 quick ears did not notice how the gay young voice 
 trembled, "if I were Amabel, I should send Charley 
 Hurst to the right-about to-morrow — no, I wouldn't 
 wait till to-morrow," she went on, bubbling over 
 with laughing, " I'd do it to-night. Orders her 
 about as if she were a slave — ' Do this ! ' ' Don't 
 do the other ! ' 'I don't approve of this, and I 
 object to that ! ' I should like to read that young 
 gentleman a lesson, that I should ! By-the-bye, 
 mother darling, where are we going for our 
 holidays this year ? " 
 
 "That," said Mrs Benyon, "is what I have never 
 given a thought to. What would you like to do ? " 
 
 "I should like to go somewhere where we could 
 be a bit gay. I hate the ordinary seaside — shells 
 on the beach in the morning ; dawdling about with 
 a bit of needlework in the afternoon ; shuddering 
 about in the damp sea air listening to a band at 
 night." 
 
 " What else is there to do ? " said Mrs Benyon. 
 
 " Well, you are going away for August ? " 
 
 " Yes, as usual," her mother replied. 
 
 " And then Sarah gets a holiday in September. 
 Of course, last September, darling, you had to do 
 it by yourself, with just such help as Ann could 
 give you, but this year, of course, I shall take 
 Sarah's place." 
 
 " You will ? " said Mrs Benyon.
 
 26 MARTY 
 
 "I'll do the best I can. I sha'n't be like Sarah, 
 you know ; still, I shall be better than no one." 
 
 "You are a good girl, Marty," said Mrs Benyon, 
 looking at her daughter with a suspicious dewiness 
 about her eyes. 
 
 Marty laughed outright. " Well, darling," she 
 said, " I don't know where the goodness comes in. 
 If ever a woman deserved a good daughter, that 
 woman's you. You have set me an example long 
 enough, goodness knows." 
 
 " Yes, but to go into the business," said Mrs 
 Benyon. 
 
 " Fiddle-de-dee ! What nonsense ! " cried Marty. 
 " What's good enough for you is good enough for 
 me. I shall be a perfect fool at it, I have no 
 doubt, but," she added, with her own gay little 
 giggle of laughter, " we shall find out that when 
 the time comes. Perhaps you'll turn me out neck 
 and crop and refuse to let me in among your 
 pretties ! " 
 
 However, long before September came Marty 
 lent her mother the promised hand upstairs, for 
 about the middle of July the excellent Sarah fell 
 ill ; not seriously ill, but with a sharp attack of 
 flu' which necessitated her keeping her bed and 
 having a certain amount of personal attention. 
 
 "I insist on it, Marty," said Mrs Benyon, as 
 soon as she knew the nature of Sarah's indisposi- 
 tion, " I insist on it that you don't go near Sarah's 
 room." 
 
 " I must," said Marty. 
 
 " I forbid it ! " said Mrs Benyon. 
 
 " Dear mother, how am I to go to bed ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't mean in that way ! But Ann and
 
 A NEW CLIENT 27 
 
 me can do everything that's necessary. It only 
 means a few days in bed and living on slops." 
 
 " You are just as likely to get it as me, mother." 
 
 "No, I'm not; I'm hard. I never take anything — 
 never did. You are like your poor father. It's 
 the same disposition exactly." 
 
 Marty opened her eyes wide. " Me like father ! " 
 she exclaimed. " Well, that's the first time I ever 
 heard of it. Mother, darling, what can you be 
 thinking of ? " 
 
 "Not to look at," said Mrs Benyon, "nor yet in 
 your character." 
 
 "You said my disposition." 
 
 "I meant your constitution," said Mrs Benyon. 
 "Your father always took everything, poor dear 
 man. I used to say sometimes it was as if he 
 prided himself on it. He ought to have been a 
 professional burglar ; I always told him so ; but, 
 poor dear man, he never turned anything to account, 
 not even his natural disposition." 
 
 " Then," said Marty, " I shall come into the show- 
 room." 
 
 " Law, my dear girl," said Mrs Benyon, " you don't 
 know where anything is ! " 
 
 "I can find out. I told you only the other day, 
 when we were talking about it, that I shouldn't be 
 like Sarah. I suppose Sarah knows where everything 
 is as well as, or better than, you know yourself. But 
 I can learn. Just come upstairs now with me, and 
 walk round and show me exactly what there is to 
 learn. I'm pretty quick. I shall pick it up in a 
 morning." 
 
 And Marty did prove herself extraordinarily quick. 
 She also showed that she would in time make a nice,
 
 28 MARTY 
 
 fresh, intelligent saleswoman, and more than one lady 
 whispered to Mrs Benyon that she thought her new 
 young lady was a very good find. 
 
 " Oh, your daughter is it ? " said one, with an air of 
 surprise. " Really ! Then have you done away with 
 Sarah ? " 
 
 " Oh, dear no ! " Mrs Benyon cried, in quite a shocked 
 tone. " I couldn't do without Sarah, madam. She's 
 quite my right-hand man — she knows more about the 
 business than I do — but Sarah is not very well. Oh, 
 nothing serious; she'll be about again in a day or 
 two. Yes, we've had a very heavy season. There, 
 we needn't grumble at that," she went on. " We 
 should grumble a deal harder if we had no work to 
 do!" 
 
 The lady laughed, and with a cheerful " Good morn- 
 ing " took herself away. 
 
 "A nice woman that, Marty," said Mrs Benyon; 
 " no airs and graces about her. I know in a minute, 
 child, when they come in here and they put on the 
 big-pot, as if they weren't quite sure whether there 
 was a bad smell or not, and they'd got into the place 
 by mistake. There's nothing of that kind about Mrs 
 Allington — a thoroughly nice woman. I'm always 
 glad to let her have an extra bargain. Put away that 
 rose crepe dress, Marty," Mrs Benyon went on ; " yes, 
 I'd put it back into the calico slip. Nobody is likely 
 to want it this afternoon." 
 
 But Mrs Benyon was wrong. Half-an-hour later a 
 young lady arrived, pleasant of voice and manner, 
 who was shown up by the available servant, and who 
 told Mrs Benyon that she had need of a thoroughly 
 smart ball-dress. Had she one ? 
 
 " I have one," said Mrs Benyon, looking her over
 
 A NEW CLIENT 29 
 
 with a professional eye, " that should just about fit 
 you. It has never been worn. Deep mourning is the 
 cause. It's a Doucet gown, and it cost forty-five 
 guineas." 
 
 " Oh, that's much more than I wanted to give." 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes. I'm only telling you what her lady- 
 ship paid for it in the beginning," said Mrs Benyon. 
 
 " And it's price now ? " 
 
 " The price now is thirteen guineas. You'll not get 
 such a bargain in London. Marty ! Marty ! " she 
 called. But no Marty answered. " Excuse me a 
 minute, I'll get it for you. I thought my daughter 
 was here," said Mrs Benyon ; " she was a minute ago." 
 
 She spread out a great white linen sheet on which 
 she displayed her most delicate goods, then going into 
 the next room, she reappeared with the gown in its 
 long calico slip held gingerly over one arm. 
 
 " There ! " she said, as she cast aside the chrysalis 
 and displayed the butterfly in all its glory, " there, 
 madam ! I don't know whether you know any of the 
 other agencies of this kind in London, but this is the 
 class of goods ive are in the habit of selling." 
 
 The lady uttered a little cry. " Oh, it's lovely ! 
 Would it be possible to try it on ? " 
 
 " Oh, certainly, madam. We shall be quite undis- 
 turbed, and being so near to lunch time, I doubt if any 
 other customers will be coming ; in any case, you will 
 be quite private here." 
 
 The dress was quickly tried and decided on, and its 
 price paid over. 
 
 " I'll send it home at once." 
 
 " No, indeed, you won't," said the lady. " I'll have 
 a cab and take it. I don't live very far away." 
 
 " And your name — do you mind my knowing it ? I
 
 30 MARTY 
 
 always like to know my ladies' names," said Mrs 
 Benyon, in her pleasantest voice. 
 
 " Oh, I haven't the least objection to your knowing 
 it. My name is Piers. I shall come again — often. I 
 consider you a perfect find, Mrs Benyon." 
 
 So they parted. As she closed the door behind her 
 new client, Mrs Benyon turned and went into the 
 drawing-room. " Why are you there, Marty ? " she 
 exclaimed. " I've had such a nice young lady." 
 
 " You needn't tell me, mother," said Marty. " It's 
 George's sister ! "
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A CRUMPLED ROSE-LEAF 
 
 " George's sister ! " repeated Mrs Benyon. " George 
 Etherington's sister — the one you met in the Park ? " 
 
 " Yes, the one I met in the Park," said Marty. The 
 girl was looking straight out of the window. There 
 was not a vestige of a smile on her face ; her eyes 
 were shaded by the brows drawn deeply over them ; 
 her mouth was set, almost grim. 
 
 " Was that why you kept out of sight, Marty ? " 
 said Mrs Benyon. 
 
 The girl roused herself, shook herself together as it 
 were. " It was and it wasn't," she replied. " For a 
 miuute, as I saw her turn the head of the stairs, I had 
 a sort of feeling that I must get out of the way and 
 hide myself. I stayed away because I thought I 
 might as well, and I didn't want to be introduced to 
 her by anybody but George. But you like her ? " she 
 asked abruptly. 
 
 " Oh, yes, she's nice, pretty, good taste in dressing. 
 She looked lovely in the pink crepe-de-cMne. I'm 
 sure Lady Marjorie herself never looked sweeter than 
 she did." 
 
 " Oh, she tried it on ? " 
 
 " Yes. Fitted her to a tee. She made me promise, 
 if she came back one day next week, I would show 
 her everything I have of Lady Marjorie's." 
 
 3i
 
 32 MARTY 
 
 " You told her who they had come from ? " 
 
 " No, I didn't do that. I said I had other dresses 
 from the same lady ; that she was a lady of title. I 
 didn't give her name." 
 
 "I wouldn't if I were you," said Marty. "I—" 
 She was silent for a moment, then a roguish little 
 dimple appeared on one side of her mouth, and a 
 smile gradually overspread her face, and she looked 
 like herself again. "It's funny, when you come to 
 think of it, mother. There's a wrong side of the car- 
 pet to everybody's affairs. To hear George talk 
 sometimes you would think — oh, you'd think that his 
 people were sacred beings ! Oh, mother, a business 
 like yours does let you in behind the scenes, doesn't 
 it?" 
 
 " Perhaps," said Mrs Benyon, shrewdly, as she led 
 the way into the dining-room, where the very light 
 lunch in which she indulged was spread upon the 
 table, " perhaps that will come in useful in more wa} 7 s 
 than one to you, Marty. Have a sandwich ? " 
 
 Marty drew her chair up to the table. "Yes, 
 mother, thank you. Yes, I think you are right. Oh, 
 mother, mother, this is a funny, shallow little world, 
 and the longer I live in it the more funny and the 
 more shallow I find it." 
 
 " I often think," said Mrs Benyon, biting reflectively 
 into a sandwich, " when I read in the papers about 
 deep things, deep tragedies, deep thoughts, I often 
 think to myself that, after all, it's only a way of put- 
 ting it. We are all a lot of mites digging about on 
 the outside of the world ; we never get lower down 
 than the very outside of the crust. And it's very 
 much the same with feelings and thoughts; they seem 
 deep at the time, some of them, but when you look
 
 A CRUMPLED ROSE-LEAF 33 
 
 back after it's all over and done with, you generally 
 feel that you made a great fuss about nothing — 
 What did you say, cook ? A young lady must see me 
 — very important ? Oh, dear, dear ! Well, tell her 
 I'll be up in five minutes." 
 
 During the rest of the day she several times glanced 
 very keenly and scrutinisiugly at Marty, but Marty 
 was just her usual self. She helped her mother 
 during the afternoon, shared her tea, went out a little 
 later, and, in the evening, was seated at the piano 
 playing a new waltz when George Etherington was 
 announced. 
 
 He was in evening dress, and explained that he had 
 to go to a party later on. 
 
 " What sort of a party ? " asked Marty. 
 
 " It's really a dance, given at the house of some 
 great friends of my sister." His voice seemed always 
 to take on a slightly more formal tone when he spoke 
 of any of his own people. 
 
 " Seen your sister to-day ? " said Marty, in a very 
 off-hand kind of way. 
 
 " Yes, I dined there." 
 
 " Ah ! She lives in Cottenham Avenue, doesn't 
 she?" 
 
 Etherington looked up, surprised. " Er — er — yes. 
 Who told you?" 
 
 " Who told me ? " said Marty, reflectively. " Well, 
 upon my word I don't know if I can tell you. It isn't 
 a matter of great importance, I suppose ? There's no 
 secret about it ? " 
 
 " Oh, not the least in the world. I only wondered, 
 that was all. Will you come out with me to- 
 morrow ? " 
 
 " Where ? " 
 
 C
 
 34 MARTY 
 
 "Anywhere you like. I could get seats at The 
 Importance of Being Drivelling. You haven't seen 
 it, have you ? " 
 
 " No, I haven't seen it," said Marty. " I'd like to 
 
 go." 
 
 " It begins at nine. I'll come round here at half- 
 past eight." 
 
 " Yes, do," said Marty, with quiet coolness. " I'm 
 sorry we can't ask you to have dinner with us before, 
 but Sarah's got the influenza. She's in bed." 
 
 " Sarah ? Ah, I thought I missed her. I thought 
 perhaps she had left." 
 
 " Oh, no, Sarah never leaves," said Marty ; " only 
 when she has to go to bed with the flu', or away on 
 a holiday, which isn't often, poor dear. And then you 
 can tell me all about the ball," she went on, speaking 
 in a sprightly and gracious manner. " Be sure you 
 notice what sort of a dress your sister wears. She's 
 very pretty." 
 
 " Oh, I can tell you what sort of a dress she'll 
 wear," said George. " She had to go out and get one 
 somewhere or other this morning, because the dress 
 she was going to wear got dreadfully torn last night." 
 
 " Oh, really ! You don't say so ! Poor thing ! " 
 
 "And so she told her husband this morning that 
 she would have to go out and get one by hook or 
 crook, and I don't know where she went for it, but 
 she landed back with a ripping ball-gown." 
 
 " Perhaps she went to Peter's," said Marty. 
 
 " I 'don't think so. I don't think she fancies 
 Peter's. She used to go to a woman called Emmeline 
 Schlesinger, but I fancy she has given her up for 
 some reason or other. However, I'll take note of it 
 to-night and tell you to-morrow what it is like."
 
 A CRUMPLED ROSE-LEAF 35 
 
 " Where is this dance ? " said Marty. 
 
 " It's at an artist's up in the Melbury Road." 
 
 Their conversation was scrappy and had a con- 
 tinual hitch in it, like a person with very thin shoes 
 who treads on unexpected pebbles, and brings up the 
 fine swinging walk with an unaccustomed halt. For 
 months these two had been used to talk without 
 knowing they were talking ; now, all at once, their 
 intercourse became laboured, even stilted. She knew 
 the reason ; he did not, and he was impatient accord- 
 ingly.^ 
 
 " What were you playing when I came in ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Oh, that waltz we heard the other night, the one 
 you liked so much." 
 
 " Yes, I said I'd send it to you." 
 
 " But you didn't." 
 
 " No more I did. And you got it ? " 
 
 "I did." 
 
 " Oh, Marty, you shouldn't ! " 
 
 " Well, I thought you had forgotten it. It didn't 
 matter. I've got a new song, too." 
 
 " Sing it to me, do ! " 
 
 The girl turned to the piano and began to play and 
 then to sing, partly because singing was easier than 
 talking. It was a pretty, dainty, telling little song, 
 and scraps of it remained in George Etherington's 
 memory for many and many a day, — 
 
 " I tell each bead unto the end, 
 And there a cross is hung." 
 
 He shivered, and moved uneasily, but Marty's 
 sweet, fresh voice went on, for she neither saw the
 
 36 MARTY 
 
 shiver nor the quick, outward motion of the foot, 
 which seemed as though he would push all un- 
 pleasant subjects away from him, — 
 
 " O memories that bless and burn ! 
 
 barren gain and bitter loss ! 
 
 1 kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn 
 
 To kiss the cross, sweetheart, to kiss the cross ! " 
 
 As the last deep note died away, George 
 Etherington got up from his chair and flung to the 
 window. 
 
 " I don't like it," he said. 
 
 Marty twisted half round on the music-stool. 
 " Oh, don't you ? Well, I can't help that. It's a 
 lovely song. What is there you don't like about it ? " 
 
 She had twisted quite round now and sat looking 
 at him, her hands loosely clasped in her lap, her eyes 
 lighted up with her wonted smile. She was miser- 
 able, this girl ; she was going through her first spell 
 of disillusionment, yet, all the same, the sight of 
 George Etherington unmistakably on the grill, un- 
 mistakably uncomfortable, disturbed, ill at ease, was 
 quite sufficient to call forth all her old power of seeing 
 the humorous side of every situation. 
 
 " Oh, I don't like it. It's gloomy, and sad, and 
 yowling " 
 
 " No, it's not yowling," said Marty. " It's sad, I 
 admit ; it's hardly gloomy, but it isn't yowling. 
 George," she said, suddenly speaking in a totally 
 different voice, " George, there's something wrong 
 with you to-night. You are ill at ease and un- 
 comfortable. You are not exactly in a bad temper, 
 but you would be for half a word. What is it ? 
 Have I done anything to vex you ? "
 
 A CRUMPLED ROSE-LEAF 37 
 
 " You ? Xo. How should you ? Why should 
 you ? " 
 
 "Well, I don't know why, or yet how, but some- 
 thing must have happened to put your lordship about. 
 I'd like to know what it is." 
 
 " Nothing — nothing. I don't think I'm very 
 well." 
 
 " Oh, you are not very well ? You are going to a 
 ball and you're not happy ? You're like the Princess 
 that had the crumpled rose-leaf in her bed. What's 
 your crumpled rose-leaf ? " 
 
 " It's you" said George, turning almost savagely 
 upon her. 
 
 " Me ! " Marty looked the very picture of surprised 
 innocence. " And pray what have I been doing ? " 
 
 "I don't know what you have been doing," said 
 George Etherington, sitting down on the arm of a big 
 chair and looking savagely at the toe of his shining 
 slipper. " I don't know what you have been doing, 
 but you have been doing something." 
 
 " I have. I went out this afternoon, and I've eaten 
 my dinner, and that's about all I've done to-day." 
 
 " I didn't say it was to-day," he burst out. " You 
 are different." 
 
 " Do you think I am ? " She said the words in 
 such a tone, they conveyed at once an invitation, a 
 regret, a wistfulness, and an entreaty. " Do you 
 think I am ? " she repeated. 
 
 George Etherington sat forward a little and rested 
 his chin upon his hand, his elbow upon his knee. 
 "Yes," he said, nibbling the end of his little finger 
 between his teeth, " yes, something's happened to you. 
 I believe it's another fellow. Y'ou don't look at me 
 the same, you don't speak the same, your handshake
 
 38 MARTY 
 
 is different, you are different. You — you — you have 
 been hatching something." 
 
 " Hatching something ! I ? Another fellow ! And 
 if there were, I'm not engaged to you. You have no 
 right to demand or to expect that I sha'n't speak to 
 ' another fellow ' as you call him. I'm perfectly free 
 to do as I like, just as you are perfectly free to go to 
 this ball to-night." 
 
 "It isn't quite the same — " he began, but Marty 
 caught him up. 
 
 "No, George, it isn't quite the same," she said, 
 dropping her words out one by one. " "We don't 
 stand on the same platform, you and I. I tell you 
 everything, show you everything, I've been a real 
 chum to you ; you have only made me a little bit of 
 your life, I've made you welcome as a friend to the 
 whole of mine. Don't talk silly nonsense about other 
 fellows. You don't understand how to live, my dear 
 ooy 5 you don't understand the right way to look at 
 life at all. Other fellows ! — hatching things ! You're 
 not going to ask me to marry you, George, so what 
 have you to do with other fellows ? " 
 
 " And if I did ? " 
 
 " If you did ? Well, if you did, I should tell you 
 that you are just the last man in the world that I 
 would think of spending the rest of my life with. 
 You are a nice boy — you are a dear boy ; you have 
 been very kind to me, and I'm quite fond of you, but 
 when you come to serious questions like marrying, 
 ' other fellows,' ' hatching things,' and all the rest of 
 it, my dear boy you are — you are preposterous ! "
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE UNPALATABLE TRUTH 
 
 When Marty had come to the end of her tirade 
 against George Etherington's pretensions, that young 
 gentleman's countenance was pitiful to behold. To 
 say that he was astonished is to express but little of 
 the feeling which had taken possession of him. That 
 Marty, whom he had honoured with his attentions, 
 should thus turn upon him, and, metaphorically 
 speaking, " rend him," was as unlooked-for as it was 
 unpalatable, and Marty's voice and manner left no 
 doubt but that she was thoroughly in earnest. She 
 gave him no time to reply, but whisked back to the 
 piano again and began playing the dreamy waltz which 
 had been the first that ever she danced with him. 
 It was a waltz which just then had taken possession 
 of London. Every boy in the street whistled it, 
 every piano-organ droned it, every school-girl played 
 it, and it was to be found in every dance pro- 
 gramme. It had a slow, dreamy, swinging move- 
 ment, as if the composer had written it with his eyes 
 shut, as if the player must needs shut out the world 
 in the same way, the better to enjoy it. 
 
 George Etherington looked at Marty. She was 
 apparently thinking of nothing but the sweet sounds 
 stealing from under her little, firm, capable hands, — 
 
 La-la-la ! — La-la-la ! — La-la-la — a ! 
 
 39
 
 4 MARTY 
 
 " Marty ! " said George Etherington, quite sternly. 
 
 " H'm ! " returned Marty, continuing to play, — 
 
 La-la-la ! — La-la-la ! — La-la-la — a ! 
 
 " I want to speak to you, Marty." 
 
 " Go on," said Marty, — 
 
 La-la-la ! — La-la-la ! — La-la-la — a ! 
 
 " Is that your last word, Marty ? " 
 
 " I think it's my first so far as you are concerned, 
 George," she said, speaking very sharply through the 
 strains of the seductive waltz. 
 
 " I asked if it was your last word, Marty ? " he said. 
 
 " Yes," said Marty over her shoulder, "it's my last 
 word." 
 
 " All right. That's all I wanted to know," he said, 
 in a very don't-care sort of voice. " It's just as well 
 — er — to have a clear understanding, to know where 
 we are, so to speak." 
 
 " Oh, quite !" said Marty, — 
 
 Tra-la-la !— Tra-la-la ! 
 
 "Then, good-night," said George. 
 
 " Good-night," said Marty. " I hope you'll enjoy 
 your dance." 
 
 " You may rest assured I shall not do that," said 
 George, at the door. 
 
 " Be sure to tell me to-morrow what your sister 
 wore," Marty called after him. 
 
 " Oh, I'll remember," said George. 
 
 And then he shut the door very quietly, and Marty 
 played resolutely on, played right to the end of the 
 waltz, played as if she loved every note ; and all the 
 time her heart was going down lower and lower, and 
 a chill seemed to be stealing up from somewhere and 
 wrapping her round as if with some great misty 
 blanket.
 
 THE UNPALATABLE TRUTH 41 
 
 It was just then that Mrs Benyon came into the 
 room. " What, has Mr Etherington gone ? " she asked. 
 
 " Gone to a dance," said Marty, beginning to play 
 the waltz again. 
 
 " Gone to a dance ! And didn't take you ? " 
 
 " It's a private dance," said Marty. 
 
 Some catch in the young voice caused the mother 
 to look keenly at the girl, and to her dismay she saw 
 that while she played the tears were dropping down 
 upon her hands. Some mothers would have gone 
 away ; Mrs Benyon never thought of it ; on the 
 contrary, she moved close up to the piano and laid 
 her hand on the girl's shoulder. 
 
 " What's happened, my honey-bird ? " she inquired. 
 It was years since she had addressed Marty by the 
 homely and tender appellation. 
 
 Marty played on as if she had not heard her ; the 
 tears also continued to fall. Then some touch of the 
 mother's hand made her stop with a jerk and shake 
 the tears off her face. 
 
 " It's nothing at all, mother. Don't worry yourself 
 about it. We've — we've had a little explanation 
 to-night, George and me, and I — I've put him back 
 in his place. It doesn't matter. Don't you fret. 
 I'm not really crying. How is Sarah to-night ? 
 Can't I do anything to help you ? " She dived into 
 her pocket, and bringing out a diminutive handker- 
 chief, dried her eyes with a firm and energetic hand. 
 " It isn't often you see me giving way to the 
 femininities, mother. There, darling," catching hold 
 of her hand, "don't upset your dear self. It's all 
 right." 
 
 "Marty," said Mrs Benyon, in a trembling voice, 
 " is he true blue, dear, or isn't he ? "
 
 42 MARTY 
 
 "I mostly think he isn't," said Marty, "and it 
 comes with a bit of a pang when you once fancied 
 he was blue right through, like a sapphire. Never 
 mind. How is Sarah ? " 
 
 " She's better to-night, my honey — no fever, and 
 the pain in her head quite gone. I'm going to leave 
 my door open, and Ann's going to sleep in the little 
 room, and she'll leave hers ajar, so one of us will 
 hear her if she wants anything/' 
 
 " Then," said Marty, " if I can't do anything to help 
 you I may as well go to bed." 
 
 She shut the piano, put the music tidy on the 
 stand, and with a hurried kiss to her mother she went 
 out of the room and up the stairs. Mrs Benyon 
 stood looking after her with a very grave face. 
 
 " I suppose it's always got to come," she muttered 
 to herself, "into every girl's life. It seems hard it 
 should have come to her so soon, but perhaps the 
 earlier they take it the better they get over it. 
 I had my doubts it was too good to last. What is 
 it, I wonder ? " 
 
 Mrs Benyon, however, being a sensible woman, 
 came to the very sensible conclusion that standing 
 there cogitating would not bring her to any elucida- 
 tion of the mystery, so she went upstairs to bed, and, 
 being very tired, she soon slept the sleep of the 
 just. And Marty ? I might tell you how she lay 
 through the long watches of the night sobbing as if 
 her heart would break ; but I am a true chronicler, if 
 nothing else, and I must confess that Marty did 
 nothing of the kind. When she reached the sanctity 
 of her own bedroom she shut the door, and, turning 
 on the light, walked resolutely to the dressing-table. 
 "Marty Benyon," she said to her other self in the
 
 THE UNPALATABLE TRUTH 43 
 
 glass, "what possessed you to be such a fool, to 
 whine and cry and worry your mother? No 
 more of it, Marty Benyon, now. Remember that 
 above all things you have plenty of pride, and if 
 George Etheringtons like to go away, George 
 Etheringtons can please themselves. If there aren't 
 other Georges in the sea as good as those that have 
 come out of it, well, there may be Geoffreys and 
 Henrys and Williams and Johns. I'm ashamed of 
 you, Marty Benyon ! " And then she picked up a 
 bottle of simple face wash — rose-water or something 
 of that kind — and, shaking it as if she would shake 
 herself at the same time, she fiercely dabbed her face, 
 and then like a whirlwind disrobed and got into bed. 
 
 She was curious to see what morning light would 
 do, and her first thought on waking was to wonder if 
 there was a letter for her. Now Ann, the good lady 
 who presided over the culinary department of 28 
 Rosediamond Road, had established the order of 
 early morning tea. Mrs Benyon had never thought 
 of it ; Marty had never thought of it ; but Ann was 
 a person who loved comfort, and as she always made 
 herself a cup of tea by the aid of the gas ring in her 
 kitchen, as soon as she descended from her sleeping 
 apartment, she was in the habit of carrying a cup 
 upstairs to her mistress and to " Miss Marty." 
 
 " Wake up, Miss Marty," she said, on the morning 
 following the explanation with George Etherington, 
 " wake up, Miss Marty, here's your tea. Do you feel 
 all right, my dear ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, thank you, Ann," said Marty. " How is 
 Sarah ? " 
 
 " Much better this morning. Ramping about try- 
 ing to get up."
 
 44 MARTY 
 
 " You won't let her ? " cried Marty, anxiously. 
 
 "I told her I'd give her a good thumping if she 
 tried on anything of the kind, so she's ramping about 
 in her bed," Ann replied, " and fussing and fuming as 
 if the business and everything else would go to wreck 
 and ruin because she doesn't happen to be at the head 
 and front of affairs. ' Three days, Sarah Hummanby,' 
 I said to her, ' three days lying still, taking all the 
 slop nourishment we can get into you, and then we'll 
 talk about getting up.' Personally, I don't believe in 
 relapses in intrurenza ! " 
 
 " No, nor I. You are quite right, Ann. You're a 
 brick and a good sort. I do hope you won't get it," 
 said Marty. 
 
 " Not me ! Sarah's got a bit run down — she's been 
 doing too much. She isn't so young as she was, 
 though she doesn't like anybody to tell her. But 
 you keep out of her room now, Miss Marty. There's 
 no call for you to go messing about persuading her 
 to be good. She'll be all right by-and-by." 
 
 " Are there any letters, Ann ? " asked Marty. 
 
 " Not a letter — well, three business letters for the 
 missis, but I took them to her with her tea." 
 
 And then the good woman shut the door and 
 Marty was left alone. She wondered what George 
 would do. Well, wondering wouldn't help matters, 
 so she got up and dressed. She was always an early 
 riser, and she did many a little odd and end in the 
 house that nobody had ever asked her to do, and by 
 the time she got down to breakfast she was the same 
 gay and bewitching Marty who had first fascinated 
 the unhappy George. 
 
 One glance at her daughter's face was sufficient to 
 reassure Mrs Benyon that no particular harm had
 
 THE UNPALATABLE TRUTH 45 
 
 been done by the contretemps of the previous even- 
 ing. She fussed about a little after her, showed her 
 her letters — all three of them from ladies' maids in 
 high quarters, who were sending her consignments 
 of butterflies' skins — and mentioned one or two 
 business letters which she wanted Marty to write 
 for her. 
 
 It was a very busy day, and Mrs Benyon was 
 thankful to have Marty's brisk, bright help. Lunch, 
 that frugal meal which they snatched as they could, 
 came and went, and there was no word from George 
 Etherington; indeed, it was not until after four 
 o'clock, when work for the day was over, that Marty 
 received a telegram. It simply said, " Do you expect 
 me this evening ? " and the reply was prepaid. 
 
 " The boy's waiting, Miss Marty," said Ann ; and 
 Mrs Benyon looked up inquiringly. 
 
 Marty caught up a pencil which was lying on the 
 table and quickly wrote her reply on the form which 
 was enclosed : " Just as you feel inclined," was the 
 message she wrote. 
 
 " What is it, love ? " said Mrs Benyon, as the door 
 closed behind Ann. 
 
 " Only a wire from George, mother. He wasn't 
 sure whether I expected him this evening or not." 
 
 " And do you ? " the mother asked. 
 
 " I do, and I don't. I told him he could come if he 
 liked." 
 
 " I see. What are you going to do this afternoon, 
 dear ? " 
 
 " Well, I promised to go out with Amabel, if you 
 don't want me. I've written those letters for you, 
 darling." 
 
 " Oh, no, I don't want you," said Mrs Benyon.
 
 46 MARTY 
 
 " You are quite sure, darling, there's nothing else I 
 can do for you ? Or would you like me to go out 
 with you ? " 
 
 " No, I don't feel like going out this afternoon. I 
 think I'll keep myself quiet, and then after dinner 
 perhaps I'll get on the top of the 'bus and go as far 
 as it stops at, and come back without getting down. 
 I shall get a blow of fresh air that way." 
 
 In less than a quarter of an hour Marty had left 
 the house and was on her way to that of her friend. 
 She had not been gone more than half-an-hour when 
 a second telegraph boy came knocking at the door. 
 The message this time contained no prepaid reply ; it 
 just said, "Seats for theatre with you eight o'clock."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 TRUE BLUE 
 
 When George Etherington went out of Marty's 
 presence, I may as well confess that he flung out of 
 the house with the intention of never entering it 
 again. He was in a towering passion, brimming over 
 with astonishment, and feeling very much as one 
 might do if a pet canary bird had suddenly become 
 dangerous to life. How shall I describe his exact 
 feeling with regard to Marty ? He did not know 
 that he was quite in love with her. He had been 
 immensely attracted in the first instance by her frank 
 gaiety of disposition, her winningness of manner, her 
 downright way of saying exactly what she thought, 
 and by her very elegant appearance ; and, as he had 
 come to know the girl better, the first " impression 
 had been deepened rather than otherwise. But he 
 was under no illusion regarding the class of life in 
 which Marty had been born and brought up. His 
 first introduction to Mrs Benyon had told him, almost 
 to a nicety, what she was — I mean from what grade 
 of Society she had come. He thought that Marty's 
 father must have been of a better position, but one 
 day Mrs Benyon, when he found her alone, had 
 pointed out to him a photograph of " my poor dear 
 husband," and ever since Etherington had always 
 thought of Marty as being somewhat of a freak of 
 Nature. 
 
 47
 
 4 8 MARTY 
 
 Truth to tell, he had turned over in his own mind, 
 many and many a time, the fors and against that 
 such a marriage presented. He had thought out a 
 series of little scenes : the first meeting of Marty 
 with his sister, Mrs Piers ; the first meeting of Marty 
 with his stately mother, who was related — distantly 
 it is true, but still related — to half a dozen blue- 
 blooded families ; the effect of Marty and her refresh- 
 ing downrightness upon his dignified father. He had 
 wondered over and over again what the boys would 
 say, and sharp little Margot, not yet out of the 
 schoolroom. Nor did it all end there, these con- 
 jectures and dreams. If he was doubtful about 
 Marty, what about Marty's mother ? What would 
 be the effect of Marty's mother upon his mother ? 
 What would his father say when he had to give an 
 arm to Mrs Benyon when escorting her to dinner ? 
 And I must confess that to every one of these ques- 
 tions the answer was always an answer of objection 
 in some form or other. 
 
 And so he had drifted on from week to week and 
 from month to month, putting the matter on one 
 side, as men do when they are in an awkward 
 dilemma, and only feeling more and more that Marty 
 was a dear little thing, the best little girl in the 
 world, and that life would be very blank if there was 
 no more Marty in it. And then to have Marty 
 suddenly turn round, like some baby-lamb upon a 
 great well-bred collie ! Turning ? nay, she had 
 thoroughly rounded on him. She had looked him 
 through with her blue eyes, and her lips with never 
 a smile on them, and had let fall words that burned 
 where they touched. He was a " good chum " ; she 
 was " quite fond of him " — in a way ; but " when he
 
 TRUE BLUE 49 
 
 came to talk of serious questions, he was pre- 
 posterous ! " 
 
 Well, as he swung round the corner of the street in 
 which his sister lived, he felt that, after all, it was 
 just as well. He would have found it awfully hard 
 to break off with Marty ; it would have cut a big 
 slice out of his life— ay, and the slice that had all 
 the plums in it — and it would have taken more nerve 
 than he knew he possessed if he had deliberately cut 
 himself off from Marty. But Marty herself had done 
 it. Marty had brought everything to a head. She 
 had spoken in no passion ; she had simply happened 
 to come to that point of their friendship in which it 
 pleased her to say exactly what was in her mind. 
 Marty had ended it all. Perhaps it was as well. 
 
 A brougham was standing at the door of his sister's 
 house, and just as George gained the doorstep, his 
 brother-in-law came out. 
 
 " Oh, you are there, old chap ? I was just coming 
 out to look for you," he said heartily. " Effie is 
 ready, waiting ; and she's got such a gown on ! " 
 
 " Oh, has she ? " said George, rather lamely. " Is 
 she on show ? Shall I go in ? " 
 
 " Yes, do. She's in the dining-room." 
 
 He turned into the dining-room, where Mrs Piers, 
 a vision of rose-coloured loveliness, was standing 
 near the table. " How do you like my gown, 
 George ? " she asked. 
 
 " My dear, you are a dream of beauty ! Is that 
 the same place as the last ? Surely not." 
 
 " The last ? Oh, no ; it's a Doucet gown," said Mrs 
 Piers, with a little conscious laugh, stealing a glance 
 at herself in the glass behind the sideboard. 
 
 " Doucet ? I thought he was beyond all chance of 
 
 D
 
 50 MARTY 
 
 moderate people dealing with," said George, eyeing 
 the beautiful gown with an interest which he tried 
 hard to make very real. 
 
 " Oh, I know a little woman who can get these 
 things reasonably," said Mrs Piers, rather mysteri- 
 ously. " However, we won't stay to discuss my frock 
 to-night. It evidently pleases your lordship. Dick 
 said the carriage was at the door, so let us go." 
 
 It was one of Mrs Piers's little luxuries that when- 
 ever she had a good evening gown on she should 
 have a carriage from the nearest livery stable, and 
 they all got into it and were driven off to the scene 
 of festivity. There was no festivity in George 
 Etherington's heart. He was an excellent dancer, 
 and he loved dancing for its own sake, but he loved 
 nothing that night, not even himself. 
 
 He filled his programme as a matter of habit, and 
 he danced as a matter of habit, likewise, but he had 
 no flow of amusing small talk with which to enter- 
 tain his various partners ; he felt none of the 
 languorous enjoyment which dancing usually brings. 
 He was correct, cold, abstracted ; and one or two 
 girls told him plainly that they didn't know what 
 had come over him. 
 
 At last he went home. To sleep ? No, to toss and 
 turn and feel that life was all ended, and that the 
 best part of it had been torn away from him. He 
 felt convinced, too, that there was some other fellow, 
 and that Marty had some definite reason for having 
 changed as she had done. After four hours of this 
 torment he got up and came down to breakfast, look- 
 ing like a man who had not slept for a week. 
 
 " Why, George," said his mother, " have you got a 
 headache ? "
 
 TRUE BLUE 51 
 
 " Yes, mother." 
 
 " Late hours don't suit you, my dear." 
 
 " Oh, I don't think it's the late hours. I don't feel 
 very bright." 
 
 " Nice dance ? " asked Mrs Etherington. 
 
 "Yes — I suppose it was. Effie seemed to have a 
 good time." 
 
 " She had a beautiful dress," said her mother. 
 
 " Yes, it was a nice dress, and everybody seemed to 
 think she looked very nice in it. Not any bacon, 
 thank you." 
 
 " My dear boy, do try to eat if you feel out of sorts. 
 There's nothing like a good breakfast ; it lays the 
 foundation of a good day. This bacon is beautiful." 
 
 " I know it. It looks delicious." 
 
 " It is delicious," said Colonel Etherington from his 
 end of the table. George's father was an old gentle- 
 man who had come to realise that food may be the 
 most important factor in human happiness or misery. 
 George, however, declined the bacon, but yielded to 
 his mother's suggestion that anchovy on toast was 
 the next best thing. 
 
 At last he got himself away, and presently went 
 up the street looking very smart in his grey Park 
 clothes and his tall and glossy hat. But if he was 
 smooth and attractive outside, everything was as a 
 turbulent torrent within. Never in his life had he 
 found his work as uninteresting and meaningless and 
 irksome as it was that morning. More than once he 
 caught himself wishing wildly that he were a circus 
 man going round with a travelling show. That life, 
 at least, would not be the utter stagnation of life in 
 a Government office. There would always be the 
 anxiety as to whether the show would fail, always an
 
 52 MARTY 
 
 element of chance and uncertainty. He felt in the 
 dull and decorous atmosphere that day as if it would 
 be a positive relief to have to mount a platform and 
 beat a big drum, crying, " Walk up, Ladies and 
 Gentlemen ! Walk up ! The performance is about 
 to begin ! " Then he realised with a pang that dainty 
 Marty, as he always thought of her, even if her 
 mother was a homely, unassuming kind of person, 
 would certainly never lower herself to look at a 
 circus man, that the beating of the big drum would 
 have no charms for her. 
 
 Then he went out to lunch, feeling as if his brain 
 were going, and his head becoming no better than a 
 mashed turnip. Lunch mitigated his misery for a 
 time, but the decorous atmosphere of the office soon 
 brought all his wretchedness back again, and then 
 it was that he sent a telegram to Marty with the 
 result that I have already shown. He determined 
 then that he would beat about the bush no longer, 
 but he would take a suitable opportunity and ask 
 Marty to marry him, leaving all the outside considera- 
 tions to arrange themselves later on. 
 
 But it's one thing to make up one's mind to follow 
 a certain course, and it's quite another thing to carry 
 such a resolution into effect. When George Ethering- 
 ton arrived at Rosediamond Road he found Marty in 
 a very smart little frock sitting at the piano. For 
 once in his life he felt awkward and almost like a 
 schoolboy. 
 
 " I'm so awfully glad you can come," he remarked. 
 
 " I told you yesterday I could come," said Marty, 
 giving him her hand and letting it slip away as if 
 there was no attraction to her in the contact. 
 
 " I wasn't sure," stammered he.
 
 TRUE BLUE 53 
 
 " Oh, I see," said Marty. " Well, shall we be going ? 
 "What time does the thing begin ? " 
 
 " We've plenty of time," he said ; " besides, I've got 
 a cab outside." 
 
 " Oh, that's all right ! Will you have anything 
 before you go ? " 
 
 No, he would take nothing, and he stood fidgeting 
 about whilst Marty put on her gloves and then slipped 
 on her loner cashmere coat. 
 
 " We may as well be going then, don't you think ? " 
 he remarked in his stiffest tones. 
 
 "Yes," said Marty, "we may as well be going. 
 Only there's one thing I want to say before we do 
 go." 
 
 "And that is ?" he began, assuming an attitude of 
 polite attention. 
 
 " Well, it's just this, George," said Marty. " If you 
 are going to behave for a whole evening as if you 
 had swallowed a poker, and as if you had got a 
 paralytic stroke in your tongue, and you weren't sure 
 if I was going to hit you or not, I'd rather not go." 
 
 She looked so roguish, there was such a bewitching 
 dimple somewhere near her mouth, which was only 
 the beginning of a series which gradually bloomed 
 out all over her face, that all George's misery and 
 starchiness quickly deserted him. 
 
 " Marty," he said, catching hold of her hands and 
 drawing them up against his breast, " I swear to you 
 that there hasn't been a more miserable devil in the 
 three kingdoms than I the last twenty-four hours." 
 
 " So ? " said Marty. 
 
 " Marty," said he, " haven't you been a little miser- 
 able too ? " 
 
 Marty bit her lip, and some of the dimples dis-
 
 54 MARTY 
 
 appeared. " Perhaps I have," she said, trying to pull 
 her hands away, and finding something very engross- 
 ing to look at in the corner of the room. " Ye-s, 
 perhaps I have." 
 
 "What did you want to do it for, Marty?" he 
 demanded earnestly. 
 
 " It wasn't I that did it," said Marty. 
 
 " Wasn't it ? Was it — do you mean that anything 
 I did ? — Oh, it's too utterly silly for words ! I — I — 
 Marty, you must know that I worship the very 
 ground you walk on ! "
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A PLEDGE 
 
 I take it that a good deal of the romance of life is 
 acted with the interior of a cab for a background. 
 When George Etherington aud Marty had kissed and 
 then came back to their senses, it was the girl who 
 remembered that a patient Jervey was waiting out- 
 side, and that his patience would have to be paid 
 for. 
 
 " It's a bore and a nuisance having to go to a theatre," 
 said he, " but we may as well, perhaps." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I'm dressed, and the drive will be nice, 
 and I don't want to talk too much just now. I — I'd 
 like to go if you don't mind, George." 
 
 So they went. George had never put Marty into 
 a cab with such solicitude, and Marty had never sat 
 quite so close to him as she did that night, and he did 
 what he had never done before in all their chumminess 
 and friendly intercourse — he held her hand closely in 
 his and told himself and her that he was the happiest 
 man that the whole world contained that night. 
 
 CD 
 
 " You know, darling," he said, " you ought to have 
 done better." 
 
 " Do you think your people will agree with you ? " 
 she asked suddenly. 
 
 " My people ? " For the life of him he couldn't 
 
 55
 
 56 MARTY 
 
 keep back the shadow from falling over his face. 
 " My people ? " 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, of course they've got to be reckoned with, 
 but I'm not in any way dependent on my people, 
 Marty. I've never cost my father a penny since 1 
 left Oxford, and I sha'n't look to them to provide me 
 with the wherewithal now." 
 
 " No ? " said Marty, half-questioningly. 
 
 " You see, I've seven hundred a year. I went 
 to Oxford young, so I started in the Service in good 
 time. That and a certain amount of family influence 
 have pushed me on, and consequently I'm as comfort- 
 ably off as [ have ever wanted to b.e." 
 
 " I call seven hundred a year a very good income," 
 said Marty. 
 
 " Yes, it's a good income ; at the same time there'll 
 be nothing to play with. I shall have more later on 
 — at least, I imagine so, and — oh, we shall manage to 
 do all right. All the same, Marty, I'm no sort of a 
 match for you." 
 
 " Well, if that's so, what ami?" said Marty. 
 
 " You are the dearest little girl in the world." 
 
 " I know ; but we can't live on that, can we ? My 
 being a dear little girl won't provide bread and 
 cheese, and so on. And then I don't know that your 
 people — " 
 
 " Oh, don't talk about my people." 
 
 " I must," said Marty, looking straight out over 
 the horse's ears as they sped along by the Park 
 railings. " It will be an awful drop-down for your 
 father and mother when they realise that you want 
 to marry me." 
 
 " My dear, they don't know anything about you.
 
 A PLEDGE 57 
 
 I know that they are not prejudiced sort of 
 people." 
 
 "Perhaps not. I'm afraid they won't like me, 
 George." 
 
 " Well, if they don't you know what the Scripture 
 says : ' A man shall leave his father and his mother 
 and shall cleave unto his wife, and they twain shall 
 be one flesh.' " 
 
 There was something suspiciously like a twinkle of 
 tears glistening in Marty's bright eyes. " Do you 
 really feel like that for me ? " she cried. " George, I 
 — I have had doubts about you these last few days, 
 whether you were true blue or you were not, but if 
 you feel like that for me, I'll stick to you, George, 
 I'll stick to you as long as there's life in me ! " 
 
 And then they fell to talking of less disagreeable 
 subjects — of themselves, of their love for each other, 
 of the sweet little flat they would have later on, and 
 how, when George was away earning money, Marty 
 would be doing her share at home in making both 
 ends meet, with a little something to lap over. And 
 then they went to the play, and sat through such a 
 tragedy of love that their own little threads of mis- 
 understanding seemed too insignificant ever to think 
 of again. 
 
 Marty resisted his suggestion that they should have 
 a bit of supper before they went home. "No, not 
 to-night," she said. " Mother wasn't very well ; she 
 seemed tired and listless, and she will be looking for 
 me. I'd rather not stay out later than need be to- 
 night." 
 
 So they had a long, delicious drive home through 
 the soft summer night — a drive when Marty sat still a 
 little nearer than she had done before, when George's
 
 58 MARTY 
 
 arm unconsciously stole round her waist, and her 
 head found a resting-place on his stalwart shoulder. 
 There were many kisses, too, and many words of 
 love ; and if the driver of the cab had happened to be 
 a person of an inquisitive disposition, he would have 
 had much food for reflection had he taken a peep 
 through his roof-trap at the happy pair below. 
 
 As they turned the corner into Rosediamond Road, 
 Marty sat up and shook herself together. " You are 
 going to tell your mother ? " she said. 
 ' " Of course." 
 
 " To-night ? " 
 
 " Yes, if she's visible." 
 
 She o-ave a lon^-drawn breath of contentment. So 
 George was true blue after all. I think she loved him 
 the more that she had doubted him. 
 
 They found Mrs Benyon sitting in a big chair in 
 the pretty little drawing-room. There was a tall 
 lamp with a pink shade at her elbow, and the light 
 so fell upon her that George Etherington was struck 
 with the sweetness of her expression as she looked up 
 on their entrance. 
 
 " Oh, there you are, my dear ! " she exclaimed. " I 
 was so deep in my book that I didn't hear the cab 
 stop — at least, I wasn't quite sure. Well, was the 
 piece nice ? Did you enjoy yourselves ? " 
 
 " Very much indeed," said George, taking her hand 
 in his own peculiarly protecting manner. 
 
 " There's a bit of supper laid in the dining-room," 
 said Mrs Benyon, hospitably. " I always like just a 
 little snack when I come in from a theatre. Turn up 
 the light, Marty, dear, will you ? " 
 
 So Marty went out, and Mrs Benyon put her book 
 down and got up slowly out of the big chair.
 
 A PLEDGE 59 
 
 " Mrs Benyon," said George, putting out his hand 
 to her. 
 
 " What is it ? " she asked. " Something has 
 happened. It isn't — ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is," he replied. " Marty and I have come 
 to an understanding to-night. We are engaged, Mrs 
 Benyon." 
 
 " Engaged ! You and Marty ? " 
 
 "Yes, we're engaged. I hope you don't mind. 
 You have known me a long time ; you must have 
 seen which way things were tending." 
 
 " I wasn't grumbling," said Marty's mother, in 
 rather a tremulous voice, " I wasn't grumbling, Mr 
 Etherington. I was a little taken aback. Have you 
 told your father and mother ? " 
 
 " No, I thought you had the first right." 
 
 " There's no first about it. They are as much your 
 father and mother as I am Marty's. They might 
 raise an-objection." 
 
 " They might. I don't think they will — possibly 
 they may. It will be the same in the end," said he. 
 
 " How do you mean ? " 
 
 " I'm going to marry Marty all the same." 
 
 " You have quite set your mind on it ? " 
 
 "Yes, we've quite set our minds and, what is a 
 good deal more important, our hearts upon it. I am 
 not a rich man, Mrs Benyon, but there's enough for 
 Marty to begin on — or at least she thinks so — and I 
 hope to be better off by-and-by. You see, I'm young, 
 and every year tells in a Government office, but I 
 hope, Mrs Benyon, you'll give us your blessing and 
 let the future take care of itself." 
 
 " Give you my blessing ! " cried Mrs Benyon, almost 
 hysterically. "Yes, that I will — fifty thousand of
 
 60 MARTY 
 
 them, and fifty thousand more to put to that again. 
 I wish I could give you more than mere blessings, 
 Mr Etherington; yes, I wish I had a nice little 
 fortune to hand over with Marty, but there isn't a 
 penny. I was left with three little girls on my hands 
 — Oh, I can't go into all that ; it's too much ! I'll tell 
 you everything some day, just how we are situated, 
 just how 1 managed, but not to-night." 
 
 At that moment Marty came running back again. 
 " My goodness ! " she exclaimed. " Mother on the 
 verge of tears, and George looking as if he had — oh, 
 what's the matter ? " 
 
 Mrs Benyon flung out a convulsive hand. "My 
 darling ! " she said, " my Marty ! " 
 
 " There, if you're going to cry about it I'll send 
 George packing straight. Whatever happens, I can't 
 have you upset." 
 
 " Come, my dears," said her mother, " come, 
 darlings, come in to supper." 
 
