"No?" said Maryllia, tentatively.

"No, certainly not! For if you never do anything out of the humdrum line, and never compromise yourself in any way, Society will be so furious with your superiority to itself that it will invent a thousand calumnies and hang them all on your name. And you will never know how they arise, and never be able to disprove them."

"Does it matter?"—and Maryllia smiled—"If one's conscience is clear, need one care what people say?"

"Conscience!" exclaimed Lady Beaulyon—"What an old-fashioned expression! Surely it's better to do something people can lay hold of and talk about, than have them invent something you have never done! They will give you no credit for virtue or honesty in this world, Maryllia, unless you grow ugly and deformed. Then perhaps they will admit you may be good, and they will add—'She has no temptation to be otherwise.'"

"I do not like your code of morality, Eva," said Maryllia, quietly.

"Perhaps not, but it's the only one that works in OUR day!" replied Eva, with some heat, "Surely you know that?"

"I try to forget it as much as possible,"—and Maryllia's eyes were full of a sweet wistfulness as she spoke—"Especially here—in my father's home!"

"Oh well!" said Lady Beaulyon, with a touch of impatience—"You are a strange girl—you always were! You can 'live good,' or try to, if you like; and stay down here all alone with the doldrums and the humdrums. But you'll be sick of it in six months. I'm sure you will! Not a man will come near you,—they hate virtuous women nowadays,— and scarce a woman will come either, save old and ugly ones! You will kill yourself socially altogether by the effort. Life's too short to lose all the fun out of it for the sake of an ideal or a theory!"

Here the gong sounded for dinner. Maryllia turned away from her dressing-table, and confronted her friend. Her face was grave and earnest in its expression, and her eyes were very steadfast and clear.

"I don't want what you call 'fun,' Eva,"—she said—"I want love! Love seems to me the only good thing in life. Do you understand? You ask me why I left my aunt—it was to escape a loveless marriage,—a marriage that would be a positive hell to me for which neither wealth nor position could atone. As for 'living good,' I am not trying that way. I only want to understand myself, and find out my own possibilities and limitations. And if I never do win the love I want,—if no one ever cares for me at all, then I shall be perfectly content to live and die unmarried."

"What a fate!" laughed Lady Beaulyon, shrugging her white shoulders.

"A better one than the usual divorce court result of some 'society' marriages,"—said Maryllia, calmly—"Anyhow, I'd rather risk single blessedness than united 'cussedness'! Let us go down to dinner, Eva! On all questions pertaining to 'Souls' and modern social ethics, we must agree to differ!"



XX

For the next fortnight St. Rest was a scene of constant and unwonted excitement. There was a continual coming and going, to and from Abbot's Manor,—some of the guests went away to be replaced by others, and some who had intended to spend only a week-end and then depart, stayed on, moved by unaccountable fascination, not only for their hostess, but for the general pleasantness of the house, and the old-world, tranquil and beautiful surroundings of the whole neighbourhood. Lord Charlemont and Mr. Bludlip Courtenay had brought their newest up-to-date motor-cars with them,—terrible objects to the villagers whenever they dashed, like escaped waggons off an express train, through the little street, with their horns blowing violently as though in a fog at sea. Mrs. Frost was ever on the alert lest any of her smaller children should get in the way of these huge rubber-tyred vehicles tearing along at reckless speed,— and old Josey Letherbarrow resolutely refused to go outside his garden gate except on Sundays.

"Not but what I ain't willin' an' cheerful to die whenever the Lord A'mighty sends for me;"—he would say—"But I ain't got no fancy for bein' gashed and jambled."

'Gashed and jambled,' was his own expression,—one that had both novelty and suggestiveness. Unfortunately, it happened that a small pet dog belonging to one of the village schoolboys, no other than Bob Keeley, the admitted sweet-heart of Kitty Spruce, had been run over by Mr. Bludlip Courtenay, as that gentleman, driving his car himself, and staring indifferently through his monocle, had 'timed' his rush through the village to a minute and a half, on a bet with Lord Charlemont,—and 'gashed and jambled' was the only description to apply to the innocent little animal as it lay dead in the dust. Bob Keeley cried for days,—cried so much, in fact, over what he considered 'a wicked murder' that his mother sent for 'Passon' to console him. And Walden, with his usual patience, listened to the lad's sobbing tale:

"Which the little beast wor my friend!" he gasped amid his tears— "An' he wor Kitty's friend too! Kitty's cryin' 'erself sick, same as me! I'd 'ad 'im from a pup—Kitty carried 'im in 'er apron when 'e was a week old,—he loved me—yes 'e did!—an' 'e slept in my weskit iviry night of 'is life!—an' he 'adn't a fault in 'im, all lovin' an' true!—an' now 'e's gone—an'—an'-I HATE the quality up at the Manor—yes I do!—I HATE 'em!—an' if Miss Vancourt 'adn't never come 'ome, my doggie 'ad been livin' now, an' we'd all a' bin 'appy!"

Walden patted the boy's rough towzled head gently, and thought of his faithful 'Nebbie.' It would have been mere hypocrisy to preach resignation to Bob, when he, the Reverend John, knew perfectly well that if his own canine comrade had been thus cruelly slain, he also would have 'hated the quality.'

"Look here, Bob," he said at last,—"I know just how you feel! It's just as bad as bad can be. But try and be a man, won't you? You can't bring the poor little creature back to life again,—and it's no use frightening your mother with all this grief for what cannot be helped. Then there's poor Kitty—SHE 'hates the quality';—her little heart is sore and full of bad feelings—all for the sake of you and your dog, Bob! She's giving her mother no end of trouble up at the Manor, crying and fretting—suppose you go and see her? Talk it over together, like two good children, and try if you can't comfort each other. What do you say?"