 " You must drink our health, mother, dear. You 
 mustn't be downhearted and sorry, or I shall wish I 
 had never said ' Yes ' when George asked me ! " 
 
 "Don't say that, my love," cried Mrs Benyon, 
 earnestly, for she knew, poor woman, how deeply the 
 girl's heart was involved. "Don't say that, my 
 darling. Not but what you are quite right, quite 
 right. It never does to look at the wrong side and 
 shed tears where there is no necessity. Come and 
 have some supper, my dears. I think, Marty," she 
 went on, bravely choking down her natural emotion 
 as she crossed the little entrance hall, "I think, 
 Marty, that there was a bottle of champagne left over 
 from my birthday dinner — " 
 
 " I know. I'll get it," said Marty.
 
 A PLEDGE 61 
 
 " She would have a birthday dinner," Mrs Benyon 
 explained to George, " she would have it, reason or 
 none, to celebrate the first birthday after her coming 
 home from school. I knew what the dear child 
 meant, and so we had a couple of bottles of champagne 
 in. We only had an old friend of mine — who was 
 very kind to me in days gone by — to dine with us, 
 and one bottle was as much as we three could manage 
 between us, so the second bottle never was touched 
 and there it's been for seven months lying on its side, 
 waiting to be opened. Ah, here she is ! Now, let Mr 
 Etherington open it, dear." 
 
 What a supper it was ! There was a part of a 
 cold tongue, and a part of a boiled chicken, a little 
 piece of cheese in a glass dish with a cover, a few 
 sardines, and some bread and butter. It was a supper 
 for the gods ! George Etherington admitted that he 
 had not eaten much that day, and that he was 
 ravenously hungry, and he certainly proved himself 
 as good as his words. 
 
 " And now," said Mrs Benyon, when she had given 
 him a good helping of chicken and tongue to follow 
 the sardines, " and now let us have glasses full to the 
 top to drink to your health and happiness. I can't 
 give my girl a fortune. Mr Etherington — " 
 
 " Couldn't you call me ' George ' ? " he put in. " We 
 may as well begin as we mean to go on." 
 
 " I should like to call you ' George,' " she said, half 
 shyly, " and thank you very much for saying it." 
 
 " Don't spoil him, mother," put in Marty. " I think 
 George is a character that might be spoiled with too 
 much kindness. You have never had a boy of your 
 own, you know, darling. Don't you get buttering 
 George up until he doesn't know where he is, and
 
 62 MARTY 
 
 fancies himself too good for everything, for if you do 
 I shall have to bear the brunt of it." 
 
 "Don't you believe her, Mrs Benyon, don't you 
 believe her. You can't spoil a good thing. I should 
 have been spoiled long ago if I was capable of it." 
 Then he lifted his glass. "Mrs Benyon," he said, 
 " to pledge you my word and my honour that I will 
 be everything you wish me to be for Marty ! "
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 A BOMBSHELL 
 
 At last George Etherington got away from the little 
 house in Rosediamond Road. He certainly had 
 begun as he meant to go on. He kissed Marty 
 openly before her mother, with " I shall see you to- 
 morrow, my darling ! " and then he went and took 
 hold of Mrs Benyon's two hands. "Good-night, 
 Mater," he said, " till to-morrow." And then he bent 
 and kissed her likewise. 
 
 " I declare," said Mrs Benyon, as she shut the door 
 and put on the chain, " I declare, Marty, yon could 
 have knocked me down with a feather to hear that 
 grand young gentleman calling me ' Mater,' and 
 then for him to just kiss me as if I had been his own 
 mother." 
 
 " Well, you are next door to his own mother," said 
 Marty. She was by no means overcome by George's 
 condescension. "For mercy's sake, mother, darling, 
 don't let George think that you look upon it as 
 something wonderful he should kiss you now and 
 again. There'll be no holding him back if you do." 
 
 " You will have your joke," said Mrs Benyon, 
 fondly. 
 
 Meantime George Etherington was striding away 
 up the street. In the face of Mrs Benyon's yawns 
 
 63
 
 64 MARTY 
 
 he had had no choice but to say good-night and take 
 his departure. He neither felt like going to bed nor 
 sleeping; he felt as if he could walk the night 
 through, as if he could tramp to the North Pole and 
 back by way of getting rid of some of his excitement. 
 
 So it was all settled, and Marty was his own, or 
 very nearly his own. Dear little Marty ! What a 
 lucky devil he was ! How lucky for him that he 
 had taken his father's advice and gone in for a 
 career in which family influence was of some use, 
 instead of taking up newspaper work, as he had 
 hankered to do in his Oxford days. Why, he might 
 have been making a couple of hundred a year; he 
 might have been making nothing. As it was, his 
 income was safe, his place was safe as long as he 
 behaved in an ordinary way, and his prospects would 
 improve with every year that he was able to hang on 
 in his position. Of course they wouldn't be rich on 
 seven hundred a year, and Marty hadn't a penny ; and 
 yet he wondered how they lived if there was no 
 money, and never would be any money. There were 
 two servants — he had seen them both — and the house 
 was kept up very nicely, and Marty was always well 
 dressed. He could not make it out, till he came at 
 last to the conclusion that Mrs Benyon had been 
 merely using a figure of speech when she had said 
 that she could not give Marty a fortune. And then 
 he put it out of his mind, and determined he would 
 think about it no more. 
 
 It was just half -past nine the following morning — 
 a Sunday morning, by-the-bye — when he got down 
 to find both his father and mother before him. He 
 said not a word until breakfast had come to an end, 
 and then he looked across the table at bis mother.
 
 A BOMBSHELL 65 
 
 "Mother," he said, "I have a piece of news for 
 you." 
 
 '* Have you, dear ? " she returned. 
 
 " I am going to be married." 
 
 Mrs Etherington gave a very palpable start. " To 
 be married ! Are you ? Oh, I hope she's nice." 
 
 The element of suspicion in her voice roused 
 George, and put him on the defensive immediately. 
 "Of course she's nice. You don't suppose I should 
 want to marry a girl that wasn't nice, do you ? " 
 
 " No, dear, I didn't quite mean in that way, but — 
 well," with a little laugh, "I suppose it wouldn't 
 work if the mothers picked out the wives for their 
 sons." 
 
 "I don't suppose it would," said George, looking 
 aggressively at nothing. 
 
 There was an awkward pause. 
 
 " Well ? " said his mother. 
 
 " Well ? " said George. 
 
 "Are you going to tell us nothing else?" Mrs 
 Etherington went on, speaking in smooth accents. 
 "Is she young, rich, poor, pretty, plain — ? Come, 
 George, tell us all about it." 
 
 " She's young," said George, " very young." 
 
 " Ah, she'll mend of that," put in the old gentle- 
 man from behind his newspaper. 
 
 "Yes," said George, "she'll mend of that, but I 
 think she'll always be young. She's pretty — yes, I 
 suppose she's pretty, but I don't know that you'd even 
 call her that. She's fetching." 
 
 " I understand," said Mrs Etherington. "And her 
 name ? " 
 
 " Her name is Marty." 
 
 " Marty ? " 
 
 E
 
 66 MARTY 
 
 " Her Christian name, that is. Her surname is 
 Benyon." 
 
 " Benyon ? Benyon ? Does she live anywhere 
 near here, George ? " 
 
 " Yes, she lives in Rosediamoncl Road with her 
 mother." 
 
 " Rosediamond Road ? That's not very far away. 
 Well ? " said his mother. 
 
 " She has no money," said George, " or next to 
 none." 
 
 " Ah ! " The single word expressed whole volumes. 
 
 " But I've quite enough to begin on," said he, rather 
 aggressively. 
 
 " I didn't say anything." 
 
 " It's a pity she has no money, I admit that," he 
 went on. " She may have a little by-and-by, but it 
 won't amount to much." 
 
 "I see. And you might have married anybody 
 with your influence and your start." 
 
 " Of course," said George, " I know that you will be 
 against the marriage. I expected it. I don't want 
 to marry anybodj?-, I want to marry somebody. 
 She's the somebody I want to marry and I mean to 
 marry." 
 
 " Very well, dear, there's nothing more to be said." 
 
 "Is there anything more you would like to 
 know ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " I am going to be married fairly soon," ended he. 
 
 Then Mrs Etherington looked at the clock. " I 
 think it's time I went to get ready for church," she 
 remarked. " We'll talk about this little affair later 
 on, dear — later on." She patted his shoulder as if 
 he were some dissatisfied schoolboy, and went out of
 
 A BOMBSHELL 67 
 
 the room with an air of elegant dignity which was 
 very hard to bear. 
 
 For some few seconds George Etherington sat still 
 in his place, playing savagely with a few crumbs. 
 Then the old gentleman looked up from his paper. 
 
 " What is there against the girl ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Nothing — absolutely nothing." 
 
 " Oh ! I thought from your tone and your manner 
 that there was something you were keeping back." 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 Colonel Etherington read a few lines, and then he 
 looked at George again. " Is she a lady ? " he asked. 
 
 " In herself — yes." 
 
 " In herself ? I understand. It's a pity, it's a pity. 
 Your mother won't take to it kindly." 
 
 " I don't suppose my mother would have taken 
 kindly to anybody that I chose." 
 
 " I don't agree with you. She was quite satisfied 
 with Effie's marriage. Who are this girl's people ? " 
 
 " I don't know. She has a mother ; father's dead. 
 Mother is a plain, simple, unpretentious woman, as 
 good as gold." 
 
 " I am sure of it. I'm sure the girl is as good as 
 gold too, or you wouldn't have looked at her. But 
 that's not quite everything, you see, from your 
 mother's point of view." 
 
 " Yes, but I don't want my mother to marry her." 
 
 " No, no. But if you want your mother's approval, 
 you must, of course, think a little of her ideas. How- 
 ever, it's no use quarrelling about it if you have 
 fairly committed yourself." 
 
 " I have." 
 
 " Good. Then we must make the best of it. Take 
 my advice, George, my boy — leave your mother to
 
 68 MARTY 
 
 work this matter out in her own way, and to take 
 her own time. Let her come to it. Don't press her 
 to go round all in a gush calling on the young lady 
 and assuring her of her maternal solicitude. There's 
 nothing like letting a woman negotiate an ugly fence 
 in her own time." 
 
 " I beg you will remember — " 
 
 "I know, my dear boy. I'm speaking of your 
 fiancee, your future wife. Well, it may be an ugly 
 fence for your mother, all the same. For my part, 
 I've always believed in people marrying those that 
 they want to marry. One's marriage is a peculiarly 
 personal arrangement, which doesn't much affect 
 anybody but the two principal parties concerned. 
 Yet it's a matter that outsiders always think them- 
 selves justified in interfering with, especially fathers 
 and mothers. Don't upset yourself if your mother, 
 and your sister for the matter of that, don't come 
 round to your way of thinking the first few hours." 
 
 Some kindly instinct made George Etherington 
 determine that he would not go to Rosediamond Road 
 until he had seen his mother again. He therefore 
 wrote a little note to tell Marty that he would not be 
 able to go up to the Park with her, but that he would 
 come on to see her later in the afternoon. " I want 
 you and your mother," he ended, " to come up and 
 dine with me at the Trocadero, or, if you would 
 rather, we'll go down to Richmond and have dinner 
 there. We can decide this point when I come. — Your 
 devoted George." 
 
 Then he sat himself down to wait, with what patience 
 he could, his mother's return from church. It was, 
 perhaps, the longest morning that he had ever put in, 
 tediously, wearisomely, laggingly long. He went out
 
 A BOMBSHELL 69 
 
 in the garden and threw a stick for the dogs to run 
 after, until he was tired of the game, and then he 
 drew a big chair on to the bit of lawn and sat down 
 to enjoy the morning paper which his father had 
 finished with. No, he could take no interest in the 
 events of the day ; he didn't care what theatrical 
 stars were in the ascendency, nor what race-horses 
 were on the decline ; he cared for nothing and nobody 
 but Marty, and at last he gave himself up to lying- 
 back in the big chair, with his feet stretched far out 
 in front of him, and his hands comfortably tucked in 
 behind his head, and there he gazed oa the blue sky 
 and the few green trees, and thought of Marty until 
 the morning's devotions were over and Mrs Ethering- 
 ton returned from church. 
 
 " Oh, you are here ! " she said, with an accent of 
 surprise. She, too, pushed a big chair into a place 
 which was to her liking and sat down. "I've been 
 thinking a good deal about you, Georgie," she said, 
 with a sidelong affectionate look at him. 
 
 " Yes? I hope you have been thinking nice things, 
 mother." 
 
 "I have been trying to," she said simply. Then 
 she put out a well-gloved but distinctly sympathetic 
 hand and said, " I wish you had fallen in love with a 
 girl who had a little money." 
 
 " The governor fell in love with you, mother," was 
 bis reply. 
 
 " Yes, dear. But I always felt he would have done 
 much better for himself if he had let his fancy stray 
 where there was a silver lining, so to speak." 
 
 "Ah, well, I don't suppose the governor would 
 agree with you, even to-day. And I've done the 
 deed ; it's uo use looking back. You mi^ht as well
 
 70 MARTY 
 
 say that you wish I had fallen in love with a woman 
 six feet high." 
 
 " No, no, Georgie, no." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 " Well, I wouldn't wish that. You must bring her 
 to see me, Georgie." 
 
 " You — you — you — wouldn't you go to see her ? " 
 he stammered. 
 
 " I think not, dear ; not the first time. You bring 
 her to see me, and then I'll go and see her mother. 
 A homely person, I think you said, George ? " 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "Now tell me, darling boy, what does a homely 
 person exactly mean ? The kind of person that one 
 would have for a housekeeper ? " 
 
 " If you like to put it that way," said he, looking 
 steadily in the opposite direction to his mother's face. 
 
 " I see. We sha'n't have much in common. Who 
 was her father ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said George. 
 
 " Oh, you don't know. I think it's rather import- 
 ant, dear, to know something about the father of the 
 girl you are going to marry." 
 
 " I never asked. It only happened last night. In 
 a way it was unexpected. Mrs Benyon never referred 
 to her husband excepting once ; then she called him 
 ' my poor dear husband.' I have heard you speak of 
 the governor as ' poor dear dad ' many a time. It's a 
 way wives have, and widows." 
 
 " Yes, you are quite right. There's nothing to be 
 deduced from that. Well, my dear boy, I wish it had 
 been otherwise, but, at the same time — Oh," with a 
 change of tone, " here are Effie and Dick ! " 
 
 Mrs Piers came towards them with that indescrib-
 
 A BOMBSHELL 71 
 
 able air which seems to belong only to the young 
 married woman — an air that seems to be made up of 
 garments and perfume, of a certain self-consciousness 
 and a certain style. 
 
 "Darling mother!" she said, bending the edge of 
 her peach-bloom cheek to receive her mother's kiss. 
 Then she, too, settled herself in a big chair and looked 
 inquiringly at her mother. " Any news, dear ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs Etherington, simply, " great news. 
 Georgie is going to be married." 
 
 " Georgie going to be married ! Not the girl I saw 
 you with in the Park, Georgie ? " 
 
 " Very likely you did see me in the Park with Miss 
 Benyon," said George. 
 
 " Miss Benyon ! " repeated Mrs Piers, still more 
 sharply. " Miss Benyon ! No. 28 Rosediamond 
 Road? Not No. 28 Rosediamond Road, Georgie?" 
 
 "Yes, No. 28 Rosediamond Road," said George, 
 steadily. 
 
 " Good heavens, Effie," said her mother, " you know 
 these people ! What made you speak in that tone ? " 
 
 " Know them ! My dear mother, Mrs Benyon is a 
 second-hand clothes-dealer ! "
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 FAMILY FEELING 
 
 When Mrs Piers let fall the piece of information 
 which was as a bombshell in the Etherington family, 
 the effect of it was alike upon each and all. And yet 
 it was different. Each one of her hearers gave a 
 great start of surprise. Mrs Etherington grasped 
 tight hold of the arms of her chair. Dick Piers let 
 fall his eyeglass with a jerk, and it fell with a 
 miniature clatter against the buttons of his coat. 
 George sat bolt upright, feeling that war was declared 
 at last, an angry red spot blazing out on either cheek. 
 
 " Effie," said Mrs Etherington, sharply, " do you 
 realise what you are saying ? " 
 
 " Of course I do, mother," said Mrs Piers, seating 
 herself on the extreme edge of her garden seat and 
 eyeing her mother with a gaze that was almost 
 defiant in its certainty of knowledge. 
 
 " A second-hand clothes-dealer ? " echoed Mrs Ether- 
 ington. " And George proposes to marry the girl ! " 
 
 " I don't exactly propose to marry the girl," said 
 George. "I am going to marry her. There's a 
 difference, you know." 
 
 " The thing is impossible ! " said Mrs Etherington. 
 
 " A little injudicious ! " put in Dick Piers. 
 
 " Brutal to your family ! " added Effie. 
 
 " Not at all. Mrs Benyon is an honest, straight- 
 
 72
 
 FAMILY FEELING 73 
 
 forward, unpretentious, good woman. I have the 
 greatest respect for her. If I hadn't, I shouldn't 
 propose to make her daughter daughter-in-law to my 
 mother." 
 
 ".Nobody said she wasn't respectable," said Mrs 
 Piers, "but respectability isn't quite — " 
 
 " In this case it is quite" put in George Ethering- 
 ton. " I don't expect you to have any sympathy with 
 me, Effie. I have never had very much with you ; 
 your line of life isn't the same as mine. You set store 
 upon things that I set no store by at all. You 
 believe mainly in the surface ; I rest chiefly on the 
 foundations. I am sorry if my fiancee doesn't please 
 you. It's hard on a girl, don't you think, that she 
 should be judged and condemned before you have 
 even seen her ? " 
 
 " I have seen her," said Mrs Piers. 
 
 " You saw her with me in the Park one day. Did 
 that give you an impression against her ? " 
 
 " I had an impression," said Mrs Piers, " that you 
 were walking with somebody that you wouldn't like 
 to introduce to me." 
 
 " On the contrary, I hadn't asked her permission to 
 make her known to my people." 
 
 " Oh ! All the same, George, I did receive an im- 
 pression. It was that she was very pretty, and a little 
 too smart." 
 
 " In the first place," said George, " she isn't pretty — 
 even I don't pretend that she is. As to her being too 
 smart, she is always property, suitably, and daintily 
 dressed." 
 
 " She would be." Mrs Piers let the words drop as 
 only a young married woman can, and as only a young 
 married woman can when speaking of an unmarried girl.
 
 74 MARTY 
 
 " I quite take your meaning, Effie," said George, by 
 this time in a white rage of passion. " I don't con- 
 sider it is worthy of you." 
 
 •' And why ? " 
 
 " Why ? Because apparently you dress yourself in 
 the same sorts. You bought the pink gown you wore 
 the other night at Mrs Benyon's, didn't you ? I con- 
 fess, all of you, that I can't understand you, I can't 
 understand the line that you have taken up. If I were 
 engaged to the daughter of a fashionable milliner, or 
 a fashionable dressmaker, or a fashionable anything, 
 you wouldn't raise the least objection." 
 
 " You can't expect us to like it, George," said Mrs 
 Etherington. 
 
 "I don't expect you to like it. I didn't expect 
 you to like it when I broke the news to you ; that 
 would be too much. I don't ask you to receive my 
 ftancte — " 
 
 " Is it gone so far as that ? " asked Mrs Etherington, 
 piteously. 
 
 " Yes, mother, it's gone quite as far as that. I'm 
 engaged to Miss Benyon, and I'm going to marry Miss 
 Benyon. If you don't like it, I'm sorry. There's 
 never been a break between us," he went on, with a 
 sudden wistfulness in his voice, " and I feel it's rather 
 hard that there should be a break now because I've 
 found the greatest happiness of my life. If you had 
 seen her, disapproved of her, knew anything against 
 her, then I could understand it; it would all be 
 different : as it is, I'm sorry. I'm not going to alter 
 my course. I couldn't in honour do it, even if I 
 wished to oblige you thus far, which I don't." He 
 got up from his chair, and moving a step nearer to 
 his mother, said, " If you'll excuse me, mother, I'll not
 
 FAMILY FEELING 75 
 
 stay at home to lunch to-day. I can't stand the 
 subject being ragged over and discussed and made free 
 with. If there is anything else to say, you and I can 
 say it to each other when we are alone." 
 
 He bent down and kissed her, and without even a 
 look at his sister and her husband strode away into 
 the house. 
 
 Mrs Piers followed him with amazed eyes. " So 
 it's nothing to do with either Dick or me," she re- 
 marked in a queer little chill voice. " Georgie is going 
 to talk it over with you alone. I consider that I have 
 a distinct right to be consulted in such a matter, see- 
 ing that whoever Georgie chooses to marry will reflect 
 in a way upon me and upon my position." 
 
 Mrs Etherington took no notice of her words. 
 "Effie,"she said, "how came you to know anything 
 about this Mrs Benyon ? " 
 
 " Because I bought my rose-coloured dress there." 
 
 " How did you hear of her ? " 
 
 " Oh, Mrs Macdonald told me. She gets everything 
 she wears of her." 
 
 " You told me it was such a very select place, that 
 it was such a dainty business, and that it was only 
 real things from the very highest ranks that she 
 sold." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I believe that is so. They are second- 
 hand, all the same." 
 
 " But your rose-coloured dress has never been worn 
 — at least, you said so." 
 
 " I know. Some of these great ladies take a dislike 
 to a dress and don't put it on, or they have to go into 
 mourning, or fifty things may happen so that they 
 never wear certain of their things. You have to be 
 judicious in choosing, and only select those that suit
 
 76 MARTY 
 
 you, and that haven't been worn, unless you don't 
 mind. I confess I do." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Mrs Etherington, "but — Oh, 
 well, it's a thousand pities, it's no use pretending any- 
 thing else. I don't know what Georgie could have 
 been thinking of. You say the girl isn't pretty ? " 
 
 "George said she isn't pretty," said Mrs Piers. 
 " My impression was that she is decidedly pretty, but 
 very much over-dressed." 
 
 "That's a pity, too. However, a few j udicious hints, 
 if she's sensible, may get rid of that ; it's only a minor 
 matter after all. The whole thing's a pity, but there, 
 boys will go which way they like, and girls too for 
 the matter of that. I'm sure never was a girl so 
 headstrong in the way of her marriage as you were, 
 Erne." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose I was." 
 
 " And yet you don't feel any sympathy with George 
 on that account." 
 
 "No, I can't say I do. In my case it was the 
 difference of choosing between a man I liked who was 
 comparatively poor, and a man I didn't like who was 
 extremely wealthy. As far as their class went they 
 were on a perfectly equal footing. With this it's 
 different. This girl will let us down ; she's a little 
 'person." 
 
 " Well, well," said Mrs Etherington, " if George has 
 made up his mind I suppose he'll take which course 
 he likes, and we may as well save ourselves the trouble 
 of even expressing an opinion. The best thing we 
 can do is not to speak of it further than it has already 
 gone. And there is the lunch bell ! " 
 
 Meantime George had taken his hat and stick and 
 had gone off to 28 Rosediamond Road Marty, who
 
 FAMILY FEELING 77 
 
 was playing a dreamy air at the piano, jumped up and 
 flew across the room to meet him. 
 
 " Why, I thought you weren't coming till after- 
 noon ! " she cried. 
 
 " Aren't you pleased to see me now?" he demanded. 
 
 " Pleased ? Yes, George, I am pleased, but it isn't 
 quite the word for it, dearest boy! Have you 
 lunched ? " 
 
 " No, I haven't. I came to beg a little lunch of your 
 mother." 
 
 " Mother will be delighted." 
 
 " Can you answer for that ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I think I can. Mother's a hospitable 
 soul, and loves to feed those in whom she takes 
 an interest. You like my mother, George, don't 
 you ? " She looked at him sideways, as a bird 
 sometimes does, and George, who had been feeling 
 rather hard things about Mrs Benyon, softened 
 instantly. 
 
 "Yes, I do. I like and respect and admire your 
 mother, Marty," he replied. 
 
 " I'm glad of that. Some day I'll tell you all about 
 mother. I'll tell you all she's done for us, how she's 
 stood up and borne and done things that would have 
 killed a weaker woman than she is, or one less 
 devoted to her children." 
 
 " Tell me now," said he. 
 
 "Now? No, it would take too Ion o-. Dinner will 
 be ready in five minutes. But I'll tell you what, 
 George. Mother's going out to tea this afternoon — no, 
 I wasn't going with her — she's going to see a great 
 friend of hers — she often does on Sunday — and we 
 shall have the house to ourselves, excepting for 
 Sarah, or one of them, and then I'll tell you all
 
 78 MARTY 
 
 about it. Stay a moment! I must go and tell 
 them to set a place for you." 
 
 She whisked out of the room, and George Ethering- 
 ton heard her light feet fleeting away down the 
 passage. Then Mrs Benyon came in, and immediately 
 after the lunch bell rang. 
 
 " I always have early dinner on Sunday," said 
 Mrs Benyon, " because it's the only day in the week 
 that I get a good meal between breakfast and 
 dinner." 
 
 "How is that, Mater?" he asked. 
 
 " Well, my dear, business is business," she said in 
 the most natural and simple way. " I tried, when I 
 first came here, to have a bit of lunch like any other 
 woman, and I found it didn't work ; and so at last 
 I gave it up, and I have a mere snack — a glass of 
 stout and plate of nice appetising sandwiches, and 
 that's all I can ever venture to trust myself to make 
 a start on." 
 
 " That must be very hard work." 
 
 " Well, it is till you get used to it. I couldn't 
 enjoy a piece of roast beef on any single day in the 
 week at two o'clock ; on Sunday I just love it. Now, 
 tell me, George, do you like outside or inside ? " 
 
 It was by this simple and homely phrase that 
 George Etherington realised that it had been no 
 fault, either of Marty's or her mother's, that he had 
 not before become acquainted with their exact means 
 of existence. It was a simple, unpretentious meal, 
 well cooked and well served, but without any of the 
 elaborate attention which Mrs Etherington was 
 accustomed to exact from her servants. 
 
 And, later on, when Mrs Benyon had gone off in 
 a cab to keep her engagement with her friend, the
 
 FAMILY FEELING 79 
 
 lovers went back into the drawing-room and settled 
 down for a couple of hours of uninterrupted talk. 
 Then it was that Marty told him everything. 
 
 " I don't believe," she said, " in keeping secrets 
 from those that are all the world to you. I never 
 talk about mother's past, or our way of living or 
 anything else to outsiders, because I don't see, as 
 long as we are respectable and pay our way, that it 
 matters to them. But with you it's different. I'm 
 not half good enough for you, George, in one way, 
 and yet — Oh, I know exactly what you are going 
 to say ! — and yet I'm quite good enough for you 
 in another. There's only one thing, dearest, that 
 does trouble me, and that is the thought of what 
 your people will say when they've found out we're 
 going to be married."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 IRREVOCABLE 
 
 When Marty confessed to George Etherington that 
 she was troubled at the thought of what his people's 
 attitude towards her might be, he felt that the time 
 had come when he must speak, and speak quickly 
 and to the point. 
 
 " Marty, my darling," he said, and he held her a 
 little closer even than he had done before, " I wanted 
 to say something to you this afternoon, and I don't 
 want you to misunderstand me in any way. You'll 
 — you'll be patient with my people, won't you ? " 
 
 " That's a funny way of putting it," said Marty. 
 " What do you quite mean by it, Georgie ? " 
 
 " Well, I mean this," he said. " Supposing that my 
 mother doesn't quite see things in the same light as 
 we do just at first, you'll not make it more difficult 
 for me, will you ?" 
 
 " I don't think I quite understand you." 
 
 " Well," he went on, half hesitatingly, " your 
 mother's got used to the idea of me. I've been 
 coming to the house for months now. Her own 
 common-sense must have told her exactly what to 
 expect." 
 
 A sudden recollection of a conversation which she 
 had had with her mother on the subject of George, 
 and whether he was " true blue " or not, caused Marty 
 to crimson all over her dimpling face. It was a 
 
 80
 
 IRREVOCABLE 81 
 
 sudden hot, almost shamed flush. " Go on," she said 
 briefly. 
 
 Fortunately George also had something to hide. 
 He wanted to keep from Marty for the present a full 
 account of all that had happened that morning — the 
 shameful way his sister had put things, the look of 
 horror on his mother's face, the horrified accents of 
 his mother's voice ; so fortunately he was not looking 
 at Marty, and he never saw that tell-tale blush which 
 was so embarrassing to her at that moment. 
 
 "All this has been sprung on my mother," said 
 George, in a tone that was almost apologetic. 
 
 " You have told her ? " said Marty. 
 ' Yes, I told you I should. It's no use wasting 
 time and beating about the bush ; besides, I want to 
 be married as soon as possible." 
 
 " And your mother refuses her consent ? " said 
 Marty. 
 
 " No, no ; she does nothing of the kind. I haven't 
 asked it, for one thing. A man doesn't ask his people's 
 consent to his marriage ; I'm not dependent on them 
 in any way." 
 
 " But it's against their wishes," said Marty. 
 
 'They haven't even said that much. I haven't 
 really talked it over with my mother yet — not seri- 
 ously, you understand." 
 
 " What did she say ? " demanded Marty. 
 
 " Ton my word, I can hardly tell you." 
 
 " She wasn't pleased ? " 
 
 " No, I can't say she was pleased. But then, you 
 know, she wasn't pleased when my sister got married." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 "Because there was somebody she would rather 
 Effie had married instead of Piers." 
 
 F
 
 82 MARTY 
 
 " Oh ! Is there somebody she would rather you 
 married instead of me ? " 
 
 George laughed outright. " No, I don't think there 
 is. But, my dear child, she doesn't know you, she 
 has never seen you. You have come in and stolen 
 me, so to speak, and I believe, from all I have heard, 
 most mothers would feel the same." 
 
 " I don't know," said Marty. " I think if I had a 
 child," she went on, looking at the fire dreamily, " I 
 think I should think more of that child's happiness 
 than of any other consideration." 
 
 " We all think so when we are thinking of ideals," 
 said George. " I have had a dream more than once 
 of taking my wife to my father and mother, and her 
 youth and beauty conquering all feelings of oppo- 
 sition." 
 
 " Not since you have known me," said Marty, the 
 smiles beginning to twinkle out again upon her un- 
 usually grave face. 
 
 " Well, no, not since I have known you," George 
 confessed. 
 
 " That's as well," said she. " But what am I going 
 to do ? Are they coming to see me ? " 
 
 " Ton my word, I don't know." Then the arm 
 about Marty's waist drew her a trifle closer. " Sup- 
 posing they do nothing ? Supposing they don't 
 come ? Supposing that they ignore us altogether ? 
 You — you won't let it make any difference to us ? " 
 
 " It won't make any difference to me," said Marty, 
 " as I have never met them. One can't miss what 
 one never had. There can't be any loss on my side ; 
 it will make no difference to me ; but to you, Georgie, 
 to you — " 
 
 " Well," said he in a sturdy, even dogged kind of
 
 IRREVOCABLE 83 
 
 tone, " the longer I live the more convinced I am of 
 the extraordinary amount of wisdom to be found 
 between the covers of the Bible. There's one phrase 
 that I have heard over and over again without at- 
 taching any importance to it at all — 'A man shall 
 leave his father and his mother and shall cleave unto 
 his wife.' It's just this, my darling — I want to give 
 my people every chance of doing the right thing if 
 they will ; if they won't, I consider that I have got 
 ample grounds for following the best advice in the 
 world. I don't want to leave my father and my 
 mother. I've always been, and I am, and I always 
 shall be very fond of them, but if it comes to a ques- 
 tion of my parents or m}' wife, I shall follow the ex- 
 ample of my father and do as he did before me." 
 " And you say your sister pleased herself ? " 
 " Most emphatically so. There were two fellows in 
 love with her at the same time," George went on 
 briskly, thankful to get off the more personal question. 
 " Piers was one, and the other was a man she met 
 staying at a country house. He was an undeniable 
 catch ; I suppose it was natural that my mother 
 should want her to marry him. Effie, however, was 
 adamantine." 
 
 " She was really in love with Mr Piers ? " 
 " Oh, yes, there was never any doubt about that." 
 " Was there anything against the other man ? " 
 " No. He was ten years or so older than Piers ; 
 but Piers is a young chap, you know." 
 " And was he equally good-looking ? " 
 " Better looking, I think. Had a big place in the 
 country, and a house in Park Street. I think myself 
 that it was natural my mother should want her to 
 marry the best man of the two."
 
 84 MARTY 
 
 " But was he the best man of the two ? " 
 
 " I don't know. He was everything that was de- 
 sirable, and he had heaps of money. He was awfully 
 in love with Effie — heart-broken when she chose 
 Piers." 
 
 " Mrs Piers has a will of her own, then ? " 
 
 "Very much so," said George, drily, and with a 
 vivid recollection of Effie's stinging remarks during 
 the earlier part of the day. 
 
 " It is Mrs Piers who is the chief opponent to me — 
 to your marrying me ? " said Marty. 
 
 " Er — perhaps." 
 
 For a moment the girl was silent. " Then it's 
 good-bye to any more Doucet gowns for Mrs Richard 
 Piers," she said, with a chuckle, or at least what 
 would have been a chuckle in an elderly gentleman 
 blessed with a keen sense of humour, and George 
 fairly shouted with delight, feeling that Marty was 
 worth any sacrifice he might be called upon to make 
 for her. 
 
 By-and-by, when they had had tea, they went for 
 a little walk together, and by common consent they 
 touched no further upon unpleasant subjects, but con- 
 fined themselves to talking of the glorious time that 
 lay in front of them. 
 
 " You know, we sha'n't be well off," said George. 
 " Should you say, Marty, that a flat or a house would 
 be the best ? " 
 
 " Well, a flat will cost the most, but we can do with 
 one servant ; and in a flat I could do a great deal that 
 I can't and won't do in a house," said Marty, promptly. 
 "You see, dear, you do pay a little more in rent, 
 there's no getting over that fact. I know what I 
 should like to do," she added.
 
 IRREVOCABLE 85 
 
 " Well, tell me." 
 
 " I should like to have a flat — a weeny tiny flat, 
 you know, George, somewhere not very far from the 
 Stores." 
 
 " Oh, in Victoria Street ? " 
 
 " Well, somewhere about there ; somewhere within 
 a penny 'bus ride of the Stores, so that I could go 
 down every morning and do my shopping ; and the 
 nearer it is the less would it cost, because I could take 
 my own servant with me to bring back things ; or I 
 could do as a friend of mine does who was married 
 not very long ago and lives near the Stores. She 
 hires one of the old men that stand outside. She 
 pays him twopence or threepence, fourpence if the 
 basket is very heavy. She saves that fourpence 
 about twenty times over in the things she buys." 
 
 " Are you sure ? " 
 
 " I am quite sure. You see, I've done all mother's 
 shopping for her since I came home. I know all 
 about housekeeping. Oh, you can't take me in. 
 I've one maxim, Georgie — the best of everything 
 at the lowest possible price." 
 
 "Very good maxim, too, Well, it would suit me 
 well enough. The only thing is we should have 
 to pay such an awful whack for rent." 
 
 "Not at all. Not if you know how to look 
 about you. I shouldn't go to one of the grand 
 mansions and ask a first-floor suite." 
 
 "No, I suppose not," said George. And then 
 they fell to laughing, as if between them they had 
 propounded the most wonderful joke in the whole 
 world. 
 
 It seemed as if George Etherington was fated to 
 begin and end that day unpleasantly. He left
 
 86 MARTY 
 
 Rosediamond Road soon after ten o'clock, and he 
 found his mother sitting in the dining-room read- 
 ing a novel. 
 
 " Your father has gone to bed," she said. " He's 
 not very well to-night. I believe he is going to 
 have one of his bad attacks." 
 
 " You don't say so ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid so." 
 
 " That was the lobster salad," said George. 
 
 "I'm afraid it was. I told him not to have any 
 of it, but you know your father's sanguine tempera- 
 ment. It's always all right at the time, and he 
 never admits it to be all wrong until the day of 
 reckoning has arrived." 
 
 " Poor dad ! What have you given him ? " 
 
 "All sorts of things, my dear boy. I've left 
 him now to try and settle down to sleep. Perhaps 
 we shall ward the attack off." 
 
 " And you ? You are all right, mother ? " 
 
 " Ye-s, thank you." Her tone was doubtful. " I 
 am as right as I could wish to be, thanks. I 
 wanted to say something to you, George." 
 
 " Hadn't you better leave it for another time, 
 when you are less worried ? " 
 
 " No, I don't believe in leaving things," said 
 Mrs Etherington, carefully marking the place in 
 her book and then closing it. " I don't believe in 
 leaving things, Georgie," she went on, and he 
 noticed how pale she was looking. " George, is it 
 quite irrevocable ? " 
 
 " I'm am afraid quite, mother." 
 
 " You are afraid / " 
 
 " Well, I don't mean it in that sense, I said it 
 out of a sort of politeness. It is irrevocable."
 
 IRREVOCABLE 87 
 
 " Quite irrevocable ? " 
 
 " Yes, mother, it is quite irrevocable — as irrevoc- 
 able as if we were already married." 
 " Is she very nice, this girl ? " 
 
 "She is something more than nice. She is not 
 at all like Effie, but she is — well, she is the one 
 woman in the world that I want." 
 
 " You know Effie will never come round." 
 " No ? Well, in that case we must try and do 
 without Effie." 
 
 " She is your sister." 
 
 "And the other will be my wife. I'm afraid 
 it's no good, mother. My father ran away with 
 you and your people objected. You went your 
 way — which happened to be his way — and so far 
 as I know you have never repented it." 
 
 For a moment Mrs Etherington did not speak. 
 "Your father was a gentleman, George," she said 
 at last. 
 
 " I don't know that your people thought so, 
 mother." 
 
 "No," she said, fairly enough, "I don't know 
 that they did. But it was rather different." 
 
 "There's a great difference between meum and 
 tuum," said George, quietly. 
 
 "There's a greater difference than that. I have 
 been thinking all day of what you told me your- 
 self and of what Effie told me. I've been putting 
 the pieces together, and they fit, my boy, too well. 
 The girl is beneath you. No, I'm not saying any- 
 thing personal. You needn't look at me in that 
 fierce way. I'm speaking dispassionately. The girl 
 is beneath you in social position ; her mother is 
 not my equal ; her father was — ? You don't seem
 
 88 MARTY 
 
 to know. She's young, probably extremely good- 
 looking, very attractive, but — " 
 
 "But I'm not marrying her father and mother!" 
 cried George. 
 
 "That's what everybody says," said Mrs Ether- 
 ington, deliberately.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 A STATE VISIT 
 
 In due course of time Mrs Etherington made what 
 might be called a state call at No. 28 Rosediamond 
 Road. She did not announce her intention of doing 
 so to her son, because she wished the visit to be 
 made without the help of his presence. So, a few 
 days after her conversation with George, she dressed 
 herself and, without a word to anyone as to her 
 intention, she went off to No. 28 Rosediamond 
 Road. 
 
 The excellent Sarah, recovered from her attack 
 of the influenza, came to the door in answer to 
 her knock. " Yes, madam," she said, " Mrs Benyon 
 is at home. But it's after business hours," she 
 added. 
 
 " I have not come to see Mrs Benyon on business, 
 thank you," said Mrs Etherington. " Please say 
 that Mrs Etherington is here." 
 
 Mrs Benyon came to her immediately. 
 
 " I'm Georgie's mother," Mrs Etherington an- 
 nounced. 
 
 " I'm sure," said Mrs Benyon, very much over- 
 awed by the diguity, not to say majesty, of her 
 visitor, " I am very much honoured by your visit, 
 Mrs Etherington." 
 
 " That is very nice and kind of you," said Mrs 
 
 89
 
 9 o MARTY 
 
 Etherington, standing up and looking exceedingly 
 large in the little drawing-room. 
 
 " Won't you be pleased to sit down ? " said Mrs 
 Benyon, indicating the largest chair that the room 
 contained. 
 
 Mrs Etherington half hesitated, as if waiting for 
 her hostess to seat herself. Then she took the 
 proffered seat with an air as if it had been a throne. 
 " I suppose you were not as much startled by the 
 news as I was, Mrs Benyon ? " the visitor began. 
 
 " Yes, it came with a shock upon me," Mrs Benyon 
 confessed. 
 
 " And yet my son has been coming here for months. 
 What else did you expect ? " 
 
 " One never knows what to expect in such matters," 
 said Mrs Benyon, quietly. 
 
 " No ? Well, it's the old story of fire and tow, I 
 suppose. But — er — but — am I not to see George's 
 fiancee ? " 
 
 " You shall see Marty, certainly." Mrs Benyon got 
 up and rang the bell. " Ask Miss Marty to come 
 down, Sarah," she said to that excellent person. " I 
 think she's in her bedroom. Tell Ann to go up ; 
 don't go yourself. My maid," she added with a smile 
 of apology to Mrs Etherington as soon as the door 
 had closed, " has just got over an attack of the 
 influenza, and running up and down stairs is not 
 good for her." 
 
 " Very trying," said Mrs Etherington, who was not 
 much given to consideriug her domestics. " There is 
 one subject I must confess I should like to discuss," 
 she went on, looking round the walls of the pretty 
 room and noting that it was all very tasteful and 
 dainty. " What are they going to live upon ? "
 
 A STATE VISIT 91 
 
 " Your son — George has seven hundred a year," 
 said Mrs Benyon, in a tone which conveyed something 
 of astonishment, or at least of wonder. 
 
 "Yes, yes, he has; and up to now — up to the 
 present time, I should say — he has spent it. It isn't 
 a great income for young people to begin a family 
 on." 
 
 "Perhaps there won't be a family," said Mrs 
 Benyon. 
 
 " It's no use reckoning on that," replied Mrs 
 Etherington, looking out of the window in a way 
 which showed off her aristocratic profile to the best 
 advantage. " I've tried, Mrs Benyon ; I know." 
 
 " What ! Then you married for — er — " 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs Etherington, with an air of making 
 quite a clean breast of it, " Colonel Etherington and I 
 ran away. Between ourselves, we were very foolish. 
 My people were furious. They thought I ought to 
 have married somebody with a million. I wanted 
 the man who had everything else — quite everything 
 excepting the million — and we married, feeling that 
 for people following the drum it was unwise, to say 
 the least of it, to dream of having a family. I have 
 five children living," she added. 
 
 " Dear, dear, dear ! " said Mrs Benyon, in a tone 
 intended to convey sympathy with the little 
 Etheringtons not lost but gone before. 
 
 If the simpler and more homely woman had in- 
 tended to touch a tender chord by her ejaculation 
 she failed in her object. Mrs Etherington continued 
 to gaze out of the window, and also to speak. " They 
 are very young, our children, Mrs Benj^on," she said. 
 "If they rush into matrimony now they may not 
 stop at five, they may have ten, and an income that
 
 92 MARTY 
 
 will do very well for two to scrape along on will be 
 a very tight pinch if it has to be divided by twelve." 
 " I don't believe," said Mrs Benyon, in her gentlest 
 voice, " that the Lord ever sends mouths but He sends 
 bread to put into them." 
 
 Mrs Etherington absolutely shuddered. " Ah, I see 
 you are an advocate for early marriage," she said. 
 " Well, I suppose it's no use either of us having views. 
 These young people are headstrong, and will take 
 their own way, and take it in their own time. I 
 think it's a pity myself. However, it is certainly not 
 for me to say that they shall not have a voice in their 
 own affairs, seeing," she added, with a conscious little 
 laugh, " that I took the management of mine entirely 
 into my own hands." 
 
 " It seems to me," said Mrs Benyon, clasping her 
 hands tightly together until the knuckles shone out 
 white by reason of the pressure that she was putting 
 on them, " it seems to me, Mrs Etherington, that you 
 must either have come to that decision very young, or 
 else you have worn extremely well to be the mother 
 of a fine young fellow like your son is." 
 
 Mrs Etherington smiled in spite of herself. All 
 women love a compliment, and I think, if you will 
 believe me, there comes a time in life when they love 
 it better from a woman than they do from a man. 
 " Now you are flattering me," she said. 
 
 " Such was far from my thoughts," declared the other, 
 simply. " I am not used to the ways of the world. 
 I am a simple, unpretentious, anxious woman, who 
 wants to do the best she can for the three little girls 
 that were left for her to fill both father's and mother's 
 place to." 
 
 " And your daughter is like you ? "
 
 A STATE VISIT 93 
 
 " I don't think so — no. I think she favours her 
 poor father. She's been well educated, you under- 
 stand, Mrs Etherington. When it was a hard pinch 
 for me to do it, I put Marty to a first-class school, 
 and she's paid me over and over again for any 
 sacrifice I might have had to make. I spared nothing 
 that was reasonable, and my girls will go out into the 
 world with a very different education to what their 
 mother had." 
 
 " I think that was very wise of you," said Mrs 
 Etherington, who felt the conversation beginning to 
 lag somewhat. 
 
 " The little ones are younger than Marty. They 
 are at school. They don't remember any of the 
 struggles that Marty remembers. They don't re- 
 member their father." 
 
 " Mr Benyon was — er — was — er — a lawyer ? " 
 suggested the visitor. 
 
 " No, Mrs Etherington, my husband was not in the 
 law. He was a plain business man." 
 
 " I don't quite understand," said Mrs Etherington 
 in a bland tone of wilful misunderstanding. 
 
 " My husband was in a bank," said Mrs Benyon, 
 quietly. 
 
 " In a bank ? Oh, yes, yes, I see. In a private 
 bank ? " 
 
 "Yes, it was a private bank," said the widow. 
 " He was there from a young boy to the day of his 
 death. He had never any pretensions to be more 
 than he was — a plain business man that had no ideas 
 above his position." 
 
 " A good husband to you ? " interposed Mrs 
 Etherington. 
 
 " The greatest trouble that I had was the day that
 
 94 MARTY 
 
 he died and left me to face the world with three little 
 girls." 
 
 " I must say," said Mrs Etherington, " that you 
 seem to have done well by them. I — it has never 
 been my lot to face anything except the anger of my 
 relations before marriage — and occasionally after. I 
 I don't know how I should do under those circum- 
 stances, I'm sure ; probably not a quarter as well as 
 you have done. I know all about your business, Mrs 
 Benyon. I think it very clever and original of you. 
 My daughter has been." 
 
 " Mrs Piers ? Yes, she has been here once." 
 
 Then the door opened and Marty came in. 
 
 " Marty," said Mrs Benyon, getting up from her 
 chair, " this is George's mother." 
 
 " Mrs Etherington ! " cried Marty. 
 
 Then George's mother rose also. " Yes, George's 
 mother, my dear. Come to pay a very informal visit, 
 come to see what George's choice is like." 
 
 Marty put her two hands out, and somehow her 
 head went a little on one side. " I hope George's 
 mother isn't disappointed in George's choice," she 
 said, in a voice that betokened she was not very far 
 off from tears, and was yet putting a brave effort 
 upon herself to keep as bright as possible. " I know, 
 Mrs Etherington, I'm not half good enough for 
 Georgie. I've told him so fifty times." 
 
 " And if you told him that fifty times more in that 
 tone of voice, and with that look on your face," said 
 Mrs P]therington, drily, " each time will only serve to 
 rivet George's chains a little more closely about him. 
 I — my dear, I will confess it — I was not pleased 
 when Georgie told me his news. I thought he — I 
 thought he might have married a girl with money.
 
 A STATE VISIT 95 
 
 Mothers always have that dream, you know, and I 
 am like all other mothers — I think there is nobody 
 like my boy. I thought perhaps he wasn't sure, that 
 it might be but a fancy — I didn't encourage him in 
 any way, quite the contrary — but these last few days 
 I have been thinking a good deal about the whole 
 affair, and I've come to the conclusion that whatever 
 I do George will follow his own way, no matter how 
 happy or how miserable it may make him afterwards. 
 It's no use my holding aloof until the deed is done, 
 and then standing off in a frigid attitude, or sub- 
 mitting with an ill grace. I told myself to-day that 
 if I didn't go and make acquaintance with the girl 
 he has chosen I should never know what she is like, 
 should never know whether he is right or wrong. 
 And so I came. I won't gush to you, I won't pretend 
 that I shouldn't have been much better pleased if you 
 had had as much money as George, but I — I see a 
 little how George sees you ; and by-and-by, if you are 
 good to him, I hope I shall come to see you entirely 
 with his eyes." 
 
 " Mrs Etherington," said Marty, " please do sit down 
 again. I can't bear to see you standing. If you 
 don't mind," she went on, standing in front of the 
 great lady, and looking at her as simply as a little 
 child might do, " if you don't mind, I'd rather not 
 say anything. I didn't know you were coming 
 to-day ; you have taken us by surprise, mother and 
 me, and we are not prepared with anything nice to 
 say, so I'd rather not say anything. And I believe 
 in deeds. You will see for yourself how I behave 
 to George, and whether I make him happy ; and I 
 shall be quite content if you will take me on those 
 grounds alone and on no other. Darling," she went
 
 96 MARTY 
 
 on, turning to her mother, " shall 1 ask Sarah to bring 
 some tea ? " 
 
 " I think I hear Sarah," replied Mrs Benyon. 
 
 A moment later the door was opened by an unseen 
 hand, and the estimable Sarah sailed in bearing a 
 tea-tray. The setting of afternoon tea, and the 
 arranging of dinner-tables, had been an item of 
 education at the school at Folkestone. There was 
 really nothing to find fault with in the way that 
 the tray was arranged or the tea served. Mrs 
 Etherington could have wished that Mrs Benyon had 
 not thought it necessary to open the lid of the tea- 
 pot and stir up the contents with a spoon, but the 
 tea was undeniably excellent, the muffin which 
 accompanied it was properly brown, and there had 
 been no stint of the butter with which it was spread 
 — or I should say soaked — and Marty did the wait- 
 ing between the tea-table and the visitor with an air 
 of girlish eagerness which was gratifying to that 
 lady's sense of what was due to herself. 
 
 And then the door opened and George Etherington, 
 without his hat, came in all of a rush. "Mother!" 
 he exclaimed.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A F E L L O W-F E E L I N G 
 
 Whex George Etherington and his mother left 
 Rosediamond Road, neither spoke until they had 
 turned the corner of the street. Then George looked 
 at his companion. " Well, mother ? " he said. 
 
 " Well ? " said Mrs Etherington, in a non-com- 
 municative tone. 
 
 " What do you think of her ? " said he. 
 
 "What do I think? My dear boy, exactly what 
 I thought before. I think you are making a mistake, 
 and sooner or later you will find it out. I may be 
 wrong, but I don't think that I am. If I am, all the 
 better for you ; if I am not, all the worse." 
 
 " Mother, h dear, why do you think that I am making 
 a mistake ? " 
 
 " Because, for one thing, the girl isn't of your own 
 class." 
 
 " Oh, class ! " 
 
 " Yes, I know. All young people say the same. 
 The mother asked me if I ' wouldn't be pleased to sit 
 down.' " 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Well," said Mrs Etherington, looking straight in 
 front of her, " you never heard me ask anybody if 
 ' they would be pleased to sit down.' " 
 
 "I can't see what it matters," said George. "If 
 G 97
 
 98 MARTY 
 
 you were in France you would say, ' Donnez-vous le 
 peine de vous assoir, Madame, je vous prie.' ' 
 
 " We are not in France," said Mrs Etherington, 
 looking stonily in front of her. "There's an old 
 saying, George — ' When you are in Rome, do as the 
 Romans do.' " 
 
 It must be confessed that George Etherington did 
 not quite see where the application of the "old 
 saying " came in, but that was neither here nor there. 
 He felt a sudden revulsion against his class, a feeling 
 that his class was wrong, that the simple woman who 
 asked you to be pleased to sit down was the truly 
 polite woman. 
 
 " It's a little thing, mother," he said. 
 
 " Yes, it's a little thing," said Mrs Etherington, " but 
 straws show which way the stream flows, and the 
 straws of Mrs Benyon's conversation and manners 
 were quite sufficient to show me the class of life from 
 which Mrs Benyon has risen — hewers of wood and 
 drawers of water, my dear. I should say in her 
 young days she was a servant." 
 
 " I don't see," said George, " that she is any the 
 worse for that." 
 
 " No, ni}' dear, I don't say that she is ; the greater 
 credit for her that she has been able to make a living 
 for herself and her children. I couldn't do it myself, 
 and Heaven knows what would have become of you 
 all if I had been left penniless with several young 
 children depending upon me. Still, although one 
 doesn't deny all the virtues that certain individuals 
 possess — on the contrary, one extols them — no person 
 of my class wants to prove their appreciation to the 
 extent of marriage. You are glamoured with the 
 girl ; she's a fresh little thing, probably as good as 
 gold. Will it last you, George ? Will it last you ? "
 
 A FELLOW-FEELING 99 
 
 " I don't see why it shouldn't. You and my father 
 have lasted out with each other." 
 
 " You don't seem quite to understand the difference," 
 said Mrs Etherington, quietly. " The objection of my 
 people to your father was an objection of money 
 merely — of worldly wealth, or the want of it. When 
 your father goes into his club, there's no outside 
 difference, no external difference between himself and 
 a duke. If anybody pointed him out as the Duke of 
 Chelsea, the person to whom he was pointed out 
 would probably say that he was a fine-looking man, 
 or something of that kind. They wouldn't say that 
 he ought to have been a groom." 
 
 " No, no. I grant you that." 
 
 "You must be prepared," Mrs Etherington went 
 on, speaking in a cold, level, rather cutting voice, 
 " you must be prepared when you are married for 
 people to look, if they don't say — ' Who did young 
 George Etherington marry ? Had she any people ? 
 Where did she come from ? ' You must be prepared, 
 every now and again, until you have tutored her into 
 our ways, to have your teeth set on edge. Don't 
 think me unkind, George ; I have no wish to be that. 
 I have done the decent thing. I have called, I have 
 called within a reasonable time of hearing of your 
 engagement ; I have called, indeed, as soon as I felt sure 
 that you really meant what you said. I did my best 
 to be nice. I think I've left those two poor things 
 charmed with me ; they feel that I am not going to 
 oppose the girl because I didn't choose her myself; but 
 I have had my eyes open all the time. Georgie, can 
 you tell me on your word of honour, from a son to 
 his mother, a son who has never given his mother a 
 lie or an uneasy moment until now, can you assure
 
 ioo MARTY 
 
 me that it hasn't already happened, and that you 
 haven't yourself noticed little things that grated on 
 you ? Now I have put the question to you fair and 
 square. Answer me the truth." 
 
 For some thirty or forty yards they walked on in 
 dead silence. A blazing flush had risen to George 
 Etherington's face, which, after a minute or so, 
 receded, leaving it ghastly white. 
 
 "I think all these things are beneath a man's 
 notice," he said, at last. 
 
 " You have answered my question," said his mother. 
 " You have answered it as I wish before God you had 
 not answered it. George, you are making a mistake. 
 I don't say the girl isn't charming, I don't say she 
 isn't good, but she's not been born and bred in your 
 own class, and although you may feel now that these 
 things are too petty to notice, that these things are 
 too small to have any effect, that your love will over- 
 ride all such trifles, how will you feel when you hear 
 your wife, in the society of your equals, making- 
 mistakes about titles, asking your friends ' please to 
 take a seat ' ? They won't think such trifles beneath 
 their notice, take my word for that. They will 
 notice every little slip. How will you feel, Georgie, 
 when you see the upraised eyebrow, the quick look 
 between two who have noticed the same little flaw ? 
 Do you think your love will be strong enough to 
 withstand all that ? If you don't, think, think, and I 
 say again — think ! " 
 
 For a few seconds George Etherington felt like one 
 who has had a pail of water suddenly and unex- 
 pectedly flung in his face. Then, with what was 
 almost a gasp, he mastered his emotions sufficiently 
 to speak. " You hit very hard, mother," he said.
 
 A FELLOW-FEELING 101 
 
 " Not below the belt," said his mother. 
 
 " I'm not so sure about that. You didn't mean to, 
 that I know, of course ; but it hits hard." 
 
 " I am not going to say another word," said Mrs 
 Etherington. " I am not going to make your life a 
 burden to you. I have said my say. I'll ask the 
 girl to dinner ; I suppose we ought to ask her 
 mother." 
 
 " She won't come." 
 
 " There she would show her sense. However, the 
 proper thing is to ask her, and I will ask her. And 
 now, Georgie, until you speak of it me, I shall say 
 little or nothing. You'll not go on from sheer pride 
 if you should change in any way ? Never do that. 
 I've never believed myself in the honour of continu- 
 ing an engagement which is practically certain to 
 lead to an unhappy marriage. One reads of these 
 things in story books," she went on, not looking up 
 at George but straight in front of her ; " in real life 
 they do not often happen, and my opinion of them is 
 that they are criminal, absolutely criminal." 
 
 At this point they reached the door of their own 
 house, and there they separated, each going to their 
 respective rooms. Mrs Etherington was just fasten- 
 ing her dress, when the old colonel came into his 
 dressing-room. 
 
 " Well, Madge," he said, " done the deed ? " 
 
 Mrs Etherington fastened the last hook into its 
 place before she replied. " Yes, dear boy," she said, 
 " I've done the deed." 
 
 " What is she like ? " 
 
 ; ' Very young, very fetching. I should say as good 
 as gold, and — as common as dirt." 
 
 " You don't say so ! "
 
 102 MARTY 
 
 " She was on her best behaviour with me, naturally- 
 enough. The mother is a simple, unpretentious, 
 unassuming, respectful woman of no class, very- 
 much overawed at my visit. The girl has nothing 
 of that about her — she was on her best behaviour — 
 but beneath it I could see that she would be pert, and 
 probably presuming, to the last extent. She has the 
 directness and downrightness of a street flower-girl, 
 cloaked over with a veneer of boarding-school educa- 
 tion. She is very much in love with George, very 
 anxious to do the right thing and be a credit to him, 
 and quite sure that nobody in the wide world could 
 make him happy but herself." 
 
 " Did she tell you all this ? " 
 
 " No, no, no ! She was on her best behaviour. I 
 gathered it, I saw it. I can't tell you, dear old boy, 
 how we women understand one another — we do, 
 somehow." 
 
 " Xobody understands anything about you women," 
 said the colonel, standing looking at his wife with 
 eyes full of admiration, his hands thrust deep down 
 into his trouser pockets. " I have lived with y r ou for 
 nearly thirty years, darling, and I don't understand 
 you a bit better to-day than I did the first day that 
 I ever saw you ! " 
 
 The wife's face flushed, and her hand trembled a 
 little as she picked up a brooch from the dressing- 
 table and fixed it with long, delicate fingers in the 
 bosom of her gown. " Geoffrey," she said, " there's 
 one thing that you do know about me, there's one 
 thing that you will admit — I'm not unjust, I'm not 
 hard-hearted." 
 
 " Not the least in the world. But it's no use 
 breaking your heart over this business ; it may come
 
 A FELLOW-FEELING 103 
 
 off, it may not. If we oppose it and make his life 
 wretched — " 
 
 " Oh, it will hurry it on. I know that. I shall 
 say nothing more about the girl. I've told George 
 that I intend to ask her to dinner." 
 
 " What ! Have you seen him ? " 
 
 " He came whilst I was there. He was so surprised 
 to see me that he almost jumped out of his skin. We 
 came home together. He asked me my opinion, and 
 I told him if he marries her he will always love her 
 — in a way she is irresistible. If he can school her 
 out of certain slips — commonnesses, as I told him, 
 straws which showed what class she came from — he 
 may be happy enough ; at the same time there is no 
 money, there is no influence, there is nothing but 
 personal liking and a number of drawbacks. How- 
 ever, I see the wisdom of not worrying him into an 
 earlier marriage." 
 
 " And you have asked her to dinner ? " 
 
 " I haven't asked her yet. I'll write a little note 
 in the morning. I suppose I shall have to ask the 
 mother." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; you must do the decent thing." 
 
 " I suppose it is the decent thing. Anyway, I'll do 
 it ; I'm quite prepared to do it. I think I'll ask 
 them for Saturday evening." 
 
 " Just as you like," said the colonel, heartily, " do 
 exactly as you like. I suppose you won't ask Effie 
 and Dick ? " 
 
 "Oh, I might ask them," said Mrs Etherington, 
 laughing for the first time. " They wouldn't come. 
 He would, but Effie wouldn't," 
 
 " I don't quite see that Effie has got any right to 
 take such mortal offence in the matter."
 
 104 MARTY 
 
 "I suppose," said Mrs Etherington, "that all 
 brothers and sisters feel they've got a right to inter- 
 fere with their brothers and sisters. I know mine 
 did. The scorn that Catherine poured upon me when 
 I was under discussion about you was absolutely 
 limitless." 
 
 "And yet," said the colonel, "Catherine did no 
 such great things with her own life. Married a chap 
 with a title who hadn't tuppence-ha'penny to keep it 
 up on, and who ran away with another woman, 
 leavino- her with three small children. Well, wife, 
 probably we did a very foolish thing when we 
 married, you and I — you certainly made but a very 
 poor match of it — but such as I am, I stuck to you, 
 and I shall stick to you till the end ! "
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A TRIAL TRIP 
 
 I have said that Mrs Benyon was never able to eat 
 what she called a "sit-down lunch"; indeed, the 
 table was never laid for such a meal. A large tray, 
 with plates, glasses, and a good dish of sandwiches, 
 and usually some sponge cakes — or what is called a 
 "cake to cut" — was set out on the table by one 
 o'clock. With this, and a glass of stout, she was able 
 to ward off faintness and fatigue during the hours of 
 business. 
 
 The following morning after Mrs Etherington's 
 visit, Marty went into the dining-room to find a letter 
 lying on the table addressed to her mother. " I never 
 heard the postman," she murmured, as she picked it 
 up. It was addressed in a firm and bold hand, and 
 the back of the envelope bore a neat crest — a cock 
 holding a dagger in one foot, while it balanced itself 
 decorously on the other. Having enjoyed this 
 edifying spectacle, Marty laid the letter down again, 
 and just then her mother walked into the room. 
 
 " Here's a letter for you, darling ! " said Marty. 
 " A gorgeous letter. You must have got a new client. 
 Look at the crest on the back ! Did you ever see 
 such a rampant beast in your life ? Fancy balancing 
 yourself on one claw like that, and eternally holding 
 
 105
 
 106 MARTY 
 
 out a dagger with the other ! Do open it, darling, 
 and see who it is from." 
 
 So Mrs Benyon opened the letter, and read it 
 slowly aloud. 
 
 " ' My dear Mrs Benyon/ " she began, — " c Colonel 
 Etherington and I — ' 
 
 Oh, it's from your mother-in-law, Marty ! " she in- 
 terposed. 
 
 " Go on," said Marty, a pink flush rising in her 
 face, and a terrible qualm taking possession of her 
 heart. 
 
 — " ' will be very much pleased if you and Marty 
 — I suppose I may call her so — will dine with us, 
 quite in a friendly way, on Saturday evening at half- 
 past seven. With kind regards, believe me, very 
 truly yours, Margaret Etherington.' " 
 
 The faint flush in Marty's cheeks had deepened to 
 a fine flaming rose colour. " Well ? " she said eagerly. 
 " You'll go, of course ? " 
 
 Mrs Benyon sat down and helped herself to a 
 sandwich. It was not to her the same question of 
 desperate import that it was to Marty. "Give me 
 my stout, Marty, dear," she said, " or I shall have a 
 dozen ladies clamouring at the door ready to tear me 
 to pieces." 
 
 " Oh, of course, darling ! I beg your pardon. I am 
 a little beast to neglect you as I do ! " She gave her 
 mother a joyous hug as she whisked to the sideboard 
 to fetch the stout, " You'll go, of course ? " she said 
 as she carefully poured it out. 
 
 Mrs Benyon looked at her with troubled eyes. " I
 
 A TRIAL TRIP 107 
 
 don't think I will, Marty, dear," she said. " I have 
 never been in the way of having dinner with 
 people like the Etheringtons. I should be all at 
 sea." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I should," said Mrs Benyon, wisely. " It's 
 all very well for you, Marty. You went to a good 
 boarding-school where they taught you all these 
 things as part of your education. I didn't. I should 
 be sure to forget which knife I was using, or do 
 something horrible. It would be like being in 
 purgatory for a whole evening. No, no, dearie ; 
 afternoon tea I've got thoroughly up to — I flatter 
 myself I can manage that with anybody — but when 
 you come to dinner with half a dozen courses, I really 
 couldn't sit through it ! " 
 
 Poor woman, she was really quite unconscious that 
 it was not the highest etiquette to lift a tea-pot lid 
 and stir the contents with a tea-spoon ; but, as George 
 would have said, it was a small thing and of no 
 importance. 
 
 " I shall feel horrid if you don't go," said Marty. 
 
 " You'll feel a deal horrider if I do," remarked Mrs 
 Benyon, sensibly. "As for me, I shall never bring 
 myself to sit down to table with that grand lady. 
 You have got to do it ; you have got to get used to 
 it ; it's part of the business of your life, and there's 
 no getting over, or under, or round it, my darling; 
 but for me, George isn't marrying me, and his mother 
 will only realise what a sensible person I am if I take 
 my own stand from the very beginning." 
 
 So it was decided that Mrs Benyon would not 
 accept the invitation to dine with Colonel and Mrs 
 Etherington. Then Marty was naturally very much
 
 108 MARTY 
 
 excited about her costume. On that point, however, 
 she consulted her fiance. 
 
 "I want you to tell me, George," she said, "the 
 kind of dress I ought to wear when I go to dine 
 with your mother on Saturday." 
 
 " Well, evening dress, of course," said he. 
 
 "Oh. Low body?" 
 
 " Yes — with sleeve things ; the kind of dress you'd 
 wear for a theatre." 
 
 " One of my best dresses, or not ? " 
 
 " .Not one of your best dresses. A little simple 
 frock like you'd go to a theatre in." 
 
 " Won't your mother be offended if I don't make 
 myself look smart ? " 
 
 " No, she's much more likely to be offended if you 
 do." 
 
 " Do I wear gloves, Georgie ? " 
 
 " No, certainly not ! " 
 
 Marty looked up quite apologetically. " Georgie," 
 she said, " you ought to have married somebody that 
 would know all these things. I feel it more every 
 day. If you think you are making a mistake, and 
 that your people don't like it, well — you know I'll 
 not keep you to your bargain." 
 
 " Indeed you will keep me to my bargain ! " said 
 George, quite fiercely. " As for knowing all about 
 it — pooh ! these are trifles, nothing, as against the 
 greater events of life. Besides, it's quite natural you 
 shouldn't know. You have never dined with my 
 people, you don't know the style that we live in, you 
 wouldn't like to overdo it or underdo it, so you ask 
 me who do know — it's perfectly natural." 
 
 " I thought you — I thought you spoke as if — as if 
 I ought to have known."
 
 A TRIAL TRIP 109 
 
 "Not at all. You misunderstood me entirely." He 
 had spoken so, but perhaps he was none the worse 
 for denying it. 
 
 " You know, George," she said, looking at him with 
 pleading eyes, " it's a serious thing for me to go to 
 be introduced to your family." 
 
 " As to my family," said George, " I don't know that 
 they will be there." 
 
 " What ! Not your sister ? " 
 
 " She might have an engagement, you know," said 
 George. " It wasn't very long notice." 
 
 " Oh, I see." 
 
 " What do you see ? " he demanded. 
 
 "Another point. She mightn't want to come. I 
 feel as if your sister was going to be my enemy 
 all through." 
 
 " Nonsense ! I don't suppose she'll be particularly 
 friendly — that would be a little too much to expect — 
 because Effie is — well, she's Effie, and she thinks an 
 awful lot of being Effie — far too much. Possibly, the 
 two boys may show ; I don't know. It won't make 
 the least difference whether they do or not. They 
 don't interfere with me any more than I do with 
 them. I shouldn't allow it for a moment. They'll 
 be civil enough to you, no fear about that." 
 
 " And you think Effie won't ? " 
 
 " I think it's more than likely she won't. Effie's a 
 difficult young person. Not that she matters ; Effie 
 has never been anything to me, or I to Effie. It's 
 only my father and mother who really matter — and 
 me, you know ! " 
 
 And then they fell to laughing like the boy and 
 girl that they were. 
 
 On the appointed evening Marty arrived at Colonel
 
 no MARTY 
 
 Etherinefton's house. Thanks to her consultation 
 with George, she was looking extremely nice. She 
 was not a little nervous, but fortunately nervousness 
 did not with her take the form of putting on airs of 
 undue familiarity. If it had done so, I can only say 
 that the evening would have been a failure, and 
 Marty would have been ruined — speaking socially, 
 that is to say. For although outwardly she was 
 quite everything that could be desired, there were 
 many little slips which, even if they passed the eye 
 of Colonel Etherington, were seen and inwardly 
 stored up by his wife. Fully aware of her possible 
 deficiencies, Marty kept an eagle eye upon her hostess, 
 so she got fairly well through the uneasy labyrinths 
 of the most elaborate dinner that she had, up to that 
 time, ever been called upon to eat. 
 
 Then Mrs Etherington took her off to the drawing- 
 room to face a terrible half-hour before the colonel 
 and his three sons should come to join them. 
 
 " I see you have got an engagement ring," said Mrs 
 Etherington, very pleasantly, as they stood near the 
 open window. She took the girl's hand in hers and 
 examined the ring which adorned it — a large and 
 lustrous sapphire surrounded by diamonds. " It's 
 a very smart ring indeed," she said as she released the 
 hand. " You mustn't let Georgie be extravagant, you 
 know ; that's his weakness. Of course, if you're 
 going to have a long engagement, I won't preach at 
 you, but if, as I gather, you intend to have a very 
 short one, I must preach prudence and carefulness, 
 or you will find your seven hundred a year gone 
 before you can turn round." 
 
 " I don't know that we are going to have a very 
 long engagement," said Marty.
 
 A TRIAL TRIP in 
 
 " Ah ! For some things it's a pity ; for others, of 
 course, it's just as well. For my part, I should have 
 been tempted to — well — er — you must excuse me, my 
 dear, saying it ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, certainly." 
 
 " Well, I think it would have been wiser, more 
 politic, more prudent. You would have got into 
 Georgie's ways." 
 
 " Georgie thinks not," said Marty ; " Georgie thinks 
 that the sooner we are married, the quicker I shall 
 get into his ways." 
 
 " All men do ; no man likes waiting to be married ; 
 no man sees the prudence, or the force, or the advis- 
 ability^, or anything else but the nuisance of it, and 
 George is no different to all the other men in the 
 world. It is a nuisance, there is no doubt about that, 
 but you are so very young that I should have thought 
 it better to wait a little." 
 
 Mrs Etherington then turned the conversation into 
 other channels, inquired whether they had any idea as 
 to the kind of house they would have, whether they 
 had thought of locality as yet, and whether they 
 would have one servant or two. And then she asked 
 Marty if she wouldn't play something. " Or sing," 
 she added. " I am sure you sing, my dear." 
 
 " Oh, I sing a little," said Marty. " It isn't worth 
 your listening to." 
 
 " Nonsense ! I should like to know how much 
 worth it is. I can't tell unless I have an opportunity 
 of judging for myself. Georgie tells me that you 
 play and sing very well. Supposing you play to me 
 first." 
 
 So Marty sat down at the grand piano and began 
 to play. She played very nicely, but Mrs Ethering-
 
 ii2 MARTY 
 
 ton heard in five minutes that it was no more than 
 the ordinary schoolgirl's kind of playing. 
 
 " If I were you, Marty," she said, " I wouldn't play 
 pieces like that. It sounds as if you brought them 
 from school with you." 
 
 " So I did," said Marty, with a laugh. 
 
 " Ah, I thought as much. Well, you must let me 
 pick you out a dozen or so pieces of music. Those 
 things you have been playing you have to play so 
 extremely well to make any effect with them. I 
 wonder," she went on, " if I was to start keeping a 
 school, whether I should have a success." Marty 
 looked up astonished. " Yes, I know what you mean," 
 said Mrs Etherington. " Somehow schools always 
 seem to be kept by people with cut-and-dried ideas, 
 people who never think for themselves — very polite 
 and well-mannered, and all that sort of thing, but 
 with no development about them. I believe myself," 
 she went on, " that a school which would turn out 
 girls as they will be a year after they have been in 
 society would be a perfect boon to nineteen mothers 
 out of twenty."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 MARRIED 
 
 Early in September Marty and George Etherington 
 were married. The wedding would not perhaps have 
 been quite so early had it not been for the fact that 
 from the end of the first week in September, his 
 holidays of four weeks began. 
 
 It was a very quiet wedding — not a dozen guests in 
 all. There was a nicely-served little tea at the house 
 of the bride's mother, with a quite amazing wedding- 
 cake. Marty's two young sisters did the honours 
 and Colonel Etherington bestowed his attentions 
 exclusively upon Marty's mother. All things con- 
 sidered, it must be confessed that Mrs Etherington 
 behaved beautifully. 
 
 " Good-bye, my dear boy," she said, when he came 
 at the last moment to bid her farewell, " good-bye, my 
 dear eldest child. I have done the best I could for 
 you ; I hope God will bless you in the choice you 
 have made — I can't say any more, Georgie." 
 
 It was so unlike his mother to make a speech of 
 that kind, that he felt, with a sense of shame almost, a 
 curious feeling that she had become infected by Mrs 
 Benyon's homely way of expressing herself. He put 
 his arm round her, and drew her closely to him. 
 " You have been the best and dearest of mothers to 
 me," he said. "And you have been better and dearer 
 H 113
 
 1 1 4 MARTY 
 
 and kinder and sweeter these last few weeks than I 
 have ever known you. I think you will find my 
 little girl not ungrateful. Whether she is or not, 
 darling mother, I shall always remain exactly the 
 same to you." 
 
 " My son is my son — " began Mrs Etherington, but 
 George cut her short without any ceremony. 
 
 " Well, you know, mother, dear, I always thought 
 that arrant rot ! " he declared. 
 
 And then Mrs Etherington, feeling that some 
 breath of his ordinary self had come to blow away the 
 cobwebs of unusual emotion which had woven them- 
 selves about her, gave a laugh which had something 
 like tears in it, and a sigh which was almost big 
 enough to choke her. " There, there ! " she said, " we 
 won't indulge in forebodings, or anything horrible. 
 I hope you will have a lovely time on the French 
 coast. My dear, you'll not forget that you have a 
 mother at home — I mean in England — who will be 
 glad to know how you are going on." Then she put 
 up her two hands and drew his head down to her own 
 level, kissing him very kindly and tenderly. 
 
 " Come, come ! " said a voice at the door, " you 
 have no time ! You'll lose your train ! " 
 
 At this moment Marty came flying out of the 
 drawing-room and stopped to bid her mother-in-law 
 good-bye. " Good-bye, Mrs Etherington," she said. 
 " I can't thank you enough for all your kindness to 
 me. I'll make it up to Georgie." 
 
 Then there was a last hug to her mother and 
 another warning from the best man, and Marty went 
 out of her old home Marty Benyon no longer, but Mrs 
 George Etherington. 
 
 It is surprising how quickly, when the bride and
 
 MARRIED 115 
 
 groom have gone, guests at a wedding betake them- 
 selves out of the house. One hears dozens of little 
 remarks at divers weddings bearing upon this subject : 
 
 " There, it's all over but a shout I " says one. 
 
 " Now they've gone we can clear out," mutters 
 another. 
 
 " You must want to be quiet after the excitement, 
 dear Mrs So-and-So," purrs a third. 
 
 " So glad everything went off nicely. Now you'll 
 be able to rest," murmurs a fourth. 
 
 As a rule, it would be more kindly if wedding 
 guests remained a little longer. In some cases it 
 would break the parting, and take away the first 
 feeling of desolation which overspreads a family 
 when it remembers that one of its circle has left it, 
 never to come back in quite the same way again. 
 
 When the carriage had driven away, Mrs Ethering- 
 ton drew what the French would call her petit vetement 
 up about her shoulders. " Well, Geoffrey," she said, 
 " we may as well be going home." If she had been a 
 generation younger she would have put it rather 
 differently. She would have said, " We may as well 
 clear out of this ! " As it was, she expressed her 
 wishes in the more polite form. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Colonel Etherington, tugging at 
 his grey moustache, "yes, yes, dearest, we'll be 
 toddling quietly home." 
 
 So they went into the drawing-room together. 
 
 " I am very glad that everything has gone off so 
 satisfactorily. I am sure you must be, too," said 
 George's mother to her hostess. " I am so glad, too, 
 Mrs Benyon, that you did not think it necessary to 
 weep. I do so loathe mothers who weep when their 
 daughters marry somebody that they are thoroughly
 
 u6 MARTY 
 
 in love with, and whom it would break their hearts 
 to lose. The very last wedding we were at I can only 
 describe as damp. The bride cried, and the bride's 
 mother cried, and her sisters and several aunts ! I 
 assure you the bridegroom's mother looked most 
 indignant. I sympathised with her." 
 
 Mrs Benyon smiled. It was a smile that was 
 characteristic of the woman herself, not a sudden 
 illumining of her face, but a slow, sweet expression 
 which gradually took possession of her countenance. 
 " It isn't our way to indulge much in tears, Mrs 
 Etherington," she said simply. " I haven't seen my 
 girl cry a dozen times in her life. Sometimes I think 
 it must be a relief — undoubtedly, under certain 
 circumstances; at a wedding I consider tears 
 criminal." 
 
 " Well, good-bye, my dear Mrs Benyon. I hope 
 you won't feel too done up later on." 
 
 Mrs Etherington got into her victoria, which was 
 waiting at the door, and as the carriage turned away, 
 she looked up at the house out of which she had just 
 come. " There lies the grave of all my ambitions," 
 she said. 
 
 " Come, come ! don't say that," said the colonel. 
 
 ' : I may as well say it as think it, Geoffrey," she 
 said, heaving a big sigh. " All things considered, I 
 think I may natter myself that I have behaved well 
 to-day." 
 
 "Dearest," he said, " you have behaved nobly ! " 
 
 " I'm glad you think so. I felt it all the time. 
 All the time I kept saying to myself — ' Madge Ether- 
 ington, you're a brick ! Madge Etherington, you are 
 behaving splendidly ! You are superb ! ' You think 
 I didn't show anything that I really felt ? "
 
 MARRIED 117 
 
 "I'm sure you didn't. Anybody might have 
 flattered themselves into believing that you were 
 delighted with the marriage." 
 
 " Ah ! And tell me, Geoffrey, what did you think 
 of her ? " 
 
 " Of the girl ? I had seen her before." 
 
 " No, not the girl ; the girl's mother." 
 
 " Well, what I think of the girl's mother doesn't 
 much matter, my dear. She won't enter into our 
 calculations. She has a very proper idea of keeping 
 herself to herself. She won't bother us much, nor 
 will she, unless I'm very much mistaken, trouble the 
 young people. She made a very sensible remark to 
 me when I was talking to her just now." 
 
 " Yes ? " 
 
 " She said, ' I don't know what people in the 
 world do. I've never troubled myself about other 
 people's likes and dislikes ; I have my own views, 
 and I keep to them ; I do what I think is right or 
 wrong, as the case may be ; other people's ideas don't 
 trouble me.' " 
 
 " Go on," said Mrs Etherington. 
 
 " She said, ' I have told George and Marty exactly 
 what they have got to expect from me. I am here 
 in my house, where I have alwaj^s been, and I shall 
 be here when they want me, and glad to see them, 
 but to be running in and out of their place like a dog 
 in a fair, is what 1 don't hold with. I think young 
 people are best left alone. If they get on well, they 
 don't want others ; if they don't get on well, they'd 
 best fight it out by themselves, but a girl's home is a 
 girl's home, not until she gets married, but to the end 
 of her life — or, at least, as long as the home is kept 
 going.' I told her," the old colonel went on, "I told
 
 n8 MARTY 
 
 her that was very much your own idea, that you had 
 taken very much that line with our daughter. And 
 that reminds me, Madge, I don't think Effie has 
 behaved well in this business — no sign, no present, no 
 acknowledgment of the event at all. It doesn't come 
 well from one who married to please herself. You 
 can tell Effie, when you happen to be speaking of the 
 subject, that I consider a slight to my eldest son is a 
 slight to her family." 
 
 " You won't quarrel about it, Geoffrey ? " 
 
 " I have never quarrelled with my children. I 
 never mean to," said the colonel ; " at the same time 
 I won't pretend that I don't feel a slight when I get 
 it. In this instance I feel it very deeply. I have 
 always been everything to my children, done every- 
 thing for them, sacrificed everything for them, just 
 as you have done yourself. I consider that George 
 had the same right to marry the girl of his choice 
 that Effie had to marry the man of hers." 
 
 " There is a difference, dear." 
 
 " I don't know that I particularly see it," said the 
 colonel. " But then, as you must know perfectly 
 well, Dick Piers is the kind of young fellow that 
 doesn't appeal to me." 
 
 " I have almost always found," said Mrs Ethering- 
 ton, rather severely, " that, where a girl is concerned, 
 qualities which have nothing to do with her class, are 
 those which most often appeal to a man. I have seen 
 it over and over again — a glint in the eye, a turn of 
 the chin, a toss of the head, a lilt in the voice, and 
 your man is done for." 
 
 "I grant you, oh, I grant you that. You are 
 perfectly right, my dear, you are perfectly right. 
 But then you know, dearest, you always are right. I
 
 MARRIED 119 
 
 might spare myself the trouble of telling you so 
 often." 
 
 And then they drew up at their own door, and Mrs 
 Etherington, with an indulgent smile, got out of the 
 carriage. 
 
 So the great day came to an end at last. Each 
 mother was feeling a certain amount of bereavement, 
 but George and Marty, who were well on their way to 
 Dover, felt only a delightful sense that they were 
 together for always. It was essentially a case 
 where one man's loss was another man's gain. 
 Marriages are often so. 
 
 What a time they had, those two ; not frequenting 
 the gay watering-places very much, but moving as 
 the spirit took them from one to another, until they 
 had traversed the French coast from Calais to The 
 Havre. It was a most welcome surprise to George 
 that Marty showed not the smallest desire to mix 
 with the gay crowds of holiday-makers. The very 
 first night that they found themselves on French 
 soil, she had drawn him aside from a group of people 
 staying in the same hotel. 
 
 " Don't mis up with all those people, darling," she 
 said. " When we get back to London there will be 
 such a slice out of every day when we sha'n't even see 
 each other. We shall have to know all sorts of 
 people there ; while we are over here, let's keep 
 ourselves to ourselves and be everything to each 
 other." 
 
 They stayed three days in this place. Then George 
 suggested to her that they might as well make a move 
 onwards. The girl was nothing loth ; so long as she 
 was with him, she did not care what particular town 
 or village they might quarter themselves in.
 
 120 MARTY 
 
 " I think it wouldn't be a bad idea to go on if we're 
 going to do the coast right down as far as The Havre," 
 she said. 
 
 "Then," said George, "I'll just stop at the office, 
 find out about the trains, and tell them to let us have 
 our bill." 
 
 He was occupied some little time, because the place 
 they were anxious to go to was difficult of access, and 
 he found that it would be necessary to take a carriage 
 for part of the road. Marty, meantime, strolled to the 
 door and stood looking out over the wide water, 
 which lay glinting under an early autumn sun like 
 one vast jewel in a bed of sapphire velvet. 
 
 " Who is he ? " she heard a voice say just round the 
 doorway. 
 
 " Etherington, his name is. He's in the Colonial 
 Office." 
 
 " And just married, you say ? " 
 
 " Yes, just married." 
 
 " You don't say so ! Then the girl is his wife ? " 
 
 " Yes, of course." 
 
 " Are you sure ? " 
 
 " Oh, quite sure. I saw their wedding in the paper 
 the other day." 
 
 " That's a pity," said the first speaker, deliberately. 
 
 " Why ? " inquired the other. 
 
 " Because," replied the first speaker, " he's a swagger 
 young chap enough, but there's something a bit 
 common about her."
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 A LITTLE TALK 
 
 It was nearly half an hour later when George Ether- 
 ington, having concluded his arrangements for the 
 continuing of their journey, left the glass-covered box 
 in which the mistress of the house sat, and slowly 
 mounted the stairs to their bedroom on the first floor. 
 As he turned the handle of the door unwonted sounds 
 fell on his ears — Marty was crying ! 
 
 He had gone upstairs in a peculiarly easy frame of 
 mind and body ; he was perfectly happy, and at peace 
 with himself and the entire world. The thought of 
 his sister — the one blot upon his new life — did not 
 trouble him. He had had an excellent lunch ; his 
 monetary affairs were in perfect order, and he felt at 
 peace with himself and all mankind ; but when, as he 
 opened the door, a realisation of the new state of 
 things came upon him, his happy sensation of general 
 ease at once took wings and flew away. 
 
 He stepped quickly into the room, closing the door 
 softly behind him. Marty was lying on the bed, her 
 face smothered in a pillow. She was sobbing and 
 shaking as if her very heart would break. 
 
 " Good God ! " ejaculated George. " What on earth 
 has happened ? Marty, my darling, what is it ? You 
 haven't bad news from home ? You can't have had — 
 I've never left the hall. Tell me ! " 
 
 121
 
 122 MARTY 
 
 But it was no use bidding the girl tell him, she was 
 quite beyond telling him or anybody else anything, 
 and she sobbed convulsively on until the young man 
 was almost beside himself. He tried every means 
 that he could think of to make some impression upon 
 her ; he might as well have talked to the walls, or the 
 floor, or the bed on which she was lying. She just 
 sobbed on, taking no notice of his coaxings, scoldings, 
 threats, entreaties, all of which he tried in turn. At 
 last, for nobody can go on weeping for ever, her tears 
 exhausted themselves, her sobs died away, and she 
 became calm. 
 
 Then, after a little time, she roused herself from 
 her lowly position and spoke to him. " Is that you, 
 George ? " she said. " I wish you hadn't come. I 
 should have got over it just as well by myself." 
 
 " Over what ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh. nothing, nothing ; it's nothing at all. I — I — 
 don't feel very well." 
 
 " You don't feel well ? Why, I shouldn't think you 
 did ! If I were to cry like that I should be laid up 
 for a month. Do you often do it ? " He was sitting 
 on the bed opposite her, holding her fast so that there 
 was no possible escape. She rested her head against 
 his shoulder, and closed her eyes. " Tell me," he said, 
 " do you often indulge in this sort of thing ? " 
 
 " No ; you know I don't. I never did it in my life 
 before ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " What made you do it now ? " 
 
 "Oh, don't ask me! Don't talk about it! It was 
 nothing. I am a fool ! " 
 
 " A fool, are you ? H'm, I didn't know. It's a bit 
 of new information. You have managed to hide it 
 uncommonly well all this time. You know if you
 
 A LITTLE TALK 123 
 
 didn't enlighten me, I might have gone on to the end 
 without finding it out." 
 
 " Oh, George, don't be silly !" Marty exclaimed. 
 
 " Silly ? Well, if you are a fool, I must try and 
 bring myself down to your level and make myself a 
 match for you," he retorted. 
 
 "You'll never make yourself a match for me. I 
 shall never be a match for you. I wish I hadn't 
 married you. 1 wish I hadn't sacrificed you ! " 
 
 " Eh ? What ? You wish you hadn't married me ! 
 You don't mean that ? " 
 
 " Mean it ? Oh, don't I mean it ! Every word of 
 it, Georgie, every word of it. And you'll come to see 
 it, too, in the end." 
 
 " Now what on earth, I'd like to know, has put this 
 rot into your head ? Half an hour ago, when I went 
 to ask for the bill and arrange for getting to the other 
 place, you were as gay as a bird ; you had never had 
 such an idea as this in your mind. Who's been saying 
 anything to you ? " 
 
 " Nobody." 
 
 " You are sure ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, quite sure. I haven't spoken to a 
 soul." 
 
 " Had any letters ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then what's the meaning of it ? Look here, I am 
 your husband, I'm not going to have things happen 
 in your life that you don't share with me ; I won't 
 stand it for a minute. What's happened ? " 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " That won't wash. Something happened after I 
 left you. What was it ? " 
 
 " Nothing."
 
 124 MARTY 
 
 "Somebody must have spoken to you. You saw 
 somebody you knew ? " 
 
 " I didn't. I didn't see anybody. I — I — I came up 
 here and I got thinking." 
 
 " No, that won't do ; it won't wash. It's no use 
 trying it on, Marty ; you had better make a clean 
 breast of it and tell me the truth, because I'm going 
 to know." 
 
 " Have you made up your mind to that ? " 
 
 "I have. I've got very definite ideas about hus- 
 bands and wives leading one life; I've begun as I 
 mean to go on. I tell you everything — everything 
 that comes into my thoughts. I expect you to do 
 the same by me." 
 
 "I'll tell you when we get to Tourbeville," said 
 Marty, at last, finding herself driven into a corner. 
 
 " You are sure ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I'll tell you. It was very stupid of me." 
 
 " Why can't you tell me now ? " 
 
 "Because I don't choose to. I'll tell you as soon 
 as we get to Tourbeville, I promise you." 
 
 " Somebody spoke to you, Marty," he insisted. 
 
 " Not a soul, not even the chambermaid. You are 
 quite mistaken. I was a fool to cry — I acknowledge 
 it. You seem to think it was funny." 
 
 " There's nothing funny in being a fool, not if you 
 really are one ; but there's something very funny in 
 the idea of your being a fool, you, with the sharpest 
 wits of anybody I ever knew in my life ! However, 
 you'll tell me ? " 
 
 " Oh, I'll tell you. I'm sorry I made a spectacle of 
 myself. I suppose I look horrid." 
 
 She looked at him so piteously that all his stern- 
 ness melted, and a great flood of tenderness took its
 
 A LITTLE TALK 125 
 
 place. " My dear, precious little love," he said, " you 
 don't think that I would bully you for bullying's 
 sake ? It was only when I found you positively 
 convulsed with grief, and I couldn't get you to 
 speak, that I got savage — not against you, my 
 precious girl, not against you." 
 
 It was just five o'clock when they started on their 
 three hours' drive to Tourbeville. It was a lovely 
 drive, most of the time within sight of the sea ; and 
 Marty was as gay as a bird. All tell-tale stains had 
 disappeared from her face ; nobody would have 
 believed that she had ever cried in her life. 
 
 It was not until they had discussed an excellent 
 dinner, and had taken a little stroll on a diminutive 
 promenade in the cool of the evening, that George 
 Etherington made any attempt to find out the cause 
 of Marty's tears during the afternoon. 
 
 " I would rather you would let me off telling you," 
 she said. 
 
 " I won't do that." 
 
 " Because it was only my own foolishness, you 
 know. I needn't have made such a fuss, I needn't 
 have cried at all. I — I — " 
 
 " Well, you had better tell me what happened, and 
 then I'll give you my opinion as to whether you were 
 foolish or not." 
 
 She saw that there was no getting out of it, that 
 he was determined to know, and so, with many 
 blushes and stammerings, she told him all the con- 
 versation that she had overheard. 
 
 George Etherington's face grew as dark as night. 
 " Who were they ? " he asked. 
 
 " I haven't the least idea." 
 
 " You didn't look to see ? "
 
 126 MARTY 
 
 "No, I didn't. I was glad to get away into my 
 bedroom and hide myself." 
 
 " But why ? You had a right to know." 
 
 " Yes, I daresay I had. All the same — " 
 
 "All the same, my dear child, you were very 
 foolish. People who don't know us have a right 
 to hold what opinion they like ; it isn't kind, it isn't 
 well-bred to express it; and I don't suppose that 
 these people knew that you were within earshot. 
 Why should they want to hurt or offend you ? 
 Everybody can't look at everybody else with the 
 same eyes — the world couldn't go on if they did. 
 It was foolish ; it was more foolish than I thought." 
 
 " I don't think," said Marty, in a low voice, " that it 
 was so foolish, because, you see, George, I knew it 
 was true." 
 
 In vain did he argue, expostulate, scold, coax and 
 threaten by turns ; over and over again she came 
 back to her original statement — " But it was true. 
 I knew it was true. It might be unkind, but it 
 wasn't a lie — it was true ! " until the young husband 
 was almost beside himself. 
 
 " I quite thought that was a bride and groom who 
 arrived a day or two ago from Calais," said one 
 visitor in the little hall to another. 
 
 " Oh, yes, unmistakably, bride and groom. Her 
 wedding ring is quite new." 
 
 " Well, they were quarrelling fearfully last night. 
 I heard them." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " 
 
 " Oh, they were. They were arguing for hours 
 about something ! " 
 
 " They seem the best of friends this morning," said 
 the other.
 
 A LITTLE TALK 127 
 
 " Do they ? Oh, you see, young people fall out and 
 make it up again so easily. They are not like us. 
 Oh, here they come ! " 
 
 Certainly the two ladies might be forgiven for 
 taking an interest in the young couple ; George, 
 tall and well set up, with clever, clean-shaven face, 
 and his cool, tweed clothes; Marty, in the plainest 
 frock that her wardrobe contained, a dark blue 
 serge, very simply made, with a hat of rough, loose 
 straw trimmed with cornflowers and a bunch of 
 poppies. They were laughing and talking gaily 
 together; and as they came opposite to the two 
 ladies, Marty stopped to caress a great Persian 
 tabby cat which had walked majestically out of 
 the house. " Oh, Georgie ! " she cried, " what a 
 lovely cat ! Oh, you darling ! " She lifted him up 
 and held him for George to see. " See, what a 
 chest ! What amber eyes ! What great broad 
 pats ! Oh, isn't he lovely ? I think you must 
 buy me a cat when we get home. It would be 
 easier to manage in a flat than a dog." 
 
 Then they strolled on again, leaving the two ladies 
 looking after them. 
 
 " So they live in a flat," said one to the other. 
 
 " They sounded all right, didn't they ? " 
 
 " Yes, they did indeed." 
 
 Something made Marty look back. " George," she 
 said suddenly, " is it common to take an interest in 
 cats ? " 
 
 " Good gracious no, child ! What are you talking 
 about ? " 
 
 " I don't know. They stared at us so. They stare 
 at me every time I come near them." 
 
 " Who ? "
 
 128 MARTY 
 
 " Those two old ladies." 
 
 " Let them stare." 
 
 " I'm sure my frock," said Marty, looking down at 
 it, " is simple enough, isn't it ? — a little blue serge that 
 anybody might wear — and they stare at me as if — as 
 if I was an idiot or something." 
 
 " Nonsense ! You are getting morbid on the 
 subject, iny dear child," he said, drawing her into an 
 arbour where they were well out of sight of all eyes, 
 and holding her so that he could look straight down 
 into her troubled face, "my dear child, if there's a 
 common thing in the world it's worrying about the 
 opinion of others. Do you know the reason why I 
 fell in love with you ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Because you struck me as a girl who lived her 
 life in her own way, who did not trouble about the 
 opinions of others, who did a thing because she 
 thought it right, who would love me because she 
 chose to, hate me because she wasn't going to love 
 me. You struck me as having an original mind ; 
 that was what first fetched me in you. Marty," he 
 said, " if that first night when we met at that blessed 
 ball you had worried about your dress, troubled 
 about your manners, or fidgeted about other people's 
 opinions, I should never have come to Rosediarnond 
 Road, and you would not be here at this minute."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 SOMETHING ON HER MIND 
 
 I AM bound to say that Marty, once set on the watch 
 for expressions of opinion anent her own personal 
 shortcomings, found plenty of food for reflection. 
 They made no friends, for they moved on every two 
 or three days, but everywhere Marty ran the gauntlet, 
 as it were, of social approval or disapproval, which- 
 ever way you like to put it. They say if you look 
 for trouble you are sure to find it, and Marty, with 
 every day that went over her head, saw some small 
 signs of disapproval in those among whom she was 
 thrown. It was only natural that she should. These 
 things are merely a matter of temperament, and 
 frequently of a temperament that is more or less 
 fleeting. Take your own self, sir or madam. 
 You set out from your house to go to some social 
 function, some gathering of your friends, and every- 
 thing has been smooth and easy for you during the 
 whole day. You have eaten well, you are conscious 
 of having worked well, or done a good turn to some- 
 body, or having improved your mind, or of good in 
 some shape or form ; your gown is perhaps a new 
 one, and it fits, and is comfortable ; your ornaments 
 are handsome, or the gift of dear friends ; your body 
 is healthy and your mind at ease; do you not find 
 under such circumstances that the party is an un- 
 I 129
 
 130 MARTY 
 
 usually pleasant one ? Does not everybody seem to 
 be full and flowing: over with the milk of human 
 kindness ? Of course they do. 
 
 But take the other side of the picture. You have 
 had perhaps a month's invitation to a party at a 
 great London hotel ; you perhaps have not very long 
 been back from your holiday, you are scarcely, as 
 yet, into the ways of the world again, so much so that 
 your toilet is something of a bore ; you almost wish 
 that you hadn't accepted the invitation. However, with 
 what might be called a scramble, and a sense of having 
 done your duty by your neighbour, you betake your- 
 self to the scene of festivity. Possibly it is a very 
 good party, and you meet very nice people, and, after 
 all, you are able to enjoy yourself; but, on the 
 other hand, it is possible that when you arrive you 
 find no hostess to receive you, although the time is an 
 hour after that for which you were bidden. A few 
 people are straggled about the room, nobody feels 
 quite at home, everybody is to a certain extent sore 
 and indignant that a great dinner has been given to 
 which each individually feels they had a right to be 
 asked ; some would not have attended the party had 
 they known it was a reception after a banquet, 
 others do not feel this ; but the party is dull, the men 
 — being men of business habits — sit for an hour and 
 a half after the ladies have risen ; the music is 
 deafening and oft recurrent, and the Cape of Good 
 Hope which lies far ahead takes the form of supper. 
 So far not so good. Having arrived in an unhinged 
 frame of mind, you may find, fair reader — or noble 
 reader, as the case may be — you may find the truth 
 of the old saying, " All is not gold that glitters " ; 
 you may feel that social life is a mistake, and that
 
 SOMETHING ON HER MIND 131 
 
 you yourself are a fool ; you may feel fifty hard 
 things, but all those fifty are as nothing when they 
 are topped by the last great fact — that there is no 
 supper ! True, on a small side table there are tea 
 and coffee, long gone cold, some plates with spots of 
 pink-and-white blancmange upon them, and a few 
 little cakes. There is not only no supper, but there 
 is not a drink to be had for love or money. Now, 
 gentle reader, under such circumstances as these, will 
 you take away with you an impression that every- 
 body loves you, that your host and hostess have 
 valued you, that you are an item of weight in 
 the social scale ? I think not. You will be ready 
 for any slight, you will be ready to believe any evil 
 rumour that comes your way. If somebody tells you 
 that your nearest and dearest friend had declared 
 the day before — only the day before — that you were 
 a poisoner and a forger, you do not dismiss the idea 
 as one too preposterous to entertain ; on the contrary, 
 you will scarcely be human if you do not see at least 
 fifty straws in the stream of your friendship, showing 
 you exactly the flow of the water. So you will 
 understand that this digression has something to do 
 with Marty, and you will be able to realise that 
 Marty, during that honeymoon pilgrimage, saw over 
 and over again marks of disapproval in those around 
 her ; indeed, poor child, she saw more marks of dis- 
 approval than of the opposite quality. 
 
 After her first outbreak of tears she never again 
 gave way before her husband ; in fact, after that one 
 piteous question — " Is it common to take an interest 
 in cats ? " she never again alluded to the subject, and 
 George Etherington, man like, believed that the in- 
 cident had passed out of her mind. Certainly if love
 
 i 3 2 MARTY 
 
 could have blotted out the small unpleasantness, 
 Marty would never have given the incident or its 
 cause another thought. But with some natures re- 
 pression usually means growth — undergrowth — and 
 the uncertainty of herself grew and grew until, un- 
 suspected, it attained to proportions that were simply 
 gigantic. 
 
 So their honeymoon pilgrimage came to an end, 
 and they went back to London. 
 
 It was then the middle of October. It was a 
 lovely clear autumn, fine and warm and altogether 
 delightful. According to an old promise, they put 
 up at Rosediamond Road during the time that they 
 were arranging their flat and getting it ready for 
 occupation. They had taken a domicile high up 
 above the street, near to Victoria, where it was 
 quiet and light and airy. It was not in Victoria 
 Street itself. Its rooms were large and comfortable, 
 its entry was smart and delightful, its price was very 
 reasonable considering its proximity to the Stores, 
 on which Marty had pinned her faith, and the 
 sole disadvantage seemed to be the many steps 
 which must be mounted ere the home was attained. 
 George called it "The Eyrie," and "The Watch 
 Tower," and other names of the kind, but it was 
 the kind of flat that would assuredly make a delight- 
 ful home. 
 
 For some reason unknown to George, Marty was 
 not very willing that he should seal the fate of the 
 bargain. " Don't sign it to-day — don't make up 
 your mind quite, Georgie," she said hesitatingly, 
 when they had been home nearly a week. 
 
 " But if we don't we may lose it. Remember we 
 are not the only people who want to take a flat.
 
 SOMETHING ON HER MIND 133 
 
 We shall get nothing cheaper or more com- 
 modious." 
 
 " I wasn't thinking of the cheapness, or the com- 
 modiousness," said Marty. " I — I — wish you 
 wouldn't take it to-day." 
 
 " I'm very sorry. I promised to go in after lunch 
 and speak to the people about it." 
 
 " Wait till to-morrow," said Marty ; " wait until to- 
 morrow. I have a particular reason for it." 
 
 She had her way, as a matter of course, and 
 presently George went off to his office with the air 
 of quite an old married man. Marty spent the 
 morning in her bedroom arranging her belongings 
 with great care. That day she was to lunch with 
 her mother-in-law. She dressed herself carefully in 
 her simplest frock, the unoffending blue serge in which 
 she felt her character and disposition were safest. 
 She just looked in on her mother, who was having 
 lunch, as she passed. 
 
 " My dear, you have got a plain little gown on," said 
 Mrs Benyon. " Won't Mrs Etherington be a little 
 offended at your wearing such a very ordinary 
 frock ? " 
 
 " I don't think so, mother, dear," said Marty. " But 
 I'm late, darling. I just looked in to say good-bye." 
 