Bob rose from beside the chair where he had flung himself on his knees when Walden had entered his mother's cottage,—and rubbed his knuckles hard into his eyes with a long and dismal sniff.

"I'll try, sir!" he said chokingly, and then suddenly seizing 'Passon's' hand, he kissed it with boyish fervour, caught up his cap and ran out. Walden stood for a moment inert,—there was an uncomfortable tightness in his throat.

"Poor lad!" he said to himself,—"He is suffering as much in his way as older people suffer in theirs,—perhaps even more,—because to the young, injustice always seems strange—to the old it has become customary and natural!"

He sighed,—and with a pleasant word or two to Mrs. Keeley, who waited at her door for him to come out, and who thanked him profusely for coming to 'hearten up the boy,' he went on his usual round through the village, uncomfortably conscious that perhaps his first impressions respecting Miss Vancourt's home-coming were correct,—and that it might have been better for the peace and happiness of all the simple inhabitants of St. Rest, if she had never come.

Certainly there was no denying that a change had crept over the little sequestered place,—a change scarcely perceptible, but nevertheless existent. A vague restlessness pervaded the atmosphere,—each inhabitant of each cottage was always on the look- out for a passing glimpse of one of the Abbot's Manor guests, or one of the Abbot's Manor servants,—it did not matter which, so long as something or somebody from the Manor came along. Sir Morton Pippitt had, of course, not failed to take full advantage of any slight surface or social knowledge he possessed of Miss Vancourt's guests,- -and had, with his usual bluff pomposity, invited them all over to Badsworth Hall. Some of them accepted his invitation,—others declined it. Lord Charlemont and Mr. Bludlip Courtenay discovered him to be a 'game old boy'—while Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby found something congenial in the society of Miss Tabitha Pippitt, who, cherishing as she did, an antique-virgin passion for the Reverend John Walden, whom her father detested, had come to regard herself as a sort of silent martyr to the rough usages of this world, and was therefore not unwilling to listen to the long stories of life's disillusions which Lady Wicketts unravelled for her benefit, and which Miss Fosby, with occasional references to the photographs and prints of the 'Madonna' or the 'Girl with Lilies' tearfully confirmed. So the motor-cars continually flashed between Abbot's Manor and Badsworth Hall, and Lady Beaulyon apparently found so much to amuse her that she stayed on longer than she had at first intended. So did Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay. They had their reasons for prolonging their visit,—reasons more cogent than love of fresh air, or admiration of pastoral scenery. Both of them kept up an active correspondence with Maryllia's aunt, Mrs. Fred Vancourt, a lady who was their 'very dear' friend, owing to her general usefulness in the matter of money. And Mrs. Fred having a fixed plan in her mind concerning the welfare and good establishment of her niece, they were not unwilling to assist her in the furtherance of her views, knowing that whatever trouble they took would be substantially rewarded 'under the rose.'

So they remained, on one excuse or the other,—while other guests came or went, and took long walks and motor-rides in the neighbourhood and amused themselves pretty much in their own way, Maryllia rightly considering that to be the truest form of hospitality. She herself, however, was living a somewhat restrained life among them,—and she began to realise more than ever the difference between 'friends' and 'acquaintances,' and the hopeless ennui engendered by the proximity of the latter, without the sympathy of the former. She was learning the lesson that cannot be too soon mastered by everyone who seeks for pure happiness in this world—'The Kingdom of God is within you.' In herself she was not content,—yet she knew no way in which to make herself contented. "I want something"—she said to herself—"Yet I do not know what I want." Her pleasantest time during the inroad of her society friends, was when, after her daily housekeeping consultations with Mrs. Spruce, she could go and have a chat with Cicely in that young person's small study, which was set apart for her, next to her bedroom nearly at the top of the house, and which commanded a wide view of the Manor park-lands, and the village of St. Rest, with the silvery river winding through it, and the spire of the church rising from the surrounding foliage like a finger pointing to heaven. And she also found relief from the strain of constant entertaining by rising early in the mornings and riding on her favourite 'Cleopatra' all over her property, calling on her new agent, Frank Stanways, and his wife, and chatting with the various persons in her employ. She did not however go much into the village, and on this point one morning her agent ventured to observe—

"Old Mr. Letherbarrow has been saying that he has not seen you lately, Miss Vancourt,—not since your friends came down. He seems to miss you very much."

Maryllia, swaying lightly in her saddle, stooped over her mare's neck and patted it, to hide sudden tears that sprang, she knew not why, to her eyes.

"Poor Josey!" she said—"I'm sorry! Tell him I'll come as soon as all my visitors are gone—they will not stay long. The dinner-party next week concludes everything. Then I shall have time to go about the village as usual."

"That will be delightful!" said Alicia Stanways, a bright little woman, whose introduction and supervision of a 'model dairy' on the Abbot's Manor estate was the pride of her life—"It really makes all the people happy to see you! Little Ipsie Frost was actually crying for you the other day."

"Was she? Poor little soul! The idea of a child crying for me! It's quite a novel experience!" And Maryllia laughed—"But I don't think I'm wanted at all in the village. Mr. Walden does everything."

"So he does!"—agreed Stanways—"He's a true 'minister' if there ever was one. Still, he has not been quite so much about lately."

"No?" queried Maryllia—"I expect he's very busy!"

"I think he has only one wish in the world!" said Mrs. Stanways, smiling.

"What is that?" asked Maryllia, still stroking 'Cleopatra's' glossy neck thoughtfully.

"To fill the big rose-window in the church with stained glass,—real 'old' stained glass! He's always having some bits sent to him, and I believe he passes whole hours piecing it together. It's his great hobby. He won't have a morsel that is not properly authenticated. He's dreadfully particular,—but then all old bachelors are!"