 She kissed her lightly and went away without 
 another word. She had no longer any sensation of 
 nervousness in going to the house of George's people, 
 but as she drew near the door, two young ladies came 
 out, passing her on the doorstep. From the quick, 
 comprehensive glance that they bestowed upon her, 
 she guessed that they were friends of Mrs Piers. A 
 curious feeling of pride took possession of her, a 
 something which said within her that either of these
 
 134 MARTY 
 
 damsels would have loved to be in her present shoes. 
 She was not, as a matter of fact, very far wrong in 
 her estimate, for although they would not have owned 
 it to each other, or even to themselves, the two girls 
 were sisters who would either of them have cheer- 
 fully consented to become Mrs Etherington's daughter- 
 in-law. 
 
 The neat parlour-maid showed Marty at once into 
 the drawing-room. " Ah, my dear," said Mrs Ether- 
 ington, "you are punctual, you are to the very 
 minute ! How are you ? " 
 
 She took Marty's almost unwilling hand, and 
 kissed her just as nicely as any mother-in-law could 
 be expected to do. " Have you taken your flat yet ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " No, not yet, Mrs Etheriugton." 
 
 " I thought you were so pleased with it ? " 
 
 " Yes, we were. George was very pleased with 
 it!" 
 
 " And don't you like it ? " 
 
 " Yes, I like it too. It's a charming flat. George 
 thinks it is a bargain." 
 
 " My dear, there's no doubt about it. To get a 
 flat in that situation — even if it is rather high up — 
 with commodious rooms and an uninterrupted view 
 at the back, for that price, is absolutely absurd. You 
 tell George to go and get it fixed up, or somebody will 
 come along and offer ten pounds a year more rent, and 
 then where will you be ? " 
 
 " And then," said Marty, dreamily, " then where 
 shall I be ? " She roused herself with an effort, perhaps 
 called back to a realisation of every-day life by the 
 astonished look on her mother-in-law's face. " I think 
 Georgie is going to take it to-morrow," she said,
 
 SOMETHING ON HER MIND 135 
 
 speaking in a brisker tone. " I — I don't think there's 
 any fear of our losing it, because it's been empty for 
 six months." 
 
 " Oh ! Did you find out why the last people left ? " 
 " Yes. They wanted a larger flat, and it was 
 necessary to do something to the drainage ; and 
 they've put in the electric light, too." 
 
 " Electric light as well as all the other advantages ! " 
 cried Mrs Etherington. 
 
 " Yes, there's electric light, and all the walls have 
 been stripped of their paper, and the paint has been 
 done over in a kind of dun colour, so that the new 
 tenants can have what decorations they like. But 
 somehow I — I don't think there's any hurry. Any- 
 way, George was going to-morrow to see about it. 
 It doesn't do to look too eager, you know." 
 
 " What a wise little head it is ! " said Mrs Etherington, 
 indulgently. " Now come in to lunch, my dear. Oh, 
 yes, the colonel's at home ; he very often does go 
 out and lunch at his club, but he stayed at home 
 especially for you." 
 
 A couple of hours later Marty bade the Etheringtons 
 adieu. 
 
 " She's a dear little girl," said the colonel. " I don't 
 wonder the boy is so taken up with her as he is." 
 
 " Yes, she is," said his wife, absently. " She gives 
 me the idea of having something on her mind." 
 " How do you mean on her mind ? " 
 " I don't know. When she first came here she was 
 quite different to what she is now. She's not herself 
 to-day — she's brooding over something."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 GONE ! 
 
 It was nearly seven o'clock when George Etherington 
 arrived at Rosediamond Road that evening. There 
 are times, you know, when men in Government 
 offices do a certain amount of work, and have to 
 keep hours that are almost long enough to strike over. 
 Having been away up so long, George Etherington 
 found himself expected to take share in setting free 
 those who had been kept in durance by his long 
 holiday. Not that he grumbled ; he took it as a 
 matter of course, for George was a good-natured 
 young man, and never grudged giving what he called 
 his " whack " to the office or to the service of his 
 fellows. 
 
 He turned into the little drawing-room. " Hullo, 
 Mater," he said, " where's Marty ? " 
 
 Mrs Benyon, who was reading a paper by the 
 window, looked . up. " Marty ? Didn't she come to 
 meet you ? Oh, I quite thought she did. She went 
 out ; she went to lunch with your mother, you know." 
 
 " Ah, then I'll go round and fetch her." 
 
 " No, no. She came in about a little after three, 
 and she stayed upstairs, and then she had a cup of 
 tea with me and she went out. I thought she was 
 gone to meet you." 
 
 " No, she didn't come to meet me. However, I 
 
 136
 
 GONE! 137 
 
 daresay she'll be in in a few minutes. Perhaps she's 
 gone to see that Amabel." 
 
 " Ah," said Mrs Benyon, " very likely she has. You 
 know, my dear boy, when girls get married they love 
 to go round and talk things over with their dearest 
 friends, and Amabel has always been Marty's dearest 
 friend." 
 
 " Oh, she's a nice girl," said George, " she's a nice 
 girl ; I don't grudge it. If she hadn't been, I don't 
 think Marty would have cared about her." 
 
 He stayed for ten minutes or so talking to his 
 mother-in-law, then he said he was going to change 
 his coat, and with that he left the room, and Mrs 
 Benyon went on with her reading. 
 
 The hands of the clock went slowly round until 
 the half -hour chimed with two tiny strokes. Then 
 Sarah came and asked if they should wait for 
 Mrs Etherington. 
 
 " Isn't Mrs Etherington in ? " asked Mrs Benyon. 
 
 " No, ma'am." 
 
 " Are you sure ? " 
 
 " I am quite sure, ma'am. She had her key, you 
 know. I'll go up to her room and make sure," said 
 Sarah ; " but I've been looking out for her." 
 
 She turned and went up the stairs. Half-way up 
 she met George Etherington. " Is Mrs Etherington 
 in, sir ? " she asked. 
 
 " No, I haven't seen her." 
 
 " I thought not. Mistress would have me come up 
 and see if she was in your bedroom ; but I knew she 
 wasn't there, for I hadn't seen her go up," said Sarah, 
 and turned herself and went down again. " Mrs 
 Etherington isn't in, ma'am," she announced at the 
 drawing-room door.
 
 138 MARTY 
 
 " Well, you had better wait a few minutes, Sarah. 
 George, do you think Marty is still at Amabel's ? " 
 
 " I'll go round and see," said he, and as soon as the 
 words were spoken he turned, and, taking his hat, 
 went out of the house. 
 
 I have said that Amabel Leigh lived in the next 
 street, so that it did not take George Etherington 
 very long to reach her door. The servant told him 
 that Mrs Etherington was not there ; indeed, that 
 she had not been there that day. 
 
 Amabel heard his voice and came out. " What's 
 the matter ? " she asked. 
 
 "We can't find Marty," he said. "I think she's 
 eloped." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! She was going to lunch with your 
 mother." 
 
 " I know she was ; but she went home after that, 
 and she's gone, she's cleared ! I tell you it's a 
 regular tragedy in high life ! Oh, you may laugh, 
 but I don't know where to look for her." 
 
 The girl laughed aloud. " Well, that is funny," 
 she said. " It only shows, Mr Etherington, that none 
 of us ought to be too cocky. Depend upon it, 
 Marty's given you the slip and gone off with another 
 charmer ! " 
 
 "Ah, that's it! Depend upon it you are right. 
 Well, I'm sorry to have troubled you to-night." 
 
 He still felt no uneasiness. He went round to his 
 own house just in time to see his father and mother 
 getting into a cab. 
 
 " Hullo ! Off out to dinner ? " he asked, 
 
 " Yes, dear," Mrs Etherington replied. 
 
 " Hope you'll enjoy yourselves." 
 
 Some instinct made him say nothing about Marty,
 
 GONE! 139 
 
 but ere the servant closed the door he turned and 
 said, " Is anyone at home, Harcourt ? " 
 " No, sir, everyone out." 
 " Ah, that's all right. Thanks." 
 Then he went back to Rosediamond Road. "Mater," 
 he said, " I've been to the Leighs and I've been home. 
 She's not there." 
 
 " I can't make it out," said Mrs Etherington. 
 " I can't make it out either. Do you think she's 
 gone up to meet me and got hurt ? " 
 
 " I don't know. What had we better do ? If she 
 had been hurt she would have been sent home." 
 
 " She might be unconscious. So far as I know 
 she had nothing about her to tell who she was or 
 where she came from. I only ordered her cards 
 to-day." 
 
 For a moment Mrs Benyon stood stock - still. 
 "George," she said at last, in a shaking voice, "I 
 want to say something, and I don't want to — to — 
 hurt your feelings or to offend you." 
 " Go on, Mater," he said. 
 " You — you won't — ? " 
 
 " No, I sha'n't. Now go on, please. Out with it." 
 "Was all right between you and Marty?" she 
 asked anxiously. 
 
 "Right? My God! yes; right as a trivet. It's 
 nothing to do with me, this ; it's nothing to do with 
 Marty. Something's happened to her. She's — she's 
 got trapped, or she's got hurt. The question is — what 
 are we going to do ? " 
 
 " The best thing we can do," said Mrs Benyon, " is 
 to go up to St George's Hospital and inquire there ; 
 failing that, go to the police-station, and failing that 
 —failing that, George— I don't know, I don't know '
 
 140 MARTY 
 
 Nothing of this kind ever came into my life before. 
 I've read of people who disappeared and never were 
 heard of again, but I never thought — I never knew 
 anybody that it really happened to. It's like read- 
 ing something out of a newspaper. I have often 
 thought that it must be too strange to have those 
 out-of-the-way things happen. It's come home to me 
 at last." 
 
 " Oh, don't say that ! It might happen to anybody 
 — to you, or to me, or to anybody else. We won't 
 give up hope. Come, Mater, don't give way. You 
 must have a stiff brandy-and-soda. I won't let you 
 give way and unnerve yourself. You may want all 
 the strength you have. May I tell Sarah to bring 
 up the dinner? And do try and choke something 
 down, because you got no lunch, I know, and if 
 anything's happened we shall want all the strength 
 we've got to meet it." 
 
 "Oh, my dear boy!" said Mrs Benyon, "oh, my 
 dear boy, you don't deserve this — you — " 
 
 " Now don't say that. You don't know that there's 
 anything to deserve or not to deserve. It may be 
 a mere accident." 
 
 By dint of judicious coaxings and threatenings and 
 suggestions of future need he persuaded Mrs Benyon 
 to make a sort of a meal ; for himself, he choked 
 down half a dozen mouthf uls, and then he went out 
 and whistled for a cab. In a few minutes Mrs 
 Benyon was ready, and together they drove up to the 
 hospital. 
 
 There was no news. No accident to a young lady 
 of good position had been received that day, nobody 
 was there in any way answering to Marty's descrip- 
 tion. Then they drove to several police - stations,
 
 GONE! 141 
 
 and to one or two more hospitals. They met with 
 no better success ; in short, they could find no trace 
 or news of Marty. 
 
 When the last hope was crushed, and they had 
 gone down the broad hospital steps into the street, 
 Mrs Benyon looked at her son-in-law with haggard 
 and wild eyes, saying, " What are we going to do, 
 George ? We can't go scouring this great city of 
 London saying, ' Have you seen a young lady ? 
 She's young, and she wears a wedding ring.' Oh, 
 George, what are we going to do ? I feel there's 
 something to be done, if we only knew how to 
 do it." 
 
 " Mater," he said, " we can't go about the streets 
 all night. We shall only wear ourselves out for 
 nothing. We had better go home and go to bed, 
 and to-morrow morning we had better start out 
 again and do as we've done to-night. I'll go to 
 a detective, one of those private fellows that will 
 trace out anything ; that's the best thing to do." 
 
 " I believe you are right. Then let us take a cab. 
 I'm so tired," she said. 
 
 " I'm sure you are, Mater. Come, here's a decent- 
 looking horse. Hi ! " 
 
 The cab drove up to the kerb, and George 
 Etherington assisted Marty's mother into it, gave the 
 address to the cabman, got in, and closed the door. 
 " There, that's better," he said, " isn't it ? " 
 
 "It is better," she replied. After a minute or so 
 she added, " You can smoke if you like." 
 
 " I don't want to smoke, thanks." 
 
 " I'm sure you are dying for a smoke." 
 
 "I feel as if I should never want to smoke a 
 cigarette again, Mater," he replied. " I want a brandy-
 
 142 MARTY 
 
 and-soda more than anything else, and so do you for 
 that matter." 
 
 It was a long drive, but they got home at last. Mrs 
 Benyon went heavily and dejectedly into the house. 
 Sarah, with a white and anxious face, was awaiting 
 her. 
 
 " Have you got any news, ma'am ? " she asked. 
 
 " Not a word, Sarah ; not a trace. It's as if she 
 had been swallowed up. I can't make it out. It 
 isn't like Miss Marty to do anything of this kind." 
 
 " No, indeed, ma'am. She so bright and happy, 
 and such an angelic disposition. Do you think, ma'am, 
 there's anything — anything wrong between them ? " 
 
 " No. I asked him the question straight. I put it 
 to him quite plainly, Sarah. He's heart-broken. He's 
 had no dinner, Sarah — not half a dozen mouthfuls. 
 He made me eat, but I saw it choked him. Get a 
 brandy-and-soda out, will you ? That's the best thing 
 that we can do for him." 
 
 "And for you, ma'am," said Sarah, indignantly, 
 "you want a cup of tea most of anything else. If 
 you have a dash of brandy in it, well, so much the 
 better. Whatever it is that's taken Miss Marty away 
 it isn't you, and I think it's you that wants looking to 
 more than Mr Etherington." 
 
 " Nobody could have looked after one more than he 
 did me. If he had been my son, Sarah, twenty times 
 over, he couldn't have been kinder and sweeter and 
 more considerate to me. I never was one to look after 
 myself, Sarah, but I should like a cup of tea." 
 
 " And you shall both have what you want, ma'am 
 You have looked after each other, andil'll look after 
 both of you." 
 
 She bustled away, returning presently with a tray
 
 GONE! 143 
 
 on which were both tea and brancly-and-soda. She 
 served the one to Mrs Benyon and poured out the 
 other for Marty's husband. And just then a post- 
 man's knock sounded on the door, and she went out 
 to fetch the letters. 
 
 " All but one for you, ma'am," she said, handing a 
 letter to George Etherington. 
 
 " Oh, my God ! " he exclaimed, as his eyes fell upon 
 the handwriting:. 
 
 " What is it ? " called out Mrs Benyon, sharply. 
 
 " It's a letter from Marty," he replied.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 marty's letter 
 
 " My dearest, darling George," — said Marty in the 
 letter, — " I asked you to-day not to sign the agreement 
 for the flat that we had decided on. My reason for 
 doing so is because I never intend to live in it. I 
 have not taken this step without serious thought, 
 Georgie. We have made a mistake, you and I, I 
 was not the wife for you, although nobody will ever 
 love you as I have done and do at this moment. If I 
 had seen before our wedding day what I so clearly see 
 now — that you have practically ruined yourself by 
 marrying a girl who is not your equal— I would have 
 broken off everything, because I loved you more than 
 myself. As it is, we have taken the foolish step, but 
 I am not going to let you suffer because of that. Very 
 few people know that you are married. You must go 
 home and forget that Marty was ever a part of your 
 life. You will feel bad for a little while, I know, but 
 after a time, when you get used to being without me, 
 you will realise as fully as I do what a huge mistake 
 we have made. You will look for me, I daresay, and 
 poor mother will do the same, but I don't think you 
 will ever find me ; and if you do, it will make no 
 difference. I shall not feel other than I do now. 
 Good-bye, my dear, dear, kind, loving Georgie. 
 Comfort poor mother as best you can. Tell her. 
 
 144
 
 MARTY'S LETTER 145 
 
 although I shall be far away, I will do nothing that 
 she would disapprove of, any more than I did when I 
 was with her. — Your heart-broken little clog, 
 
 " Marty." 
 
 George Etherington had begun by reading aloud, 
 but his voice failed him when he had read a few lines, 
 and when he had reached the end the paper fluttered 
 away and lay neglected on the floor. He turned away 
 and hid his face from his mother-in-law, resting: his 
 arms on the mantel-shelf. 
 
 " What is it ? What does it all mean ? " cried Mrs 
 Benyon in trembling tones. She possessed herself of 
 the letter, and, holding it under the light, read it from 
 beginning to end. " ' Your heart-broken little clog, 
 Marty.' What does she mean ? Had you ever told 
 her she was a clog upon you ? " 
 
 " I ! " he exclaimed, " I, Mater ? You must know 
 perfectly well that I absolutely worship the very 
 ground that she walks on. She's got an idea into her 
 head." 
 
 " But what ? " cried Mrs Benyon. 
 
 " Oh, something she heard somebody say when we 
 were at one of those damned French hotels." 
 
 " What did they say ? " 
 
 " I'm not going to tell you, Mater. It was bad 
 enough at the time. I told her there was nothing in 
 it ; I thought I had satisfied her, I thought she had 
 forgotten all about it. It seems she hadn't. People 
 don't realise when they say beastly, unkind, cruel, 
 unjust things, they don't realise how long they'll 
 stick in the minds of those who hear them, nor how 
 they may wreck the happiness of those who never 
 did them, or wished to do them, an ill turn." 
 
 K
 
 i 4 6 MARTY 
 
 Mrs Benyon was still reading poor Marty's letter. 
 She looked up with wild eyes. " George," she said, 
 " is that the exact truth ? " 
 
 " The exact truth, Mater ! " 
 
 " Why didn't you convince my poor little girl that 
 she was wrong ? If she was good enough for you, 
 good enough for your father and mother to accept, 
 what had outside people to do with it ? " 
 
 "I don't know. I didn't hear what was said. I 
 told Marty it was all rot. I thought that she was 
 satisfied and had forgotten all about it. Mater," he 
 went on, " I'd have cut my right hand off rather than 
 have let her go." And then his fortitude gave way, 
 and he hid his face in his hands, sobbing aloud. 
 
 For a moment Mrs Benyon stood appalled. She 
 had known George Etherington under sunny circum- 
 stances ; she had always seen him gay, debonnaire, a 
 little careless. To her he had always been as a gilded 
 youth ; and then to see him standing there, huddled 
 up against the chimney-shelf in an agony of grief — 
 oh, it was terrible ! She almost forgot her own 
 sorrow in the contemplation of his. 
 
 At last she moved a step nearer to him and put her 
 hand on his shoulder. " My dear boy," she said, " you 
 have nothing to reproach yourself with. Don't lose 
 control of yourself. To-morrow morning, as soon as 
 it is daylight — I mean as soon as the offices are open 
 — go off to one of those inquiry people who ferret out 
 everything about everybody. Put the matter into his 
 hands." 
 
 " Meantime," said he, " she has got such a start." 
 
 " Well, she has ; at the same time that is not quite 
 everything. I mean a few hours' start won't be an 
 insurmountable difficulty to them. I can't imagine
 
 MARTY'S LETTER 147 
 
 where the child has gone ; so far as I can tell, she has 
 taken nothing with her." 
 
 " Who saw her go ? " 
 
 " Oh, Sarah was the last who saw her. She said 
 she was just as usual. She wore her blue serge dress, 
 and the blue hat that went with it, and that grey 
 coat — the rough grey coat, you know, that she 
 travelled home in." 
 
 "I know," said George." 
 
 " It's a dress that she goes out in continually since 
 the weather turned so chill," said Mrs Benyon. 
 " There was nothing to make Sarah suspect that she 
 was going to run away." 
 
 " You mean that she had no luggage with her of 
 any kind whatever ? " 
 
 "My dear boy, if Marty had had luggage Sarah 
 would have been on the alert in a moment." 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " What is much more important," said Mrs Benyon, 
 " is to know what money she had with her." 
 
 " Oh, she had a lot of money. I gave her twenty 
 pounds the same day we were married. I didn't 
 know what she had, and I told her she had better 
 have it by her in case she wanted it." 
 
 " And I gave her twenty pounds," said Mrs Benyon. 
 " I think it is so dreadful for a girl to be beholden to 
 a newly-married husband for every farthing till they 
 get used to each other." 
 
 " She told me you had given her some money." 
 
 " The question is — how much of it did she spend 1 " 
 
 "I don't think she spent a farthing, Mater. She 
 never went anywhere without me, and I paid for 
 everything that she wanted. So she had forty 
 pounds in her pocket."
 
 i 4 8 MARTY 
 
 "Forty pounds." At this point Mrs Benyon 
 staggered back and sat down in a very uncertain 
 fashion. 
 
 "Mater," said George, "you are utterly overdone, 
 and I, like the selfish beast that I am, have been 
 thinking about my self morethanyou." He wenthastily 
 to the sideboard and mixed her a brandy-and-soda. 
 " Drink this, dear," he said ; " it's good for you. It's 
 no use letting ourselves go; we must keep up our 
 strength, because we must keep going until we find 
 her. Mater, dear, she says in that — that — that thing 
 there," pointing to the letter, " that I am to go back 
 home and forget. Who that has known Marty could 
 ever forget ? It's sheer rot ! " 
 
 " But then, you see, my poor little girl doesn't 
 know herself. She doesn't know how perfect she is," 
 said Mrs Benyon. 
 
 " And, Mater, dear, if you'll let me, I'll stop here." 
 
 " My poor George ! " said Mrs Benyon. 
 
 " I knew you would say that. You are awfully 
 good. I'll — yes, I'll stay here. And I think we 
 won't tell anybody just yet. What do you say, 
 Mater ? " 
 
 " I wouldn't tell a soul," said Mrs Benyon. " Just 
 keep out of sight. They'll all think — your people 
 and the rest — they'll all think that you are busy 
 getting your flat ready. Don't you let on a word, 
 Georgie ; there's nothing to be gained by it — I 
 always did hate a blab — and you and I will take care 
 of each other until she comes back again. We must 
 take Sarah into our confidence, because, you see, she 
 knows ; and then you go in the morning, Georgie, 
 when you have had a good breakfast — because it's no 
 use working on an empty stomach — you'll go to — to
 
 MARTY'S LETTER 149 
 
 — Oh, 1 don't know what that man's name is — 
 Smart, or Cute, or something — and you'll tell him all 
 about it, and we shall get her back before we know 
 we've lost her almost. And you won't be unkind to 
 her when you get her back, Georgie ? " 
 
 " Me ? " said he, with a fine disregard of grammar. 
 " Me ? Oh, Mater ! " 
 
 " Well, then, dear boy, you go off to bed, and I'll do 
 the same. We'll just get a good night's rest," she 
 went on, making a brave effort to keep herself 
 cheerful and reasonable, " and then, in the morning, 
 after a good breakfast, we shall be fit to face the 
 worst." 
 
 " And you don't think, Mater," said George Ether- 
 ington, " you don't — think — that — Marty — would — 
 would do anything ? " 
 
 " Do anything ! " echoed Mrs Benyon. 
 
 " I mean, do away with herself." 
 
 " I hope not — I think not. I believe not. Oh, 
 George, my dear boy, don't let us think of a 
 possibility so terrible ! Why should we look at the 
 dark side ? After all, there's a bright side, why 
 should we look at the dark ? No, George, I won't do 
 it. I believe my poor little girl is moved by the best 
 and most honest motives. She was always honest, 
 but she was sensitive. All this has preyed on her 
 mind ; it's made her see things with a squint, so to 
 speak. But she's a good girl, she'd never do anything 
 wicked. Some people might think it wicked for a 
 girl to go away and leave her husband and her mother 
 as she's done, but she hasn't looked at it in that 
 light. There's no wickedness in Marty." 
 
 Eventually Mrs Benyon and George Etherington 
 went to bed. If I were to say that they went to
 
 i S o MARTY 
 
 sleep I should be no true chronicler. Mrs Benyon 
 lay awake all through the night wondering what 
 could have induced her bright and bonny Marty to 
 take a step so disastrous and so unnecessary. And 
 George — well, he was younger, and the young feel 
 things differently to those who have got past the 
 meridian of life. George got into his bed and wept 
 like a child. Tears, you know, always bring their 
 own relief, and when he had cried until he could cry 
 no more, merciful sleep overtook him, and he forgot 
 his troubles for a little time. 
 
 And Marty, out on the wide sea, enduring all the 
 horrors of an unusually bad passage, sent up prayer 
 after prayer for those she had left behind, and almost 
 wished that she had been less heroic and a little more 
 selfish.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE LONELY FURROW 
 
 Having once put her hand to the plough, and shut 
 the door of her mother's house behind her, Marty was 
 not one to turn back. She had laid her plans carefully 
 enough. A few days previously she had gone to a 
 respectable trunk-maker's and had bought for herself 
 a not very large travelling trunk. This she had 
 marked with the initials " E. J." She had purchased 
 for herself a very modest and cheap outfit, consisting 
 of sufficient undergarments for practical purposes, of 
 the plainest, and I may say the cheapest, description ; 
 handkerchiefs with a ready-made initial " E " ; a 
 modest little black gown which she bought at a 
 famous establishment for providing ladies with 
 habiliments cut in the latest fashion at slop-shop 
 prices, and but one little piece of finery in the shape 
 of a silk blouse. Even that she bought cheaply, 
 because it was slightly faded in one or two places. 
 
 It would surprise you if I were to say how small a 
 hole she made in her forty pounds. Certain it is that 
 that same evening a little lady left Victoria by the 
 Continental train, and she was a little lady who bore 
 very smaU'resemblance to the Marty whom we have 
 been accustomed to see. She was dressed in black, 
 with a little black felt hat, and wore her hair done 
 low on the nape of her neck. She wore a white lace 
 
 I5i
 
 152 MARTY 
 
 veil — not a very thick one, or particularly disguising. 
 Her box was new, and bore the initials " E. J." 
 
 She took her ticket to Paris; she bought herself 
 a book from the basket of one of the boys. It was 
 only a sixpenny edition of a popular novel, but 
 Marty, as she marched along the platform, with her 
 head well in the air, her book clasped to her side, was 
 the last person that anybody would suspect of being 
 a bride newly run away from her husband. 
 
 She travelled second class. She spoke to nobody 
 on the way down, and nobody spoke to her. Arrived 
 at Newhaven, she went straight on board the boat, 
 meeting the inevitable " First class to the right ! 
 Second class to the left ! " She turned her way to 
 the left with a resolution which meant that however 
 disagreeable the crossing might be, she would save 
 the few shillings that made the difference between 
 the two. The stewardess spoke to her civilly, 
 recommending a certain berth, and inquiring if she 
 was a good sailor. Marty replied that she had never 
 been sick in her life, but she took the berth which 
 the woman pointed out, and asked if it would be 
 possible for her to have something in the shape of 
 supper. 
 
 " If you are good sailor enough to go up in the 
 saloon, madam," said the stewardess, " there you will 
 find an excellent supper ; but unless you are a good 
 sailor I shouldn't recommend you to do that, as we 
 are starting in extra good time to-night." 
 
 " How is that ? " asked Marty. 
 
 " So few passengers, madam." 
 
 " How do you account for that ? " said Marty, sitting 
 on the edge of her berth and slowly taking off her 
 gloves.
 
 THE LONELY FURROW 153 
 
 " Well, madam, the summer rush is over, and the 
 winter one hasn't begun. It's just between seasons. 
 There are more coming back than going across, and 
 will be for the next month." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so," said Marty, carelessly. " I 
 wonder whether I'd better have supper now, or when 
 I get to Dieppe." 
 
 "You get a very good supper at Dieppe, you know, 
 madam. Supposing I get you a sandwich and a 
 whisky-and-soda — ? " 
 
 "Not a whisky-and-soda," said Marty. 
 
 " Well, a glass of beer, then ? Though I wouldn't 
 recommend beer unless you are a very good sailor." 
 
 " Oh, not beer ! " said Marty. 
 
 " Whisky-and-soda is the most wholesome," said 
 the stewardess. 
 
 " Well, then, whisky-and-soda — not very strong." 
 
 " Ham sandwich or beef ? " inquired the stewardess. 
 
 " I should think ham would be the best, wouldn't 
 it ? Only rather thirsty. Which you like, 
 stewardess — something to eat." 
 
 " Very well, madam." 
 
 She bustled away, leaving Marty sitting on the 
 edge of her berth — wondering — wondering what they 
 were doing at home, whether they had found out, 
 whether George was distractedly hunting round 
 hospitals, railway stations, and police-stations, and 
 other such gruesome places. She wondered whether 
 he was angry, or only sorry, and she — " I beg your 
 pardon, stewardess ! I was thinking. I think I'm 
 a little sleepy," she said. " Oh, you've got my 
 supper ! That's very nice of you. Yes, it looks very 
 good. I don't [know how I shall get the whisky 
 down, but still — -"
 
 154 MARTY 
 
 " They don't give you much whisky for one 
 portion, madam, on these boats," said the stewardess. 
 " When you come to deluge it with soda water — " 
 
 " Well, deluge it to the very top," said Marty, rather 
 pitifully. 
 
 In spite of that the spirit brought the tears to her 
 eyes, but she ate the two sandwiches and contrived 
 to drink a little of the nauseous beverage, which had 
 the effect of making her sleepy ; and after lying down 
 she knew no more until the stewardess roused her 
 with a tap on the shoulder, telling her they were just 
 passing into Dieppe Harbour. 
 
 It all looked dark and gruesome enough to the girl 
 who had set out from her home-nest and from the 
 shelter of her home affections to face the hard world 
 alone. Fortunately she was healthily hungry, and 
 having taken her place in the train she went back to 
 the buffet, where she made quite an excellent meal, 
 drinking down a cup of delicious chocolate and making 
 short work of a good plate of chicken and tongue. 
 It was not until she got into the train, and indeed 
 until she was near to Paris itself, and it was already 
 broad daylight, that she opened her purse — a perfectly 
 plain, silver-mounted purse which she had bought for 
 herself just before her marriage — and took from it a 
 small piece of folded paper. It was a scrap cut from 
 a French newspaper, and it told how at a certain 
 convent, nineteen miles from Paris, ladies were taken 
 as pensionnaires at the price of four francs a day ; it 
 added that there were lovely gardens, a large convent, 
 good nourishment, and that applications were to be 
 made to the Reverend Mother Superior. 
 
 Marty read it twice, then folded the paper and put 
 it back into her purse. So that was her destination.
 
 THE LONELY FURROW 155 
 
 She looked very young — painfully young — and very 
 weary as she sat in the cold morning light. She was 
 very careful, though. She made a little toilet before 
 she reached Paris, and adjusted her veil with the 
 utmost care by the aid of the toilet-glass in the little 
 lavatory attached to the carriage ; then, having 
 washed her hands, she sat down in her place again 
 and put on her gloves. 
 
 It was a simple matter to pass the douane, for the 
 officials knew at a glance that she was not the kind 
 of person to be carrying contraband goods. Then she 
 was free to face the world. When she had engaged a 
 cab, and seen her luggage hoisted on to the top of it, 
 she directed the man to drive to a modest hotel of 
 which she, personally, knew nothing, for she had 
 never been in Paris in her life before, but which she 
 had seen highly recommended as a quiet place to 
 which a lady could go alone. 
 
 " Can I stop here for the night ? " she inquired. 
 
 She was quickly informed that the proprietaire 
 would be most charmed to entertain her, and she was 
 shown to a comfortable little room on the second 
 floor, and there she had some excellent coffee and 
 rolls. 
 
 " I want," she said to the proprittaire when she had 
 finished her repast, " I want to go to Vitreuil. Is it 
 possible to go there and back in one day ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, madame," replied the buxom landlady. 
 
 " What station do you go from ? " 
 
 The good woman informed her of the station, and 
 also that she knew Vitreuil very well ; that it was an 
 extremely pretty place, but quite unfrequented by the 
 English. 
 
 " Oh, I am going to see some French people," said
 
 156 MARTY 
 
 Marty, who was rapidly acquiring quite an in- 
 dependent air. 
 
 She found that there was a morning train which 
 she could just catch, so she engaged a voiture and 
 went off on the second stage of her journey. It was 
 a pleasant and easy run to Vitreuil, and Marty walked 
 up the countrified road and into the little town with 
 a feeling that she had indeed chosen a very good 
 hiding-place. 
 
 A single inquiry brought her to the door of the 
 convent. " See, mademoiselle," said her guide, who 
 never dreamed that Marty was a married woman, 
 "you go up those steps and ring the bell hanging 
 opposite the glass door." 
 
 Marty thanked the girl and followed her directions. 
 At the top of the steps was a sort of small court, 
 covered in, and filled with all sorts of flowering plants 
 and green shrubs. She rather timidly pulled at the 
 handle hanging by a thick steel chain, which she 
 supposed was the bell. The sound came back with a 
 great clanging noise, such as made her wonder what 
 would have been the effect if she had pulled hard, and 
 a minute or two later a young French girl came out. 
 She was of the peasant class, intensely stupid and 
 extremely dirty, not to say slovenly. Of her Marty 
 demanded if she Could see the Reverend Mother. 
 The girl replied that she didn't know, she thought the 
 Reverend Mother was engaged, but that it was pro- 
 bable that Madame Angelique would be able to see 
 visitors. So forthwith she ushered Marty into what 
 she called the parloir, a great bare, gloomy apartment, 
 covered with Chinese matting, its walls surrounded 
 by hard cane-seated chairs, its mural decorations 
 consisting of pictures of St Joseph and the Holy
 
 THE LONELY FURROW 157 
 
 Virgin, its one touch of worldliness being a 
 piano. 
 
 Marty sat down on the nearest chair. She was 
 absolutely unable to stand, for her legs were shaking 
 under her, but she had not been waiting many 
 minutes before a black-robed, white-coiffed sister 
 entered the room. 
 
 There were the customary greetings between caller 
 and hostess, the usual begging that she would give 
 herself "the trouble of sitting down," and then Madame 
 Angelique looked at her questioningly, as if to ask 
 the object of her visit. Marty opened her purse and 
 took out of it the little folded slip of paper. 
 
 " I — I saw this in a newspaper, madame," she said. 
 
 " But yes, mademoiselle ? " responded the Sister, 
 still in an inquiring tone. 
 
 " And I — I — I came down to see the place — to see 
 if I could make arrangements to live here for a little 
 while." 
 
 " Did I understand aright ?" said Madame Angelique, 
 " is it madame or mademoiselle ? " 
 
 " It ^s madame," said Marty. " I — " she felt that 
 some explanation was absolutely necessary at this 
 point — " My husband is away. I want to live some- 
 where very quietly. I couldn't afford to pay very much." 
 
 " Our regular terms," said the Sister, " are four 
 francs a day." 
 
 " And that includes ? " said Marty, who was a 
 business woman before everything, mind you ! 
 
 " But yes. The little dejeuner, the grand dejeuner, 
 gouter — " 
 
 " Gouter ? " said Marty, inquiringly. 
 
 "Ah, a bit of cake — a tartine — a drink of cider. 
 We don't provide English tea," said the Sister.
 
 158 MARTY 
 
 " I see. Yes, I understand. It is a something — a 
 taste ? " 
 
 " Exactly ! Precisely so. And then diner, and the 
 service, bougies — everything, enfin, but soap ! " 
 
 " Not my washing ? " said Marty. 
 
 " Not your personal washing — no, madame, no ! 
 But it isn't dear. It doesn't come to much here. 
 Would you stay with us very long ? " 
 
 " Perhaps a month," said Marty. " I — I — yes, it 
 might be a month, or it might be two months ; I 
 couldn't tell. I shouldn't like to bind myself." 
 
 " There's no need," said Madame Angelique ; " there's 
 no need whatever. You are of our faith ? " 
 
 " No, I am not a Catholic," said Marty. 
 
 " There is no English church here." 
 
 " I will go to your church," said Marty. " Need I 
 give you references, beyond paying my first week ? 
 I don't know anybody in Paris." 
 
 " But no ! " said the Sister, smiling ; " money is 
 always a very good reference, madame, when the one 
 referred to is as young and looks so innocent as you 
 do."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 AN ASYLUM 
 
 It was just twelve o'clock when Marty got back into 
 Paris. She took a voiture to her hotel, and found she 
 had a tremendous appetite for the meal she found 
 waiting to satisfy her needs. She told Madame la 
 proprUtaire that she had made her arrangements to 
 leave the following day. 
 
 She sat, after she had done eating, for quite an hour 
 at the window of the salle a manger, watching the 
 stream of life passing to and fro in the street. Then 
 all at once a feeling came over her that she must be 
 in the mouvement as well as a spectator of it. So 
 she put on her things again and sallied forth into the 
 street. She had never been in Paris in her life, and 
 she was supremely miserable, but not for one moment 
 did her business instincts, and what I might call her 
 gamin capacity for taking care of her herself, desert 
 her. 
 
 She got into the first tram car that she saw, and 
 took a ticket for the furthest place that it went to. 
 This happened to take her along some of the very 
 best parts of Paris, along the boulevards, and to the 
 very edge of the Bois de Bologne. She got out at the 
 end of the journey, and walked on and on until at 
 last she came to another route into Paris, and there 
 
 159
 
 160 MARTY 
 
 she entered another tram car and began her journey 
 back again. The walk through the Bois had taken 
 her a good deal out of herself. There were a few 
 children at play, a few couples idling away the golden 
 hours, and one or two men who looked at her as if 
 they would like to know her history. It was quite 
 an off day for the world, and Marty felt refreshed 
 both in body and mind. But she was very miserable. 
 
 Arrived back at the hotel, she inquired for a 
 Directory of Paris, and there she looked out, and 
 noted down in a little book which she had by her, 
 the various employment agencies to which she might 
 apply for work. Those connected with the English 
 colony — that is to say, those with English names — she 
 put out of the running at once, but she noted down 
 half a dozen advertisements which seemed to her 
 likely and respectable. 
 
 She had arranged to go down to Vitreuil the 
 following day by the five-o'clock train, and she deter- 
 mined that she would spend the earlier part of the 
 day in looking out for some kind of employment. 
 With this idea firmly fixed in her mind, she dined 
 and passed the evening, going very early to bed, and 
 requesting the femme de chambre to bring her the 
 " little breakfast " at eight o'clock. 
 
 When morning came she bade adieu to the little 
 hotel soon after ten o'clock, going away with her 
 luggage, and without specially mentioning her 
 destination. She drove straight to the station for 
 Vitreuil, and then, taking another voiture — for she 
 did not know her way about Paris — she went to the 
 most likely bureau of those on her list. This proved 
 to be merely a bureau de 'placement, and as Marty 
 neither wanted to be a lady's maid, nor yet a femme
 
 AN ASYLUM 161 
 
 de chambre, she left without giving any details about 
 herself. 
 
 Arrived in the street again, she took out her little 
 book and consulted the notes which she had made the 
 previous evening. The next bureau on her list was 
 one which was in the same street as that which she 
 had just come from, so she walked along until she 
 found it. At this place she paid a fee, and her name 
 was duly entered in the book — " Mrs Johnson, at the 
 Convent of Notre Dame de Providence, Vitreuil." 
 
 The lady who was in charge of the desk told her 
 that the chance of placing her was very uncertain ; 
 she might find something that very day, she might 
 be a month. Marty explained that she would prefer 
 something of a business nature ; that she could well 
 undertake a position in a hotel or in a shop ; that she 
 knew nothing about teaching, and had no particular 
 wish to be companion to a lady. The lady at the 
 desk said that she would certainly do her best, that 
 madame was young and attractive, and that she 
 would probably find work as easily as anybody. So 
 they parted on terms of mutual compliments. 
 
 In this way Marty went through the entire list in 
 her little book. She met with no success — with 
 promises, with fair words — and she parted with a 
 little money. Still, although nothing but hope had 
 been the result of her morning's work, she went and 
 took her dejeuner with a comfortable feeling that she 
 had set matters in train. Then she had a couple of 
 hours — rather more — to spare before she need think 
 about the train. So she went and sat on a seat in 
 the Champs Elysees, and opened an English news- 
 paper of the previous day, which she had bought at a 
 kiosk hard by. Instinct made her turn to the " Agony 
 
 L
 
 162 MARTY 
 
 Column." There was no message to Marty, no agon- 
 ised " Come home, darling ! All will be forgiven and 
 forgotten ! " No, there was nothing of the kind, only 
 the chill blank of silence. And Marty, who quite 
 forgot that an advertisement in the pages of the 
 Daily Telegraph was an impossibility until the next 
 issue of the paper, sat staring at nothing, and feeling 
 that she had shut herself out of her world indeed. 
 
 There is a point in the lives of most of us when 
 the black despair of our outlook upon the future 
 seems to be too dense for any ray of hope to penetrate. 
 During the time that Marty sat on that seat in the 
 Champs Elysees, it was certainly the turning-point 
 of her career. She had not until that moment realised 
 the full effect of her action. In a way she had felt a 
 grand unselfish sense of heroism ; she had buoyed 
 herself up with the idea that if the whole world knew 
 that she had voluntarily cut herself off from the two 
 people that she loved most on earth, because she felt 
 that she had wronged her husband by allowing him 
 to marry her, the whole world would necessarily ap- 
 plaud and belaud her. She had felt that it would be 
 a bitter pang to George, and a pang, though less 
 poignant, to her mother, but the fact of finding that 
 her name was not to be seen in the " Agony Column " 
 of the Daily Telegraph on the day following her 
 flight seemed to give an entirely new turn to the 
 current of her thoughts. 
 
 So they had quietly acquiesced in her departure. 
 Well, perhaps they had not thought of advertising, 
 perhaps Georgie had realised the sound common-sense 
 and reasonableness of her parting letter, perhaps — oh, 
 she thought of a dozen applications of the word "per- 
 haps," and at the end of it all she came to her own
 
 AN ASYLUM 163 
 
 senses with a start, to feel herself blank, alone, home- 
 sick, soul-sick for the love that she had resolutely 
 shut herself away from. 
 
 But although Marty was young, and was supposed 
 by her mother in some ways to favour her dead-and- 
 gone father, there was a strain of resoluteness in her 
 nature which was a combination inherited from her 
 two parents. She stood up with her eyes looking 
 towards the bright glow in the western sky, and 
 mentally shook off her weakness as a dog shakes 
 water from his coat. 
 
 " I knew it would be hard the first few days," her 
 thoughts ran, " and after the first few days, and for 
 always and always ; but I thought it all out, and I'm 
 going to stick to it — I'm going to stick to it ! " And 
 so she turned and went towards the street in which 
 she knew she could get her tram, her face as resolute, 
 her step as firm as if the whole story of the past had 
 never had an existence. 
 
 Two hours later she was installed in a small white 
 bedroom at the convent at Vitreuil, the little bedroom 
 which was to be her haven of refuge until she should 
 find her way more clearly marked. It was clean and 
 plain. One or two sacred pictures hung on the walls, 
 a crucifix over the head of the bed ; there was no 
 pretence at ease in the chairs, they were rush-seated 
 and of the plainest description. A mere strip of 
 carpet was laid along the side of the bed, all the rest 
 of the floor being highly polished. White dimity 
 curtains hung at the window, and a valance of the 
 same material surrounded the bed. The bed looked 
 comfortable, even to luxury, with its large square 
 pillows and its spotless linen ; all the rest was a 
 blank, a mere featureless blank, and Marty had no
 
 1 64 MARTY 
 
 possessions of her own which would give it any in- 
 dividual ^touch, and make it into a semblance of a 
 home. It had been sufficiently light when she took 
 possession of it for her to be aware of the fact that 
 the view from the window was positively superb, 
 stretching for miles across country at a lower level 
 than the ground upon which the little town of 
 Vitreuil stood ; she could even then see a gleam of 
 silver water and the shadows of dark trees. 
 
 " I shall be hidden ! " was her comment, as she 
 drew the curtain across the window ; " at least I shall 
 be hidden ! " 
 
 She stayed in her bedroom until the bell went for 
 dinner. Her few things were soon arranged and put 
 away in the modest wardrobe and the still more 
 modest chest of drawers which formed her dressing- 
 table. She knew nothing of the ways of the convent, 
 so she changed her blue serge dress for the black one, 
 and washed her hands in the tiny bowl which was 
 all that was provided for that purpose. She stood 
 with some amazement looking at the very big can of 
 water and the very small basin. However, it was not 
 for her to find fault or to grumble at what she found. 
 The place was cheap, and it was safe. If the washing 
 basin would only accommodate one hand at a time, well, 
 she would get used to it. So, when the bell went, she 
 turned with a sigh and went downstairs. When I 
 say she went downstairs, pray don't imagine that she 
 simply went from an upper storey to a lower one. 
 Nothing of the kind ! She descended one flight of 
 stairs, went along a corridor, and descended another 
 flight. This brought her to the upper garden, and 
 having passed several large class-rooms, whose windows 
 and doors were all set wide open to the evening air,
 
 AN ASYLUM 165 
 
 she went down another flight of garden steps, across 
 a gravelled courtyard, and into the main building. 
 
 The pupils were all flocking into the salle a manger. 
 Of all the sea of faces — quite a hundred and thirty of 
 them — there was only that of Madame Angelique 
 which was at all familiar. 
 
 "Come this way, madame," she said, coming to 
 meet Marty and taking her kindly enough by the 
 hand — for nuns, let me tell you, are very kindly ; 
 " you are to sit next to the Reverend Mother at the 
 high table with us, not with the children. Let me 
 bid you welcome to our board." She still kept hold 
 of Marty's hand, and deftly led her along until they 
 reached the place where the Reverend Mother was 
 standing. The next moment Marty found herself, 
 fronted by a large, distinguished-looking woman, 
 somewhat getting on in years, and of a very benign 
 and benevolent cast of countenance. " This, Reverend 
 Mother," said Madame Anglique, " is Madame Johnson, 
 our new pensionnaire." 
 
 The Reverend Mother took Marty by both hands in 
 a firm and welcoming grasp, and kissed her cordially 
 on both cheeks. " You are indeed very welcome 
 among us, dear lady," she said. " I hope you will be 
 very happy while it suits you to stay. Anything 
 that you want, I trust you will not hesitate to come 
 to my room and apprise me of. If I can arrange 
 things to your satisfaction you may command me." 
 
 Then she indicated that Marty should sit down, 
 and gave the three raps on the table, signifying that 
 she was about to say grace.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE REVEREND MOTHER 
 
 The task of telling you how Marty lived in the 
 Convent of Notre Dame de Providence at Vitreuil 
 is one from which I would fain excuse mvself. I 
 have a constitutional dislike to dwelling on pain of 
 any kind, whether it be pain of the body, the bones, 
 the nerves, or pain of the heart or mind. Marty was 
 blessed with superb health ; had she not been, she 
 never could have withstood the strain upon her mind 
 and nerves which life at Vitreuil put upon her. I 
 must tell you all this, because I set out to tell the 
 story of Marty — not just the pleasant side, not just 
 how she and George Etherington met and loved and 
 were wed ; no, I set out to tell you the actual story of 
 Marty, and so I must give you some idea of how she 
 existed at the convent at Vitreuil. 
 
 At first everything was strange. It amused her 
 to see the good Sisters — every one of them bearing 
 noble names, though Marty did not know it — enjoy- 
 ing their meals. Marty had not come of a noble 
 family, but she certainly ate her food much more 
 daintily aud prettily than those noble French ladies, 
 whose regular custom was to lick their soup spoons 
 clean, polish them thoroughly in their table-napkins, 
 and put them away in the drawers immediately under- 
 
 166
 
 THE REVEREND MOTHER 167 
 
 neath their places at table. With the others, a bowl 
 of doubtful-looking water was passed from one to the 
 other, and spoons, forks and knives were dipped 
 therein and carefully polished and put away. This 
 reduced the service of the establishment — included, 
 mind you, in Marty's four francs a day — almost to 
 a nicety of nothingness. The food was good of a 
 kind, but it was the kind that poor Marty did not 
 like — plenty of soup, more or less vegetarian in 
 character; excellent plain bread (not the kind of 
 bread which you find in a Parisian hotel, my dear 
 reader, delicate and flaky as a summer sunrise, but a 
 good, solid, homely, plain bread) ; then there was 
 usually some sort of meat, except on Fridays and 
 other fast days, and invariably a course of vegetables 
 or of fruit of some kind. To Marty, accustomed to 
 excellent English cooking, these meals were a terrible 
 trial. She missed her afternoon tea, so much so that 
 one day when she was in Paris, interviewing half a 
 dozen persons with a view to employment, all of 
 whom proved absolutely impossible, she bought a 
 pound of tea at an exorbitant price, and a little 
 teapot. She also bought a little thin china cup and 
 saucer, a tiny jug, and one small teaspoon, not a silver 
 one ; and with her bundle of purchases she went back 
 to Vitreuil quite in a glow of happiness. There are 
 times in our lives when very small things make us 
 happy, or if they do not make us happy, at least they 
 make us less unhappy than we were. And after 
 that, every day at four o'clock she used to put her 
 little modicum of tea into her little teapot, and go 
 down with teapot and milk jug into the kitchen, 
 getting one replenished with boiling water, and the 
 other with new milk. They did not charge her extra
 
 1 68 MARTY 
 
 for the milk — oh, no, for they were not rapacious, 
 these good Sisters, not in the least. 
 
 From the time of that purchase four o'clock be- 
 came the one bearable hour in the day. Poor Marty ! 
 Still, she had two objects in life ; she had set herself 
 to acquire a real knowledge of French, recognising 
 that while she was in a wholly French atmosphere 
 it was not necessary for her ever to hear a single 
 word of Euglish, and certainly, unless she sought for 
 it, she would not have the chance of reading it ; and 
 she had set herself to find some employment. But it 
 was hard and dry work, and her soul yearned fiercely 
 for everything that she had left behind — for her 
 mother, for the quiet, comfortable little house which 
 she had called home so long ; for the movement of a 
 London life, for staid Sarah and excellent Ann, for 
 Amabel, and most of all, oh, yes, incomparably most 
 of all, for Georgie. 
 
 Still, an idea that she was mistaken in her course, 
 that she had taken a wrong line, never entered the 
 girl's head. She had set herself to carry out a certain 
 scheme, and she never faltered or turned back, she 
 never wavered in her resolutions. She had set herself 
 to advance her knowledge of French, and not one 
 single day did she neglect the task which she had 
 imposed upon herself. It is true that she had set 
 herself, too, to find some employment in Paris, or in 
 the neighbourhood of Paris ; but that was a task 
 which did not lie within her means to accomplish. 
 
 The weeks went by, the days grew shorter aud 
 shorter, until Christmas was close at hand. Marty's 
 mone}' was slowly going, and she had quite made up 
 her mind that when another month had gone by she 
 must put her pride in her pocket and seek some
 
 THE REVEREND MOTHER 169 
 
 lower form of occupation. She felt that it would not 
 do to break into her last ten pounds. She had had 
 letters from various agents in Paris, so that her 
 absence of correspondence from home was not noticed 
 by any of those among whom she was living. 
 
 Christmas came and went. Marty had dreaded it 
 terribly, but when it came there was little in the 
 strange world in which she found herself to remind 
 her of the one which she had left behind. Even New 
 Year did not try her more than the details of her 
 everyday life. And time sped on with relentless 
 wing. She was still safely hidden, but she had 
 advanced towards providing for the future not at all. 
 