Maryllia smiled, and bidding them good-morning cantered off. She was curiously touched at the notion of old Josey Letherbarrow missing her, and 'Baby Hippolyta' crying for her.

"Not one of my society friends would miss me!"—she said to herself- -"And certainly I know nobody who would cry for me!" She checked her thoughts—"Except Cicely. SHE would miss me,—SHE would cry for me! But, in plain matter-of-fact terms, there is no one else who cares for me. Only Cicely!"

She looked up as she rode, and saw that she was passing the 'Five Sisters,' now in all the glorious panoply of opulent summer leafage. Moved by a sudden impulse, she galloped up the knoll, and drew rein exactly at the spot where she had given Oliver Leach his dismissal, and where she had first met John Walden. The wind rustled softly through the boughs, which bent and swayed before her, as though the grand old trees said: 'Thanks to you, we live!' Birds flew from twig to twig,—and the persistent murmur of many bees working amid the wild thyme which spread itself in perfumed purple patches among the moss and grass, sounded like the far-off hum of a human crowd.

"I did something useful when I saved you, you dear old beeches!" she said—"But the worst of it is I've done nothing worth doing since!"

She sighed, and her pretty brows puckered into a perplexed line, as she slowly guided 'Cleopatra' down the knoll again.

"It's all so lonely!" she murmured—"I felt just a little dull before Eva Beaulyon and the others came,—but it's ever so much duller with them than without them!"

That afternoon, in compliance with a particularly pressing request from Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, she accompanied a party of her guests to Badsworth, driving thither in Lord Charlemont's motor. Sir Morton Pippitt, red-faced and pompous as usual, met them at the door, in all the resplendency of new grey summer tweeds and prominent white waist-coat, his clean-shaven features shining with recent soap, and his white hair glistening like silver. He was quite in his element, as he handed out the beautiful Lady Beaulyon from the motor-car, and expressed his admiration for her looks in no unmeasured terms,—he felt himself to be almost an actual Badsworth, of Badsworth Hall, as he patted Lord Charlemont familiarly on the shoulder, and called him 'My dear boy!' As he greeted Maryllia, he smiled at her knowingly.

"I think I have a friend of yours here to-day, my dear lady!" he said with an expressive chuckle—"Someone who is most anxious to see you!" And escorting her with obtrusive gallantry into the hall, he brought her face to face with a tall, elegant, languid-looking man who bowed profoundly; "I believe you know Lord Roxmouth?"

The blood sprang to her brows,—and for a moment she was so startled and angry that she could scarcely breathe. A swift glance from under her long lashes showed her the situation—how Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay was watching her with ill-concealed amusement, and how all the rest of the party were expectant of a 'sensation.' She saw it all in a moment,—she recognised that a trap had been laid for her to fall into unwarily, and realising the position she rose to it at once.

"How do you do!" she said carelessly, nodding ner head without giving her hand—"I thought I should meet you this afternoon!"

"Did you really!" murmured Roxmouth—"Some magnetic current of thought—-"

"Yes,—'by the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes!'—THAT sort of sensation, you know!" and she laughed; then perceiving a man standing in the background whose sleek form and lineaments she instantly recognised, she added—"And how are you, Mr. Longford? Did you bring Lord Roxmouth here, or did he bring you?"

Marius Longford, 'of the Savage and Savile,' was taken by surprise, and looked a little uncomfortable. He stroked one pussy whisker.

"We came together," he explained in his affected falsetto voice— "Sir Morton Pippitt was good enough to invite me to bring any friend,—and so—"

"I see!" and Maryllia lifted her little head with an unconscious gesture, implying pride, or disdain, or both, as she passed with the other guests into the Badsworth Hall drawing-room; "The country is so delightful at this time of year!"

She moved on. Lord Roxmouth stroked down his fair moustache to hide a smile, and quietly followed her. He was a good-looking man, tall and well-built, with a rather pale, clean-cut face, and sandy hair brushed very smooth; form and respectability were expressed in the very outline of his figure and the fastidious neatness and nicety of his clothes. Entering the room where Miss Tabitha Pippitt was solemnly presiding over the tea-tray with a touch-me-not air of inflexible propriety, he soon made himself the useful and agreeable centre of a group of ladies, to whom he carried cake, bread-and- butter and other light refreshments, with punctilious care, looking as though his life depended upon the exact performance of these duties. Once or twice he glanced at Maryllia, and decided that she appeared younger and prettier than when he had seen her in town. She was chatting with some of the country people, and Lord Roxmouth waited for several moments in vain for an opportunity to intervene. Finally, securing a cup of iced coffee, he carried it to her.

"No, thanks!" she said, as he approached.

"Strawberries?" he suggested, appealingly.

"Nothing, thank you!"

Smiling a little, he looked at her.

"I wish you would give me a word, Miss Vancourt! Won't you?"

"A dozen, if you like!"—she replied, indifferently—"How is Aunt Emily?"

"I am glad you ask after her!"—he said, impressively—"She is well,—but she misses you very much." He paused, and added in a lower tone—"So do I!"

She was silent.

"I know you are angry!" he went on softly—"You went away from London to avoid me, and you are vexed to see me down here. But I couldn't resist the temptation of coming. Marius Longford told me he had called upon you with Sir Morton Pippitt at Abbot's Manor,—and I got him to bring me down on a visit to Badsworth Hall,—only to be near you! You are looking quite lovely, Maryllia!"

She raised her eyes and fixed them full on him. His own fell.

"I said you were angry, and you are!" he murmured—"But you have the law in your own hands,—you need not ask me to your house unless you like!"

The buzz of conversation in the room was now loud and incessant. Sir Morton Pippitt's 'afternoon teas' were always more or less bewildering and brain-jarring entertainments, where a great many people of various 'sets,' in the town of Riversford and the county generally, came together, without knowing each other, or wishing to know each other,—where the wife of the leading doctor in Riversford, for example, glowered scorn and contempt on Mrs. Mordaunt Appleby, the wife of the brewer in the same town, and where those of high and unimpeachable 'family,' like Mrs. Mandeville Poreham, whose mother was a Beedle, stared frigidly and unseeingly at every one hailing from the same place as creatures beneath her notice.

For—"Thank God!"—said Mrs. Poreham, with feeling,—"I do not live in Riversford. I would not live in Riversford if I were paid a fortune to do so! My poor mother never permitted me to associate with tradespeople. There are no ladies or gentlemen in Riversford,— I should be expected to shake hands with my butcher if I resided there,—but I am proud and glad to say that at present I know nobody in the place. I never intend to know anybody there!"

Several curious glances were turned upon Miss Vancourt as she stood near an open window looking out on the Badsworth Hall 'Italian Garden,'—a relic of Badsworth times,—her fair head turned away from the titled aristocrat who bent towards her, as it seemed, in an attitude of humble appeal,—and one or two would-be wise persons nodded their heads and whispered—"That's the man she's engaged to." "Oh, really!—-and his name—-?" "Lord Roxmouth;—will be Duke of Ormistoune—-" "Good gracious! THAT woman a Duchess!" snorted Mrs. Mordaunt Appleby, as she heard—"The men must be going mad!" Which latter remark implied that had she not unfortunately married a brewer, she might easily have secured the Ormistoune ducal coronet herself.

Unaware of the gossip going on around her, Maryllia stayed where she was at the window, coldly silent, her eyes fixed on the glowing flower-beds patterned in front of her,—the gorgeous mass of petunias, and flame-colored geraniums,—the rich saffron and brown tints of thick clustered calceolarias,—the purple and crimson of pendulous fuchsias, whose blossoms tumbled one upon the other in a riot of splendid colour,—and all at once her thoughts strayed capriciously to the cool green seclusion of John Walden's garden. She remembered the spray of white lilac he had given her, and fancied she could almost inhale again its delicious perfume. But the lilac flowering-time was over now—and the roses had it all their own way,—she had given a rose in exchange for the lilac, and—Here she started almost nervously as Lord Roxmouth's voice again fell on her ears.

"You are not sparing me any of your attention," he said—"Your mind is engrossed with something—or somebody—else! Possibly I have a rival?"

He smiled, but there was a quick hard gleam of suspicion in his cold grey eyes. Maryllia gave him a look of supreme disdain.

"You are insolent," she said, speaking in very low but emphatic tones—"You always were! You presume too much on Aunt Emily's encouragement of your attentions to me, which you know are unwelcome. You are perfectly aware that I left London to escape a scheme concocted by you and her to so compromise me in the view of society, that no choice should be left to me save marriage with you. Now you have followed me here, and I know why! You have come to try and find out what I do with myself—to spy upon my actions and occupations, and take back your report to Aunt Emily. You are perfectly welcome to enter upon this congenial task! You can visit me at my own house,—you can play detective all over the place, if you are happy in that particular role. Every opportunity shall be given you!"

He bowed. "Thank you!" And stroking his moustache, as was his constant habit, he smiled again. "You are really very cruel to me, Maryllia! Why can I never win your confidence—I will not say your affection? May I not know?"

"You may!"—she answered coldly—"It is because there is nothing in you to trust and nothing to value. I have told you this so often that I wonder you want to be told it again! And though I give you permission to call on me at my own home,—just to save you the trouble of telling Aunt Emily that her 'eccentric' niece was too 'peculiar' to admit you there,—I reserve to myself the right at any moment to shut the door against you."

She moved from him then, and seeing the Ittlethwaites of Ittlethwaite Park, went to speak to them. He stood where she had left him, surveying the garden in front of him with absolute complacency. Mr. Marius Longford joined him.

"Well?" said the light of the Savage and Savile tentatively.

"Well! She is the same ungovernable termagant as ever—conceited little puss! But she always amuses me—that's one consolation!" He laughed, and taking out his cigar-case, opened it. "Will you have one?" Longford accepted the favour. "Who is this old fellow, Pippitt?" he asked—"Any relation of the dead and gone Badsworth? How does he get Badsworth Hall? Doesn't he grind bones to make his bread, or something of that kind?"

Longford explained with civil obsequiousness that Sir Morton Pippitt had certainly once 'ground bones,' but that he had 'retired' from such active service, while still retaining the largest share in the bone business. That he had bought Badsworth Hall as it stood,— pictures, books, furniture and all, for what was to him a mere trifle; and that he was now assuming to himself by lawful purchase, the glory of the whole deceased Badsworth family.

Lord Roxmouth shrugged his shoulders in contempt.

"Such will be the fate of Roxmouth Castle!" he said—"Some grinder of bones or maker of beer will purchase it, and perhaps point out the picture of the founder of the house as being that of a former pot-boy!"

"The old order changeth,"—said Longford, with a chill smile—"And I suppose we should learn to accustom ourselves to it. But you, with your position and good looks, should be able to prevent any such possibility as you suggest. Miss Vancourt is not the only woman in the world."

"By no means,"—and Roxmouth strolled into the garden, Longford walking beside him—"But she is the only woman I at present know, who, if she obeys her aunt's wishes, will have a fortune of several millions. And just because such a little devil SHOULD be mastered and MUST be mastered, I have resolved to master her. That's all!"