 It happened one day towards the end of January 
 that Marty came down with a letter which she wished 
 to put in the post-bag. It was about five o'clock in 
 the day ; the cold was intense. The letter-box was 
 fixed in the wall just outside the grande porte, and 
 Marty turned away with a shiver and ran to gain the 
 shelter of the house once more. She ran absolutely 
 into the Reverend Mother's arms. 
 
 " Ah, my dear little lady," cried the head of the 
 establishment, " but you can run ! " She was really a 
 person of very gay and jovial disposition, a woman 
 whose metier was distinctly of the world worldly. 
 
 " I have only been to put a letter in the box," said 
 Marty. 
 
 The Reverend Mother, or, as she was usually called, 
 Madame St Hilaire, took the girl's slim little hand 
 between her own two firm, warm, white ones. " My 
 poor little lady, you are very cold," she said. " Come 
 into my room and warm yourself. There's a good 
 fire there." 
 
 She drew her towards the little room just at the
 
 170 MARTY 
 
 top of the first flight of stairs, and next to the great 
 parloir. It was a cosy little sanctum, and might 
 have been the private sitting-room of any lady of 
 affaires. 
 
 " Sit here, my child," said Madame St Hilaire, 
 indicating a large easy chair tucked close in against 
 the wood fire which burned upon the hearth. The 
 Reverend Mother herself pulled forward a heavy 
 oaken chair with a high back and great carved arms, 
 and in this she sat herself down, contemplating her 
 little visitor with a benign smile. 
 
 " You must learn, my dear child," she said, "that, 
 no matter what you are accustomed to do in your 
 England, it isn't wise to trot in and out of the house 
 at this time of the year without any wraps. You 
 should slip on a big shawl or a wrapper, something 
 quite warm, when you run to the door to post a letter. 
 Why, you are quite blue with the cold ! " she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 Marty looked down at her hands, which she was 
 slowly chafing together before the fire. "Yes, my 
 hands are cold, madame," she said. " I don't think 
 ray vitality is very high just now." 
 
 " You are not happy ? " said Madame St Hilaire. 
 
 " No, I am not very happy." For the life of her 
 Marty could not have lied to this mild-eyed woman. 
 
 " You are going to stay with us longer even than 
 you thought ? " 
 
 " I don't think so. I don't think that I must stay 
 much longer. I — I — can't afford it," said Marty. 
 
 " You'll go back to England ? " 
 
 " No, I'm not going back to England." 
 
 She shuddered involuntarily, and the Reverend 
 Mother got up and moved towards a little carved
 
 THE REVEREND MOTHER 171 
 
 cupboard which hung upon the wall. " I'm going to 
 give you a little cordial," she said. " Believe me, you 
 must never again run out to post a letter without 
 something warm to protect you. This is an excellent 
 liqueur ; it comes from the monastery ten miles away. 
 It would almost put warmth into a stone." She 
 poured out some of the cordial into a little glass and 
 handed it to Marty. " I have been watching you for 
 some days," she said, " I may say for some weeks." 
 
 It was on the tip of Marty's tongue to correct her 
 and say that she had been watching her ever since 
 she had entered the house, but she withheld the 
 remark and merely acknowledged the Reverend 
 Mother's words. 
 
 " And I have seen," went on Madame St Hilaire, 
 " I have seen that you are distressed in your mind — 
 something weighs upon it, you are not happy. If 
 you were of our faith I should advise you to see 
 Monsieur l'Abbe at once ; as you are not, I would 
 advise you to relieve yourself by telling me 
 everything." 
 
 " I couldn't," said Marty. 
 
 " It will be as safe," said Madame St Hilaire, " as 
 if you had confided in Monsieur l'Abbe himself. You 
 are very young to carry a secret, you are very young 
 to cope with a trouble. I have my suspicions of why 
 you go to Paris now and again, going in hope and 
 coming back weary and dejected. Confide in me, my 
 dear child, I promise you you'll not regret it." 
 
 Already the tears were standing in Marty's eyes ; 
 it was the first really kind word that she had received 
 since she had parted from George and her mother. 
 "Madame St Hilaire," she said, winking her eyes 
 very hard, as if she would wink away her weakness,
 
 i 7 2 MARTY 
 
 " I may have done a very foolish thing — I am not 
 sure that I have not — but what I did was done in 
 good faith, and I am going to abide by it. I — I — 
 left my husband. I wasn't good enough for him, I 
 was only a clog upon him. If I had stayed with him 
 it wouldn't have worked, we should have been 
 wretched, because I was not born of the same class. 
 I— I— felt it was better to take myself out of the 
 road. I didn't find it out until after I was married ; 
 I would have killed myself rather than have dragged 
 him down, but I didn't find it out until the deed was 
 done." 
 
 " What deed ? " asked Madame St Hilaire. 
 "Until we were married, I meant," said Marty, 
 humbly. " We — we went a little tour after our 
 marriage, and then my eyes were opened." 
 " By him ? " 
 
 " No, not by him, never by him ; he was everything 
 that was good and kind and loving to me ; but I felt 
 I had wronged him, and that I must go away." 
 
 " You wronged him more," said Madame St Hilaire, 
 "by going away than you would have done by re- 
 maining. It is never right, my child, to run away 
 from our duty. If you had made a mistake he was 
 not cognisant of it. You had no right to go away 
 and leave him ; that's the only wrong thing that you 
 have done." 
 
 " No," said Marty, " I thought it all out. I knew 
 it would be a wrench for me at first, but I took the 
 wise course, I cut it short in the beginning, before 
 it got too hard for him to part with me." 
 
 "I wish, my child,". said Madame St Hilaire, " that 
 you would let me tell this story to Monsieur l'Abbe. 
 He is a wise man, a man who knows men and cities
 
 THE REVEREND MOTHER 173 
 
 — a man of the world. The life of a relig lease is not 
 always the wide life ; the life of a cure is not neces- 
 sarily narrow. I wish you would confide in him. I 
 am convinced that you have only one line of duty 
 before you, and that is to go back to your husband."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 HARKING BACK 
 
 It is seldom ray habit in telling a story to hark back. 
 The stories that I have to tell flow, as a rule, in an 
 unbroken stream from source to mouth ; backwaters 
 do not trouble me, side streams do not attract me ; 
 I like to begin and end a story in an unbroken line. 
 But all stories do not lend themselves to this. Some- 
 times it is absolutely necessary to hark back and let the 
 reader know what has happened while we have been 
 traversing a certain portion of the journey; and so 
 now, although it is against my custom, I must hark 
 back, back to the night when George Etherington and 
 Mrs Benyon realised that something terrible had come 
 into their lives, realised in a far-off kind of way that 
 their hearts were broken. 
 
 The last words that Mrs Benyon uttered to her 
 son-in-law before he left the house the following 
 morning were words of warning. " Now, George," 
 she said, " do be advised by me. Except in the way 
 of business, don't tell anybody that we have lost 
 Marty. You'll be on her track as soon as the 
 detectives can get to work, and if we can get her 
 back it can all be hushed up and nobody know a 
 word about it." 
 
 " You are right, Mater," said George, " you are 
 perfectly right. Of course, my people will think it 
 
 174
 
 HARKING BACK 175 
 
 rather queer if it's more than a day or two before we 
 find her, but we must risk that ; and even if we do 
 have to tell them, we needn't let it go further than 
 the governor and my mother. They'll be discreet 
 enough ; we needn't have any fear on that score. 
 Besides," he added, with a valiant backward move- 
 ment of his head, " once we get those fellows to work 
 we shall have her back before we know where we 
 are." 
 
 He bent down and kissed her, and marched awaj' 
 up the street as gallant a young bridegroom as any 
 mother-in-law ever parted from. Mrs Benyon 
 watched him till he turned the corner, then she put 
 up her hand and touched her cheek — it was wet, but 
 the tears were not hers. 
 
 She turned and went into the house again, walkino- 
 into the dining-room and standing looking at the fire 
 with eyes that saw nothing. " This is a pretty piece 
 of business," she said to herself. "Now, what did 
 that child hear said about her ? It must have been 
 something horrid, something very out of the common 
 to make her take such a step as this. Well, I can't 
 sit down and be idle ; I've got my work to attend 
 to, no matter what happens." Then she touched the 
 bell, drew her hand back, hesitated. " Yes, I'll — I'll 
 ring for Sarah," she said, and rang. 
 
 In a minute or so Sarah came bustling in. 
 
 "I have something to tell you, Sarah," said Mrs 
 Benyon. 
 
 " About Miss Marty, ma'am ? Where is she, I'd 
 like to know? It isn't a natural thing for Miss 
 Marty to go out of the house — " 
 
 "Have done," said Mrs Benyon. "A good many 
 things in this world are not natural, Sar-ah. Jealousy
 
 176 MARTY 
 
 isn't exactly natural, but it's jealousy that has driven 
 my poor girl — " 
 
 " Driven ! " interrupted Sarah, fiercely. 
 
 " Yes, driven her away," said Mrs Benyon, leaning 
 her elbow on the chimney-shelf and shading her eyes 
 with her hand. " We don't know what's happened, 
 Sarah — neither Mr Etherington nor I. He never 
 thought to tell me when they came home, for he 
 thought that she had put it out of her dear mind — " 
 
 " Then it happened when they was away ? " said 
 Sarah. 
 
 " Yes, when they were away at one of those horrid 
 French hotels somebody said something about her, 
 and it sank so deep into her dear heart that she 
 determined — she determined she would go away and 
 leave us. What it could have been," she cried, gazing 
 up at the ceiling and stretching out her hands appeal- 
 iugly, " to have made my poor little girl think that she 
 wasn't good enough for the mother that bore her and 
 the husband that wedded her I can't tell. It's beyond 
 me, Sarah." 
 
 " Miss Marty not good enough ! " cried Sarah. " I'd 
 like to see the person Miss Marty wasn't good enough 
 for." 
 
 " I don't know that I should," said Mrs Benyon, 
 suddenly descending to a sensible tone once more. 
 " Anyway, that's not exactly the question, Sarah. 
 Miss Marty has taken it into her head that she made 
 a mistake in marrying, because she's not good enough 
 for her husband — and she's gone." 
 
 " And you are standing here idle, ma'am ! " said 
 Sarah. 
 
 " My going out into the street and tearing my hair 
 won't do anything towards bringing Miss Marty
 
 HARKING BACK 177 
 
 back," said Mrs Benyon in a tone midway between 
 severity and tremorousness. " Mr Etherington has 
 gone off to one of the first detectives in London ; he's 
 putting the case entirely in his hands. Meantime, 
 Sarah, the least said the soonest mended. We shall 
 have her back, oh, yes," she said, in that tone which 
 people use when they want to convince themselves 
 more than those to whom they are talking, " oh, yes, 
 we shall have her back before we have realised that 
 she has gone. It only means getting touch with her. 
 Once get touch with her, Mr Etherington will con- 
 vince her easily enough that she was mistaken, poor 
 darling ; that she is more precious to him even than 
 she is to me, which is saying a good deal, Sarah." 
 
 " And to me," said Sarah, with a sniff. 
 
 " Yes, Sarah, you have loved me and mine." 
 
 " But Miss Marty had my heart," said Sarah, with 
 a gurgle ; " of you all, Miss Marty had my heart. I 
 loved that dear child ; I loved her when she was a 
 little toddling thing — you know it, ma'am." 
 
 " Yes, my poor Sarah, I know it," said Mrs Benyon. 
 And then she suddenly gave way, and somehow the 
 two women, so serious, middle-aged and practical as 
 they were, fell sobbing in one another's arms. 
 
 For some days the secret was kept. George 
 Etherington passed all the time when he was not 
 absolutely wanted at the office in the quarters of 
 private detectives ; but it was as if Marty had dis- 
 appeared from the face of the earth. 
 
 That was a terrible week to everybody at No. 28 
 Rosediamond Road. Every morning George Ether- 
 ington went away buoyed up with hope from his 
 mother-in-law ; every morning after she saw him 
 turn the corner, Mrs Benyon went back into the 
 
 M
 
 178 MARTY 
 
 house and gave way to tears ; and every morning the 
 excellent Sarah came into the dining-room and railed 
 at the world in general, and French hotels in 
 particular. She did not know much of the world, 
 she knew nothing of French hotels, and, after all, 
 neither the world in general, nor French hotels in 
 particular, were responsible for the exact state of 
 affairs in that modest establishment; but it was 
 always the same, and the effect of Sarah's diatribes 
 on those two points was equally sure to make Mrs 
 Benyon dry her eyes and declare that standing there 
 crying wouldn't help to bring her dear child back 
 again. 
 
 At the end of the week a serious question pre- 
 sented itself to the three conspirators. 
 
 "I'd like to know, ma'am," said Sarah to her 
 mistress, " how I am to put visitors off any longer ? 
 Miss Amabel has been three times to call on Miss 
 Marty, and when she came this afternoon she says, 
 quite fierce like, ' Has anything happened to Mrs 
 Etherington, Sarah ? ' ' Not as I'm aware of, miss,' 
 said I. ' She came to see me the day after she got 
 back home from her honeymoon,' said Miss Amabel, 
 ' and I was out. I haven't set eyes upon her since her 
 wedding day. You can give Mrs Etherington my 
 love, and tell her that of course if she doesn't wish 
 to see me I shouldn't dream of intruding.' " 
 
 "Intruding!" sobbed Mrs Benyon. "What did 
 you say, Sarah ? " 
 
 " Well, ma'am, I was that took aback I hardly 
 knew what to say. At last I did manage to stammer 
 out something." 
 
 " What was the something ? " 
 
 " Well, ma'am, I said that nothing had happened,
 
 HARKING BACK 179 
 
 or ever would happen, to make Miss Marty think 
 any differently of Miss Amabel, but that she had 
 been very bothered and very busy seeing after her 
 flat, and that practically we had seen nothing of 
 her ourselves." 
 
 " Which was true ! " sobbed Mrs Benyon ; " true, 
 Sarah, true." 
 
 "I think I managed to smooth Miss Amabel 
 down a bit, but she was that huffy," said Sarah, 
 spreading out her fat hands and looking at her 
 mistress with a face clouded with a mingled ex- 
 pression of disgust and dismay, " I really hardly 
 knew what to say to her." 
 
 "I can quite understand Miss Amabel," said Mrs 
 Benyon. " You are a wise woman, Sarah, but you 
 don't know everything." 
 
 "I don't see what Miss Amabel's got to worry 
 herself about," said Sarah, obstinately. 
 
 "No, you wouldn't," said Mrs Benyon, "you 
 wouldn't; and yet it's easy enough to those that 
 understand. Miss Marty made a very good marriage, 
 Sarah — " 
 
 " Not too good for Miss Marty." 
 
 " No, but Mr Etherington comes of a grand family. 
 Mrs Etherington is a lady quite out of the common 
 for this part of the world, and Miss Amabel probably 
 feels — and it's perfectly natural she should — that 
 if Miss Marty doesn't want to see anything of her 
 old friends she won't be the one to push herself 
 in where she isn't wanted. I should feel the same 
 myself," said Mrs Benyon. 
 
 " Which Miss Marty isn't one of that there sort," 
 said Sarah. 
 
 The tears welled up once more into Mrs Benyon's
 
 180 MARTY 
 
 eyes. "If only she had thought a little more of 
 herself we shouldn't be mourning after her now," 
 she said sadly. " But you are quite right in one 
 thing, Sarah — we can't keep inquirers at bay much 
 longer. I'm expecting Mr Etherington's mother 
 will be turning in any day now, and what to say 
 to her I'm sure I don't know. But I'll talk to 
 Mr Etherington about it, I'll talk to him." 
 
 It was a very sad and dejected-looking young 
 man who came home to dinner that night. 
 
 " Any news ? " said Mrs Benyon. She always 
 asked if there was any news, poor woman, although 
 she herself had begun to give up hope. 
 
 " No, Mater," he said, " there's no news. Mater," 
 he went on, sitting down and shielding his eyes 
 with his hands so that he could look into the fire 
 between them, " Mater, I've begun ' to think it no 
 good." 
 
 " Don't say that, George ; don't give up hope," 
 said Mrs Benyon. 
 
 "It won't make any difference whether I do or 
 I don't." 
 
 "Oh, yes, my dear boy, it will. Don't talk till 
 you've had your dinner. It's my opinion you 
 don't get a proper lunch when you are off by 
 yourself." 
 
 " I had a bit of fish and a cutlet to-day," he 
 answered. " I'm all right as far as that goes." 
 
 " Well, I've got something very nice for your 
 dinner to-night, dear. We'll have it, and then 
 we'll have a regular talk. I want to ask you 
 about two or three things." 
 
 " You haven't heard any news, have you ? " he 
 asked.
 
 HARKING BACK 181 
 
 "My dear boy, do you think I should keep it to 
 myself ? " 
 
 "No, Mater, I know you wouldn't. The fact is 
 we've tried to keep our secret, Mater, you and I, 
 and from the best of motives, but I don't believe 
 we shall be able to keep it much longer." 
 
 "Well, if we can't keep it," said Mrs Benyon, 
 "we must let the world share it. We've no choice 
 in that matter, you and me, George. But what's 
 made you feel this all of a sudden ? " 
 
 " Because," he said, " when I came in I found a 
 letter from my mother, and I'm perfectly certain, 
 Mater, that she smells a rat ! "
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 MRS ETHERINGTON'S ADVICE 
 
 As the words left George Etherington's lips, the gong 
 which stood in the little hall warned them that 
 dinner was ready. 
 
 "Come, my dear boy," said Mrs Benyon, soothingly, 
 " we'll go and have our dinner, and we'll talk things 
 over afterwards. I don't believe in hungry people 
 doing good work — I never did. I always thought," 
 she went on, in a would-be cheerful voice, as she led 
 the way towards the dining-room, " I always thought 
 it would be such a good use for rate-money if all the 
 children in the Board schools were given the chance 
 of a good meal before they started work in the 
 morning, a snack in the middle of the day, and 
 another warm meal before they went away in the 
 afternoon. I believe," she added, seating herself in 
 her accustomed place, " I believe that it would do 
 away with a great deal of the misery and want of 
 the lower classes. It stands to common sense," she 
 went on, " that a child who is empty cannot take 
 much into its poor little brain." 
 
 " I can't say," said George. " I believe statistics 
 say rather the other way, and that overfed 
 people — " 
 
 "Oh, I wouldn't overfeed them, oh, dear, no!" 
 said Mrs Benyon, decidedly. " I would just give 
 them suitable, warm, cheap, wholesome food ; say a 
 
 182
 
 MRS ETHERINGTON'S ADVICE 183 
 
 good plate of milk and porridge for their breakfast, a 
 piece, in the hand and a drink at midday, and a good 
 bowl of warm soup or stew, with a hunch of bread, 
 before they go home at night. I wouldn't feed them 
 on pheasants and such luxuries, oh, dear, no. In my 
 own modest little way I've tried it." 
 
 " How, Mater ? " George Etherington wasn't really 
 interested in his mother-in-law's attempt at con- 
 versation, but he knew that she, good woman, was 
 right to keep him off the main subject just then 
 uppermost in their minds. And so he fell in with 
 her humour, and answered in as interested a way as 
 he could. 
 
 " Well, you know," explained Mrs Benyon, " I 
 always have to have a young girl to run errands. I 
 don't pay very much, but it struck me after I first 
 began that the most of the wage went home into 
 mother's pocket and I got a poor, listless, starved, 
 hungry, chilled thing without any wits or any senses 
 about her. So when I got a new girl I paid her a 
 little less wages, and I fed her — her breakfast when 
 she came in the morning, a good meal in the middle 
 of the day, and something before she went away in 
 the evening. The difference it made was absolutely 
 wonderful. I never have any trouble with my errand- 
 girls now ; my difficulty is to get rid of them when 
 they get too big and want more money than I can 
 reasonably give; and most of them have done well 
 since they left me. Oh, I believe in feeding, and 
 when any man or woman has got an extra strain on 
 them, like we have just now, I believe in feeding that 
 man or woman. One doesn't enjoy it as one enjoys 
 one's food when one is happy, but, all the same, 
 there's nothing like feeding, and good feeding."
 
 1 84 MARTY 
 
 In this simple way she kept him off the subject 
 of Marty until the modest dessert was set on the 
 table. 
 
 " Now," she said, " tell me what your mother 
 said." 
 
 " I'd better show you the letter." 
 
 He handed it to her, and Mrs Benyon took it from 
 him and read it with close attention : — 
 
 "My dear George," — it began, — "I have a kind 
 of feeling that something is wrong with you or your 
 wife, or both of you. What is it ? She hasn't been 
 near me since the day after she returned from your 
 honeymoon. I have called, but she was not at home. 
 I have asked her to dinner, but you were engaged. 
 What does it all mean ? I have a conviction that 
 something is wrong. Is it that I have hurt or 
 offended you or Marty in any way ? I can't 
 imagine my having said or done anything to 
 hurt or offend you, and I am not conscious of any 
 single word which could have upset Marty. I think 
 it better and straighter to go to the point at once 
 and ask you the plain question. I am sure you will 
 understand me. We understand each other so well, 
 and I am particularly anxious that no mother-in-law 
 breaches should arise between us. I shall be glad of 
 your answer, which I await with impatience. — Your 
 always loving Mother." 
 
 "It's a very reasonable letter," said Mrs Benyon, 
 after a long pause. 
 
 " It's reasonable enough," said George. " How is 
 it to be answered ? " 
 
 " My dear boy, there's only one way in which it
 
 MRS ETHERINGTON'S ADVICE 185 
 
 can be answered," said Mrs Benyon, decidedly, " and 
 that's by telling your poor mother the truth. I don't 
 say it isn't a bitter pill for me," she went on, her 
 voice breaking, and hiding her eyes with her hands. 
 " I don't say it isn't a bitter pill for me, and I can't 
 blame your mother if she turns round and tells you 
 you did the wrong thing when you married Marty. 
 If she'd only see with my eyes — " 
 
 " And mine," said George. 
 
 " And see how mistaken the poor child is, how 
 misguided, what a wrong line she's taken up, and 
 how she's just doing what she was most anxious to 
 avoid, then it will be all right." And Mrs Benyon 
 wiped her eyes, but immediately covered them with 
 her hand again. 
 
 " All right, Mater, I'll go round and get it over. I 
 don't suppose my mother will be out, and I don't 
 suppose she'll have any visitors — at all events, I'll go 
 round and see." 
 
 So George Etherington went round to his mother's 
 house. The maid told him that Mrs Etherington was 
 alone ; the colonel was out, she believed at the club ; 
 and his brothers were neither of them at home. 
 
 "That's all right. I wanted to see my mother," 
 said George, putting down his hat and hanging up his 
 coat on the familiar peg. 
 
 He found his mother in her pretty drawing-room. 
 " Hullo, mother ! " said he. 
 
 " Ah, is that you, George ? " she said, looking up 
 with a bright smile and extending her firm white hand 
 with its freight of glittering rings to greet him. 
 " You had my note, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes, I got your note," said George ; " that is why 
 I've come round."
 
 1 86 MARTY 
 
 " You are looking very ill," said his mother. 
 
 " I'm feeling worse." 
 
 " What has happened ? " 
 
 " Oh, mother, I don't know how to tell you." 
 
 " What ! " 
 
 " No, not what you think." He recognised the 
 query in her tones and was quick to answer it ; " not 
 at all as you think, but, all the same, I don't know 
 how to begin to tell you the tragedy that has come 
 into my life." 
 
 " Tragedy ? " said his mother. 
 
 " Oh, mother, if only we hadn't gone for that — 
 that — damned honeymoon ! " 
 
 " And what was the matter with the honeymoon ? 
 I thought it was a very sensible one." 
 
 "Yes, we did. But I don't know why it was, nor 
 who it was, but Marty overheard some damned 
 women talking about her. They said she was 
 common — God knows what they didn't say ! I'm 
 sure, poor little soul, her only fault seemed to me 
 that she kept herself to herself, and never made 
 friends with anybody ; she wanted nobody but me." 
 
 " Well ? " said his mother. 
 
 "Well, I told her it was all rot, I said everything 
 I could think of, and I thought that I had satisfied 
 her. You don't know the depth of self-sacrifice there 
 is in that little girl." 
 
 " Well, what has she done ? " 
 
 " She's run away." 
 
 " What ! " 
 
 " She's run away," said George, miserably. 
 
 " With whom ? " 
 
 " With whom ? All by her little self. My poor 
 little girl ! She's only a child, she doesn't know the
 
 MRS ETHERINGTON'S ADVICE 187 
 
 ways of the world; she's never been anywhere by 
 herself in her life. God knows where she is ! I'm 
 frantic." 
 
 " And her mother ? " 
 
 " Need you ask what her mother is like ? She's 
 frantic, too. Here, this will explain. This was the 
 letter of farewell she wrote me. Farewell — as if I 
 could fare well when she was gone." 
 
 For once Mrs Etherington had nothing to say. 
 She simply took the letter in silence and made 
 herself master of its contents. When she got to the 
 end of it she was still silent. Then she put up a 
 white hand and brushed something away from her 
 eyes. 
 
 " This is dreadful ! " she said at last, in a softer 
 tone, " it's dreadful ! What have you done ? It's 
 nearly a week since you got that letter." 
 " Yes ; I've done everything I could." 
 "What?" 
 
 " Oh, I've been to detectives. I've set them all at 
 work, I've advertised, I've done everything I could 
 think of. She's gone ! Whether she's gone into the 
 river, or whether she's taken a passage across and 
 jumped overboard, or what's happened to her, God 
 knows ! " 
 
 " You mean to say the detectives can't do anything ? 
 I thought they could trace out anybody anywhere." 
 
 "Oh, they say they can. They haven't traced 
 Marty. We thought, her mother and I, that we 
 should find her in a few days, that we should get 
 her back and nobody know anything about it, and 
 convince her what a mistaken idea hers was, that 
 although she so unselfishly sacrificed herself it was 
 the kind of sacrifice that couldn't do anybody any
 
 1 88 MARTY 
 
 good, just the contrary. We thought it might all 
 be hushed up ; so she's been out when anybody 
 called, and we thought people might think she was 
 busy getting the flat ready. It's all to no good, 
 mother, it's all to no good. I don't believe I shall 
 ever see her again." 
 
 " Did she take anything away with her ? " 
 
 "Not a thing; not a rag. She just walked out, 
 her own little gay, happy, don't-care self — at least, 
 to all appearances — and we've never seen her since." 
 
 " My dear boy, it can't be hidden," said Mrs 
 Etherington, pityingly. " Oh, my dear boy, she was 
 too young, she was too young to take such a responsi- 
 bility on herself as marriage. This proves it. 
 There's not the balance, there's not the judgment. 
 If she had been three or four years older — " 
 
 " But she wasn't three or four years older ! " cried 
 George, spreading out his hands. 
 
 " I know she wasn't, but if she had been she never 
 would have gone. She would have felt, even if it 
 were true, that she must live it down, and get rid of 
 any little — little things there were to get rid of. As 
 it is, what are you going to do now ? " 
 
 " I can't do anything. I can't wander through the 
 world like a masculine Saracen maid shouting out, 
 ' Marty ! Marty ! Marty ! ' I've no choice but to go 
 on as I am, or else chuck it up and go out to America." 
 
 " Well, that wouldn't do any good," said his mother, 
 sensibly. " You won't find Marty in America. How 
 much money had she ? " 
 
 " Forty pounds or so." 
 
 " Oh, my dear ! Dear, dear, dear ! What will your 
 father say when I tell him this ? " 
 
 " I suppose you will have to tell him ? "
 
 MRS ETHERINGTON'S ADVICE 189 
 
 "Oh, yes. I never kept anything from your 
 father in my life ; he'd never forgive me if I did. 
 Besides, he was fond of her, and he's anxious to know 
 why she never comes near us. He liked the little 
 girl. And the others, George, the others." 
 
 " It seems to me," said George Etherington, 
 miserably, " that although at first I felt if it could be 
 kept quiet it would be better, it seems to me in the 
 face of the greater tragedy that the minor ones don't 
 matter." 
 
 " I wouldn't quite say that. Now you listen to me ; 
 take my advice, and keep it dark as long as you can. 
 Effie has chosen to give herself ridiculous airs, and 
 Dick has chosen to back her up — which I daresay 
 he couldn't help, poor thing. As far as we can we'll 
 keep it just between our four selves." 
 
 "Mater's servants know. But they've been with 
 her for ever, you know ; they're safe as houses." 
 
 " I was thinking," said Mrs Etherington, " that 
 there can't be the smallest necessity to tell Effie or 
 Dick, or, for the matter of that, your own brothers, a 
 single word about it."
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 ON THE TRACK 
 
 But it was as if Marty had vanished into space. The 
 weeks went by, and no trace of her could be found. 
 Mrs Benyon began to grow thin and white with strain 
 and anxiety ; George was — as the men who knew him 
 told each other — the most hangdog-looking bride- 
 groom that ever was seen. The difficulty of keeping 
 the truth from all and sundry was enormous. 
 
 " Where are you living, old chap ? " said one smart 
 young man, with whom he had been on the best of 
 terms ever since he had taken up his appointment. 
 
 " I am staying with my mother-in-law," said 
 George. 
 
 " Oh, are you really ? A dangerous experiment, 
 rather, eh ? " 
 
 " Not the least in the world," said George. " I am 
 quite devoted to her." 
 
 " You don't say so ! That's rather a new state of 
 affairs. Well, when are we coming to pay our re- 
 spects to your wife ? " 
 
 "Oh, it's awfully good of you, old fellow," said 
 George, " but not until we get into our own house — if 
 you don't mind. The fact is, my wife isn't very 
 well." 
 
 " Isn't she ? I'm sorry for that. Where are you 
 going to pitch your tent ? " 
 
 190
 
 ON THE TRACK 191 
 
 " Well, somewhere in Victoria Street," said George, 
 hurriedly. " We haven't decided on the exact spot 
 yet, but we've seen one or two Hats, and — the fact is 
 my wife isn't able to look after it all, and she is very 
 anxious nothing should be done without her." Which 
 was true, as he miserably reminded himself as the 
 words passed his lips. 
 
 " Ah, I see. Well, you'll let us know, old fellow, 
 because we've always been such good chums, you and 
 I and all the rest of us, and we shouldn't like to be 
 wanting in respect when you take a wife to yourself. 
 Besides, we all liked her on the wedding day, and we 
 should like to see her again." 
 
 " It's awfully good of you, old fellow. I'll let you 
 know as soon as we are settled. I'm afraid it won't 
 be until the New Year." 
 
 Poor George ! The New Year ! And there was no 
 sign of Marty. 
 
 As soon as he was free of work that afternoon he 
 betook himself, as he did on most days, to the office 
 of the private detective who had the case in hand. 
 " Any news, Mr Spruce ? " 
 
 " I'm sorry to say there's not the smallest clue, Mr 
 Etherington." 
 
 " I thought you detective gentlemen could find out 
 anything ? "• 
 
 " In a general way we can. Sometimes these 
 simple cases baffle us from beginning to end. If ever 
 we fail, it's always with a woman. You see, there 
 was nothing remarkable about Mrs Etherington's ap- 
 pearance; just an ordinary young lady, quietly 
 dressed, of quiet appearance. There are generally 
 some such young ladies leaving every railway station 
 by every train. We don't know where her thoughts
 
 192 MARTY 
 
 were, we don't know what her predilections were — 
 you don't, either, so we can't. We have absolutely 
 nothing to go on, and a lady, a young lady, of ordin- 
 ary height and size, can change her appearance in 
 such a marvellous way by a few touches that really 
 you mustn't blame us." 
 
 " I am not blaming you," said George, miserably, 
 " but I, naturally, want to find my wife." 
 
 " You don't think — she never let drop a hint of any 
 place she would like to go to ? " 
 
 " Never. She was very young ; I don't think she 
 had ever thought about it. There's one place I'm sure 
 she wouldn't go to, and that's France." 
 
 The detective made a mental note of this remark. 
 " You think not ? Why ? " 
 
 " She hated it." 
 
 " Eh ? Perhaps that's the very reason why she'd 
 go there." 
 
 "Oh, no, no. She hated France. She was un- 
 happy there. She oughtn't to have been, but she was. 
 It was owing to what she heard people in France say 
 that made her take it into her head that she would 
 do me the best service she could by relieving me of her 
 presence." 
 
 " But they weren't French people who said it ? " 
 
 " No, they were English people, curse them ! " said 
 George. 
 
 " Ay, curse them, and curse them a thousand times 
 over, Mr Etherington," said the detective, quietly; 
 " and although you may never know it, and probably 
 never will, the punishment of that kind of mischief - 
 making is generally pretty sure." 
 
 " All the punishment in the world wouldn't serve 
 me," said George, wretchedly.
 
 ON THE TRACK 193 
 
 "No, no, I know that. I was thinking of it in 
 general terms, not in a personal way at all. I do 
 wish, Mr Etherington, I had been of more use to you. 
 Mind yon, I haven't given up hope, oh, dear, no ! I've 
 got agents at work in all parts of the world, and we 
 may get wind of her at any moment." 
 
 "You may," said George. "For myself, do you 
 know what I believe ? " 
 "No." 
 
 " I believe she — I believe," he was deeply interested 
 in the ends of his fingers, and had to wait a moment 
 before he could sufficiently control his voice to get the 
 words out, " I believe she made an end of it." 
 
 " No, no ! Very young people don't think of that. 
 She was a good plucked one, your good lady — she 
 must have been. It was the last thing she'd think 
 of. If she'd been ten years older she might have 
 done, but at seventeen — no, no, I'll never believe it." 
 All the same, the detective, in his heart of hearts, if 
 he did not exactly believe it, felt a qualm come over 
 him, a qualm which told him that the young husband 
 might be right. 
 
 So they went on from day to day and from week 
 to week. Given a distinct hint in that direction, for 
 Mr Spruce was a great believer in luck, the detective 
 turned all his forces on to French soil ; I mean to say, 
 he set what he called his " French machinery " to 
 work. If Marty had been living in Paris itself there 
 is little doubt but that they would have found her. 
 They did indeed go so far as to inquire at all the 
 bureaux at which an English woman would be likely 
 to seek employment, and arrived at two of the 
 very bureaux in which Marty's name was put 
 down. 
 
 N
 
 i 9 4 MARTY 
 
 " Emily Saunders, twenty-one, tall, fair," read out 
 the lady in charge of one of these for his information. 
 
 " Not her," said Mr Spruce's agent. 
 
 "Margaret Win ton. Now what is Margaret 
 Winton like ? Oh, thirty-three — thirty-three. H'm. 
 Well, that was the short fat lady wasn't it, Made- 
 moiselle Helene ? " 
 
 "Yes, very stout and short. Wears spectacles." 
 
 " She might wear spectacles," commented the 
 agent, " but she couldn't make herself stout and 
 short." 
 
 " We placed her, didn't we, mademoiselle ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame. Miss Margaret Winton is living at 
 Passy, in the family of a doctor — an English doctor 
 with a large practice there — and has charge of two 
 little children." 
 
 " That can't be the lady I want," said the agent. 
 " However, I'll take down the address if you don't 
 mind. There's just a chance that it might be, though 
 I think it isn't. Well, who else have you got in the 
 books ? " 
 
 " Mrs Johnson — Elizabeth — twenty-two. Staying 
 at the Convent of Notre Dame de Providence at 
 Vitreuil." 
 
 " What is she like ? " 
 
 " That little English madame who has been several 
 times, mademoiselle ? You have seen her more often 
 than I. What should you say she was like ? " 
 
 " Very fair," said Mademoiselle Helene. 
 
 "Fair? I shouldn't call her fair," declared 
 madame. " I should call her dark. She has dark 
 hair. 
 
 " No, no ! Reddish hair, inclining to blonde — quite 
 chatain."
 
 ON THE TRACK 195 
 
 " Did you place her at the convent ? " 
 
 " No, not at all. She came to us from there. She 
 speaks very good French. She wanted a place in an 
 office, or a superior place in a shop, or in a very 
 smart tea-room ; in fact, she didn't care what she 
 did as long as she got some sort of employment." 
 
 " Is she a widow ? " 
 
 " No, not a widow. Husband is away for a time. 
 I don't think that's the lady you are looking for." 
 
 " How do you know what sort of a lady I am 
 looking for ? " asked the agent. 
 
 "Well, she didn't give me the impression of a lady 
 that would be wanted by anybody, and of course I 
 know you're a detective. She's all right." 
 
 " All the same, I think I'll take the address," said 
 the agent. 
 
 So he took down the address of Mrs Elizabeth 
 Johnson, at Vitreuil. 
 
 " Any more besides her ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Well, there's that Scotch girl. Speaks French 
 with a most curious accent, not an English accent at 
 all — Maud M'Gregor. We placed her, didn't we ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. Maud M'Gregor went to her situation 
 last week," replied mademoiselle. " She's very tall — 
 red hair — freckled face — light blue eyes. Excellent 
 references." 
 
 " Then," said Madame, turning over the page 
 " there was Winifred Moore, quite a young lady, not 
 more than seventeen." 
 
 " What about her ? " 
 
 "Rather tall, and wanted to get into a school to 
 teach English. Very shy and hesitating in manner ; 
 speaks fair French." 
 
 " I'll take her address too."
 
 1 96 MARTY 
 
 There were one or two others, and the agent, 
 thinking to be on the safe side, took the addresses of 
 all of them ; aud then he started in a journey around 
 Paris in search of them. 
 
 Naturally he left the lady living at the convent 
 at Vitreuil to the last, and as he was somewhat new 
 at the work, he was very much disheartened by his 
 non-success by the time he alighted from the train at 
 the little station at Vitreuil. It was easy for him to 
 find the convent. He reconnoitred the fine large 
 building, saw various people come in and out, and 
 finally got hold of one of the servants. To her 
 he held out a broad five-franc piece, and told her 
 he would give it to her if she would point out 
 to him the young English lady who was staying 
 there. 
 
 Now it happened that Marty had gone up to Paris 
 that day, partly to make a round of the employment 
 bureaux. Therefore Leontine, with an ingenuity 
 which was very characteristic of her class, not seeing 
 why she should lose a good five-franc piece for the 
 sake of a little accuracy, took him through the 
 kitchen, which happened to be empty save for herself 
 at that hour, and pointed out the German governess, 
 who was walking up and down the lower courtyard 
 with one of the good Sisters. 
 
 " That ? " he said. " Oh, thank you very much. 
 Here you are ! " And away he went, feeling that he 
 had indeed found himself in a cul-de-sac. 
 
 Meantime Marty had gone to Paris, and her pere- 
 grinations took her, during the course of the after- 
 noon, to the very bureau where her address had been 
 given to the agent. 
 
 " Ah, what a pity you didn't come in two hours
 
 ON THE TRACK 197 
 
 ago, madame," said the good lady, beaming on her 
 behind her pinze-nes. 
 
 " Why, have I missed something ? " 
 
 " Oh, well, for the matter of that, perhaps not. 
 There's been a gentleman — we thought he was a 
 detective — inquiring the whereabouts of a young 
 English lady. He took the address of every likely 
 one on our books." 
 
 " Including mine ? " said Marty. 
 
 " Of course, madame, naturally. But you see, 
 Mademoiselle Helene," she continued volubly, turning 
 to her assistant, " you see, Mademoiselle Helene, I was 
 not wrong. Madame is not in any sense blonde." 
 
 " I said chatain" said mademoiselle, shrugging her 
 shoulders. " Her hair is reddish." 
 
 "Yes, but it's dark hair for all that. Nobody 
 would call madame a blonde." 
 
 " You described me as a blonde ? Oh, how funny. 
 Perhaps I look so to some people. However," said 
 Marty, "I just came in to tell you that it's no use 
 your troubling to look out for any more places for 
 
 » 
 me. 
 
 " You are placed, madame ? " 
 
 " I have got the chance of a very good place in 
 Russia," said Martv.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 DRAWN NEARER 
 
 Mr Spruce sat in his private office reading the 
 morning's post. Among the letters which lay before 
 him on the table was one from his agent in Paris : — 
 
 " I have been all round looking for the lady whose 
 description you sent me, and thought several times 
 that I had lighted upon her ; but she is certainly not 
 in Paris," he wrote, " and I don't think that she has 
 been in Paris during the time you name. If you have 
 any further instructions for me to go further afield, 
 will you apprise me of them at once ? " 
 
 Mr Spruce put down the letter with a hasty word 
 of disgust upon his lips. " I could have bet my life," 
 his thoughts ran, " that France was her first idea, and 
 that in Paris we should find her. Very strange that 
 I should be so wrong ! And yet Villenet is essentially 
 a safe man. I suppose it's no use going behind his 
 word. I hate being baffled by a case. However, time 
 will tell, time will tell. Hang it all, what I hate 
 worse than failure itself is having to face that young 
 fellow when he comes here, and tell him we've gone 
 up another dead end. However, it can't be helped." 
 
 Accordingly, later in the day, when George 
 
 198
 
 DRAWN NEARER 199 
 
 Etherington made his appearance in the detective's 
 private room, that gentleman had only a shake of the 
 head for him. 
 
 "I'm very sorry, Mr Etherington," he said, "but 
 Paris has proved a dead end, just as you said it 
 would." 
 
 " I knew it," said George. " Don't worry yourself ; 
 you didn't buoy my hopes up. She hated France. 
 You could look for her anywhere else ; I told you so, 
 if you remember." 
 
 " Yes, you did, you did ; and I thought I knew 
 better than you did. I gladly acknowledge myself 
 wrong. It's years, Mr Etherington, since I have been 
 so baffled with a case." 
 
 " I suppose," said George, " her very simplicity has 
 deceived you utterly ? " 
 
 " Yes. Those that make very elaborate preparations 
 for hiding themselves, they generally leave some little 
 trail behind ; she's left none." 
 
 For a moment George Etherington's heart seemed 
 to stand still, as if it were clutched by an iron band. 
 His face blanched as he turned again towards the 
 detective. " Mr Spruce," he said, " have you anything 
 on your mind that you don't like to tell me ? " 
 " Well, not exactly," the detective replied. 
 " What do you mean by ' not exactly ' ? " 
 " Well, I haven't any evidence." 
 " No, no evidence, but you think — ? " 
 "Well, Mr Etherington, I'd rather not say any- 
 thing; I merely think. That isn't the way we 
 conduct our cases. I thought she was in Paris, and 
 I'm very sorry I said it. In a difficult case like this, 
 where the very simplicity of the subject baffles us far 
 more than any amount of cunning would do, we may
 
 200 MARTY 
 
 go up a dozen roads before we light on one thorough- 
 fare." 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, I know all that," said George. " You 
 are doing your best, I know, Mr Spruce. I suppose 
 I am unduly impatient, but, under the circumstances, 
 you'll — you'll understand." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I understand right enough," said the 
 detective, sympathetically, " Besides," he said, " after 
 all, it doesn't much matter what I think." 
 
 "You are right there," said George, with a grim 
 laugh. " Well, good-day, Mr Spruce. I am sorry to 
 be such a trouble to you." And then he had to go 
 home to meet the voiceless question in Mrs Benyon's 
 eyes, to see her, as he had seen her day after day for 
 weeks past, pull herself together and say, " Never 
 mind, Georgie. It will all come right in the end. 
 You are doing your best, my dear; your reward will 
 come." 
 
 If she had been a very religious woman, Mrs Benyon 
 would have given utterance to a few of those comfort- 
 ing little platitudes which seem to fill so many vacant 
 spaces in many grey and threadbare lives. She 
 would have told him probably that it was the Lord's 
 will, that he must get rid of some burden of pride ; 
 she would have reminded him that " Whom the Lord 
 loveth He chasteneth." But she did none of these 
 things. She had never had time to think much about 
 religion ; to do the right and to provide for her 
 children had always seemed to her religion enough 
 and perhaps it was as well, because this very attitude 
 of hers served to bring George Etherington nearer and 
 nearer to her. Not having been brought up in that 
 way of thinking himself, it would have been madden- 
 ing to him if Mrs Benyon had consoled him with a
 
 DRAWN NEARER 201 
 
 cut-and-dried religion. As it was, he grew nearer to 
 her with every day, and she in her turn grew more 
 and more devoted to him. 
 
 " I can't think, Georgie," said his mother to him 
 that very evening when he went to see her, " why you 
 don't come home again." 
 
 "No, mother. If I came home everybody would 
 know ; they would think that it wasn't all right with 
 Marty." 
 
 " Everybody does know, my dear," she said. 
 
 " Do they ? Yes, I suppose it was inevitable. Still, 
 they would think that I had given up hope, and I 
 haven't given up hope yet, mother." 
 
 "I don't like to put it into words, Georgie," said 
 Mrs Etherington, " but do you think there is any 
 chance — " 
 
 " Oh, say it out, mother. You may as well say it 
 as think it." 
 
 " Well, then," she said, " do you think that there is 
 any chance that the poor little girl made away with 
 herself ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said he. " Do I think about it ? " 
 he went on bitterly, " I think about nothing else. 
 It follows me round like a nightmare, from my bed to 
 my breakfast, from my breakfast to the office. When 
 I come home again it's just the same ; when I go to 
 bed, I dream of Marty with all her pretty hair 
 tangled in the water. Oh, it's horrible ! And yet — 
 and yet — I think if she were dead she would rind 
 some means of coming back to let me know ; she 
 would know what horrible suspense I have been in all 
 these many weeks, and she would have let me know, 
 mother, she would have let me know." 
 
 " There may be something in that," said Mrs
 
 202 MARTY 
 
 Etherington, thoughtfully. " Has it ever occurred 
 to you, Georgie, that it would be just as well if you 
 went round to the police-stations and made inquiries ? 
 It wouldn't bring any harm to the child." 
 
 " No ; but I expect Spruce has done that. I told 
 him to leave no stone unturned to find her. And you 
 think everybody knows ? " 
 
 " Practically everybody, my dear, practically." 
 
 " Efifie ? " 
 
 " Well, Effie heard something, and she came with a 
 great story to me about it. I shut her up." 
 
 " Oh, you did ? " 
 
 " Yes. I told her she had been exceedingly unkind 
 to you, and that between that and something some- 
 body else had said your life's happiness had been 
 entirely ruined. I was very hard on her, I was very 
 strong about it." 
 
 " I am too miserable," said George, " to be strong 
 about anything. I was indignant with Effie at one 
 time, and with Dick, too, for I thought it was beastly 
 unkind of them to take the stand they did. They 
 might have been civil and friendly without there 
 being any great intimacy. It wasn't as if Effie and I 
 had ever been great chums ; we never were, as you 
 know perfectly well, mother. When I got engaged 
 to Marty, she took a tone as if I'd been her lover, 
 instead of a very indifferent brother and nothing 
 more. I thought it was unkind, but I don't think 
 about her at all now ; I don't care whether she's paid 
 out or not, mother, dear, I don't care about anything 
 excepting getting my little girl back again. And it's 
 breaking me down ; I can't stand very much more of 
 it. I don't want to show the white feather, I am no 
 funk, as you know well enough ; it's got beyond that,
 
 DRAWN NEARER 203 
 
 it possesses me day and night. I can't get her out of 
 my head." 
 
 " My dear boy, it wouldn't be natural if you could. 
 Nobody expects you to ; nobody thinks or dreams 
 that you would get her out of your head. It's exactly 
 the same to you as it would be to your father if I 
 suddenly disappeared." 
 
 " Yes, but people seem to think because she's young, 
 because we haven't been very long together, that I 
 oughtn't to feel it." 
 
 " My dear boy," said Mrs Etherington, " I heard two 
 women talking yesterday. One was condoling with 
 the other on the loss of a baby, and she said to her : 
 ' Of course, I know you lost your son last year, and 
 he was grown up, and so you think that I oughtn't to 
 feel the loss of my baby so much.' And the other 
 woman said : ' Fifteen years ago I lost an infant, a 
 little thing six months old ; and last year I lost my 
 eldest, my first — as you say, a grown-up man — and I 
 couldn't say, my dear, that the one was a worse pang 
 than the other.' So don't you mind, Georgie, when 
 anybody seems to think you ought to make light of 
 your loss. They don't mean it, my dear. They want 
 to say comfortable things, and people's ideas of what 
 will comfort one are so strange that nothing seems to 
 come amiss. As for Effie, it doesn't matter what Effie 
 says or what Effie does. Let her mind her own con- 
 cerns ; let her live her own life and keep out of yours. 
 As for the boys, they haven't said anything to you 
 about it. They are young, they don't like even to 
 broach the subject. You mustn't think that they 
 don't feel, that they are not sorry ; they are both, 
 Georgie — just as sorry as I am." 
 
 " Yes, I gathered that," said he, " I gathered that
 
 204 MARTY 
 
 only a day or two ago. I think I'll go home, 
 mother." 
 
 " Don't go home. Stay a little longer." 
 
 " I'm always restless away from Rosediamond Road," 
 he went on. " I always think if I am out of the way 
 for an hour there may be news." 
 
 " My dear boy, if there is news it isn't ten minutes' 
 walk. Do you think her mother wouldn't come flying 
 round if there were news of any sort ? Oh, Georgie, 
 Georgie ! " 
 
 " I suppose you are right — yes, of course you are 
 right, mother ; you always are. I'm so restless I 
 can't stay anywhere. I don't know how I get through 
 my work at the office ; I do it somehow, and every- 
 body is considerate and kind to me. They excuse all 
 sorts of irregularities." 
 
 " They know ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I had to tell my chief ; and I told one of 
 the other fellows something about it. I suppose it 
 filtered through him to the rest. You can see it in 
 their looks. They don't like to ask me when I go 
 down in the morning if I've found her — they look at 
 me, and it knocks me over for the rest of the day — 
 you know." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know," said Mrs Etherington. 
 
 He sat for some minutes with his head buried in 
 his hands. Then his mother got up and went to the 
 side-table, where a maid had set a tray with a tantalus 
 and all arrangements for a drink. She mixed him a 
 whisky-and-soda, and carried it to him. 
 
 " Georgie," she said, putting her hand on his 
 shoulder, " I'm afraid you are letting yourself get too 
 low. You know, dear, I've always been so proud of 
 your carefulness and your abstemiousness, but I think
 
 DRAWN NEARER 205 
 
 you may carry that a little too far. Don't let your- 
 self get altogether too low. Drink this, dear, and have 
 a biscuit with it." 
 
 He took it because it was less trouble than to refuse, 
 and with a great effort he shook himself free of the 
 conversation that had passed between them, and 
 asked his mother if there were any news. 
 
 " No," she said, " I don't think there's any news at 
 all. You know Dick Piers has come in for a little 
 money, don't you ? " 
 
 " Has he ? Oh, I'm glad of that." 
 
 " It isn't very much — fifteen or sixteen hundred 
 pounds — but still, a nice little windfall. He didn't 
 expect it, either. It's from a godmother who never 
 took any notice of him. So he and Effie are going to 
 Paris for a little jaunt."
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 SMASHED UP! 
 
 When Marty left the bureau de placement where she 
 first received a hint that detectives were after her, 
 she determined that, come what might, she would not 
 set foot in Paris again. She hied her straight back 
 to her retreat at Vitreuil, and she determined that 
 even in that quiet country place she would not go 
 beyond the walls of the convent if she could possibly 
 avoid it. 
 