"And, to your mind, sufficient,"—said Longford—"But if it is a question of the millions chiefly, there is always the aunt herself."

Roxmouth stared—then laughed.

"The aunt!" he ejaculated—"The aunt?"

"Why not?" And Longford stole a furtive look round at the man who was his chief literary patron—"The aunt is handsome, well- preserved, not more than forty-five at most—and I should say she is a woman who could be easily led—through vanity."

"The aunt!" again murmured Roxmouth—"My dear Longford! What an appalling suggestion! Mrs. Fred as the Duchess of Ormistoune! Forbid it, Heaven!"

Then suddenly he laughed aloud.

"By Jove! It would be too utterly ridiculous! Whatever made you think of such a thing?"

"Only the prospect you yourself suggested,"—replied Longford—"That of seeing a brewer or a bone-melter in possession of Roxmouth Castle. Surely even Mrs. Fred would be preferable to that!"

With an impatient exclamation Roxmouth suddenly changed the subject; but Longford was satisfied that he had sown a seed, which might,— time and circumstances permitting,—sprout and grow into a tangible weed or flower.

Maryllia meantime had made good her escape from the scene of Sir Morton Pippitt's 'afternoon-tea' festivity. Gently moving through the throng with that consummate grace which was her natural heritage, she consented to be introduced to the 'county' generally, smiling sweetly upon all, and talking so kindly to the Mandeville Poreham girls, that she threw them into fluttering ecstasies of delight, and caused them to declare afterwards to their mother that Miss Vancourt was the sweetest, dearest, darlingest creature they had ever met! She stood with patience while Sir Morton Pippitt, over-excited by the presence of the various 'titled' personages in his house, guffawed and blustered in her face over the 'little surprise' he had prepared for her in the unexpected appearance of Lord Roxmouth; she listened to his "Ha!-ha!-ha! My dear lady! We know a thing or two! Handsome fellow,—handsome fellow! Think of a poor old plain Knight when you are a Duchess! Ha! ha! ha! God bless my soul!"—-and without a word in confirmation or denial of his blatant observations, she managed to slip gradually out of the drawing-room to the hall and from thence to the carriage drive, where she found, as she thought she would, Lord Charlemont looking tenderly into the mechanism of his motor-car, unscrewing this, peering into that, and generally hanging round the vehicle with a fatuous lover's enthusiasm.

"Would you mind taking me back to St. Rest now?" she enquired—"I have an appointment in the village—you can do the journey in no time."

"Delighted!" And Charlemont got his machine into the proper state of spluttering, gasping eagerness to depart. "Anyone coming with you?"

"No—nobody knows I am leaving." And Maryllia mounted lightly into the car. "You can return and fetch the others afterwards. Put me down at the church, please!"

In a moment more the car flashed down the drive and out of Badsworth Hall precincts, and was soon panting and pounding along the country road at most unlawful speed. As a rule Maryllia hated being in a motor-car, but on this occasion she was glad of the swift rush through the air; had the vehicle torn madly down a precipice she would scarcely have cared, so eager was she to get away from the hateful vicinity of Lord Roxmouth. She was angry too—angry with Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, whose hand she recognised in the matter as having so earnestly begged her to go to Badsworth Hall that afternoon,—she despised Sir Morton Pippitt for lending himself to the scheme,—and with all her heart she loathed Mr. Marius Longford whom she at once saw was Roxmouth's paid tool. The furious rate at which Lord Charlemont drove his car was a positive joy to her—and as he was much too busy with his steering gear to speak, she gave herself up to the smouldering indignation that burned in her soul while she was, so to speak, carried through space as on a panting whirlwind.

"Why can they not leave me alone!" she thought passionately—"How dare they follow me to my own home!—my own lands!—and spy upon me in everything I do! It is a positive persecution and more than that,—it is a wicked design on Aunt Emily's part to compromise me with Roxmouth. She wants to set people talking down here in the country just as she set them talking in town, and to make everyone think I am engaged to him, or OUGHT to be engaged to him. It is cruel!—I suppose I shall be driven away from here just as I have been driven from London,—is there NO way in which I can escape from this man whom I hate!—NO place in the world where he cannot find me and follow me!"

The brown hue of thatched roofs through the trees here caused Lord Charlemont to turn round and address her.

"Just there!" he said, briefly—"Six minutes exactly!"

"Good!" said Maryllia, nodding approvingly—"But go slowly through the village, won't you? There are so many dear little children always playing about."

He slackened speed at once, and with a weird toot-tootling of his horn guided the car on at quite a respectable ambling-donkey pace.

"You said the church?"

"Yes, please!"

Another minute, and she had alighted.

"Thanks so much!" she said, smiling up into his goggle-guarded eyes. "Will you rush back for the others, please? And—and—may I ask you a favour?"

"A thousand!" he answered, thinking what a pretty little woman she was, as he spoke.

"Well—don't—even if they want you to do so,—don't bring Lord Roxmouth or Mr. Marius Longford back to the Manor. They are Sir Morton Pippitt's friends and guests—they are not mine!"

A faint flicker of surprise passed over the aristocratic motor- driver's features, but he made no observation. He merely said:

"All right! I'm game!"

Which brief sentence meant, for Lord Charlemont, that he was loyal to the death. He was not romantic in the style of expressing himself,—he would not have understood how to swear fealty on a drawn sword—but when he said—'I'm game,'-it came to the same thing. Reversing his car, he sped away, whizzing up the road like a boomerang, back to Badsworth Hall. Maryllia watched him till he was out of sight,—then with a sigh of relief, she turned and look wistfully at the church. Its beautiful architecture had the appearance of worn ivory in the mellow radiance of the late afternoon, and the sculptured figures of the Twelve Apostles in their delicately carved niches, six on either side of the portal, seemed almost life-like, as the rays of the warm and brilliant sunshine, tempered by a touch of approaching evening, struck them aslant as with a luminance from heaven. She lifted the latch of the churchyard gate,—and walking slowly with bent head between the rows of little hillocks where, under every soft green quilt of grass lay someone sleeping, she entered the sacred building. It was quite empty. There was a scent of myrtle and lilies in the air,—it came from two clusters of blossoms which were set at either side of the gold cross on the altar. Stepping softly, and with reverence, Maryllia went up to the Communion rails, and looked long and earnestly at the white alabaster sarcophagus which, in its unknown origin and antiquity, was the one unsolved mystery of St. Rest. A vague sensation of awe stole upon her,—and she sank involuntarily on her knees.

"If I could pray now,"—she thought—"What should I pray for?"

And then it seemed that something wild and appealing rose in her heart and clamoured for an utterance which her tongue refused to give,—her bosom heaved,—her lips trembled,—and suddenly a rush of tears blinded her eyes.

"Oh, if I were only LOVED!" she murmured under her breath—"If only someone could find me worth caring for! I would endure any suffering, any loss, to win this one priceless gift,—love!"

A little smothered sob broke from her lips.

"Father! Mother!" she whispered, instinctively stretching out her hands—"I am so lonely!—so very, very lonely!"

Only silence answered her, and the dumb perfume of the altar flowers. She rose,—and stood a moment trying to control herself,—a pretty little pitiful figure in her dainty, garden-party frock, a soft white chiffon hat tied on under her rounded chin with a knot of pale blue ribbon, and a tiny cobweb of a lace kerchief in her hand with which she dried her wet eyes.

"Oh dear!" she sighed—"It's no use crying! It only shows what a weak little idiot I am! I'm lonely, of course,—I can't expect anything else; I shall always be lonely—Roxmouth and Aunt Emily will take care of that. The lies they will tell about me will keep off every man but the one mean and slanderous fortune-hunter, to whom lies are second nature. And as I won't marry HIM, I shall be left to myself—I shall be an old maid. Though that doesn't matter— old maids are often the happiest women. Anyhow, I'd rather be an old maid than Duchess of Ormistoune."

She dabbed her eyes with the little handkerchief again, and went slowly out of the church. And as she stepped from the shadow of its portal into the sunshiny open air, she came face to face with John Walden. He started back at the sudden sight of her,—then recollecting himself, raised his hat, looking at her with questioning eyes.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Walden!" she said, affecting a sprightly air— "Are you quite well?"

He smiled.

"Quite. And you? You look—-"

"As if I had been crying, I suppose?"—she suggested. "So I have. Women often cry."

"They do,—but—-"

"But why should they?—you would say, being a man,"—and Maryllia forced a laugh.—"And that's a question difficult to answer! Are you going into the church?"

"Not for a service, or on any urgent matter,"—replied John—"I left a book in the vestry which I want to refer to,—that's all."

"Fetch it," said Maryllia—"I'll wait for you here."

He glanced at her—and saw that her lips trembled, and that she was still on the verge of tears. He hurried off at once, realising that she wanted a minute or two to recover herself. His heart beat foolishly fast and uncomfortably,—he wondered what had grieved or annoyed her.

"Poor little soul!" he murmured, reflecting on a conversation with which Julian Adderley had regaled him the previous day, concerning some of the guests at Abbot's Manor—"Poor, weary, sweet little soul!"

While Maryllia, during his brief absence was thinking—"I won't cry, or he'll take me for a worse fool than I am. He looks so terribly intellectual—so wise and cool and calm!—and yet I think—I THINK he was rather pleased to see me!"

She smoothed her face into a smile,—gave one or two more reproving taps to her eyelids with her morsel of a kerchief, and was quite self-possessed when he returned, with a worn copy of the Iliad under his arm.

"Is that the book you wanted?" she asked.

"Yes—" and he showed it to her—"I admit it had no business to be left in the church."

She peeped between the covers.

"Oh, it's all Greek!"—she said—"Do you read Greek?"

"It is one of the happiest accomplishments I learned at college,"— he replied. "I have eased many a heartache by reading Homer in the original."

She looked meditative.

"Now that's very strange!" she murmured—"I should never have thought that to read Homer in the original Greek would ease a heartache! How does it do it? Will you teach me?"

She raised her eyes—how beautiful and blue they were he thought!— more beautiful for the mist of weeping that still lingered about their soft radiance.

"I will teach you Greek, if you like, with pleasure!"—he said, smiling a little, though his lips trembled—"But whether it would cure any heartache of yours I could not promise!"

"Still, if it cures YOUR heartaches?" she persisted.

"Mine are of a different character, I think!"—and the smile in his eyes deepened, as he looked down at her wistfully upturned face,—"I am getting old,—you are still young. That makes all the difference. My aches can be soothed by philosophy,—yours could only be charmed away by—"

He broke off abruptly. The hot blood rose to his temples, and retreated again, leaving him very pale.

She looked at him earnestly.

"Well!—by what?"

"I imagine you know, Miss Vancourt! There is only one thing that can ease the burden of life for a woman, and that is—love!"

She nodded her fair head sagaciously.

"Of course! But that is just what I shall never have,—so it's no use wanting it. I had better learn to read Greek at once, without delay! When shall I come for my first lesson?"

She laughed unforcedly now, as she looked up at him. They were walking side by side out of the churchyard.

"You are much too busy to learn Greek," he said, laughing with her. "Your London friends claim all your time,—much to the regret of our little village."