 The great question was that her money was getting 
 short. She had indeed got within a few francs of 
 her last ten pounds, and as soon as she knew that the 
 Reverend Mother was free she went and sought 
 counsel of her. 
 
 " Madame St Hilaire," she said, " I — I want to have 
 half an hour's talk with you. Can you spare me the 
 time ? " 
 
 " But most certainly, my dear madam e," said the 
 Reverend Mother, rising from her chair and going 
 towards the door, where Marty stood, a little shrinking 
 figure not very sure of her welcome. " Come in, 
 come in. Something troubles you. Oh, I have seen 
 it for days past." She closed the door behind Marty, 
 and drew her unresistingly to the bright wood fire 
 which sparkled upon the great iron dogs of the 
 
 206
 
 SMASHED UP! 207 
 
 hearth. " Now sit there in that low chair. You are 
 in trouble. You half confided in me, my poor little 
 girl, and I didn't try to force your confidence, or to 
 force my advice upon you ; I never believe in that. 
 You have come to tell me that you have changed 
 your mind, that you will let me communicate with 
 your husband ? " 
 
 " Madame St Hilaire," said Marty, looking up out of 
 the depths of the low chair with piteous eyes, " I 
 have come to do nothing of the kind." 
 
 " What, is the heart of Pharaoh still hardened ? " 
 said the Reverend Mother. 
 
 " Yes, but it is in a different way to the heart of 
 Pharaoh. His was hard with wickedness ; mine is 
 hard — if you can call it hard — from a very different 
 cause. I know that I am doing the right thing, I 
 know that I did the only thing that I could do when 
 I shut the door upon everything that makes the 
 world dear to me. You know we have a poem in our 
 language — ' Let not him that putteth his hand to the 
 plough look backwards.' I put my hand to the 
 plough, Reverend Mother, and I don't come of the 
 sort of people who ever look back." 
 
 " I'm sorry," said Madame St Hilaire, " I'm very 
 sorry. I wish it had been otherwise. However, you 
 came, my child, to ask my advice. You'll do better 
 to ask it of Monsieur l'AbbeV' 
 
 "No, I am afraid of Monsieur l'Abbe. I — I fear 
 priests, and I dread men. I could talk freely to 
 you if you'll let me ; you'll advise me as a 
 woman." 
 
 " But you won't take my advice. I advised you 
 before." 
 
 ' I am not going to ask it on that subject. I want
 
 208 MARTY 
 
 to tell you that I have had the offer of a place in 
 Russia." 
 
 " In Russia ? Indeed, you are anxious to put the 
 world between you and yours." 
 
 " Yes, I would put two worlds between me and 
 mine it' I didn't believe it to be wicked, or perhaps — 
 who knows ? — if I had courage enough. I daren't do 
 that— I won't, anyway. But this place in Russia, if 
 you recommend me for it, it is mine." 
 
 " To do what ? " asked the Reverend Mother. 
 
 "Oh, Madame St Hilaire, it is to be companion 
 to a young girl, a girl of noble family; to teach 
 her English, to be bright and friendly with her, a 
 sort of reading without tears if you understand 
 
 me. 
 
 "My dear child," said Madame St Hilaire, "you 
 have asked my advice. Well, I give it to you. It is 
 — do not go to Russia. You have never been in Russia, 
 but I have. I wouldn't advise any young girl of no 
 experience of the climate to dream of taking her 
 permanent residence in that country. You are not of 
 their Church, nor of ours ; you are Protestant ; that 
 would be against you. You don't understand the 
 Russian temperament; that would be against you. 
 You would get terribly home-sick, you would — oh, I 
 strongly advise you not to go." 
 
 " I must go somewhere. I must do something for 
 a living," said Marty. " My money has almost come 
 to an end." 
 
 " Don't go further away from your own people and 
 your own home than you are now, my child," said 
 the Reverend Mother, a half-wistful sadness creeping 
 over her mobile face. "Don't put further miles 
 between you and your chances of happiness."
 
 SMASHED UP! 209 
 
 "Oh, you are thinking of what is impossible, 
 madame," said Marty. 
 
 " Perhaps. After all, isn't the impossible the ideal, 
 the truly ideal ? Still, my experience, my instinct 
 alike tell me that you will find Russia no place 
 for you, they tell me to warn you against going 
 there." 
 
 " But what must I do ? " cried Marty. 
 
 For a moment the Reverend Mother remained lost 
 in thought. Then she roused herself from her 
 reverie. " If I were to offer you a sphere of usefulness 
 no further away from England than you are now, 
 how would that content you ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I should be thankful," said Marty. 
 
 "Then stop where you are — yes, stop where you 
 are. You need go no further away from where you 
 are now than into the various class - rooms and 
 departments of this establishment. Stay with us. 
 We are poor, we cannot give you much money ; we 
 can give you a home, we can give you consideration ; 
 we can give you work." 
 
 " What kind of work ? " said Marty. 
 
 "You can read English with the advanced girls. 
 You can do all manner of things for me. Oh, there 
 are a thousand and one things. And we'll give you 
 each term a honorarium which will show you that, 
 though poor, we are grateful." 
 
 It was then that Marty broke down, and somehow 
 found herself enfolded in the Reverend Mother's 
 arms, and in imminent danger of being smothered by 
 the saintly robes. Poor Marty ! She struggled free 
 in a few minutes, and sat up dabbing her eyes fiercely 
 with a little cambric pocket-handkerchief. " I don't 
 know what to say," she said. " You are too good, too 
 
 O
 
 2io MARTY 
 
 good. I'll do my best, madame. There's nothing I 
 won't do. I'm a very useful person ; I'll do anything 
 that you tell me." 
 
 " Will you consult Monsieur l'Abbe ? Will you 
 confide in him ? " 
 
 Marty drew back. " No, I would rather go by 
 your instinct." 
 
 " My instinct is that you should confide in Monsieur 
 l'Abbe." 
 
 " No, no, madame, not in any man. He wouldn't 
 understand, and as he has never been married, he 
 would understand less." 
 
 " His judgment would be less biassed." 
 
 " No, madame, no, not in Monsieur l'Abbe. I'll work 
 for you, I'll slave for you. And you'll keep me safe 
 here, you won't send me to do things in Paris, where 
 I might be found out ? " 
 
 Now, if the truth be told, Madame St Hilaire was 
 just as foolish as Marty. If she had been as worldly- 
 wise as she credited Monsieur l'Abbe with being, she 
 would have consulted that good Father without any 
 scruples such as having Marty's permission, and he, 
 probably, being, as she had truly said, a man of 
 the world, would have told her that the quickest 
 and best way was to send Marty's description and 
 the date of her arrival at Vitreuil to the London 
 police. But Madame St Hilaire, in her reverend 
 capacity as Mother of the Convent of Notre Dame 
 de Providence at Vitreuil, never thought of such a 
 thing. 
 
 And so Marty took up her new position as English 
 teacher and general factotum to the establishment. 
 She did not undertake all the English lessons, but 
 she gave the dictations, she heard the readings, the
 
 SMASHED UP! 211 
 
 grammatical part of the course, and the translation 
 from English into French, and from French into 
 English, was done by those who had done it before, 
 those who spoke both languages, otherwise chiefly by 
 Madame Angelique. Then there were many little 
 duties which she found for herself. Marty had a 
 very pretty taste for millinery, and she turned it to 
 account in this wise : all the children in the convent 
 wore a particular kind of hat — I mean wore a hat of 
 the same pattern — and these hats cost from fifteen to 
 twenty francs a-piece. Marty suggested that if 
 Madame St Hilaire would order a pattern hat, she 
 would make the rest ; and so she did. There were 
 some bits of sewing to do, such as did not come 
 within the scope of the ordinary needle-woman 
 within the establishment; one or two girls were 
 stricken down with the influenza, and then there 
 was a slight outbreak of chicken-pox, and in all these 
 emergencies Marty proved herself invaluable, for she 
 was, as far as an untrained person could be, an 
 excellent nurse. 
 
 So the cold and dreary winter days went by, and 
 several times madame, when she was blue as to her 
 finger-tips and red as to her ears, reminded her with 
 a smile that this was mild and open weather com- 
 pared to what she would have found in Russia 
 and congratulated her on her common sense in having 
 remained safely with them at Vitreuil. 
 
 If December and January had been severe, 
 February was mild and open, and Marty spent all 
 her leisure hours — and they were not many — in the 
 great garden at the back of the convent. It was 
 really her first introduction to Nature. All her 
 life she had lived in London streets, excepting for
 
 212 MARTY 
 
 the two years that she had spent in a fashionable 
 south-coast school. She knew little or nothing of 
 times and seasons beyond as they were dictated by 
 fashion ; she knew less of budding and leafing, of the 
 twitter of birds, and the signs of the sky, of soft 
 winds that had come gently sweeping over the fresh- 
 turned fields, or whistling and muttering through the 
 pine woods. Indeed, the times when she was almost 
 happy were the times that she spent in the garden, 
 far enough away from the various class-rooms to be 
 out of sound of the monotonous dirge of the children 
 within. And then, just as February was drawing to 
 a close, something happened to break the monotony 
 of existence. 
 
 It happened that Marty had been exceedingly busy 
 from the first to the second dejeuner. Asa matter of 
 fact, they were going to have a party in the convent, 
 and she had offered to make certain cakes and sweets 
 in anticipation thereof, consequently she had been 
 exceedingly busy all the morning, and as she had no 
 English work that day, she was glad when the 
 second dejeuner was over to go out and breathe the 
 air under the great elm trees in the farthest garden. 
 Up and down she went, watching the rooks building 
 in the tall trees overhead, listening to their discordant 
 voices, wondering what they were saying to each 
 other, wondering, with quaint fancy, whether they 
 were cawing in French or English, or in a universal 
 language common to birds whether in Kamschatka or 
 Timbuctoo. And then Madame Angelique came 
 running quickly along the laurel-bordered pathway 
 which led from the house. 
 
 " Madame ! Madame Johnson ! " she cried. " Do 
 please come in. There has been a terrible accident
 
 SMASHED UP! 213 
 
 outside. A motor car has been blown up — people 
 killed — wounded — legs all over the roadway ! 
 Oh, terrible, terrible ! And they are bringing them 
 into the convent. Do come, I entreat of you, 
 come ! "
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 BROUGHT TOGETHER 
 
 Marty ran panting to the grande porte. Already a 
 dozen people had gathered in the roadway. The first 
 object that struck her eye was the motor car, lying a 
 hideous smashed heap on the other side of the road. 
 Almost under it she could see the figure of a man in 
 an oilskin coat ; while a couple of men were carrying 
 a lady, dressed in a long fur paletot, towards the 
 door where she stood. Madame St Hilaire, white as 
 a sheet, but preserving her nerve admirably, was 
 directing them to carry her into the jparloir. Her 
 head was turned on one side, and moreover was 
 enveloped with a thick gauze veil, so that Marty 
 could not see her face. 
 
 " Quite unconscious," said Madame St Hilaire, " if 
 not already dead. She never moved when they 
 lifted her up." 
 
 Marty, who was a girl always good in an 
 emergency, ran out to where the man in the oilskin 
 coat was lying. " He is alive, madame," she said. 
 "He is not dead." 
 
 " Then do two of you," said Madame St Hilaire, 
 speaking to the onlookers, " carry him within doors. 
 Has anyone already gone for the doctor ? " 
 
 " Yes, two people for two doctors," was the ready 
 
 214
 
 BROUGHT TOGETHER 215 
 
 response. " Here, Jacques," the man continued, " you 
 are bigger than I — take his head, I'll take his legs." 
 
 Unlike the lady, the poor fellow in the road 
 uttered a deep groan as they raised him, and as 
 Marty turned her attention to the prostrate figure 
 under the motor car, the doctor who attended the 
 convent came running up. 
 
 " Ah, very bad, very bad ! " he exclaimed. " Poor 
 fellow, these motor cars are so dangerous. Georges, 
 pull that stick out of the hedge. Yes. Now then 
 put it under the wheel — three or four of you raise all 
 you know. Jean, you help me to draw him gently 
 out." 
 
 In a moment the directions had been carried into 
 effect, and the quiet figure which had been concealed 
 by the motor car drawn into full view. 
 
 " All over," said the doctor ; " quite dead. Oh, yes, 
 better carry him into the convent. You won't object, 
 madame ? " 
 
 "Oh, but, monsieur, how could I object to any- 
 thing ? " said madame, raising her hands, palm out- 
 wards, to the level of her ears. " Not into the parloir, 
 Georges Deval, not into the parloir. Better carry 
 him through into the little room between the parloir 
 and the chapel. Go round the other way — through 
 the refectoire. No need to let the others see that 
 he is dead. Such a shock ! " she said to the doctor. 
 
 "Ah, madame, that is where you are so wise," 
 responded the doctor. " Poor fellow ! Does anyone 
 know him ? " 
 
 "But yes," said a voice from the crowd. "It is 
 Marcel St Etienne, a chauffeur in the employ of 
 Monsieur Martin." 
 
 " Of course, of course. So it is. I thought I knew
 
 216 MARTY 
 
 him, poor fellow. Now, madame, will you tell me 
 where you have taken the others ? " 
 
 The doctor turned and went into the house, 
 accompanied by the Reverend Mother. Marty 
 followed, eager and anxious to be of the smallest 
 use. He turned his first attention to the man, who 
 was lying on the floor groaning loudly. "Dear, 
 dear, dear ! Leg broken — arm broken. Ah, my 
 man " — he turned round to one of the helpers who 
 was standing by — "get me another doctor at once. 
 Madame St Hilaire, where are these poor people 
 to go?" 
 
 " We have plenty of rooms. They are ready now ; 
 we always keep rooms in readiness." 
 
 " Have you got an ironing-board ? " asked the 
 doctor. 
 
 " Yes, oh, yes." 
 
 " Send for it, will you, please ? " 
 
 As the words left his lips a colleague arrived who 
 had been found at a little distance. " Oh, is that 
 you, Deschamps?" said the doctor. "I'm thankful 
 to see you. I've just sent somebody off for another 
 doctor if he could find him. Ugly accident. Poor 
 Marcel St Etienne, you know, chauffeur at Martin's 
 — dead as a door nail in the little room by the chapel. 
 This poor fellow here has got a broken arm and a 
 broken leg. Let us look at the lady while they get 
 the board to carry him upstairs on." 
 
 The lady was still quite unconscious. " We can 
 leave her very well where she is until we've attended 
 to this poor soul," said Dr Chaunce. Now, Georges, 
 my friend, put your strong hands under his shoulder 
 —yes. Mind that leg, Deschamps. There, we've got 
 it!"
 
 BROUGHT TOGETHER 217 
 
 The unfortunate man uttered a terrible groan, in 
 spite of all their care, and the next minute a sad 
 little procession wended its -way through the entrance 
 cour and up the stairs leading to the principal bed- 
 rooms. 
 
 "This way, this way, doctor," said Madame St 
 Hilaire. 
 
 The Reverend Mother herself remained in the room 
 while the doctors did all that was necessary to make 
 the stranger comfortable. 
 
 " He looks like an Englishman," said Dr Chaunce 
 to his colleague. 
 
 "Yes, his clothes look English." 
 
 " Now what about the lady, madame ? You'll leave 
 somebody here with him ? I should like you to come 
 with us; you'll be more useful than anyone else. 
 Iron nerves, my dear lady, iron nerves, that is the 
 best thing for a doctor ; squeamishness and fainting- 
 fits and feminine weakness are terribly trying to us 
 in an affair like this." 
 
 "I think," said madame, "I'll leave our little 
 English lady to watch by him, since you think he 
 is English." 
 
 So Marty was told by Dr Chaunce exactly what 
 to do in case the patient awoke and required any- 
 thing. "Above all things," said the doctor, "keep 
 him quiet. Tell him his wife — or his sister — is not 
 much the worse for her fall. Even if she's dead," 
 he added, in a lower tone, " there's no need to let 
 him know." 
 
 So Marty remained. She stood by the bed looking 
 down at the poor victim to the march of modern 
 times, wondering whether he was indeed a com- 
 patriot of hers or not. There was something
 
 218 MARTY 
 
 strangely familiar about liirn, and yet it was a face 
 that she did not know. He was a tall man, dark 
 and clean-shaven, and about thirty years of age. 
 She glanced at his watch, which was lying on the 
 table together with his purse and private papers. 
 It was a handsome gold watch, and bore on the 
 back a crest, a Latin motto, and the initials, 
 "R. W. P." 
 
 "I never knew anybody with initials 'R. W. P.," 
 said Marty, " yet I seem to know him. I feel as if 
 I had seen him before." Then she bent down over 
 the bed as the sick man stirred. " Do you want 
 anything ? " she asked in a very gentle voice. 
 
 " Where the devil am I ? " was the reply. 
 
 "You are in the Convent of Notre Dame de 
 Providence at Vitreuil," said Marty. "You are 
 English ? " 
 
 "Yes, I am English. Did — did I say something 
 rude just now ? " 
 
 " Oh, not at all. You have had an accident." 
 
 " Have I ? I feel very stiff and queer. My wife — 
 she was with me, wasn't she ? " 
 
 "Yes, she's not much hurt. They are attending 
 to her now. She's not nearly so much hurt as 
 you were." 
 
 " Motor car did you say it was ? " 
 
 "Yes, it was a motor car. It smashed up." 
 
 " I'm so thirsty," he said. 
 
 She raised his head a little and gave him a 
 drink of the weak brandy and water ordered by 
 the doctor. 
 
 " Ah, that's better. It's awfully weak, though." 
 
 " It's what the doctor has left for you. He'll come 
 back and see you presently."
 
 BROUGHT TOGETHER 219 
 
 " What's the matter with my arm ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid you have broken it," said Marty. " I 
 wouldn't talk if I were you ; the more quiet you can 
 keep yourself the better." 
 
 " Oh, I must talk, madame. Who are you ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " My name is — I'm called Johnson." 
 
 "I see. Well, Miss Johnson, I feel very shaky. 
 I wish you would be kind enough to go and find out 
 definitely how my wife is. Is she in the house ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes, in the next room. I assure you } r ou 
 needn't worry about her. She's not as much hurt as 
 you were ; in fact, I don't think she was more than a 
 little stunned, but I'll go and find out, just to set your 
 mind at rest." 
 
 " Thank you so much," said he. " You are awfully 
 kind. Since we've been smashed up and taken into 
 a French convent, it's a comfort to find an English 
 woman there too." 
 
 He turned his head wearily on one side and seemed 
 to dose. Then Marty crept softly out and sought the 
 room where they had carried the lady. She went in 
 quietly. The doctors had completed their examina- 
 tion, and with the aid of Madame St Hilaire were 
 just settling the patient, dressed in a nightgown of 
 the tallest pupil of the establishment, in her bed. 
 
 " How is she ? " asked Marty. " Her husband is 
 very anxious to know. He is awake." 
 
 " There's nothing broken," said Dr Deschamps, 
 " but she hasn't come to herself yet." 
 
 " What shall I tell him ? " 
 
 " Well, I hardly know what to tell him. There 
 may be internal injuries. We can't tell until she 
 comes to herself. There's nothing broken. Better
 
 220 MARTY 
 
 say she's somewhat stunned and shaken. Did he 
 tell you their name ? " 
 
 " No ; they are English." 
 
 " Yes, we thought so." 
 
 " How does she look ? " said Marty, advancing 
 softly towards the bed. 
 
 "Oh, as people always look in such a situation," 
 replied the doctor, with a shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 " You'll get nurses in ? " 
 
 " Nurses ? Oh, it isn't necessary at present, but 
 we'll see later in the day." 
 
 Dr Chaunce caught the words and turned round. 
 " These people are evidently extremely well off," 
 he said. "The lady has a number of very fine 
 rino-s and several diamond brooches. Her watch," 
 taking up a watch-bracelet from a table beside the 
 bed, " has been badly smashed, but it is surrounded 
 by fine diamonds and sapphires, three or four of 
 which are missing. I don't know whether it would 
 be worth anyone's while to go out and look for them 
 in the road. From my not very wide experience of 
 the English, I consider they expect to be nursed by 
 professional nurses. The English are a practical 
 nation," he added in a lower tone. " I think there's 
 nothing like a good English nurse from that establish- 
 ment in the Rue St Brieux." 
 
 Meantime, Marty had gone quite near to the bed. 
 The lady was lying with her face turned away. She 
 could see that the outline of the face was very pretty ; 
 a long fringe of dark eyelashes swept the rounded 
 cheek ; the nose was fine and small ; the hair grew 
 sweetly on the low brow ; the ear was dainty and 
 shell-like ; the throat long and slender ; the hand 
 lying outside the coverlet was, as the doctor had
 
 BROUGHT TOGETHER 221 
 
 said, adorned with costly rings ; and it was a white 
 and delicate hand, well worthy of its adornments. 
 
 For a moment, Marty stood looking down upon 
 her. Then some instinct made her turn and go 
 round to the other side of the bed, where she could 
 have a full view of the patient. In a moment she 
 understood the strange feeling of familiarity that 
 had puzzled her in the case of the husband, for the 
 girl lying in the bed before her was George Ethering- 
 ton's sister — Mrs Dick Piers !
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 SO FAR AND YET SO NEAR 
 
 When Marty realised that she had been brought 
 suddenly, without a word of warning and without 
 the possibility of retreat, into touch with her own 
 life again, her legs fairly gave under her, and she 
 sank down upon a chair by the bed wondering 
 what in the world she should do next. There was 
 no possibility of escape — none, none, none! She had 
 remained on at the convent in order to fill a certain 
 place, and the duties of that place were that she 
 should lend a hand with any nursing that might 
 have to be done in the establishment. Surely now 
 that there were two of her own compatriots flung 
 senseless at their door, she could not hold her hand 
 for private reasons, she could not draw back and say 
 that she was off her bargain. Would they know her ? 
 Certainly Dick Piers had not recognised her during 
 the brief conversation which she had held with him. 
 Perhaps they would never know her at all ; perhaps 
 George's sister had never noticed her on the one 
 occasion that they had met in Hyde Park. She 
 remembered, as if it had been but the previous day, 
 the scorching glance of fine scorn with which the 
 eyes of George's sister had travelled down from the 
 crown of her head to the toes of her little shoes ; but 
 they had not especially lingered on her face. 
 
 222
 
 SO FAR AND YET SO NEAR 223 
 
 She waited until Sister Angelique came to re- 
 lieve her. 
 
 "You'll go to the English gentleman now," said 
 Madame Angelique, " won't you ? " 
 
 "I will in five minutes. I am not too comfort- 
 able in a sick-room like this. I must put on my 
 apron, and just wash my face and hands. I won't 
 be five minutes. Will you go to him if he calls ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I will. She, poor thing, requires no 
 nursing at present." 
 
 Once in the shelter of her own bedroom, Marty 
 carried out the plan which she had already formed 
 in her mind. She drew the hairpins out of the 
 great loose knot of hair at the back of her head 
 and let it fall in a rich rippling shower all over 
 her shoulders. Then she took her stiftest brush 
 and brushed up the whole of her crown of glory 
 into a plain tight knob, brushing it well back 
 from her face, and entirely altering its expression 
 and almost the set of the features. For Marty 
 had never worn a fringe. She had hair that 
 curled naturally, and she had worn it simply 
 loosely gathered about her head so as to make a 
 frame for her piquant little face. Brushed tightly 
 back, as if she were going into a bath, it must be 
 owned that a great deal of her charm and attrac- 
 tiveness of appearance disappeared. Then she 
 slipped on her blue serge gown, put a little white 
 collar of French cambric at the throat, and tied 
 round her one of the big-bibbed linen aprons which 
 she had made herself for this purpose. " They'll 
 think I'm an ordinary nurse," she said. Then, with 
 a last shuddering look at her reflection in the glass, 
 she turned and went back to the sick man's room.
 
 224 MARTY 
 
 "I have been alone for an hour," was his greet- 
 ing as Marty entered, 
 
 " Oh, no, no, not for an hour. Not ten minutes." 
 
 " How is my wife ? " he asked, not noticing her 
 reply. 
 
 " She has not come to herself yet, but I don't 
 think there's much the matter with her." 
 
 "I should like to go and see her." 
 
 "That is quite impossible," she declared. "It is 
 as much as your life, and certainly mine, are worth, 
 to let you stir one step out of that bed until the 
 doctor gives you leave. You don't know how stern 
 French doctors can be." 
 
 "Ah, yes, of course I'm in France. Ton my 
 soul, I'd forgotten. They'll let me know as. soon 
 as there is something to tell about my wife, won't 
 they ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. You mustn't worry yourself about her. 
 She looks quite comfortable. I've just been in her 
 room. She'll wake up presently, and I think you'll 
 find there's not very much amiss with her. Mean- 
 time, you would like a little of this, wouldn't you ? 
 I'm sure you are thirsty." 
 
 " Oh, thanks, thanks." He lifted his head an 
 inch or two, and she put the glass of milk and 
 soda-water to his lips. "It's mighty poor tipple," 
 he said, " but it's refreshing. Are you a nurse ? " 
 
 ' Yes, I am your nurse," she replied. 
 
 "You are English?" 
 
 "I am English, yes." 
 
 " What is your name ? " 
 
 " I told you before I am called Johnson." 
 
 "Ah, yes. Surely, by the look of your hand, 
 you are married 1 "
 
 SO FAR AND YET SO NEAR 225 
 
 "I have been married," said Marty, wondering at 
 her own marvellous self-control. 
 
 "Well, I'm very glad you happened to be some- 
 where about since we've got smashed up. Do you 
 live in this village ? " 
 
 "Yes, I've been living here for a long time." 
 
 "I see.- I think, by -the -bye, nurse, that you 
 had better write home." Marty's heart stood still 
 again. "My people ought to know — my wife's 
 people ought to know. They'll wonder what has 
 happened to us. Somebody ought to let the people 
 at the hotel in Paris know where we are. They'll 
 think we've absconded, and they'll sell our trunks 
 and things." 
 
 " Where were you staying ? " 
 
 " Oh, we were at the Hotel St Jaimes. And if 
 you would write home to my wife's people, I think 
 that would be the best way. Perhaps — I wonder 
 whether they'll think it necessary to come tearing 
 after her ? If you were to write to my wife's 
 mother — " 
 
 "Yes," said Marty, "and her name is — ?" 
 
 " Etherington. Mrs Etherington, No. 20 Port- 
 rush Villas, Kensington." 
 
 The ghost of a smile nickered over Marty's face 
 to think that she, Marty Etherington, should be 
 standing there by Dick Piers's bed, quietly listen- 
 ing while he instructed her in her own mother-in- 
 law's name and address ! But for her fear of 
 being found out, her determination at any cost to 
 herself to stick to what she believed to be the 
 right course, Marty would have laughed aloud, 
 shrieked with laughing, laughed till the tears stood 
 in her eyes and even ran down her cheeks. But 
 
 P
 
 226 MARTY 
 
 all that Marty permitted herself to do was to smile 
 that little thin ghost of a smile which Dick Piers 
 never saw. 
 
 "I'll see that she's written to," she said reassur- 
 ingly. "There's no need to write for several hours. 
 The post has just gone. There won't be another 
 until nine o'clock — not out of Vitreuil." 
 
 " Vitreuil ? Is that the name of the place ? " 
 
 "Yes. I'll see to it that your wife's mother is 
 written to in time to catch that. It will be better 
 to give her the latest news, don't you think ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, nurse, certainly. You are perfectly 
 right. By-the-bye, do you prefer to be called ' nurse ' 
 or ' Mrs Johnson ' ? " 
 
 " The name one goes by is no matter," said Marty. 
 " Just use the most convenient and pleasing to your- 
 self. I believe in invalids being coddled, and not 
 worried over trifles." 
 
 " Well then I'll say ' nurse.' It comes more easily. 
 I wish you would go into that room, wherever she 
 is, and see how my wife is." 
 
 Full twenty times did Martjr make a similar 
 pilgrimage during the next two hours, and it was 
 not until after six o'clock in the evening that 
 Mrs Piers gave the smallest sign of returning 
 consciousness. She first opened her eyes while 
 Dr Chaunce was paying a visit, probably dis- 
 turbed by the fact that he was feeling her pulse 
 and otherwise quietly examining her. Marty was 
 standing on the opposite side of the bed to him, 
 and it was upon her that Mrs Piers first fixed her 
 eyes after she had opened them. 
 
 " Where am I ? " she said faintly. 
 
 ' You are quite safe and among friends. You have
 
 SO FAR AND YET SO NEAR 227 
 
 had an accident," said Marty, quietly. " This is the 
 doctor with you now." 
 
 " Oh, who are you ? " 
 
 " I am nursing you until another nurse comes," 
 said Marty, passing her hand across her eyes. 
 
 " I see. Where's — where's Dick — my husband ? 
 Was he hurt ? I — can't remember anything." 
 
 " Yes, he was hurt, but he's been quite himself, as 
 far as his head was concerned, for hours. You 
 needn't worry about him. He can't come to see you 
 because he's broken his leg. The doctor wants to 
 make a little closer examination of you and see 
 whether you are hurt at all." 
 
 " Oh, yes. But you are sure Dick isn't in 
 danger ? " 
 
 "Oh, dear, no. Just a clean break. Nothing you 
 need worry about, only it keeps him in his bed. Can 
 you turn over ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Well, try." 
 
 Marty rapidly communicated what she had said to 
 the doctor, who immediately asked the English lady 
 if she understood French. She did, but it was not 
 the French of one who has lived in France, and the 
 doctor's English was not the kind of English of one 
 who has lived in England. Between the two 
 he uaturally reverted to interpretation by means of 
 Marty. 
 
 " Ask the lady if she can turn herself over," he said. 
 
 No, she could not turn herself in bed. She seemed 
 to have no power. She felt no pain anywhere, only 
 light in her head — disagreeably light in her head. 
 Was the doctor quite sure that her husband was not 
 in danger ?
 
 228 MARTY 
 
 " Madame may make herself perfectly content 
 on that point," said Dr Chaunce. " Now, Madame 
 Johnson, let us see if we cannot turn madame over a 
 little, and let me look at her back. I want to make 
 quite sure that the ribs are all right." 
 
 Finally he declared that nothing was broken, and 
 nothing seriously injured ; that madame must be 
 content to lie perfectly quiet in her bed for the next 
 few days. " Not so long as your husband will have 
 to lie until his broken leg is mended," he said kindly 
 enough. "And madame must take everything that 
 her nurses offer her in the way of nourishment, and, 
 above all things, she must not worry about anything 
 at all." 
 
 Then Marty, having given Mrs Piers some good 
 strong bouillon, and made her promise to lie still and 
 try to sleep, went off to tell Dick Piers the good 
 news. 
 
 " You'll write to her mother, won't you ? " he said 
 when he had heard what Marty had to tell him. 
 
 " Her mother shall be written to, certainly," said 
 Marty. " I'll wait until half-past eight. The post- 
 box is in the wall of the convent, so you need be 
 under no apprehension about that." 
 
 "And you are sure she is not seriously hurt, 
 nurse ? " 
 
 " I am as sure as I can be of anything. She is 
 stunned. The doctor wants her to lie still, but he 
 told her she would not have to lie as long as you 
 will." 
 
 " And you'll send up to the hotel ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, we'll send up this evening. Shall I tell 
 them to keep your things there or to send them down 
 here ? "
 
 SO FAR AND YET SO NEAR 229 
 
 " I think they had better send them down here," 
 said he. " Goodness knows how long we may be kept 
 prisoners." 
 
 "Well, you needn't worry about that," said Marty. 
 " There is one comfort about a convent, and that is 
 that you won't stay too long for them."
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 A DIFFICULT PATIENT 
 
 It was just eight o'clock when the English nurse 
 arrived from Paris. Marty was summoned to receive 
 her, she having been the one left in charge of the 
 two patients by Dr Chaunce. The nurse was a tall, 
 capable young woman, with an alert, brisk manner. 
 She scrutinised Marty with a keen professional 
 eye. 
 
 " Surely you are not a nurse ? " she said. 
 
 Marty laughed deprecatingly. " No, nurse, I am 
 not exactly a nurse, but I have made myself into the 
 best imitation of one that I could until your arrival to 
 take the cases and the responsibility off my hands." 
 
 " Bad cases ? Accident ? or what ? " 
 
 " An accident," Marty replied. " A motor car 
 smashed up just at the door here, and the chauffeur 
 was killed outright — dead as a door-nail. The lady 
 and gentleman are pretty smashed about ; he with 
 broken arm aud leg, she in paiu — apparently nothing 
 broken — stunned sort of feeling, and the doctor is 
 afraid some injury to the spine. Both very anxious 
 about each other. Before you go to see them, I want 
 you to write home to the lady's mother." 
 
 " I ? Why don't you write ? " 
 
 " I'd rather not. Look here, nurse, can I speak to 
 you in confidence — strict confidence ? " 
 
 230
 
 A DIFFICULT PATIENT 231 
 
 " Why, of course. By the way, do you mind telling 
 me your name ? " 
 
 "I'm called Johnson," said Marty. 
 " Miss Johnson ? " 
 " Mrs Johnson," corrected Marty. 
 " Oh, really. You look so absurdly young to be 
 married." 
 
 '• I am not very old," said Marty. " You are 
 Nurse Vincent, I see," glancing at the paper in her 
 hand. 
 
 " Yes, that is my name. I came out of queer old- 
 world Cornwall, trained three years and a half in 
 London, then I came straight to Paris, and here I 
 have been for the last seven years. Well, what were 
 you going to tell me ? " 
 
 " I only tell you," said Marty, " because I have got 
 to, and if you don't keep counsel — " 
 
 " Oh, I shall keep counsel. A nurse with ten years' 
 experience knows how to hold her tongue." 
 
 " Well, I happen to know some of these people. I 
 don't want to be the one to write home." 
 " I see." 
 
 " Though I don't know this lady and gentleman — 
 I never met them — I do know her mother, and she 
 would know my handwriting. I don't want her to 
 know that I am here." 
 
 " Very well. Shall I write now ? What time does 
 the post go out ? " 
 
 " In an hour. If you will come into my room I'll 
 tell you what I want you to say." 
 
 " All right," said the nurse. " You just dictate it 
 to me and it will be all right." 
 
 So Marty led the way to her own room and 
 established the newcomer at her own little writing-
 
 232 MARTY 
 
 table. She sat down on the other side of it and 
 dictated the letter which would carry home the news 
 of the motor accident to Mrs Piers's relations. 
 
 " Dear Madam," — it ran, — " I regret to have to in- 
 form you that early this afternoon your daughter and 
 son-in-law, Mrs and Mrs Piers, met with a serious motor 
 car accident just at the door of this convent. The 
 chauffeur was killed outright. Mr Piers has sustained 
 a broken arm and leg, and Mrs Piers is badly stunned. 
 She regained consciousness after some time, and both 
 desire that you should be written to, but beg that 
 you will not think it necessary to come unless we 
 should advise you to do so by telegram later on. 
 You may be sure, madam, that they are in good 
 hands with the good Sisters who conduct this house. 
 Two doctors have been in attendance, and I have 
 just arrived from Paris to take charge of the cases. 
 There is also a young English lady staying in the 
 house who will assist me, and, if necessary, another 
 nurse will be procured from Paris, but we do not 
 anticipate that the necessity for this will arise. — I 
 am, dear Madam, faithfully yours, 
 
 " Helen Vincent, 
 
 " Mirse." 
 
 " Now, nurse," said Marty, " while you are 
 arranging your things and rigging yourself up I'll 
 trot down and put this in the letter-box, and then 
 that will be off my mind. I know both of them will 
 say at once when they see me, ( Have you written 
 home ? ' " 
 
 Ten minutes after this Nurse Vincent was 
 introduced to the rooms of her respective patients. 
 Marty took her to see Dick Piers first.
 
 A DIFFICULT PATIENT 233 
 
 " Good evening, nurse," he said. " Find me tied by 
 the leg literally." 
 
 "Yes, I've heard about it," said Nurse Vincent, 
 cheerfully. " But nowadays a broken leg isn't very 
 much. They'll have you walking about on crutches 
 in a week or so. I suppose it was only a simple 
 fracture ? " 
 
 " I don't know, I'm sure. It hurt confoundedly 
 putting up into this concern," nodding towards the 
 cage on the bed. 
 
 " Ah, well, you must be very patient. I'll do my 
 best for you. You'll find me a very nice, cheerful nurse, 
 and it will soon be all right. You are young and 
 strong ; young bones mend quickly. And now I'm 
 going to see Mrs Piers." 
 
 " Tell me exactly what you think of her," said he. 
 
 "Oh, yes, exactly what I think of her," returned 
 the nurse. 
 
 " Will you really ? " said Marty, as she closed the 
 door of the room behind her. 
 
 " My goodness, no ! If I think she's got nothing the 
 matter with her I'll tell him so. If I think she has, 
 I'll make light of it. I don't worry patients with a 
 couple of broken limbs, my dear lady. If I didn't 
 know when and how to tell the truth I should think 
 myself a poor kind of a nurse." 
 
 " I know nothing about it. I never nursed any- 
 body in my life except an old servant who had the 
 influenza." 
 
 " That's not much qualification," remarked the 
 nurse, with a laugh. 
 
 Then Marty opened the door of Mrs Piers's room 
 and motioned the nurse to pass in. The patient there 
 was half asleep — that is to say, she had been asleep for
 
 234 MARTY 
 
 a short time and had waked up a little inclined to be 
 
 fretful. 
 
 " Who is that ? " she asked. " Oh, is that you, Mrs 
 
 Johnston ? Who is that with you ? " 
 
 " It is the nurse come to take charge of your case." 
 " I don't want a nurse. You can do quite well for 
 
 me. 
 
 " No, no," said Marty. " I was quite well able to 
 take charge until somebody better could be got, but 
 remember your husband has a broken leg to think of, 
 and although the doctors don't think much of a 
 broken leg nowadays, it wouldn't do to have no 
 nurse to look after it, would it ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. I didn't mean to be disagreeable, nurse, 
 but there's nothing the matter with me at all. I am 
 only so bumped, and I feel so — well, I feel so played 
 out. I don't really think there's anything the matter 
 with me at all." 
 
 "You had just a bad shaking, from what Mrs 
 Johnson tells me," said the nurse, quietly. " And a 
 very nasty thing, too. I wouldn't worry about 
 getting up for a day or two. Let me take care of 
 you and look after you, and you'll soon be yourself 
 
 again 
 
 " Have you written home ? " said Mrs Piers, look- 
 ing at Marty. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; it's all right. I posted the letter ten 
 
 minutes ago." 
 
 "That's all right. Did you tell them not to 
 
 come ? " 
 
 " I told your mother that your wish and that of 
 your husband was that she shouldn't come, and that 
 I would advise her by telegram if there were any 
 change for the worse."
 
 A DIFFICULT PATIENT 235 
 
 "Thank you. I suppose I ought to want my 
 mother to come now that we've got smashed up, but 
 it would be bothering her for nothing, and we are in 
 good hands. Thank you so much for writing." 
 
 She turned her head on her pillow with an evident 
 desire to finish the conversation. The nurse put one 
 or two things straight and began to busy herself 
 about the room. 
 
 During the days that followed Nurse Vincent was a 
 good deal puzzled. So was the doctor. The morning 
 after the accident they made a very close examination 
 of Mrs Piers's back, feeling and prodding and tapping 
 her spine along its entire length. 
 
 " Now try and turn yourself over," he said to her. 
 
 "leant." 
 
 "Try. Make an effort. Explain to madame," he 
 said to Nurse Vincent. 
 
 " The doctor want's you to try and lift yourself a 
 little." 
 
 " No," said Effie, " I am quite powerless. The 
 doctor knows that as well as I do. I've broken my 
 back." 
 
 Nurse Vincent translated her words to the doctor. 
 " Madame has certainly not broken her back," he said 
 positively, " or in any way badly injured it. She has 
 been badly stunned, and the spine has been jarred 
 but there is no serious injury, of that I am certain. 
 I would stake my entire reputation upon it." 
 
 " What does he say ? " said Effie. She understood 
 most of his remarks, but it suited her to have their 
 exact meaning translated. 
 
 " He says you have not broken your back, or in any 
 way seriously injured it. You have jarred yourself, 
 that is all."
 
 236 MARTY 
 
 " Tell madame," went on the doctor, " that it would 
 be just as well if she remains perfectly quiet for a 
 few days, until her husband is beginning to move 
 about again. Then we shall have to exercise her, 
 and get her to make an effort to move and help 
 herself a little." 
 
 " It's no use talking to me," said Erne, when this 
 was translated to her. " I can't make an effort. I 
 can't help myself. Why is the man so foolish ? " 
 
 "What does madame say ?" asked the doctor, who 
 did not understand. 
 
 "Madame is unreasonable. Madame is a little 
 petulant," said Nurse Vincent. 
 
 " I see. Well, we won't worry her at present. 
 Later on she will be more amenable to reason and 
 see the necessity of helping herself, perhaps." 
 
 " You don't really think that she has injured her 
 spine ? " said the nurse to him in the corridor, as they 
 were passing from one room to the other. 
 
 " No, I am sure she hasn't. She's a hysterical 
 subject, and she's making the most of it. I believe 
 she could get up and move about as well as you or 1 
 if she chose to." 
 
 " She was unconscious for some hours ? " 
 
 "Yes, she had a certain shock, but she's making 
 the most of it — purely hysterical. You'll follow out 
 all my directions and feed her up well. Be very 
 cheerful, and, above all things, stop her mother coming 
 here. She'll do her no good, and she may do her a 
 great deal of harm. That nature wants bracing, not 
 coddling." 
 
 When they entered Dick Piers's room they found 
 Marty sitting by the bed reading an English news- 
 paper to him.
 
 A DIFFICULT PATIENT 237 
 
 " Ah, you are having a little reading ? " said the 
 doctor. 
 
 " Oh, yes, the time is so long. I want Mrs Johnson 
 to play patience or piquet with me." 
 
 " I can't play piquet," said Marty. " I never had 
 sufficient brains to play anything but patience and 
 beggar-my-neighbour." 
 
 " That would be a change. I sa.y, doctor, how is 
 my wife this morning ? " 
 
 " She ails very little, far less than you do — very 
 little indeed. A little hysterical — I don't mean weepy, 
 or anything of that kind, but a little inclined to 
 hysteria." 
 
 " It's not her nature." 
 
 "Perhaps not. She's had a nasty jar. I've told 
 her to lie still where she is. And as for you, you 
 won't have to be patient for many days longer. So 
 do, my good sir, try to bear it without worrying as 
 to madame or your affairs, or even the news of the 
 world." 
 
 " You have set me a hard task, doctor," said Dick 
 Piers. 
 
 " Yes, yes. I have more difficulty in getting my 
 patients to undergo a rest-cure than any other cure 
 on earth," replied Dr Chaunce.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 AMENITIES 
 
 Two weeks dragged slowly by. They were weeks 
 full of weariness, both ©f mind and body. Marty 
 passed all her days, excepting the hour when she 
 gave an English lesson, between the two sick-rooms, 
 assuring first the husband and then the wife that the 
 other was not dangerously damaged. 
 
 Fortunately for her, Mrs Piers was able to write 
 her own letters. True, in deference to the wishes of 
 the doctors, she only wrote to her mother, using a 
 blotting-pad and a pencil. She was decidedly the 
 better from the shock of her fall, and could 
 now turn herself in her bed, but was not yet allowed 
 to sit up, being only propped up on a rest for a few 
 minutes when taking her meals. 
 
 It was a proud day for Marty when she escorted 
 Dick Piers into his wife's room ; not on his own legs, 
 poor fellow, for he could not, with a broken arm, use 
 crutches, but superintending his being carried there 
 on a narrow couch which would easily pass through 
 the doors. 
 
 " Now," she said, " I'll go down and make you quite 
 a smart little afternoon tea with my own tea-things, 
 and you shall have it together. You can reach the 
 bell, can't you, Mrs Piers, if you want anything ? " 
 
 Then she went away, leaving them alone together. 
 
 238
 
 AMENITIES 239 
 
 There was much to say, much to talk of and discuss, 
 and the two were happily chatting when Marty came 
 back, bringing all the accessories for giving them a 
 dainty little meal. 
 
 It was very curious, but Marty had utterly for- 
 gotten that there was any chance of either Dick 
 Piers or his wife being cognisant of her identity. 
 Sister Angelique had noticed the severity of the new 
 style in which she was wearing her hair, and Marty 
 had told her carelessly that she had a reason for it. 
 
 " English people, you know, Madame Angelique," 
 she said, " are very queer. They expect a nurse to 
 have her hair scragged back as if it were rather a sin 
 than otherwise to possess it, and I thought I should 
 inspire confidence by making myself look as much 
 like a nurse as possible. Really," she went on, " it's 
 much less trouble than wearing it all fluffed about 
 one's face, and I don't know that I am not quite as 
 attractive as I am." 
 
 Sister Angelique had still a weakness for things of 
 the world, and although her own braids were 
 modestly tucked away beneath a linen coif, she 
 loved to see a round young face like Marty's framed 
 in a halo of shining hair. So she shook her head 
 over Marty's new rule, and said plaintively that she 
 had thought the old style of things very nice. 
 
 Well, as I said, Marty had come to look upon her- 
 self as quite a different entity to herself, and she was 
 now absolutely at her ease, both with Mr and Mrs 
 Dick Piers. 
 
 She came into the room like a sunbeam. " Now, 
 you two poor invalids," she said, " I am going to 
 give you the nicest little tea that you have had since 
 you left London. Yes, I know you can get it in
 
 240 MARTY 
 
 Paris at one of the little creameries in the Rue de la 
 Paix, but it's not like the tea that I am going to give 
 you." 
 
 And then she set it all out, so as to be as enticing 
 as possible, and Dick Piers was profuse in his ex- 
 pressions of gratitude. 
 
 " So awfully kind of Mrs Johnson, isn't it, Effie ? " 
 he cried, turning to his wife. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs Johnson is kind," said she. " I don't 
 know what we should have done without her. 
 Really, Mrs Johnson, it was providential that you 
 were here. Think if we had been cast on this foreign 
 shore, in a barren house where scarcely a soul speaks 
 a word of English ! " 
 
 " Sister Angelique speaks English," said Marty. 
 
 " Sister Angelique ? Yes, yes, she does, 1 know ; 
 but somehow I can't get used to having these white- 
 capped Sisters about me. When they make a joke it 
 positively seems to curdle my blood." 
 
 " Oh, how funny!" Marty cried. "They are full 
 of joke, they are the gayest of the gay, like great 
 overgrown babies." 
 
 " You know them very well — you have been here a 
 long time ? " said Mrs Piers, in a tone that was only 
 half-questioning. 
 
 " Yes, I have been here for ages," Marty answered. 
 
 " It can't have been such great ages. You are very 
 young." 
 
 " I look very young," said Marty. " I think I am 
 about a thousand years old. I have lost count long 
 ago." 
 
 " You'll become a Sister yourself, perhaps ? " 
 
 " Never ! I am not even a Catholic." 
 
 " You might turn Catholic."
 
 AMENITIES 241 
 
 " I might. I couldn't say." 
 
 " They don't make any effort one way or another ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, that's not their line. They are very kind, 
 very nice, very gay. They say they have given up 
 the world. I have been once or twice to make calls 
 with them when they wanted to arrange about 
 English lessons and so on, and then they mightn't 
 take a cup of tea or a sweetmeat ; and if they land in 
 the middle of a party, they get quickly through their 
 business and go, having given up the world. But 
 they have a world of their own; they have their 
 jokes, their little jealousies, their amusements, their 
 duties — everything but husbands. I don't know that 
 anybody need pity those in Sisterhoods so much." 
 
 "I don't know that I've thought about them 
 sufficiently to pity them, or the reverse," said Mrs 
 Piers. " Yes, just a little more cream, thank you, 
 Mrs Johnson. This tea is excellent. You made it 
 yourself ! " 
 
 " I made it under your nose," said Marty, smiling. 
 " 1 had some difficulty to get the cream. You know 
 they prefer it sour in France. It was quite a favour, 
 because you are such invalids." 
 
 "I'm sure," said Mrs Piers, "it is very good of 
 them." 
 
 Then Marty brought little delicate crescents of 
 bread, buttered with beautiful cool fresh butter, and 
 tempted them both to eat. 
 
 " Do you ever go to England, Mrs Johnson ? " said 
 Mrs Piers, suddenly. 
 
 " To England ? " said Marty, with a start. " Oh, I 
 left England for good and all long ago. All my ties 
 are in France. I shall never leave France unless I 
 am obliged."
 
 242 MARTY 
 
 " Obliged ! What would oblige you ? " 
 
 " There might be war between France and England. 
 If I had not taken out letters of naturalisation — 
 which I should hardly do, and I don't know even 
 whether a woman can — " 
 
 " Or married a Frenchman," put in Dick. 
 
 " I shall never do that," said Marty. " But I might 
 be requested to leave within so many hours, you 
 understand. Otherwise, I shall remain in France for 
 the rest of my life — at least, I think so now. Why ? 
 What makes you ask ? " 
 
 "I don't know. Idle thoughts — conjectures — 
 vulgar curiosity. You seem so young to be here 
 among these elderly nuns." 
 
 " They are not all elderly. You haven't seen them. 
 There's one girl, only two-and-twenty, and she's 
 beautiful." 
 
 " And yet she's a nun ! " 
 
 "Yes, she's a nun. Hers is a pitiful story. She 
 was in love with a man that she had known since she 
 was a little child. There was not much dot for her ; 
 there was no fortune for him ; as yet, he was in a very 
 small position. Her sister had the chance of making 
 a very good marriage provided that a certain dot was 
 forthcoming. To marry the one sister it was 
 necessary to sacrifice the other, so they married 
 Marcelle to a man that she knew nothing of, and they 
 sacrificed Claire, who had been in love all her life. 
 They say it works well. Claire accepts it as her fate ; 
 she says she's happier doing her duty ; and Marcelle 
 is a person of some importance at Lyons. They say 
 it works." 
 
 " It's horrible ! " cried Dick Piers, " absolutely 
 barbarous ! "
 
 AMENITIES 243 
 
 " You are tired, Mrs Piers," said Marty. " Let Die 
 give you another cup of tea and tken take the rest 
 away." 
 
 " Yes, I would like another cup of tea, thank you, 
 Mrs Johnson." She was looking very pale, her face 
 showed signs of pain and distress. 
 
 " It's barbarous ! " Dick Piers went on. " One 
 wonders that men and women will allow themselves 
 — those that are young and strong and lusty — to be 
 treated like dumb driven cattle. Can't understand it 
 myself. It wouldn't work with us." 
 
 " It's all a lottery," said Marty. " How many 
 marriages are spoiled in England by people who 
 interfere, people's relations, those who make it their 
 business to rule the roost. They say it works 
 here." 
 
 " You think relations interfere with us ? " 
 " I don't think about it," said Marty ; " I know it." 
 " Perhaps they may be right," said Mrs Piers from 
 among her pillows. 
 
 " Oh, perhaps. But it seems to me that marriage 
 is a purely personal concern ; it seems to me that it 
 has nothing to do with anyone excepting the two 
 most concerned." 
 