"Ah!—but they won't be with me very long now,"—she rejoined— "They'll all go after the dinner next week, except Louis Gigue. Gigue is coming for a day or two and he will perhaps stay on a bit to give lessons to Cicely. But he's not a society man. Oh, dear no! Quite the contrary—he's a perfect savage!—and says the most awful things! Poor old Gigue!"

She laughed again, and looked happier and brighter than she had done for days.

"You have rather spoilt the villagers," went on Walden, as he opened the churchyard gate for her to pass out, and closed it again behind them both. "They've got accustomed to seeing you look in upon them at all hours,—and, of course, they miss you. Little Ipsie Frost especially frets after you."

"I'll go and see her very, very soon," said Maryllia, impulsively; "Dear little thing! When you see her next, tell her I'm coming, won't you?"

"I will," he rejoined,—then paused, looking at her earnestly. "Your friends must find St. Rest a very old-fashioned, world-forgotten sort of place,"—he continued—"And you must, equally, find it difficult to amuse them?"

"Well, perhaps, just a little," she admitted—"The fact is—but tell it not in Gath—I was happier without them! They bore me to death! All the same they really mean to be very nice,—they don't care, of course, for the things I care about,—trees and flowers and books and music,—but then I am always such an impossible person!"

"Are you?" His eyes were full of gentleness as he put this question- -"I should not have thought that!"

She coloured a little—then changed the subject.

"You have seen Lady Beaulyon, haven't you?" He bent his head in the affirmative—"Isn't she lovely?"

"Not to me," he replied, quietly—"But then I'm no judge."

She looked at him in surprise.

"She is considered the most beautiful woman in England!"

"By whom?", he enquired;—"By the society paragraphists who are paid for their compliments?"

Maryllia laughed.

"Oh, I don't know anything about that!" she said—"I never met a paragraphist in my life that I know of. But Eva is beautiful—there is no denying it. And Margaret Bludlip Courtenay is called the youngest woman in the world!"

"She looks it!" answered Walden, with great heartiness. "I cannot imagine Time making any sort of mark upon her. Because—if you don't mind my saying so—she has really nothing for Time to write upon!"

His tone was eminently good-natured, and Maryllia glancing at his smiling face laughed gaily.

"You are very wicked, Mr. Walden," she said mirthfully—"In fact, you are a quiz, and you shouldn't be a quiz and a clergyman both together. Oh, by the way! Why did you stop reading the service when we all came in late to church that Sunday?"

He looked full at her.

"Precisely for that reason. Because you all came in late."

Maryllia peered timorously at him, with her pretty head on one side, like an enquiring bird.

"Do you think it was polite?"

Walden laughed.

"I was not studying politeness just then,"—he answered—"I was exercising my own authority."

"Oh!" She paused. "Lady Beaulyon and the others did not like it at all. They thought you were trying to make us ashamed of ourselves."

"They were right,"—he said, cheerfully—"I was!"

"Well,—you succeeded,—in a way. But I was angry!"

He smiled.

"Were you, really? How dreadful! But you got over it?"

"Yes,"—she said, meditatively—"I got over it. I suppose you were right,—and of course we were wrong. But aren't you a very arbitrary person?"

His eyes sparkled mirthfully.

"I believe I am. But I never ask anyone to attend church,—everyone in the parish is free to do as they like about that. Only if people do come, I expect them to be punctual,—that's all."

"I see! And if they're not, you make them feel very small and cheap about it. People don't like being made small and cheap,—I don't, for instance. Now good-bye! You are coming to dine next week, remember!"

"I remember!" he rejoined, as he raised his hat in farewell. "And do you think you will learn Greek?"

"I am sure I will!—as soon as ever all these people are gone. The week after next I shall be quite free again."

"And happy?"

She hesitated.

"Not quite, perhaps, but as happy as I ever can be! Good-bye!"

She held out her hand. He pressed it gently, and let her go, watching her as she moved along the road holding up her dainty skirt from the dust, and walking with the ease and graceful carriage which was, to her, second nature. Then he went into his own garden with the Iliad, and addressing his ever attentive and complaisant dog, said:

"Look here, Nebbie—we mustn't think about her! She's a bewildering little person, with a good deal of the witch glamour in her eyes and smile,—and it's quite absurd for such staid and humdrum creatures as you and I, Nebbie, to imagine that we can ever be of the slightest service to her, or to dream that she ever gives us a single thought when she has once turned her back upon us. But it is a pity she should cry about anything!—her eyes were not made for tears—her life was not created for sorrow! It should be all sunshine and roses for her—French damask roses, of course!" and he smiled—"with their hearts full of perfume and their petals full of colour! As for me, there should only be the grey of her plots of lavender,—lavender that is dried and put away in a drawer, and more often than not helps to give fragrance to the poor corpse ready for burial!"

He sighed, and opened his Homer. Greek, for once, failed to ease his heartache, and the Iliad seemed singularly over-strained and deadly dull.



XXI

That evening before joining her guests at the usual eight o'clock repast, Maryllia told Cicely Bourne of the disagreeable 'surprise' which had been treacherously contrived for her at Sir Morton Pippitt's tea-party by the unexpected presence of the loathed wooer whom she sought to avoid.

"Margaret Bludlip Courtenay must certainly have known he was to be there,"—she said—"And I think, from her look, Eva Beaulyon knew also. But neither of them gave me a hint. And now if I were to say anything they would only laugh and declare that they 'thought it would be fun.' There's no getting any help or sympathy out of such people. I'm sorry!—but—as usual—I must stand alone."

"I daresay every one of them was in the plot—men and all, if the truth were told!"—burst out Cicely, indignantly—"And Mrs. Fred is at the bottom of the mischief. It's a shame! Your aunt is a brute, Maryllia! I would say so to her face if she were here! She's a calculating, selfish, title-grubbing brute! There! What are you going to do?"