 " Then," said Dick, " the more necessary that the 
 two most concerned should be the only ones that are 
 consulted." 
 
 " They don't consult here, so I'm told." 
 " Evidently, from your story of Sister Claire." 
 " No, they certainly don't consult very much in 
 this country as to likes and dislikes. There was a 
 girl who was educated in this convent. She was 
 betrothed, when she was not quite eighteen, to the 
 eldest son of a great merchant — a very large im-
 
 244 MARTY 
 
 portant merchant a few miles away. He disliked 
 her ; she had no feeling for him. He was rich ; she 
 was the eldest daughter of an exceedingly wealthy 
 man. The young couple protested against the 
 marriage, especially the boy, but the arrangements 
 went on, like the laws of the Medes and Persians ; 
 and when at last they brought them to the Mairie for 
 the civil ceremony, the bridegroom struck. He 
 declined to be married, he protested that he had 
 always wanted to marry a pretty girl, and that he 
 wasn't going to be tied up to a creature like that. 
 ' See the thing that you would have me tie myself 
 to ! ' he cried, with tears in his eyes. It took the 
 parents three-quarters of an hour to bring him into a 
 rational frame of mind." 
 
 " What do you mean by a rational frame of 
 mind ? " 
 
 " To get him to consent to be married. And they 
 were married." 
 
 " But the girl ! " cried Dick. 
 
 " Oh, the girl had no choice. She was not consulted. 
 She was told that she was going to marry Monsieur 
 Gustave Vernet on such a day ; that was enough for 
 her." 
 
 " Do you think that marriage is likely to turn out 
 well ? " 
 
 " It doesn't seem so, to our ideas. But they say it 
 works. I don't know." 
 
 " It's monstrous ! " cried Dick. " Oh, think how 
 different it is with us ! How men and women will 
 give up everything — everything for love pure and 
 simple." 
 
 " They are not always," said Marty, " left alone 
 to reap the fruits of their sacrifice. You have
 
 AMENITIES 245 
 
 the family interest coming in. A good many 
 hearts are sacrificed, even with our free system of 
 marriage, on the altar of family interest. I," 
 she added impressively, " have known such a case 
 myself."
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 A GOOD IDEA 
 
 " I think now," said Marty, looking at the little 
 clock which ticked upon the dressing-table, " I think 
 I'll leave you for a little talk together, for I have a 
 lesson to give." 
 
 "At five o'clock?" said Dick. "Oh, come, Mrs 
 Johnson, that won't do. Nobody gives lessons after 
 five o'clock." 
 
 " Indeed, yes. I'm not joking. I'm not quite an 
 idle woman." 
 
 " Oh, I appreciate your delicacy of mind. You 
 want to leave us to talk things over by ourselves, 
 but it's not really necessary. My wife would rather 
 you stayed, wouldn't you, Effie ? " 
 
 "I don't see why I should drive Mrs Johnson 
 away," said Effie, in rather a chill tone. " We are 
 not exactly jiancd, you know." 
 
 Dick Piers lay back and laughed as if it were the 
 best joke he had ever heard in his life. " Oh, that's 
 funny, isn't it ? Not exactly fiancd. Ah, that's the 
 best joke you've made for a long time ! But seriousl} r , 
 Mrs Johnson, don't clear yourself out of our road." 
 
 " I must," said Marty, smiling. " I have a lesson 
 to give." 
 
 " Not at five o'clock." 
 
 246
 
 A GOOD IDEA 24; 
 
 " Yes. You see the convent goes on until dinner- 
 time." 
 
 " Not really ! What, seven o'clock ? " 
 
 " Yes. They come at seven in the morning, and 
 they go away at seven at night — not all, you know, 
 but some — and I have a class of six girls, very 
 advanced pupils, to whom I give a lesson in English 
 reading and dictation at five o'clock every Wednes- 
 day afternoon of my life ; and as it is now just five 
 minutes to five, I must, reluctantly it is true, bid you 
 adieu." 
 
 " Oh, if it's like that, of course there's not another 
 word to say." 
 
 " It's just like that," said Marty. 
 
 "Poor little thing," said Dick Piers to his wife, 
 when Marty had departed, " I didn't want her to 
 hurry away, because I fancy it's a bit of a treat to 
 her to chat with English people." 
 
 " There are English girls here, you know, Dick," 
 said Effie, turning her head on her pillows and looking 
 curiously at her husband. 
 
 " Yes, English girls, but they are schoolgirls. 
 That's not like association with one's own sort." 
 
 " I hope yon don't put us down as Mrs Johnson's 
 sort." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " Ah, well, it's hardly necessary to explain." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " She's not our equal." 
 
 " I'm not so sure about that," said he. 
 
 '' Oh, no, my dear, no. She's a dear little woman — " 
 
 " And she's a damn good nurse, too ! I know she's 
 been as good as gold to me, bringing me news of you, 
 and saying everything she could to keep my heart up,
 
 2 4 8 MARTY 
 
 telling me just how you looked, and how pretty you 
 were, and — and — oh, she's a little brick ! " 
 
 " Yes, Dick, dear, I know. Goodness knows we are 
 beholden to her in every sense of the word, but that 
 doesn't quite make her our equal, does it ? " 
 
 " Oh, I can't go into your ideas. You were always 
 a little beyond me in that respect, Effie." 
 
 " Was I ? I don't think so. I haven't any wish to 
 be beyond you, Dick. I was going to ask you — we 
 can't pay Mrs Johnson for what she's done for us, 
 because she's here not as a nurse exactly, but we 
 shall have to make some recognition of her having 
 nursed us and been good to us, and stuck to us day 
 and night, and all that." 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " What shall we do ? " 
 
 " I notice," said Dick, " that she doesn't wear a 
 scrap of jewellery. Supposing we gave her a watch ? 
 Every woman likes a watch ; a nice little gold thing 
 with her initials — one that will go." 
 
 " Yes, that's rather a nice idea, Dick," said Mrs 
 Piers, with a change of tone. " Has the doctor given 
 you any idea how long we shall have to stop 
 here ? " 
 
 " No, he hasn't certainly spoken of the possibility 
 of our going away. It's a bore, of course, but it 
 might be much worse." 
 
 " Oh, I don't see that. These tiresome nuns with 
 their hideous white caps and their horrid long veils, 
 they do bore me so. And nurse's ideas are bounded 
 by Bartholomew's Hospital and Paris." 
 
 " A fairly wide field," said Dick. 
 
 "Oh, yes; but it's out of my line. I don't know 
 Paris, not intimately — probably never shall, don't
 
 A GOOD IDEA 249 
 
 particularly want — and I don't take the smallest 
 interest in Bartholomew's Hospital." 
 
 " Then there's the little woman." 
 
 " Ye — s. I haven't much in common with the 
 little woman," said she. "Nice little thing, very- 
 kind and very worthy, and all that, but still she's not 
 interesting ; and even if she were, I think one 
 would get very sick of it. It's so dreary all day 
 long lying on one's back with nothing to do. I've a 
 good mind to ask mother to come." 
 
 " Your mother ? Oh, that's a very good idea. I 
 wonder if old Georgie could get a few days' 
 leave ? " 
 
 " Georgie ? " said Effie, sharply, " Georgie, did you 
 say ? Oh, no, he'd never leave London just now. 
 Oh, dear no ! This place would bore him to death in 
 his present state. On second thoughts, I won't ask 
 mother to come. It would be a horrid bore for her, 
 and why should she be bored ? It wouldn't help me 
 the least little bit in the world ; if one is smashed up 
 a bit one needn't be selfish." 
 
 She had, however, unwittingly put an idea into 
 her husband's mind. " Mrs Johnsou," he said, an 
 hour or two later, when Marty came into his room 
 during the time set apart for Nurse Vincent to go 
 down and get her supper, " Mrs Johnson, will you 
 write a letter for me ? " 
 
 "A letter?" she said, doubtfully. "Oh, not to- 
 night. Nurse will be up in a minute. She's been in 
 bed, and she's been out ; she'll be fresh." 
 
 "Oh, all right. I want to write to a friend to- 
 night. I have two or three letters I really want to 
 
 write." 
 
 " I would with pleasure," said Marty, " only I am
 
 250 MARTY 
 
 so jaded. Nurse won't be many minutes. The post 
 goes out at half -past eleven." 
 
 " Oh, thanks." 
 
 She took his writing-case off the dressing-table 
 where it was lying, and brought it to the side of the 
 bed. " See," she said, " here are all the paraphernalia 
 that you need." 
 
 " I believe," said Dick, " that you are ashamed of 
 your hand-writing." 
 
 " I am," said Marty. " What makes you think 
 that ? " 
 
 " Because you have never written a letter for me 
 
 yet." 
 
 " No, I do write a poor fist, I admit. Really, Mr 
 Piers, Nurse Vincent is much more credit to the 
 establishment than I am." 
 
 " I don't know," said Dick Piers, " that I wouldn't 
 rather have you write my letters, whatever your fist 
 is like. I wonder if I shall ever see it." 
 
 " You are not likely," said Marty. 
 
 "I don't mean to lose sight of you when we're 
 patched up and gone away." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense, you don't take the least interest 
 in me, beyond what everybody would feel who has 
 been ill, especially after an accident the recovery 
 from which is tedious. Once you are out and about, 
 and strong and well again, you'll forget me as if you 
 had never set eyes on me. I'm sure," she added 
 fervently, " I hope so." 
 
 "I call that a very unkind remark," said Dick 
 Piers. " If I had been horrid, or haughty, or made 
 love to you, it would be rather different, but I have 
 been an exceptionally good patient, and very grateful 
 for everything that you have done for me."
 
 A GOOD IDEA 251 
 
 " Oh, yes, you are a model patient ; much more so 
 than your wife." 
 
 " Oh, is my wife a bad patient ? " 
 
 "Not a very good one, I must admit it — very 
 difficult at times — but then, of course, she's had a jar 
 to the system, and a jar to the system is a very nasty 
 thing to get over. There, I'm going to leave you 
 now, Mr Piers — good-night ! " 
 
 " Oh, good-night ! " said he, rather shortly. 
 
 Marty was smiling broadly as she reached the door. 
 " I wonder what he would say if he knew the truth. 
 I wonder if he would be himself, or whether he would 
 be as haughty and disagreeable as she is. Oh, to 
 think that she can be my Georgie's own sister, 
 positively the same flesh and blood. His mother 
 was kind enough to me ; his father was charming. 
 She — she's so rude at times, I could almost believe 
 that she knew the truth. And yet she's just the 
 same to the others. Why, the Reverend Mother 
 herself, who was born one of the greatest ladies in 
 France, asked me only yesterday whether all English 
 ladies were as chilly and unapproachable as Madame 
 Piers. And to think she's my Georgie's own sister ! " 
 
 At the end of the corridor she met Nurse Vincent 
 coming up from her supper. " All as usual ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " Oh, yes, nurse. Mrs Piers is a little inclined to 
 be fractious, but she does get tired of lying there." 
 
 " Oh, poor thing, yes ! I don't wonder. I should 
 hate it myself. And she's young, and not been 
 married very long. It was very hard lines to get 
 smashed up like that." 
 
 " Of course it was," said Marty, heartily. " And 
 after a little while she'll be about again and just her
 
 252 
 
 MARTY 
 
 old self, and then she can go away home and be quite 
 happy." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said the nurse, easily. 
 
 So Marty went away, and Nurse Vincent turned 
 into Dick Piers's room. " Well, and how is Mr Piers 
 to-night ? " she asked. 
 
 " He's much better, thank yon, nurse. He wants 
 a letter written — nothing else. You can go and 
 attend to madam, or do whatever you like after that, 
 and come back whenever you think proper and just 
 give me a look." 
 
 " Is it a long letter ? " asked the nurse. 
 
 " Oh, no. ' My dear George,' " he began dictating, 
 •'"Effie and I are both on the mend — excellently 
 nursed (nurse is writing this letter for me, so I am 
 obliged to say so!), and we are beginning to think 
 that some day we may get home again. My dear old 
 chap, this is a charming little place from all I hear 
 (haven't seen it myself yet), and I want you to come 
 out and spend a few days. It would cheer Effie up ; 
 she is beginning to get home-sick, and I am absolutely 
 useless up to the present. Just send a wire, George, 
 old fellow, and say you'll come. Your affectionate 
 brother-in-law, Dick.' Address it to George Ether- 
 ington, Esq., No. 28 Rosed iamond Road, West Kensiug- 
 ton, London, W." 
 
 The letter was soon finished, the envelope directed, 
 closed and stamped. " You'll put that in the box 
 now, won't you ? " he said. 
 
 " I'll put it in at once, before I go into your wife's 
 room. I think it's a very good idea. You both 
 want something to cheer you up a little. You know 
 your wife is much better." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know she's better. Yes, yes, she'll be
 
 A GOOD IDEA 253 
 
 better still after a time. It's been very hard Hues 
 for her, poor girl, to be stuck in that room on her 
 back — she, a healthy young woman that's never ailed 
 anything since I have known her. I'm sure if she had 
 some of her own people about her it would be better 
 for her." 
 
 " Oh, much better. I think it's an excellent idea. 
 I'll run and post the letter now." 
 
 So nurse whisked out of the room, as much as a 
 nurse ever does whisk, and in the corridor almost 
 ran against Marty. 
 
 " Hullo, nurse ? Whither away in such a hurry ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " I'm going to run down to the post-box." 
 
 " What, have you been writing that letter ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Give it to me," said Marty, " I'll put it in the box." 
 
 So nurse gave the letter up to Marty, and Marty 
 ran lightly down the stairs. As she reached the cour 
 between the grande porte and the kitchen door she 
 paused under the lamplight to look at the address: — 
 " George Etherington, Esq.," she read, " 28 Rose- 
 diamond Road."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 AN INVITATION 
 
 For full five minutes Marty stood staring at the 
 letter, then she turned and went swiftly down the 
 wide flight of brick steps to the grande porte. The 
 letter-box was but three or four feet outside the door, 
 and for a moment she stood irresolute ; then she 
 imprinted a kiss on the envelope, just where Georgie's 
 fingers would open it. 
 
 "Think of my posting a letter to you!" she said, 
 looking up at the sky. " Think of it ! Think of it ! 
 Oh, Georgie, Georgie ! " Then she kissed the letter 
 again and dropped it in the box. 
 
 " Now I shall have to watch the post," she said to 
 herself as she ascended the steps again. " I shall have 
 to watch. If he comes, I must have a sore throat, or 
 I must go away for a few days. I must. I must be 
 out of sight." 
 
 It was three days later that Marty happened to pass 
 through the inner cour just as the postman put a 
 batch of letters into the hand of the femme de 
 cha/mbre. 
 
 " Any for me, Camille ? " said Marty. 
 
 " I don't know, mademoiselle, I don't know." She 
 turned them over in her hand. " Reverend Mother," 
 she said, putting it down upon the table which stood 
 beside the kitchen door, " Reverend Mother — that's 
 
 ' 254
 
 AN INVITATION 255 
 
 number two — Sceur Angelique — Madame Piers — 
 perhaps you'll take that upstairs, mademoiselle ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Marty. 
 
 "Two more for the Reverend Mother," the maid 
 went on, " one, two, three, four, five, for the young 
 ladies — one for Monsieur Piers." 
 
 Marty held out her hand and waited, without 
 looking at the letter, until the maid had gone through 
 the batch. Then she said, " That's all right. I'll 
 take these upstairs, Camille." 
 
 As she went up the stairs she ventured to look at 
 the missive for Mr Piers. Yes, it was in the well- 
 beloved and well-remembered handwriting. "Is he 
 coming ? " said Marty to herself. " Is he coming ? " 
 
 She carried the letter straight upstairs to Mrs 
 Piers's room. She knew that her husband had been 
 carried in there half an hour before. " A letter for 
 each of you," she said, in her pleasantest voice ; and 
 what an effort it was to make that voice pleasant 
 nobody but Marty herself knew ; " one for Mrs Piers, 
 one for Mr Piers." 
 
 " Thanks so much," said Mrs Piers, in her trainant 
 and rather haughty voice. 
 
 "Thank you, Mrs Johnson, thanks," said Dick. 
 Then he tore his open and uttered an exclamation. 
 " Damn ! " he said. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " asked his wife. 
 
 "Oh, nothing, nothing. I wrote to George and 
 asked him to come over for a few days." 
 
 " To come here ? " said Mrs Piers. 
 
 " Yes. I thought you would be the better for a 
 little visit from some of your own people, and poor 
 old George must be moping in London, and — er 
 — I thouo-ht it would be a little change for me
 
 256 MARTY 
 
 and a pleasure for you. I wanted to surprise you 
 with it." 
 
 " And he won't come ? " 
 
 " He says he can't possibly leave London — very 
 kind, sends his Jove and all that, but quite impossible 
 to leave London at present." 
 
 " I could have told you that," said Mrs Piers, 
 quietly. 
 
 Marty had gone to the fireplace, where she was 
 busy putting chunks of wood and lumps of a kind of 
 peat into the open grille which served as a grate. 
 
 " I could have told you he wouldn't come," said 
 Effie. 
 
 So he wasn't coming ! " I can leave you now for 
 a time, until tea, that is to say," said Marty, rising 
 from her knees. 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " Oh, yes," they cried in a breath. 
 
 " I've got a lot of things to do this afternoon, so 
 I'll bid you good-bye for the present." 
 
 She went out, unaware of the fact that Mrs Piers's 
 eyes had followed her with a curious strained 
 expression until she disappeared through the door- 
 way. 
 
 " Dick, dear," she said presently, " it was awfully 
 kind of you to write and ask Georgie, but you know 
 it wasn't likely that he would come over and see me, 
 however ill I might be." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Because I didn't admire his choice — in short, I 
 objected to it. George hasn't forgiven me for not 
 tumbling over myself in order to worship the ground 
 his little wife trod on." 
 
 " Poor chap, that's all gone by."
 
 AN INVITATION 257 
 
 " Is it ? Do you think so ? What do you mean by 
 gone by ' ? " 
 
 " Well, it was an experiment that failed." 
 
 " But George blames us." 
 
 " Oh, no. His letter is as nice as a letter can be." 
 
 " George isn't a barbarian," said Effie. " He replies 
 to a cordial invitation with decent civility, I have 
 no doubt." 
 
 ' Well, read the letter for yourself." 
 
 Mrs Piers stretched out her hand and took the 
 letter, glanced over it and laid it down on the bed 
 again. " Yes. He doesn't mean coming, all the 
 same. Poor George ! So promising, and so good- 
 looking, and such chances, and then to hash everything 
 for a girl out of a second-hand clothes' shop. It's 
 pitiful ! And to be heart-broken because she's done 
 only what he might have expected — pitiful ! But 
 it wasn't likely that he would come, knowing — at 
 least, feeling just what I feel. I wouldn't ask any 
 of the others over here, Dick, if I were you. I think 
 they would be very uncomfortable. You don't know 
 what the meals are like downstairs, and they wouldn't 
 have very good accommodation in a place like this 
 outside the convent, and it's a long way down from 
 Paris ; horrid time of the year, too, so cold. It's all 
 very well for us, but I don't think I'd run the risk of 
 asking anyone else. We sha'n't be here long now. 
 Did the doctor say anything to you about being able 
 to move ? " 
 
 " He grumped a little, and said I was very well 
 where I was, but with a little pressing admitted that 
 I might be able to go home in a couple of weeks 
 more." 
 
 " Well, I don't think it would hurt you."
 
 258 MARTY 
 
 " No, I think he is more concerned about you than 
 about me at present." 
 
 " I sat up this morning by myself. I shall be 
 about in a day or two — in a way, you know." 
 
 " Oh, I hope so. It's dreadful to have you laid up 
 like this. I don't think we'll motor any more, Effie." 
 
 " No, I don't think we will ; not in a French motor 
 anyway. By-the-bye, Dick," she said, "it's a very 
 curious thing, France seems to be fatal to our family." 
 
 " Why, how do you mean ? " 
 
 " Oh, it was something that happened while they 
 were in France that made that girl run away from 
 Georgie." 
 
 " You don't say so ! " 
 
 " Mother told me just before we left home. George 
 blames France for everything." 
 
 "Well, we can't help blaming France for being 
 smashed up like this, that's certain." 
 
 When Marty reappeared in order to make their tea, 
 the letter was lying on the floor between the bed and 
 the couch. The girl's quick eye saw it in an instant, 
 and when she went to give Mrs Piers her tea, or 
 rather when she went to lay the little table across her 
 bed on which she set out all her meals, she pushed 
 the letter a little under the bed with her foot. 
 
 So the time passed until the two men arrived to 
 carry Dick Piers back to his own room, and then 
 Marty took the first opportunity of picking up 
 the letter and smuggling it into her pocket. She 
 felt that it was in a sense dishonourable, since the 
 letter had not been written to her, but in truth she 
 was hungering so intensely for some touch with her 
 beloved that minor considerations of honour went to 
 the winds.
 
 AN INVITATION 259 
 
 When she got to her own room again she took it 
 out and read it. 
 
 " My dear Dick," — George wrote, — " It is extremely 
 good of you to ask me to come over and see you 
 and Effie. I am very glad to hear that you are 
 both mending. I wouldn't go to France again 
 if I were you, it's a beastly unlucky country. 
 Thanks awfully for your invitation, but I can't leave 
 London. I might be wanted at any moment, you see, 
 and I shouldn't like to be out of the road if I were. 
 A thousand thanks. I am all right. I hope you and 
 Effie will soon be the same. — I am always, Your 
 affectionate brother-in-law, 
 
 " George Etherington." 
 
 In the privacy of her own room Marty broke down 
 and wept, but she never for one moment considered 
 the question of giving up her scheme and going back 
 again. Not that she would not ; it was not a parallel 
 case with the heart of Pharaoh so hardened by 
 misfortune, not at all. At all and at any cost Marty 
 was determined to carry out the sacrifice of self, and 
 to benefit George in the long run, even though her 
 very life paid the penalty. 
 
 Later in the evening she slipped the letter back 
 from where she had taken it, just under the wooden 
 side-piece of Mrs Piers's bed, and then she busied 
 herself about the room, talking with great cheerful- 
 ness the while. 
 
 " Have you got a headache, Mrs Johnson ? " said 
 Mrs Piers, suddenly, when Marty came near the 
 bed. 
 
 " No, I never have headaches," said Marty.
 
 260 MARTY 
 
 " Don't you ? You are lucky. I thought you had. 
 You lcok as if you had been crying." 
 
 " Do I ? I think one often looks like that. There's 
 not much to cry over here. One knows exactly what 
 to expect when one gets up in the morning; one 
 realises that one has had one's deserts when one is 
 going to bed at night." 
 
 " Wretchedly dull life," said the invalid. 
 
 " Oh, yes, wretchedly dull. And yet it has 
 interest." 
 
 "You have your occupation, you have things to do. 
 I never found a few days hang so tediously in my life." 
 
 " You have been here three weeks," said Marty. 
 
 " Yes, I know. It seems like three years. I don't 
 believe my people will know me when I get back 
 again." 
 
 " No ? " 
 
 " I have people, you know, although none of them 
 have come. I wrote them not to." 
 
 "Yes, I know you did. You told me the first 
 night that you were here.'' 
 
 " Yes. I think I might have had my mother. She's 
 a person full of resource, who I think has never been 
 bored in her life. She never ricked her back at the 
 door of a French convent, though." 
 
 " No, no, you have had a very trying time," said 
 Marty. 
 
 " I ought to have wanted my mother to come, and 
 my mother did want to come, but I thought she 
 would hate it." 
 
 " I'm sure she would." 
 
 " What are the meals like downstairs ? " 
 
 " I don't think that they would like the meals," 
 said Marty, evasively.
 
 AN INVITATION 261 
 
 " No, I thought not. I had a talk to the doctor 
 just now. He thinks we may be going home in a 
 very short time. I think I shall take Nurse Vincent 
 with me." 
 
 " I should if I were you," said Marty. " I think 
 it's a very wise idea. She would save you so much 
 fatigue on the journey." 
 
 "Yes, I think I shall take her with me. I like 
 Nurse Vincent ; she's an admirable person." 
 
 " An excellent nurse," said Marty. 
 
 "Yes. All the same, we should have been badly 
 off if you hadn't been here. Well, of course we 
 should have had to have a second nurse, and she 
 might not have been nice. We — my husband and I 
 — we are very grateful to you." 
 
 " Don't say that," said Marty. " I was only too 
 glad to do any little thing that I could." 
 
 " Yes. Well, a little thing to you was a lot to us, 
 you know, under the circumstances. I suppose," she 
 went on deliberately, " that even if they would spare 
 you from here you wouldn't like to go to England 
 with us instead of Nurse Vincent ? "
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 A SILVER FRAME 
 
 When Mrs Piers put the question to Marty — Would 
 she like to go to England or not ? — Marty's very heart 
 seemed to turn to water within her. For a few 
 minutes she positively could not speak, could not 
 trust herself to utter a single word. 
 
 " Perhaps you don't want to go to England ? " per- 
 sisted the invalid. 
 
 Marty drew a long breath. " No, Mrs Piers," she 
 said, making a great effort to speak in natural 
 accents, " I never mean to go to England again." 
 
 " You were unhappy there ? " 
 
 " Yes, I had been very unhappy in England — I 
 haven't been altogether happy in France, but it's less 
 pain to me to live here than it would be among those 
 I know." 
 
 " You came from London ? " 
 
 " It doesn't matter where I came from. I — I've 
 left it all. I had a trouble. Please don't ask me 
 about it ; it's too painful a subject to talk over." 
 
 " Oh, forgive me, Mrs Johnson," said the invalid, 
 speaking in quite a sympathetic tone. " I am very 
 sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I only 
 put the suggestion to you thinking that possibly it 
 might suit your purpose to return. Forgive me, I'll 
 not hint at the matter again." 
 
 262
 
 A SILVER FRAME 263 
 
 So nothing more was said between them. 
 
 The winter days crept slowly over. Dick Piers 
 began to get about again, and Mrs Piers to sit up 
 each day for a few hours in a large armchair. Then 
 they were able to while away the time by playing 
 ecarte and patience and such-like amusements for two 
 people. And then Dick Piers got his wife to write 
 to Paris, and a jeweller's assistant came down bringing 
 them some watches to see. They chose a plain gold 
 watch, very good as to its works, severely plain and 
 simple as to its outside. On this they had engraved 
 an elaborate monogram — " E. J.," with the date ; and 
 it was eventually presented to Marty, with a nice 
 little speech from Dick, and a few words in addition 
 from his wife. 
 
 Marty took it, choked over it, uttered a few in- 
 coherent words of thanks, and fled to the sanctuary 
 of her own chamber. There she flung herself upon 
 her knees by her bed, and laughed and laughed and 
 laughed until the outburst ended in a flood of 
 tears. 
 
 "E. J.!— E. J. !— E. J.!" she cried hysterically. 
 " My new monogram ! Oh, Georgie, Georgie ! To 
 think ! — oh, Georgie ! E. J. — Elizabeth Johnson ! 
 They don't know — they little know. Oh, Georgie ! " 
 
 She did not go into the room again that night, and 
 when she did once more take up her duties — now 
 very light indeed — she was not wearing the new 
 watch. 
 
 " Won't you wear your new watch, Mrs Johnson ? " 
 said Dick. 
 
 " Oh, thank you very much, thank you, I won't 
 wear it whilst I'm working about. There's always 
 the time right in front of me as long as I am here.
 
 264 MARTY 
 
 I'll wait till I'm outside the convent, and then I'll 
 wear it." 
 
 " You like it ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! It was so kind of you — too kind. It 
 wasn't necessary to give me anything; or if you 
 wanted to give me something, you needn't have 
 given me anything so handsome as that. But it 
 was kind." 
 
 " It wasn't half good enough for you," said Dick. 
 ' We thought perhaps you wouldn't care to have one 
 looking much smarter." 
 
 " I shouldn't," said Marty, " I shouldn't." 
 
 And then there came a day when the two invalids, 
 escorted by Nurse Vincent, were able to make the 
 journey to Paris. Dick Piers was not exactly himself 
 again; he would have to use the greatest care for 
 some months. As for Effie, she had made rapid 
 strides towards recovery during the few days that 
 had gone by, but she was still looking very pale, and 
 was decidedly nervous. 
 
 There was a great leave-taking as they left the 
 convent for ever. Marty was- the last to say good- 
 bye to them. 
 
 "I hate leaving that little woman behind," said 
 Dick, as they drove away through the little town and 
 over the bridge. 
 
 " You hate leaving her ? " said Effie, in a tone of 
 consternation. 
 
 "I don't mean in that way. She's so awfully 
 young to be so sad. There's some tragedy behind 
 that life. It's dreadful to think a mere girl should 
 be overshadowed by a tragedy." 
 
 " How do you know that she is ? It may be mere 
 mannerism."
 
 A SILVER FRAME 265 
 
 " There's no mannerism about it. That little girl is 
 dying of a broken heart." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! How romantic you are, Dick." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Dick, " perhaps. All the same, I 
 feel that we ought to have done something for her 
 more than a mere present." 
 
 " I did try," said Effie. " I asked her if she'd rather 
 go back with us instead of nurse." 
 
 " Instead of Nurse Vincent ? " said Dick. 
 
 Nurse Vincent, I may say, was following them in 
 a carriage with the extra luggage. 
 
 " Yes, instead of Nurse Vincent. She told me that 
 she had been very unhappy in England ; she never 
 wanted to see it again. She said she had not been 
 happy in France, but, at all events, it was better than 
 England. So make your mind easy, my dear Dick ; 
 you don't know the girl's whole story. It's no use 
 judging on half evidence; that never did any good in 
 this world. Our meeting with her was like that book 
 you were reading not so long ago — Ships that pass in 
 the Night. We've passed in the night; we shall 
 probably never see her again. Put her out of your 
 head, my dear boy; it never pays to take up other 
 people's burdens ; they themselves don't even thank 
 you." 
 
 " Some people never try," said Dick. 
 
 " No, I agree with you there. And those that do 
 seldom get any thanks for it. Put the girl out of 
 your mind — right out of your mind." 
 
 They stayed that night in Paris, going on the 
 following day to London, where they arrived at their 
 own house in Kensington thoroughly tired out, but 
 extremely happy to find themselves at home again. 
 Mrs Etherington was there to receive them, and the
 
 266 MARTY 
 
 colonel and George came in later on. They did not 
 remain very long, for as soon as they had had a bit of 
 dinner, Nurse Vincent insisted upon their going to 
 bed, so that George, who only came in after dinner, 
 saw them but for a few minutes. 
 
 " How do you think Georgie is looking ? " asked 
 Mrs Etherington of Dick, Effie having gone upstairs 
 with nurse. 
 
 " I think he's looking ghastly. Poor chap, he quite 
 made my heart stand still." 
 
 "Ah," said she, "poor Georgie. I'm afraid he'll 
 never get over it." 
 
 " There's no trace ? " 
 
 " Not the slightest clue. I believe she deliberately 
 went down to London Bridge and dropped herself 
 over the edge. I didn't tell him so; it's better he 
 should hope unless there's direct evidence that he need 
 hope no more." 
 
 "I don't know," said Dick, thoughtfully. "They 
 say ' Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.' ' 
 
 " Yes, there's for and against ; but I don't see the 
 good of tormenting him with mere supposition." 
 
 " Poor Georgie ! You rather liked her, didn't you, 
 Mrs Etherington ? " 
 
 " I liked the child well enough. She wasn't what I 
 should have chosen — I never pretended it — but if he 
 felt as he did, and does, for her, likes or dislikes of 
 mine have but little to do with it. You see how 
 broken-down he is because of losing her." 
 
 " Yes, yes, poor chap." He was silent for a moment, 
 then he spoke again. " I never saw her, you know, Mrs 
 Etherington. I think Effie did once ; I never saw her." 
 
 " Ah, I'll show you her portrait when you come to 
 see me."
 
 A SILVER FRAME 267 
 
 Then nurse came back and promptly ordered her 
 second patient to bed, and Mrs Etherington and the 
 colonel bade him good-night, and they walked quietly 
 on to their own home. 
 
 For a few days nothing particular happened. The 
 invalids kept very quiet, only receiving a few visitors 
 who would not be denied. Then Effie announced her 
 intention of going round to have tea with her mother. 
 
 " I'll go with you as far as the door," said nurse. 
 
 " Oh, I don't think that's necessary." 
 
 "I think I'd better, the first time that you have 
 been out. You might feel faint." 
 
 " Oh, well. And you can come for me about half- 
 past six." 
 
 They walked slowly round to her mother's house, 
 and Effie went in, nurse leaving her at the door. 
 Her mother was in the drawing-room waiting to 
 receive her. 
 
 " My darling child ! " she said. " I am so delighted 
 to welcome you home again after all your many 
 troubles. Sit here, darling. Let me loosen your furs. 
 You look very nice, you know, Effie, in spite of your 
 delicate air." 
 
 She fussed about her a little, and settled her in her 
 own favourite chair. Then she ministered to her, 
 giving her fragrant tea and delicate hot cakes. 
 
 "You have got a new frame there," said Effie, 
 suddenly. 
 
 " Ah, yes, poor George brought me that. Poor boy ! " 
 
 " Any news of the errant lady ? " 
 
 " No news," said Mrs Etherington, with a sigh, " no 
 news. I think he's beginning to give up hope." 
 
 " Dick asked him to come out to us for a couple of 
 days."
 
 268 MARTY 
 
 " He told me — yes, he told me. He wouldn't be 
 away from town for fear any news came." 
 
 "How foolish!" said Effie, curling her lip a little 
 disdainfully. " As if a wire wouldn't reach him in a 
 very short time after news arrived here ! Is that the 
 missing lady ? " pointing to the photograph. 
 
 " That is poor little Marty, yes." 
 
 " Marty do you call her ? " 
 
 " I call her by her name, Effie," said Mrs Etheriug- 
 ton, faintly reproachful. 
 
 " Yes ? Let me look at it." 
 
 It was an ordinary cabinet-size photograph of 
 Marty, taken just before she was married; Marty 
 with her rich brown hair arranged loosely and care- 
 lessly about her happy face, her dress of soft white silk 
 and chiffon disclosing her slender throat and rounded 
 arms. 
 
 " She's an ugly little thing," said Effie. 
 
 " Oh, no ; not ugly. It's a sweet face." 
 
 " I didn't know you thought so. Well, since she 
 chose to run away, perhaps it's just as well to glorify 
 her." 
 
 " How did you think Georgie was looking ? " asked 
 her mother, ignoring the latter remark. 
 
 " I thought he was looking very wretched. It's 
 very weak-minded of him." 
 
 " Wouldn't you be wretched if Dick disappeared 
 suddenly ? " 
 
 " Yes, but Dick's different. She doesn't want to 
 come back." 
 
 " Oh, don't say that ! " 
 
 " No, mother, that girl went away for her own 
 purposes. She's no desire to come back. If she had 
 she would come. There's nothing to stop her. She's
 
 A SILVER FRAME 269 
 
 entirely free, and her own mistress. Don't tell me 
 that a girl went away from a man because she thought 
 she had done him harm by marrying him. That's all 
 nonsense. There aren't any such girls. The girl was 
 disappointed in George, or that the family didn't take 
 her up enough ; it was some personal reason that 
 took her away, not because she wanted to benefit 
 George by cutting herself off from him for ever. It 
 won't wash, mother ; it won't wash." 
 
 "I've thought out all that," said Mrs Etheringtou. 
 " I've thought it all out. I've read that poor little 
 last letter a hundred times. I believe," she said, " I 
 believe that she put herself in the river." 
 
 " Very possibly," said Effie, " but I shouldn't have 
 thought so myself."
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 nukse Vincent's suspicions 
 
 For a long time Mrs Piers sat without speaking — sat, 
 indeed, with her eyes closed. When at length she 
 opened them Mrs Etherington congratulated her on 
 having had a pleasant little nap. 
 
 " I haven't been to sleep," said Effie. 
 
 " Oh, haven't you ? I quite thought you had been 
 asleep. I almost held my breath lest I should waken 
 you. You'll soon pull up again now, dear girl. 
 Plenty of good feeding, plenty of careful exercise ; no 
 shocks, no disagreeables, and you will soon be quite 
 yourself again." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I daresay I shall." 
 
 " How much longer is your nurse going to stay 
 with you ? " 
 
 " Well, only until Dick's arm is free of the 
 bandages ; and it isn't fit to be set free yet, nor, for 
 the matter of that, is his leg. I suppose she'll stay 
 another fortnight." 
 
 " You like her ? " 
 
 " I like her very much indeed. She's an excellent 
 nurse, and she's interesting because she knows Paris 
 so well." 
 
 " The other nurse you had — " 
 
 " We had no other nurse, mother," said Effie. 
 
 270
 
 NURSE VINCENT'S SUSPICIONS 271 
 
 " Oh, I thought there was a Mrs Johnson ? " 
 
 "Yes, dear; but Mrs Johnson was not a nurse. 
 She was a young English lady staying in the convent. 
 She taught English, but not enough to call her the 
 English governess. I fancy it was a kind of mutual 
 arrangement." 
 
 " I see. A widow ? " 
 
 " I really couldn't say." 
 
 " Young ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, quite young." 
 
 " And a good nurse ? " 
 
 " Excellent nurse for an amateur. And she was 
 on the spot, you see. She was very good when we 
 were first taken in." 
 
 " It's a mercy you weren't killed," said Mrs 
 Etherington. 
 
 "The chauffeur was killed," said Effie. "Dear 
 mother, I have had enough of motoring to last the 
 rest of my life. I might some day go in an electric, 
 but never in another petrol." 
 
 " How was it you didn't bring Mrs Johnson ? " 
 
 " I did ask her to come. She wouldn't. I don't 
 know that she would have been as all-round good as 
 Nurse Vincent, who is an excellent person in every 
 way. By-the-bye, she's coming for me presently. 
 You see, this is the first time that I have been out 
 walking." 
 
 " Yes, yes. I think you are most wise to take 
 every care. Besides, what is the use of having a 
 nurse if she doesn't do something for you. I suppose 
 she dresses you ? " 
 
 u Well, not very much," said Effie. " You see, 
 Firth has always been accustomed to maid me, and 
 Dick wants a good deal of help, so I don't see the
 
 272 MARTY 
 
 use of taking Firth off her regular work — I believe 
 she's there ! " 
 
 Mrs Etherington moved forward to the door as the 
 voice of the nurse sounded without. Effie, quick as 
 thought, seized the photograph of Marty in its smart 
 silver frame, and thrust it behind a larger picture, 
 not so quickly, though, but that Nurse Vincent saw 
 the little manoeuvre from where she stood in the 
 hall. 
 
 "Come in, nurse, come in," said Mrs Etherington, 
 in her well-bred voice. " Mrs Piers isn't the least 
 tired, are you, Effie ? " 
 
 "Not the least, mother, thank you. Well, nurse, 
 have you been looking in the shop windows ? " 
 
 " Yes, thank you, Mrs Piers. I have been up to 
 High Street, seen all the shops, had a cup of tea at 
 Derry & Toms', went up in the lift — done myself 
 thoroughly, thank you." 
 
 " You'd like to come and see your father before you 
 go, wouldn't you, Effie ? " said Mrs Etherington. 
 
 " Oh, yes, mother, I should like to see Dad. We 
 sha'n't be more than a minute or two, nurse," she 
 added, turning to Nurse Vincent. 
 
 " Well, don't overdo yourself," was the nurse's 
 reply. "You know," she added, speaking to Mrs 
 Etherington, " Mrs Piers has made a great effort, and 
 this is the first time she's been out. I've always 
 believed in the truth of the old saying, ' Creep 
 before you walk.' It's worth its weight in gold in 
 illness, especially illness of a nervous kind." 
 
 " Oh, I'll bear it in mind, nurse," Mrs Etherington 
 cried. "Come, Effie, just a word with your father." 
 
 As the door closed behind them, Nurse Vincent 
 walked quietly across to the inlaid bureau, on the
 
 NURSE VINCENT'S SUSPICIONS 273 
 
 top of which were large and small photographs in 
 silver frames. She thrust her hand behind the large 
 photograph of a young man in immaculate London 
 clothes, who was looking at her with a pleasant, half- 
 quizzical expression of face, and drew into view a 
 massive silver frame which was lying face down, 
 turned it to the light, and saw — Mrs Johnson ! 
 
 She looked at the photograph long and earnestly. 
 " Well, that's queer," she said to herself. " H'm ! I 
 thought when we were at Vitreuil that there was 
 something on my lady's mind. I was certain of it. I 
 couldn't get at the truth of it, try as I would, but I 
 was certain of it. Now, how shall I find out ? 
 Memo. : Is there anything to find out ? It's funny. 
 Is Mrs Johnson a relation of the family ? I see Mrs 
 Johnson at the convent at Vitreuil ; I am struck that 
 there is something between her and the accidents ; I 
 meet her in the house of the accident's mother — that 
 is, I find Mrs Johnson's portrait in a lovely silver 
 frame, and I see Mrs Piers thrust it away so that I 
 sha'n't get a glance at it. Is it a poor relation ? 
 Were they ashamed of it ? It's funny. And yet she 
 told me she'd asked her to come here instead of me. 
 H'm ! Johnson ! " 
 
 She slipped the photograph back and walked to 
 the fireplace, where she sat down in an easy chair and 
 assumed an attitude of extreme comfort. In a few 
 minutes back came the mother and daughter. Nurse 
 Vincent, a woman, mind you, accustomed to noticing 
 small things, noticed in a moment the swift glance 
 which her patient cast at the bureau with its freight 
 of silver-framed photographs. 
 
 Mrs Piers breathed a sigh of relief as they reached 
 the street. 
 
 S
 
 274 MARTY 
 
 " You are tired, Mrs Piers ? " said nurse. " Do take 
 hold of my arm." 
 
 " Oh, I will, thank you, nurse, but I'm not really 
 tired ; at least, I'm healthily tired. It was a great 
 effort coming home again the first time after such a 
 smash up as I've had." 
 
 " I'm sure it was. And you have no sisters, have 
 you ? " 
 
 " No, no sister." 
 
 " That must make you more precious to your 
 mother." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. I don't think my mother made 
 any difference between myself and my brothers." 
 
 " You have brothers ? " said nurse, with polite 
 interest. 
 
 " Yes, I have three brothers. You saw one of them, 
 didn't you ? That was my eldest brother." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I saw him. Mind that step ! You must 
 be very careful not to jar yourself for the next few 
 months." 
 
 " You think I shall get strong again, don't you, 
 nurse ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. Only you must take care." 
 They were soon back again at home, and Nurse 
 Vincent, having seen Mrs Piers straight to her bed- 
 room and helped Firth to put her into a comfortable 
 tea-gown, administered her medicine to her and told 
 her to sit there quietly until dinner was ready. 
 
 " Nothing like little rests in between times when 
 you have had a jar or a shock to the nerves. Where 
 people make such a mistake," nurse went on, " is that 
 they think when they get about again that they are 
 to work full time, and the ill-used nervous system 
 refuses absolutely to fall in with that idea. Work an
 
 NURSE VINCENT'S SUSPICIONS 275 
 
 hour and rest half an hour, and your nervous system 
 is very well pleased and satisfied with itself, and gets 
 through its work very nicely. Do please bear that in 
 mind, and when I've gone back, keep it in mind for the 
 next year or two." 
 
 She carefully talked herself out of the room, and 
 went off in search of her other patient, who was every 
 day now getting nearer to the time when he would 
 be beyond her care. 
 
 That night Nurse Vincent made an excuse to get 
 the housemaid into her bedroom. It was a flimsy 
 excuse, and she took still flimsier means to win the 
 girl into a talkative mood. 
 
 "You'll excuse my saying so, Fludgate," she re- 
 marked, " but you have not been very well some time 
 during the last two years." 
 
 " Had a dreadful illness two years ago," said Flud- 
 gate. 
 
 " Typhoid ? " said nurse. 
 
 " Yes. How do you know that ? " 
 
 " Oh, we nurses know a thing or two. And you are 
 beginning to get over it as far as your strength goes ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I'm nearly all right again. But how do 
 you know ? " 
 
 " Well, your hair," said nurse. 
 
 The maid put her hand up directly. " Now there ! 
 And you can tell that, though I frizz it up to be as 
 much like it used to be as I can ? " 
 
 " Ah, but you used to have a head of hair like a 
 thatch," said nurse. 
 
 The maid nodded her head. " Never had any hair 
 since I had that typhoid." 
 
 " I'll mix you up a bottle of stuff to-morrow that 
 will make your hair like a thatch again," said nurse.
 
 276 MARTY 
 
 "Use it every night for a month, and every other 
 night for another month, and every third night for a 
 month more, and you'll have a head like the thatch 
 you wish to have." 
 
 " That's exceedingly kind of you," said Fludgate, 
 gratefully. " My young man said to me — you know, 
 the young man I walk out with — he said to me only 
 the other day, ' Why, Annie Maria, I can't think 
 what's come to you of late. You've got a bald look ! ' 
 I always had the greatest horror of bald people," 
 Fludgate went on. 
 
 " You won't be bald after I've doctored you," said 
 nurse. " And whilst I'm about it, I'll mix you up a 
 bottle of stuff for your hands. Rub it on every night 
 when you go to bed, and your hands will be nice and 
 viewly." 
 
 " I'm sure that's good of you, nurse. I ought to 
 have hands as right as a trivet, for it's an easy enough 
 place ; but I've a very delicate skin, and you see I 
 wash up of a night as a rule, because cook is very 
 good-natured in some ways, and so I'm good-natured 
 in helping her to wash up, and somehow my hands — 
 well, look at them ! " 
 
 " Oh, I'll put that all right," said nurse, easily. 
 " I should think it was a light place." 
 
 " Oh, yes. Nothing like a young couple with no 
 family to give the servants a good time." 
 
 "I should quite think so," said Nurse Vincent. 
 " They seem a very nice couple." 
 
 " Oh, very nice. But, of course, they're not like 
 themselves just now. They are generally as gay as 
 gay, and out every night; and missus out every day 
 to tea except when she's got people coming, and 
 everything is as easy as you please."
 
 NURSE VINCENT'S SUSPICIONS 277 
 
 " Is it a large family ? " said nurse. 
 
 " No. Master has one or two married sisters." 
 
 " Is one of them a Mrs Johnson ? " nurse asked. 
 
 " Johnson ? No, never heard of anybody connected 
 with them called Johnson. Never heard of anybody 
 come to the house called Johnson." 
 
 " Oh, really ? " 
 
 " You see, master and missus is rather by way of 
 being a bit uppish. She was an Etherington, and 
 he's a Piers ; and his uncle is a baronet, and her 
 mother come of a very swell family. They've no 
 common names among 'em. It's seldom I hear of an 
 ordinary name coming inside the doors. As to John- 
 son, well, I never did hear of it in connection with 
 them at all." 
 
 " Oh, I fancied there was a relationship, that was 
 all," said Nurse Vincent, quietly.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 A LITTLE OUTING 
 
 When you come to think of it, it is extremely difficult 
 to find out things in this world. It is difficult to 
 prove; it is quite as difficult to disprove. Take a 
 woman in the position of Nurse Vincent. It was 
 exceedingly difficult for her to prosecute any inquiries 
 concerning the fact that she had seen Mrs Johnson's 
 photograph in Mrs Etherington's drawing-room. 
 Twice Mr Piers had visits from his married sisters, 
 once when two came together, and another time when 
 one came by herself. On both occasions nurse saw 
 them, was kindly spoken to, and complimented on the 
 excellent condition of her patients, but it was not 
 possible for her to say, " Madam, did you ever hear 
 of a Mrs Johnson ? Have you anybody connected 
 with you who bears that name ? " Once she went 
 round to Mrs Etherington's house with a message 
 from Mrs Piers asking her mother to send her some 
 trifle or other. Mrs Etherington did not happen to 
 be at home, but the parlour-maid told her that she 
 would certainly not be many minutes ; she was ex- 
 pecting her back very shortly. So nurse was shown 
 into the drawing-room, and the maid remained — 
 perhaps by way of setting her at her ease — to talk to 
 her ; said what a terrible thing it was that Mr and 
 Mrs Piers should have come to grief with a motor car, 
 
 278
 
 A LITTLE OUTING 279 
 
 and gradually nurse with great care worked round to 
 the fact, ever present in her mind, that Mrs Johnson's 
 photograph stood upon the bureau. 
 
 "That's a pretty-looking young lady," she said, 
 pointing carelessly towards the counterfeit present- 
 ment of Marty. " Is that one of the family ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said the parlour-maid. " You see, 
 I've only been here six weeks. I don't know who it 
 is. And the cook, she's been here just a week less 
 than I have ; and the housemaid, she only came a 
 fortnight since." 
 
 " Dear me ! Does Mrs Etherington often change ? " 
 
 " Not a bit of it. But all her servants got married, 
 so she had to make a clean start. They arranged 
 their leavings so that one should put the other a little 
 in the way of things. The last one that left got 
 married yesterday. Oh, they've all been here for 
 years. It's a very good place — very easy ; only the 
 master and missus and two young gentlemen. 
 Master and missus are very gay for old people." 
 
 " Should you call Mrs Etherington old ? " 
 
 " No, not old — very gay." 
 
 " So you don't know who that is ? " 
 
 " No, I don't know who anybody is. I haven't had 
 time to find out. What makes you ask ? " 
 
 " Oh, I fancied I saw her when I was here the other 
 day." 
 
 " Why don't you ask Mrs Piers ? " 
 
 " Yes, I might do that," said nurse. 
 
 But nurse never did ask Mrs Piers. On the con- 
 trary, frustrated on all hands, she returned to Paris 
 without having solved the mystery of the charming 
 photograph in the silver frame which stood upon the 
 bureau in Mrs Etherington's drawing-room.
 
 280 MARTY 
 
 Now Nurse Vincent was one of those people who 
 hate to be beaten. That was probably why she made 
 such an excellent nurse. She knew not the meaning 
 of the word defeat. Although she had really tried, 
 in a round-about, ladylike kind of way, to get at the 
 mystery of that particular photograph, she had by no 
 means given up the search. 
 
 As soon as she returned to Paris she was sent out 
 to a serious case at one of the hotels — if you want to 
 be exact, it was the Continental — and from thence 
 the patient was removed to a nursing home at Passy. 
 Here she was kept for six weeks, and then she had a 
 couple of days free to herself. 
 
 Her first outing was, like that of so many English- 
 women in Paris, to the Bon March e in search of 
 certain articles of feminine attire. Her next 
 excursion was to the Convent of Notre Dame de 
 Providence at Vitreuil. 
 
 " I want you to come up and spend the day with 
 me in Paris," she said when Marty went into the room 
 to her. 
 
 " In Paris ? " echoed Marty. 
 
 " Yes. Come up by the next train, and we'll have 
 lunch together." 
 
 " But why did you come down ? Why didn't you 
 write ? " 
 
 " Ah, I thought if I didn't come you wouldn't 
 perhaps come. You have a lesson ? Oh, nonsense ! 
 I'll go and talk to the Reverend Mother. I'll give 
 her news and messages and things from the patients 
 at Kensington. Shall I find her in her sitting- 
 room ? " 
 
 " Yes, I believe you will." 
 
 " Well, now, you go and get ready as soon as you
 
 A LITTLE OUTING 281 
 
 can, and I'll arrange about the lesson. You can give 
 it to-morrow, can't you ? " 
 
 " I could," said Marty. 
 
 So Nurse Vincent went bustling off to the little 
 sanctum of the Reverend Mother, and in ten minutes 
 had arranged that Marty might be spared to spend 
 the rest of the day with her in Paris. Then the two 
 went off together. 
 
 "You have got your hair different," said nurse, 
 suddenly. 
 
 " No," said Marty. 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " My hair ? " 
 
 " Yes, your hair. You had it all scragged back 
 anyhow when I last saw you." 
 
 " Ah, yes ; I thought it was more proper for 
 nursing. " 
 
 " Oh, did you ? H'm ! I like you better with it 
 loose like that. You look very nice — very nice. 
 Now what shall we do with ourselves ? We'll have 
 a nice little luncheon at a little restaurant I know 
 where you get ripping meals quite for next to nothing. 
 You are my guest, you know." 
 
 " No, no," said Marty. 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes. I've got lots to tell you. I had a 
 great time in London. They were very kind to me. 
 Of course, they didn't ail much. Madame had a few 
 nerves ; monsieur had not." 
 
 " " And madame and monsieur are better ? " said 
 Marty. 
 
 "Oh, they are marvellously better. Why, here 
 we are at the Gare ! What a quick run we have 
 had ! That shows how talking will pass the time. 
 Now, get into this omnibus here, and it will land
 
 282 MARTY 
 
 us at the door of the restaurant that I was telling 
 you about. If you have ever eaten a better lunch 
 for less than ten shillings, I'll eat you." 
 
 Marty laughed. " Very little in the way of food 
 contents ine," she said. 
 
 "I like my food," said Nurse Vincent. "I never 
 pretend, I never sham, never humbug; I like my 
 food. I always feel when I have an extra good 
 dinner that the labourer is worthy of his hire. I 
 work very hard, and I always feel that I am worth 
 good food." 
 
 " Did the Pierses feed you well ? " 
 
 " Excellently. She runs the house very well, that 
 young lady. She's selfish, and in some ways she's 
 hard, but she understands how many beans make 
 five, and she understands how to order a dinner 
 and how to govern a household." 
 
 " Nice servants ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes; very nice indeed. By the way, such 
 a funny thing happened." 
 
 " Yes ? " 
 
 " Her mother, Mrs Etherington — you know her, 
 don't you ? " 
 
 " I ! " exclaimed Marty. 
 
 " I saw your photograph there, that's all." 
 
 " At Mrs Etherington's ? I never gave her my 
 photograph," said Marty, all in a hurry. 
 
 " Didn't you ? Then somebody else did. It's in 
 a lovely silver frame, and it stands on a bureau to 
 the right of the fireplace as you go into the 
 room." 
 
 "Yes?" Marty's heart was beating to suffoca- 
 tion, but her tone was distinctly suggestive of 
 the want of further information.
 
 A LITTLE OUTING 283 
 
 " Yes. I wasn't quite sure," said Nurse Vincent. 
 " I didn't know — ah, here we are at our restaurant ! 
 Now, my dear, we haven't taken very long to get 
 here, have we ? I'll give you some bisqu6 soup. 
 If you have ever eaten anything like it, I'll eat 
 you." 
 
 ■' I'm sure you will," said Marty. " Don't con- 
 sider me. Order what you like. I eat every- 
 thing." 
 
 "Ah, you are a very sensible girl. People are 
 very tiresome — patients particularly — who have 
 fads ; can't touch mutton, loathe rice, never eat 
 cheese, can't bear anything from the inside, like 
 everything frizz] ed to a cinder, and think most 
 sauces are disgusting ! I once had a patient," she 
 went on, " who couldn't touch beef-tea. I was 
 always getting beef-tea smuggled into him as it 
 were under other guises. I used to give it him 
 in his chocolate, and then when his taste came 
 back he found the chocolate wasn't quite right. 
 I'd given him beef-tea in all sorts of ways, but 
 as he got better and stronger he got up to all of 
 them. He was a patient and a half ! " 
 
 They ensconced themselves at a little table near 
 the door, whence they could watch the traffic in 
 the street, the gay Parisian street, now under the 
 early summer sun so attractive, so full of life, 
 what the French themselves call le mouvement. 
 Not another word did either say on the subject 
 which was uppermost in the hearts of both until 
 they had reached the course which consisted of a 
 spoonful of pet its pois. 
 
 " Then you do know Mrs Etherington ? " asked 
 nurse.
 
 284 MARTY 
 
 " Yes. I told you so before." 
 
 " And you did know Mrs Piers ? " 
 
 " No, I didn't." 
 
 " Mrs Piers knew you ! " 
 
 " Mrs Piers knew me ! " Marty blanched to her 
 very lips. " How do you know ? " 
 
 " Because the first time that she went to see her 
 mother I went to walk home with her, for she 
 was still very shaky. Her mother came out to 
 receive me in a very grand, kind sort of way, and 
 over her shoulder, as I shook her hand, I saw Mrs 
 Piers hide something behind one of the photograph 
 frames. Then the two went in to see the father, 
 and I went to see what there was behind — natural 
 curiosity. It was very foolish of me, but I 
 did it." 
 
 " Yes ? What was hidden ? " 
 
 " There, face down, was your photograph." 
 
 " I never gave it to Mrs Etherington," said Marty. 
 
 "I can't help it. It was a photograph of you 
 in a white dress, made very prettily, sweetly 
 draped, and your hair loose as I had never seen 
 it — very tres bien soigne", as they say here. The 
 frame was a massive silver one, repousse work ; it 
 must have cost two or three guineas. In spite of 
 the difference in dress I knew it in a moment. 
 I went three or four times, but somehow that 
 photograph was always on its face. I tried to 
 find out about it. The servants at Mrs Ethering- 
 ton's are all new." 
 
 " All new ! " echoed Marty. 
 
 " They've all got married — all three of them." 
 
 " You don't say so ! " exclaimed Marty. 
 
 " And Mrs Piers's servants knew nothing," went on
 
 A LITTLE OUTING 285 
 
 nurse. " His sisters came two or three times, and 
 her mother came over aud over again. I couldn't 
 say to them, ' Do you know a Mrs Johnson ? ' I 
 couldn't find out." 
 
 " Why did you want to find out ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; sheer curiosity. It seemed so 
 queer to me that Mrs Piers should have been your 
 patient here, that you should have cared for her, 
 mothered her, done everything for her and him, that 
 she should have asked you to go to England with her 
 before she asked me, and yet that you should pretend 
 that you didn't know each other." 
 
 " We didn't know each other." 
 
 " But that you should pretend there was no con- 
 nection between you." 
 
 " How do you know that there is ? " 
 
 "I don't; but there's something. You know her 
 mother. She didn't want me to mention you in her 
 mother's presence, so she hid your photograph. I 
 thought you'd like to know. My dear, I don't want 
 to do you any harm, you are a mere child compared 
 to me, a baby. Something has gone wrong in your 
 life. My dear girl, do you think that I should have 
 gone down to Vitreuil to-day, on the very first holiday 
 that I have had, to seek you out and bring you up 
 here, if I didn't think I was going to help you to 
 unravel the tangle in your life ? What do you take 
 me for ? "
 
 CHAPTER XXXYII 
 
 A BRIGHT THOUGHT 
 
 For a little while Marty sat staring at Nurse Vincent 
 in utter silence. 
 
 "Nurse," she said at last, "I know you mean 
 well—" 
 
 " Mean well ? Of course ? " 
 
 " I don't know that I'm much better for that." 
 
 " Now what is it ? " said nurse. " Come, you had 
 best confide in me. Something has gone grievously 
 wrong." 
 
 " Yes," said Marty, " you are right there. Some- 
 thing has gone grievously wrong with me, but I don't 
 think you could put it right, well as you mean." 
 
 " Tell me about it," said Nurse Vincent. 
 
 " Not everything ; no, I can't tell you everything." 
 
 " My dear girl," said Nurse Vincent, " there is one 
 golden rule of life — never have a secret from your 
 lawyer or your doctor ; anybody who has lived will 
 tell you the same thing. To-day I stand in the place 
 of your lawyer and your doctor. Tell me the whole 
 story. What is Mrs Piers to you ? Why was she so 
 anxious that I shouldn't speak of you to her 
 mother ? " 
 
 " You think she was ? " 
 
 " Well, she was at great pains to thrust your photo- 
 
 286
 
 A BRIGHT THOUGHT 287 
 
 graph out of sight whenever I happened to be ex- 
 pected in Mrs Etherington's drawing-room." 
 
 " I can't think where Mrs Etherington got it," said 
 Marty. 
 
 " Well, that doesn't matter ; that won't help you. 
 She's got it, and it's in a very lovely silver frame. 
 But that's not the question. The question is — Why 
 did Mrs Piers not want her mother to know that you 
 were at Vitreuil ? " 
 
 " I suppose," said Marty, slowly and heavily, " I 
 suppose because Mrs Etherington is looking for me." 
 
 " Looking for you ! Why should she be looking- 
 for you ? Have you done anything that has upset 
 her, that—? " 
 
 "I don't know," said Marty. "She might be 
 looking for me because — because she's interested 
 in me." 
 
 " But why is she interested in you ? " 
 
 " How should I know ? I didn't know that she 
 was much interested in me," said Marty, in a miserable 
 attempt to fence the main question. 
 
 " It doesn't strike me," said Nurse Vincent, " that 
 Mrs Piers was at all the kind of woman to think of 
 you in the matter." 
 
 "I don't suppose she did," said Marty. For a 
 moment she had felt an almost irresistible temptation 
 to confide the entire truth to her companion. Then 
 some subtle instinct came over her, and she resolutely 
 put the idea away from her. " I can't explain it all 
 to you, nurse," she said. " It's awfully kind of you. 
 I'll never forget it. I don't know why you should 
 be so kind to me as to take any trouble or bother, or 
 to think about it at all, but, all the same, you may 
 take it from me that you can't do anything to smooth
 
 288 MARTY 
 
 out that particular tangle. I didn't know that Mrs 
 Piers recognised me. I never met her. I am, in a 
 way, connected with her, but I never spoke to her in 
 my life until we met in the convent at Vitreuil. I 
 never want to see her again. If she knew me, and 
 she's keeping silent as to my whereabouts, she's doing 
 me the greatest service that one woman can do 
 another." 
 
 For a moment Nurse Vincent's heart seemed to 
 turn to water within her. Then she leant over the 
 little table and caught Marty's two little soft hands 
 in hers. " You are a child," she said. " You have cut 
 yourself off from your friends, I don't know why, nor 
 how, nor when." 
 
 " Why should you trouble ? " said Marty, her lips 
 beginning to quiver. 
 
 " Because you have got a look on your face that no 
 young girl ought to have. They think at the convent 
 you are anything under thirty ; you don't deceive a 
 nurse like me, I, with a Bart.'s training, I, with 
 London and Paris experience. You haven't seen 
 your twentieth birthday yet, Mrs Johnson, and your 
 heart's breaking. Why is it breaking ? If Mrs 
 Etherington is looking for you why do you let her 
 look in vain ? " 
 
 " I can't explain it to you," cried Marty, in distress. 
 " I'd rather keep my own counsel. It's awfully kind 
 of you, I sha'n't forget it to the day of my death, but 
 you can't help me. I don't want Mrs Etherington to 
 find me ; I don't want anybody to find me. I want 
 to stay where I am until I die." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " 
 
 " Sometimes I wish it were nonsense," said Marty. 
 " Sometimes I wish I were dead, that I had never
 
 A BRIGHT THOUGHT 289 
 
 been born, that I had never known what it is to love 
 and suffer and lose. But what's the good of wishing ? 
 Life is what it is. One can't put back the clock." 
 
 "There was a poet once," said Nurse Vincent, look- 
 ing hard out of the window, " who wrote, ' 'Tis better 
 to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at 
 all.'" 
 
 " I don't agree with him," said Marty ; " no, I don't 
 agree with him. Happy those who have never known 
 what it is to lose." 
 
 ' Well," said Nurse Vincent, briskly, " I didn't bring 
 you out to make you miserable. Now you'll have 
 some coffee — black coffee — and a liqueur ? And then 
 — have you been to the Louvre ? I don't mean the 
 dress place, I mean the galleries." 
 
 " No, I've never been to the Louvre," said Marty. 
 
 " And the Hotel des Invalides ? And we might go 
 up the Tour Eiffel. We'll make a regular day of it." 
 
 They did make a regular day of it, and Marty saw 
 more of Paris than she had seen during all the 
 months that she had been at Vitreuil. And then 
 Nurse Vincent took her back as far as the Gare, and 
 there they parted. 
 
 " Now you'll remember my address, Mrs Johnson ? " 
 said she, as she was saying good-bye. " If ever you 
 change your mind, and you want me, just write to 
 me, or come. If I'm out nursing they'll let you know 
 where I am. And remember that I shan't be happy 
 until I know you are happy. I feel somehow as if I 
 had been sent to you." 
 
 The tears welled up into Marty's eyes, and her 
 voice shook as she thanked her, but that was all. 
 She was firm and resolute ; she had put her hand to 
 the plough, there should be no looking back. 
 
 T
 
 290 MARTY 
 
 So they parted, and Marty went back and took up 
 the tenor of her dull and uninteresting life in the 
 religious house at Vitreuil. 
 
 As for Nurse Vincent, she puzzled and puzzled yet 
 more. At last she made up her mind, fully and irre- 
 vocably, according to her mental way of putting it, 
 that she would drop the whole matter. The girl was 
 nothing to her; she was a mere unit in the great 
 stream of life, a drop in the ocean of humanity. She 
 did not want to be helped, or she knew that it was 
 impossible that she could be helped. She would let 
 it all drop, put it out of her mind, wouldn't worry 
 herself about it any more. 
 
 In this frame of mind she went off to her first case 
 after her day spent with Marty. It was a heavy 
 case, involving careful watching at night, but some- 
 how, after two or three days, Marty's little piquant 
 face began to haunt Nurse Vincent with a persist- 
 ence which very soon made her worry more than 
 ever. 
 
 " I can't get that girl out of my mind," she said to 
 herself, after a vain attempt to dismiss Marty into 
 the limbo of utter f orgetf ulness. " I can't get her out 
 of my head. I wish I could ; she's nothing to me. 
 But to think of that young life being wasted among 
 those silly women at the convent. It's wicked, it's 
 iniquitous. And yet, what could I do ? I wish I had 
 gone straight to Mrs Etherington and asked her to 
 tell me who the photograph was — yes, I do. But 
 there, the daughter took care that I never had the 
 chance. Never did she let me get out on the chance 
 of going in and tackling her mother. She knew I 
 suspected her. I've seen her watching me over and 
 over again. There was a flash in her eye which
 
 A BRIGHT THOUGHT 291 
 
 meant that I was dangerous. I let the flash warn me 
 off danger, like the fool I was. When I've got 
 through this case I'll have the little woman up to 
 Paris for the day again." 
 
 Accordingly, when nurse was through the case — at 
 least, when she knew that she would be leaving three 
 days later — she wrote to Marty and asked her to come 
 up and spend another day with her. " Don't think 
 you are coming as a kindness to yourself," she wrote. 
 " It would be the greatest kindness to me. In spite 
 of my having been so many years in Paris, I am 
 somewhat of a lonely woman. I don't take to every- 
 body; I took to you. So come and spend the day 
 with me next Thursday or Friday." 
 
 For the three days that she remained at her case 
 nurse had no reply. Then, when she got back to the 
 nursing home, she found a letter in a very shaky and 
 straggly handwriting. 
 
 " That isn't the little girl's writing!" she exclaimed 
 as she took up the envelope and saw that the post- 
 mark was Yitreuil. 
 
 The letter proved to be from Sceur Angelique. 
 
 " Mrs Johnson asked me to write and tell you, dear 
 nurse," she wrote, " that she is grateful and so much 
 obliged to you for your kind invitation for Thursday 
 or Friday. She is, however, unable to accept it, as at 
 the present time she is laid up with an attack of the 
 measles, which will keep her confined to her room for 
 at least a fortnight. We have had measles in the 
 school, and Mrs Johnson has been most good in help- 
 ing to nurse the sick children. She has, however, 
 fallen a victim herself, and we are all very anxious 
 about her."
 
 292 MARTY 
 
 Immediately on receipt of this letter Nurse Vincent 
 went off to Vitreuil, and satisfied herself that Marty- 
 was really seriously ill. 
 
 " Now look here, my young lady," she said before 
 she left her, "you'll make me a solemn promise. 
 You'll promise me before I leave that you'll do 
 nothing to hinder the course of your recovery." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " said Marty. 
 
 " I mean that measles is a simple matter for children 
 — not always so simple for them. It's a well-defined, 
 natural sort of illness. Do you know what I mean ? 
 You have a certain eruption, you keep warm, you 
 have a certain amount of fever, perhaps a touch of 
 bronchitis, and you keep warm and get well ; that's 
 the normal run of measles. A little older you have a 
 good deal more fever, perhaps not so much rash, per- 
 haps a little more bronchitis ; you don't take quite so 
 much care, you are more on your own, and you 
 don't get well. You know that as well as I do. 
 You're a sensible girl, now you promise me that 
 you'll stop in your bed, you'll take what's given to 
 you, you'll play no tricks; or else I shall just take 
 off my bonnet and I shall stop here till you are 
 better." 
 
 Marty laughed outright. It was a wan, almost a 
 disfiguring laugh, but it was a laugh all the same. 
 " Nurse," she said, " I'll do nothing foolish. I'm not 
 going to commit suicide, don't be alarmed. They'll 
 bring me tisane and tisane and tisane, as they've been 
 doing, and I shall lie here and sweat and sweat and 
 sweat." 
 
 " And by-and-by," put in nurse, " you'll be properly 
 cooked. Now, as long as I'm satisfied of that there's 
 no need for me to stop, so I won't exhaust you by re-
 
 A BRIGHT THOUGHT 293 
 
 inaining any longer. I shall come down and see you 
 again in a few days." 
 
 She went back to Paris more puzzled than ever, and 
 just as the train was running into the station a sudden 
 bright thought came to her. " I'll do it ! " she said, 
 " I'll do it ! I'll write to Mrs Ethering-ton to-night 
 and put the question to her plainly."
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 JOY COMETH IN THE MORNING 
 
 It happened that George Etherington had not been 
 round to his mother's house for several days. The 
 long strain of anxiety, the hopelessness of the months 
 which had worn away without any definite news of 
 Marty, had told upon him terribly ; and he clung to 
 his mother-in-law in a way which was nothing short 
 of pathetic. 
 
 " I suppose I must go and see my mother," he said 
 to her at breakfast one morning. "Here's a note 
 from her asking me to come. She says I'm neglect- 
 ing her. I suppose I am." 
 
 " Oh, you are ; yes, dear, you are," said Mrs Ben- 
 yon. " I think she's been very good and patient 
 about it." 
 
 "I'm sure she has," said George, "very good and 
 very patient. She wants me to dine with her to- 
 night. You'll not mind, Mater, will you ? " 
 
 " Mind, my dear boy ? She's your own mother, 
 your own dear mother. And I'm sure," she said, 
 with a dry, hard sob rising in her throat, "if she'd 
 been my Marty's mother over and over again she 
 could not have been kinder and more sympathetic. 
 I thought, George, when I first saw your mother, 
 that she was such a grand lady, too grand for me 
 to have anything to do with, quite out of my line. 
 
 294
 
 JOY COMETH IN THE MORNING 295 
 
 I was a little afraid of her; I thought she looked 
 down upon me and despised me, as she had every 
 right to do. But I've found since then that a haughty 
 manner may mean little or nothing. Go to her, 
 George. You have only one mother; don't neglect 
 her." 
 
 So that evening, on his return from his usual 
 peregrination to the establishment of Mr Spruce, 
 George Etherington went back to Rosediamond 
 Road, dressed himself, and then went round to his 
 mother's house. He found her sitting by the open 
 window in the drawing-room, overlooking the 
 pleasant garden. 
 
 " Ah, is that you, George, dear ? " she said. " I 
 thought you had forgotten me." 
 
 " No, mother, no. It's very wrong of me to give 
 you the trouble of hunting me up, but I hope you'll 
 forgive me." 
 
 " Oh, my dear boy, if I never have to forgive any 
 of you anything worse than that, we shall do very 
 well. By the way," she added, " I have had such an 
 extraordinary letter this evening." 
 
 " A letter ? From whom ? " 
 
 " From the nurse — you know, that was with your 
 sister and Dick." 
 
 " Yes, I saw her once. A capable, bustling kind of 
 person." 
 
 "An excellent nurse. She understood them down 
 to the very ground." 
 
 " Well, what did she write to you about ? " 
 
 " It's the most extraordinary letter I ever had," said 
 his mother. " You had better read it for yourself." 
 
 The letter was written in an angular hand, and 
 read thus : —
 
 2 9 6 MARTY 
 
 "Dear Mrs Etherington, — At the risk of your 
 thinking me a meddlesome fool or a hopeless lunatic 
 I am writing to ask you a question which I have 
 been longing to put ever since the first time I 
 entered your house, which was when I came to fetch 
 Mrs Piers, the first time that she had tea with you 
 after her accident. Do you know a Mrs Johnson ? — " 
 
 "Mrs Johnson? " repeated George. 
 " I don't know a Mrs Johnson," said his mother, 
 " not one." 
 
 " I have a particular reason for asking," the letter 
 went on. "And will you tell me the name of the 
 young lady whose photograph stands on the bureau 
 to the right of the fireplace in your drawing-room ? 
 The frame is of silver, very massive and handsome. 
 The young lady in it wears a white dress, cut low, 
 and has quantities of hair framing a rather child- 
 like face. I generally noticed that it was lying 
 downwards upon its face. I hope you'll forgive 
 me for asking these questions; it isn't done with 
 any idea of intrusion. — Believe me, dear Mrs Ether- 
 ington, faithfully yours, Harriet Vincent." 
 
 " Whose photograph is that, mother ? " 
 Mrs Etherington looked up at him with an expres- 
 sion that was one of mingled surprise and reproach. 
 " You should know, my dear boy. You gave me both 
 photograph and frame yourself." 
 " Do you mean Marty ? " 
 " I mean Marty." 
 
 " But Marty's photograph doesn't lie face down." 
 " Well, it's a most extraordinary thing," said Mrs 
 Etherington, " that over and over again I have come
 
 JOY COMETH IN THE MORNING 297 
 
 into the drawing-room and found Marty's photograph 
 face down behind that one of Effie in her bridal 
 dress." 
 
 " You don't think — ? " began George. 
 
 " I don't think because I don't know what to think, 
 I don't suspect because I don't know what to suspect, 
 but these questions must be answered explicitly. 
 There's more in it than meets the eye. Nurse Vincent 
 came from France, George ; Effie came from France ; 
 Mrs Johnson was the name of the nurse who nursed 
 Effie in the convent — the amateur nurse. I think you 
 had better take a little trip to Paris, my dear boy, 
 and you had better find out what Nurse Vincent has 
 in her mind. You could take the photograph and the 
 frame with you, and you could explain better than I 
 can exactly who the young lady is." 
 
 George Etherington did not answer. His mother, 
 who was knitting hard at her smart silk sock, did not 
 look up for a minute or two. Then, struck by his 
 silence, she raised her eyes, and saw that he had 
 fainted dead away. 
 
 To tear at the bell and summon help was the work 
 of an instant. " Get some brandy-and-soda quickly ! 
 Call Colonel Etherington ! Mr George is very ill. 
 Call Alice. Tell her to bring down a cold sponge." 
 
 The colonel came rushing in and one of the boys 
 and among them they soon pulled George back to his 
 own senses again. 
 
 " I can't think," he said, " what made me go off in 
 that curious way. I never did such a thing in my 
 life. The heat has been awful lately, hasn't it ? " 
 
 "Don't talk, my dear boy. Drink this," said the 
 colonel. "Take a good gulp of it. It won't hurt 
 you."
 
 298 MARTY 
 
 So George took another gulp of the revivifying 
 fluid and drew a deep breath or two, as if he wanted 
 to make up for lost time. 
 
 " You have gone a little too long, clear boy," said 
 his mother. " Don't stand between him and the air, 
 Bertie." 
 
 " I feel quite like an exhibition," said George. 
 Then suddenly remembrance came back to him, and 
 he swung himself out of his chair. " I — I must go," 
 he said, looking all round. " I haven't a minute to 
 spare ! " 
 
 " My dear boy," said his mother, pressing him down 
 again, " you'll do nothing of the kind. You'll not stir 
 from this house till you have eaten your dinner. 
 Your brothers will go round to Rosediamond Road 
 and pack your portmanteau presently, and ask Mrs 
 Benyon to come round here and say good-bye to you. 
 I'm going with you. There's plenty of time ; there's 
 no need to flurry. You can't start for Paris until the 
 boat train leaves Victoria. Your father — " 
 
 " Hadn't I better go ? " said the colonel 
 
 •' No, my dear, you stay in London. You've got to 
 go to-morrow morning and see George's chief. Still 
 better, take a cab the moment you have had your 
 dinner and try and get at him to-night. By-the-bye, 
 you could do it now, on the telephone." 
 
 " I'll ring him up at once," said the colonel. 
 
 It was but the work of a few minutes to arrange 
 by that convenient medium, the telephone, that 
 George should have a week's leave. And then they 
 sat down together, and Mrs Etheriugton, who had 
 forbidden George to say a word until he had eaten 
 enough to satisfy her, issued her orders. 
 
 " Now I want you, while I'm away, to do certain
 
 JOY COMETH IN THE MORNING 299 
 
 things," she said, looking round at her family with a 
 swift, comprehensive glance including the two maids 
 who were waiting. " First of all, I don't wish a soul 
 outside this house to know that I am away, not even 
 my own daughter. You'll remember if Mrs Piers 
 comes that I am out. I want you to keep up the 
 deception — if it is a deception," she added to her 
 husband. " Not a single word to anybody. We're 
 going off on what may be a reasonable clue, or what 
 may be a mere wild-goose chase, and I don't wish 
 anybody to be the wiser unless we succeed." 
 
 She talked on and on until the meal was over and 
 she was satisfied that George had eaten enough. 
 Then she hustled one of his brothers off to pack his 
 portmanteau, and to bring it back in a cab together 
 with Mrs Benyon. 
 
 " Dear Mrs Benyon," she said, as that trembling 
 woman entered the house, " George has to go to Paris 
 on business for a few days. Oh, no, no, no definite 
 clue ; but I want to go to Paris, and he has business, 
 so we are going to make a little trip together. I have 
 decided very suddenly on going, so you'll forgive his 
 running away like this. I'll deliver him up quite 
 safe and sound in a few days." 
 
 She was a wonderful woman. She never faltered 
 or swerved in the line which she had marked out for 
 herself until they were safely started on their journey. 
 Even then she took all the responsibilities upon her- 
 self ; saw to everything, and proved herself an 
 admirable traveller, as a soldier's wife should be. 
 
 So, to Nurse Vincent's astonishment, her letter to 
 Mrs Etherington was answered by that lady in person. 
 
 " You wrote me a letter, nurse," she said. 
 
 "I did."
 
 300 MARTY 
 
 " I thought it best to answer it in person. You 
 want to know who this girl is," pointing to the 
 photograph, which she had brought with her. " Who 
 do you think she is ? " 
 
 " I know her as Mrs Johnson," said nurse. 
 
 " I thought as much," said Mrs Etherington, " I 
 thought as much. Then, nurse, I can enlighten you. 
 That is not Mrs Johnson ; she is my son's wife — Mrs 
 George Etherington. We have sought her — oh, for 
 months, poor child ! Where is she ? " 
 
 " She is at the convent, of course." 
 
 "Then it was she who helped to nurse my 
 daughter ? " 
 
 " Yes. I knew that Mrs Piers knew her ; I could 
 see it." 
 
 " And Mr Piers ? " 
 
 " I couldn't say. I should fancy not. He gave me 
 no clue to it in his manner." 
 
 " And she's at the convent now ? " 
 
 " She's at the convent now. She has been suffer- 
 ing from measles. She's very worn, very different to 
 that photograph. It will break your heart to see 
 her." 
 
 "It doesn't matter about my heart," said Mrs 
 Etherington, " as long as it doesn't break my son's 
 heart or hers. Our hearts can take care of them- 
 selves very well. I must go and tell my son. He's 
 waiting outside in the carriage for me. Do you think 
 they'll let him in ? He's been so anxious. She's 
 hidden herself so completely. She had an idea that 
 she wasn't good enough for him ! I don't know 
 where she got it, nor how she got it, nor when, 
 excepting that it was some time on their honeymoon. 
 The idea is preposterous. She's charming, devoted,
 
 JOY COMETH IN THE MORNING 301 
 
 everything that we could wish for our son's wife. 
 And he's madly in love with her, nurse, madly in 
 love. It's a poor wreck that I've brought over from 
 London to Paris, and I'm so afraid when I tell him 
 the news it may kill him. He fainted dead away 
 over your letter last night. I told him, I pieced it 
 together ; I knew in a moment. I don't know what 
 he'll say." 
 
 " Joy never kills," said Nurse Vincent, quietly. 
 
 " I'll go and fetch him in," said his mother. 
 
 But George did not faint this time. On the 
 contrary, he caught hold of Nurse Vincent's hand 
 and shook it up and down like a veritable pump- 
 handle. " I'll thank you afterwards," he said. " At 
 present I would like to know which is the best way 
 to get to Vitreuil." 
 
 He had no doubt of his reception, no doubt that 
 once brought face to face with Marty he would be 
 able to dispel all the clouds which had parted them 
 for so many months. And he was right, for perfect 
 love casteth out fear. 
 
 It was just a couple of hours later that the three — 
 George, his mother and Nurse Vincent — drove up to 
 the convent in a voiture. Soeur Angelique came to 
 them in the parloir. Mrs Johnson, she told them, 
 was already much better. She was indeed, for the 
 first time, sitting up that day in an armchair by the 
 open window. 
 
 " I suppose she's in her own room," said Nurse 
 Vincent. " If so, I want to take this gentleman up to 
 see her." 
 
 " Up to see her ? " said Sceur Angelique. 
 
 " He has every right to go and see her," said Nurse 
 Vincent, quietly. " He is her husband."
 
 3 02 MARTY 
 
 The good Sister stood on one side with a gesture 
 implying to George that he could pass on. Nurse 
 Vincent led the way across the cour, up the staircase 
 and into the corridor which led to Marty's room. 
 
 " Well, my dear," she said, as she opened the door, 
 " you are better ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, nurse, much better, thank you. I don't 
 think the attack was half as bad as you thought it 
 was going to be." 
 
 " I'm glad of that. You see you were wise." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I was quite wise. You thought I was 
 going to commit suicide over it, didn't you ? " 
 
 " Not a bit of it. I only warned you. I'm glad to 
 see you so well, dear child, because I've brought some- 
 body to see you." 
 
 " Who ? " cried Marty. 
 
 She got up unsteadily from her chair. Some 
 instinct told her who it was on the other side of the 
 door. There was a scuffle, a rush, a cry, a sound of 
 sobbing, and then no more, for Nurse Vincent was 
 standing on the other side of the door, crying as if 
 her heart would break. 
 
 THE END 
 
 Colston &* Coy. Limited, Printers, Edinburgh.
 
 LIST OF WORKS 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN STRANGE WINTER 
 
 " The author to whom we owe the most finished and faithful render- 
 ing ever yet given of the character of the British soldier." — Mr Rcskin 
 in the Daily Telegraph, January 17th, 1888. 
 
 Cavalry Life 
 
 Regimental Legends 
 
 Booties' Baby 
 
 Houp-la 
 
 In Quarters 
 
 On March 
 *Army Society 
 
 Pluck 
 *Garrison Gossip 
 
 Mignon's Secret 
 
 That Imp ! 
 
 Mignon's Husband 
 
 A Siege Baby 
 
 Confessions of a Publisher 
 
 Booties' Children 
 *Beautiful Jim 
 
 My Poor Dick 
 
 Harvest 
 
 A Little Fool 
 
 Buttons 
 *Mrs Bob 
 
 Dinna Forget 
 
 Ferrers Court 
 
 He Went for a Soldier 
 *The Other Man's Wife 
 
 Good-bye 
 
 Lumley tbe Painter 
 
 Mere Luck 
 *Only Human 
 *My Geoff 
 
 A Soldier s Children 
 
 Three Girls 
 
 That Mrs Smith 
 ♦Aunt Johnnie 
 
 The Soul of the Bishop 
 
 A Man's Man 
 
 Red Coats 
 *A Seventh Child 
 *A Born Soldier 
 
 The Stranger Woman 
 
 A Blameless Woman 
 
 The Major's Favourite 
 
 Private Tinker 
 *A Magnificent Young Man 
 
 I Married a Wife 
 
 I Loved Her Once 
 
 The Same Thing with a Difference 
 'The Truth Tellers 
 
 The Strange Story of my Life 
 
 Grip! 
 
 The Troubles of an Unlucky Boy 
 
 Into an Unknown World 
 
 A Seaside Flirt 
 
 Everybody's Favourite 
 
 A Gay Little Woman 
 
 Princess Sarah 
 
 In the Same Regiment 
 
 The Peacemakers 
 
 The Price of a Wife 
 *Heart and Sword 
 
 Two Husbands 
 
 The Sentimental Maria 
 
 A Summer Jaunt 
 
 The Binks' Family 
 *A Name to Conjure With 
 
 The Soldier and the Lady 
 
 A Mother s Holiday 
 *The Ghost of an Old Love 
 
 The Married Miss Biuks 
 
 A Self-made Countess 
 
 She was called Noel 
 
 The Career of a Beauty 
 
 The Man I Loved 
 
 Lord Broke's Wife 
 
 A Matter of Sentiment 
 
 A Blaze of Glory 
 
 Uncle Charles 
 
 Connie the Actress 
 
 Marty 
 
 *Now Published at 6:1. each.
 
 WORKS BY JOHN STRANGE WINTER 
 
 A Blaze of Glory 
 
 In One Volume, crown 8vo, cloth gilt. Price 6s. 
 
 The Times. — "A novel of military life, ending up with the Boer 
 "War, in which John Strange Winter shows once more her gift of 
 telling a love story pleasantly. " 
 
 St James' Gazette. — " Mrs Stannard is one of the writers who are 
 never disappointing. Her stories, if they do not attain to the first 
 flight of excellence, never fail to reach a certain level of merit. Her 
 last book, 'A Blaze of Glory,' is quite up to the usual mark. Its 
 heroine, Betty Garnett, is a very attractive young woman, and we 
 follow her adventures with considerable sympathy." 
 
 The Standard. — "Betty and Betty's mother are admirably drawn. 
 They belong to the would-be genteel class, and live in shabby lodgings. 
 The girl is a trifle snobby, but the snobbishness is extremely natural. 
 Taken altogether she is a most pathetic and vivid little figure, and 
 her history is given with a sympathy and insight that make her 
 almost a creation. ... It is obvious that John Strange Winter 
 has been to South Africa, or that her power of putting herself in 
 someone else's place is very remarkable. " 
 
 The Daily Telegraph. — "'John Strange Winter' has established 
 a reputation of her own among novel-readers, which she has maintained 
 at a steady level throughout the large number of works she has 
 produced. Her latest story shows all the qualities of flowing, easy 
 writing, pleasant sentiment, and unforced pathos with which we are 
 familiar. The actors, as we have come to expect of the authoress of 
 ' Booties' Baby,' move in a military atmosphere. The young hero is a 
 cavalry officer, whose love for a girl of sixteen works dire havoc with 
 her life. . . . The gallant, but rather weak, cavalryman is not of 
 the stuff of which heroes are made, but the little lady and her 
 mother, the colonel and the doctor, are drawn with a lively touch 
 which assures us that Mrs Stannard has not lost her hold upon her 
 public." 
 
 The Daily Express. — "In 'A Blaze of Glory' John Strange Winter 
 returns to those nice soldiers of hers who have long ago conquered the 
 affections of a wide public. . . . The story of poor little Betty's 
 sore trials, and her brief interval of happiness with the colonel, is a 
 very pleasant one, thoroughly characteristic of its author, and may 
 safely be backed to take its place among the long list of her successes." 
 
 The Newcastle Weekly Chronicle. — " The soldier-lover and the 
 elderly soldier husband are both depicted in a graphic manner, and 
 the story is bright and interesting to the last page. ... It is to 
 some extent a new departure, for one does not expect to find the 
 author of ' Booties' Baby ' minutely depicting the sensations of a 
 suicide. ... 'A Blaze of Glory' is better than any novel John 
 Strange Winter has written for years past."
 
 A Blaze of Glory — continued 
 
 The Daily Mail. — "Though it is a love-story with a cheerful ending, 
 a great part of it diagnoses the sensations of the heroine when 
 attempting suicide — on finding that the dashing soldier who had won 
 ber heart was engaged to another." 
 
 The Sydney MorniDg Herald.—" The hall-mark of all Mrs Stannard's 
 stories is a delicate taste, a nice invention, and a skilfuluess in the 
 evolution of simple plots. ' A Blaze of Glory ' yields to none of its 
 predecessors in any of these regards. It is full of life from the first 
 page to the last." 
 
 The Whitehall Review. — "Apart from the main story, nothing 
 could artistically be better than the description of Betty's wanderings 
 in London after she had taken the bold step of flying from her un- 
 congenial and narrow home, and finds the fruit she thought so sweet 
 so far has such a bitter taste. London is a cruel city for an innocent 
 child, and Mrs Stannard shows it in its true colours. Whether we 
 follow the poor little heroine on her wearying round to the chemists' 
 shops in search of the laudanum which shall give her heart ease, or 
 whether we take the cold and almost fatal plunge with her, which so 
 nearly solves the great secret as far as she is concerned, or whether we 
 follow her in her marriage with her heroic rescuer, or pay a visit to 
 her on the ' active service ' list in South Africa, she is equally human 
 and intelligent. Indeed it is a characteristic of this book that none 
 of the people in its pages are puppets ; the ' local colour,' too, is of the 
 right tone, and we find ourselves reading with interest the descriptions 
 of the things that happen 'at the Front.' ... A clever book, well 
 written, well thought out, and well planned." 
 
 The Literary World. — "Soldiers figure largely in Mrs Stannard's 
 latest story, and, as usual, they are so well drawn that no one wants 
 to dispense with them. But the interest of the story centres in Betty, 
 a sixteen-year-old girl full of unsatisfied longings, and with an utter 
 dislike for her shabby and mean surroundings. . . . Altogether we 
 may congratulate Mrs Stannard on giving to the reading public 
 another really entertaining novel." 
 
 The People. — " A novel possessed of human interest from the first 
 page to the last is 'A Blaze of Glory.' . . . The clever authoress 
 has rarely turned out a better book." 
 
 The Torquay Times. — "The introduction of the Boer War is but a 
 means to a finish, but it serves to carry with it a clever and pathetic 
 portrait of a Boer girl, Aaltje, who also loved the not very heroic hero 
 and gave him up to Betty with a silent renunciation which touches a 
 true pathos." 
 
 F. V. WHITE & CO. Ltd., U Bedford Street, Strand, W.C. 
 
 U
 
 WORKS BY JOHN STRANGE WINTER 
 
 Connie the Actress 
 
 Small Crown 8vo, Paper Covers Is., Cloth Is. 6d. 
 
 Literary World. — "Mrs Arthur Stannard's 'Connie the Actress' is 
 far and away the best short story she has given to the public since 
 'Booties' Baby.' ... It is just a bit of tragic every-day life put 
 upon paper with a subtle, sympathetic touch. Mrs Stannard has 
 never drawn characters quite so lifelike as in this little sketch, which 
 is a bit of real unstudied art. " 
 
 To-Day. — A charming story of the stage, told with that capacity for 
 telling a good story which gives the authoress her position in the 
 literature of to-day." 
 
 Free Lance. — "It's pathos and humour, its wide humanity and 
 sensibleness, are such as we always expect to find in the authoress's 
 works." 
 
 Stage. — " ' Connie the Actress ' is written in Mrs Arthur Stannard's 
 usual bright style, and the life of the various women in a household 
 is touched off by her as deftly as ever, A well-drawn character is that 
 of Aunt Margaret, and theatrical matters are referred to with some 
 inside knowledge, of course. . . . Mrs Stannard is very sensible in 
 her remarks regarding a girl's prospects of success or failure in a 
 dramatic career." 
 
 Whitehall Review. — "A vivid story of love, marriage and stage 
 glamour." 
 
 Scotsman. — "The story of a young family left in very straitened 
 circumstances by the death of their father. . . . The story has plenty 
 of dramatic incident, and will no doubt be widely read." 
 
 Bookseller. — "A graphic and fascinating story of the 'boards,' and 
 of true love ending with happy marriage. Mrs Stannard never dis- 
 appoints, and she gives the reading public another most readable and 
 entertaining novel." 
 
 Torquay Times. — "'Connie the Actress ' bears all the well-known 
 evidences of her work, the light, easy-flowing st3de — for Mrs Stannard 
 is a stylist, inasmuch as there is no mistaking her work, and no one 
 approaches her in her own province — the shrewd common sense and 
 ability to limn characters that shall be more than puppets ; and 
 inasmuch as the authoress has given us these, there is nothing to be 
 desired in that direction. . . . The book contains the sketch of a 
 character, Aunt Margaret, so ably drawn that one regrets one does 
 not see more of her. There is no doubt that the authoress has 
 developed quite a rich vein of character-drawing, and in such portraits 
 limns with an absolutely live touch. Aunt Margaret with her fierce 
 bark, her good, unselfish heart, and her admirably sane outlook upon 
 life, is quite a lovable person." 
 
 F. V. WHITE & CO. Ltd., 14 Bedford Street, Strand, W.C.
 
 WORKS BY JOHN STRANGE WINTER 
 
 Uncle Charles 
 
 Crown 8vo, Cloth 6s. 
 
 Times. — "John Strange Winter is bold enough — like Fielding in 
 1 Amelia ' — to begin with a marriage, for Alison Grainger shocks Uncle 
 Charles and his wife by marrying a painter. There is nothing painful 
 or even pathetic in the story of their life in artistic London, but it is 
 all agreeable reading, especially the romance of Mrs Devereux, who 
 nearly marries Uncle Charles ; and there is, for once, an American 
 girl who is not charming." 
 
 Truth, — "There is nothing in the least degree depressing about 
 'Uncle Charles,' which is, indeed, a novel in the authoress's lightest 
 and brightest vein. It is a long time since John Strange Winter gave 
 her readers two cleverer studies of character than Uncle Charles and 
 Mrs Devereux, and the story is entertaining from the first page to the 
 last." 
 
 Sunday Sun. — "The author of ' Booties' Baby ' at her best. A 
 capital sentimental story." 
 
 Ladies' Field. — "Novel-readers wearied with pessimism can turn to 
 a book like this as sated epicures turn with appetite to bacon and 
 beans. . . . Cheerful stories of this kind will always be popular. 
 The author does not presume upon her reputation. This book is much 
 better written than her earlier works. " 
 
 Free Lance. — "For a sympathetic insight into human nature, com- 
 bined with a light touch and the faculty of seeing what is interesting 
 in things that appear to the ordinary person more or less commonplace, 
 John Strange Winter is not easily equalled. Her latest story, 
 ' Uncle Charles,' shows her at her best. . . . There is a singular 
 charm of good humour and pathos about ' Uncle Charles.' " 
 
 Whitehall Review. — "A new book by John Strange Winter is 
 always an event in the literary world, and marks the various publish- 
 ing seasons with the greatest regularity. In spite of the fact that 
 the clever authoress's output is probably larger than any other 
 English writer, it is one of the surest proofs of her genius that her 
 work never shows the slightest falling off. Take up any book of hers 
 you like and you will always find some character so realistically drawn, 
 so true to life, so vividly portrayed, as to relieve any suggestion of a
 
 Uncle Charles — continued 
 
 too rapid composition. This is distinctly the case in her latest book, 
 'Uncle Charles."' 
 
 Lloyd's News. — "Versatility is one of the marks of this author, and 
 we have another example of it in this novel, which is quite distinct 
 from anything we have before had from the same pen. . . . Let us 
 say at once that it is a very delightful tale, and that Uncle Charles is 
 one of the most amusing characters we have met with for a very long 
 time past. The subsidiary characters are also elhv drawn, and alto- 
 gether the book is one that can be heartily commended to all lovers of 
 light fiction." 
 
 Queen. — " This book, though but a slight story, has particularly good 
 characterisation, and very amusingly portrays the immense gulf there 
 is between the mind of the provincial well-to-do commercial citizen 
 and that of the ordinary London artistic vagabond. ' Uncle Charles ' 
 is a wealthy north-country city man, whose niece marries a rising 
 young London painter. When Uncle Charles and his excellent wife are 
 introduced to the painter's friends they produce (and receive) various 
 impressions, which readers will recognise as supremely natural in propor- 
 tion to their knowledge of life. The book is full of happy strokes which 
 just hit their mark, and is likely to be a favourite with most readers." 
 
 Newcastle Weekly Chronicle. — "The characters are all pleasant — 
 not a villain among them. Uncle Charles, a fat old fellow who has 
 prospered in business, is, notwithstanding that he worships ' a little 
 god in his inside,' as kind and generous 'as they make 'em.' Highly 
 amusing is the manner in which, after the death of the wife he adored, 
 he succumbs for the moment to the fascinations of a fast and flashy 
 girl from America. . . . Here is a specimen of Miss Wannamaker's 
 style : — ' " Everything is go-ahead in Chicago, just as everything is dead- 
 alive on this side of the water. Show me the man in London who can 
 can fifteen thousand pigs a day.'" Other touches of humour are 
 scattered through the book, which, having never a doubtful situation in 
 it, can be read by a schoolgirl without the smallest risk of receiving a 
 shock to her morals or her sensibility. This at least is a compliment 
 that cannot be paid to the productions of every lady novelist of the 
 day." 
 
 Torquay Times. — "Uncle Charles is certainly one of the completest 
 characters Mrs Stannard has drawn. He is interesting and amusing, 
 and the idea of placing a provincial city merchant of the strictest 
 Philistinism in the artistic circle into which his niece marries is ex- 
 cellent. His development in the new surroundings is cleverly and 
 amusingly drawn. Uncle Charles, too, is no fool, and his shrewd 
 common sense endears him to his readers. ... To sum up, there is 
 no falling off in Mrs Stannard's acknowledged gifts of easy, pleasant,
 
 Uncle Charles — continued 
 
 good-humoured writing, and the telling of a love-story of modern days, 
 which is truthful and observant, and this despite the enormous output 
 she has made." 
 
 English and American Gazette.— "'Uncle Charles' is another of 
 John Strange Winter's life-like Studies in Marriage. This time there 
 is little of tragedy and nothing of pessimism ; all is gay, buoyant and 
 alive. The heroine, a charming orphan girl brought up in the prim 
 cathedral city of Northtowers, by Uncle Charles and his wife, is wooed 
 and won by a rising young London painter — quite the last match her 
 wealthy provincial relatives would have chosen for her. ' "It always 
 seems to me," said Uncle Charles one day, " that painting little pictures 
 is but a poor way of earning a living. It — it — there's something that's 
 not quite manly about it.'" When Uncle Charles and his wife come 
 into touch with Alan Forbes's London friends their mutual impressions 
 are distinctly refreshing, and the author portrays the immense difference 
 between Provincial and London views with masterly skill and 
 charm. . . . The whole book is full of bright, racy dialogue, and, at 
 least in the matter of vivid character-drawing, is one of the best its 
 prolific author has produced. " 
 
 IMPORTANT NO TICE 
 
 AN ENTIRELY NEW EDITION OF 
 
 JOHN STRANGE WINTER'S 
 POPULAR NOVELS 
 
 IS NOW BEING 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 F, V. WHITE & CO, LTD, 
 
 Price SIXPENCE per Volume 
 
 ALREADY ISSUED 
 
 THE TRUTH TELLERS 
 
 A MAGNIFICENT YOUNG MAN 
 
 BEAUTIFUL JIM 
 
 ARMY SOCIETY 
 
 GARRISON GOSSIP 
 
 MRS BOB 
 
 MY GEOFF 
 
 A SEVENTH CHILD 
 
 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 AUNT JOHNNIE 
 
 A NAME TO CONJURE WITH 
 
 A BORN SOLDIER 
 
 ONLY HUMAN 
 
 THE GHOST OF AN OLD LOVE 
 
 HEART AND SWORD 
 
 F. V. WHITE & CO. Ltd., 14 Bedford Street, Strand, W.C.
 
 Uniform Sixpenny Edition of 
 
 John Strange Winter's Popular Novels 
 
 A Name to Conjure With 
 
 Athenaeum. — " We consider this one of the best books produced so far by 
 Mrs Stannard." 
 
 Daily Telegraph.— '• A novel which sensibly raises the average.' - 
 
 Queen. — "A genuine study of real life and human nature." 
 
 Black and White.— "A carefully considered, seriously worked character- 
 study of a woman writer — a famous nove.'ist. The story is intensely interest- 
 ing, and compels our attention to the very end." 
 
 Vanity Fair.— " No one knows better than Mrs Stannard the worries and 
 glories of a successful woman author's life, and she draws the character of 
 Mary Lessingharn with the ease born of long experience." 
 
 Globe. — " One of her best. The book exhibits such an intimate knowledge 
 not only of literary but of journalistic life as might be expected from this 
 experienced writer." 
 
 Bookseller. — " It is, indeed, a graphic, vigorous picture, most effectively 
 painted, and it at least shows that to succeed is not always happiness, while it 
 points the moral that loving wives and husbands are happiest when they have 
 no secrets from each other." 
 
 St James's Gazette. — "Certainly the book is worth reading for this power- 
 ful treatment of a somewhat unusual phase of the drink question — perhaps as 
 good work as any that John Strange Winter has done." 
 
 Literary World.— " The slow but pitileBB inroads of the drink habit are 
 described with a fidelity almost terrible." 
 
 Churchman. — " Mrs Stannard has risen in this pathetic story to the level of 
 tragedy. . . . Though not intended as a temperance story, but rather as a 
 psychological problem, this work will be immensely popular amongst those 
 interested in temperance wori ." 
 
 Alliance News.— ■" Sitting down merely to write an interesting novel, she 
 has, to her surprise, produced what is, in fact, one of the most powerfu temper- 
 ance tales that have ever been written." 
 
 F. V. WHITE & CO. LTD., 14 Bedford Street, Strand, W.C.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 
 
 Winii? L 
 
 MAY 4 
 
 rm L9-Series4939
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 386 821 3 
 
 3 1158 00338 71 H
 
 si« 
 
 »»« 
 
 Hi 
 
 ■ll 
 
 Mir 
 
 «8§^ 
 
 « 
 
 S» 
 
 1IIII1 
 
 ■ 
 
 H 
 
 «S 
 
 ■ 
 
 1111111 
 
 ^1111111 
 
 PHMH 
 
 
 1 
 
 »« 
 
 n™ 
 
 «,.^»^._.