"Nothing!"—and Maryllia looked thoughtfully out of the window at the flaming after-glow of the sunset, bathing all the landscape in a flood of coppery crimson—"I shall just go on as usual. When I go down to dinner presently, I shall not speak of to-day's incident at all. Eva Beaulyon and Margaret Courtenay will expect me to speak of it—and they will be disappointed. If they allude to it, I shall change the subject. And I shall invite Roxmouth and his tame pussy, Mr. Marius Longford, to dinner next week, as guests of Sir Morton Pippitt,—that's all."

Cicely opened her big dark eyes.

"You will actually invite Roxmouth?"

"Of course I will—of course I MUST. I want everyone here to see and understand how absolutely indifferent I am to him."

"They will never see—they will NEVER understand!" said Cicely, shaking her mop of wild hair decisively—"My dear Maryllia, the colder you are to 'ce cher Roxmouth' the more the world will talk! They will say you are merely acting a part. "No woman in her senses, they will swear, would discourage the attentions of a prospective Duke."

"They may say what they like,—they may report me OUT of my senses if they choose!" declared Maryllia, hotly—"I am not a citizeness of the great American Republic that I should sell myself for a title! I have suffered quite enough at the hands of this society sneak, Roxmouth—and I don't intend to suffer any more. His methods are intolerable. There is not a city on the Continent where he has not paid the press to put paragraphs announcing my engagement to him— and he has done the same thing with every payable paper in London. Aunt Emily has assisted him in this,—she has even written some of the announcements herself, sending them to the papers with my portrait and his, for publication! And because this constantly rumoured and expected marriage does not come off, and because people ask WHY it doesn't come off, the pair of conspirators are reduced to telling lies about me! I almost wish I could get small-pox or some other hideous ailment and become disfigured,—THEN Roxmouth might leave me alone! Perhaps Providence will arrange it in that way."

Cicely uttered an exclamation of horror.

"Oh, don't say such a thing, Maryllia! It's too dreadful! You are the prettiest, sweetest creature I ever saw, and I wouldn't have a scar or a blemish on your dear face for a million Roxmouths! Have patience! We'll get rid of him!"

Maryllia gave a hopeless gesture.

"How?"

"Well, I don't quite know!" and Cicely knitted her black brows perplexedly—"But don't worry, Maryllia! I believe it will all come right. Something will happen to make short work of him,—I'm sure of it!"

"You are an optimist,"—said Maryllia, kissing her—"and you're very young! I have learned that in this best of all possible worlds, human nature is often the worst part of all creation, and that when you want to avoid a particularly objectionable human being, that being is always round the corner. However, if I cannot get rid of Roxmouth, I shall do something desperate! I shall disappear!"

"Where to?" asked Cicely, startled.

"I don't know. Nowhere that you cannot find me!"

She laughed,—she had recovered her natural buoyancy and light- heartedness, and when she joined her party at dinner that evening, she showed no traces of annoyance or fatigue. She made no allusion to Lord Roxmouth's appearance at Sir Morton Pippitt's, and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, glancing at her somewhat timorously, judged it best to avoid the subject. For she knew she had played a mean trick on the friend whose guest she was,—she knew she had in her pocket a private letter from Mrs. Fred Vancourt, telling her of Lord Roxmouth's arrival at Badsworth Hall, and urging her to persuade Maryllia to go there, and to bring about meetings between the two as frequently as possible,—and as she now and then met the straight flash of her hostess's honest blue eyes, she felt the hot colour rising to her face underneath all her rouge, and for once in her placid daily life of body-massage and self-admiration, she felt discomposed and embarrassed. The men talked the incident of the day over among themselves when they were left to their coffee and cigars, and discussed the probabilities and non-probabilities of Miss Vancourt becoming the Duchess of Ormistoune, with considerable zest.

"She'll never have him—she hates him like poison!"—declared Lord Charlemont.

"Not surprised at that,"—said another man—"if she knows anything about him!"

"He has gone the pace!" murmured Mr. Bludlip Courtenay thoughtfully, dropping his monocle out of his eye and hastily putting it back, as though he feared his eye itself might escape from its socket unless thus fenced in—"But then, after all—wild oats! Once sown and reaped, they seldom spring again after marriage."

"I think you're wrong there!" said Charlemont—"Wild oats are a singularly perpetual crop. In many cases marriage seems to give them a fresh start."

"Will there be a good harvest when YOU marry, Charly?" asked one of the company, with a laugh.

"Oh, I shouldn't wonder!" he returned, good-naturedly—"I'm just as big a fool as any other man. But I always do my best not to play down on a woman."

"Woman"—said Mr. Bludlip Courtenay, sententiously—"is a riddle. Sometimes she wants a vote in elections,—then, if it's offered to her, she won't have it. Buy her a pearl, and she says she would rather have had a ruby. Give her a park phaeton, and she declares she has been dying for a closed brougham. Offer her a five-hundred- guinea pair of cobs, and she will burst into tears and say she would have liked a 'little pug-dog—a dear, darling, little Japanese pug- dog'—she has no use for cobs. And to carry the simile further, give her a husband, and she straightway wants a lover."

"That implies that a husband ceases to be a lover,"—said Charlemont.

"Well, I guess a husband can't be doing Romeo and 'oh moon'-ing till he's senile," observed a cadaverous looking man, opposite, who originally hailed from the States, but who, having purchased an estate in England, now patriotically sought to forget that he was ever an American.

They laughed.

"'Oh moon'-ing is a good expression,"—said Lord Charlemont—"very good!"

"It's mine, sir—but you're welcome to it,"—rejoined the Anglicised renegade of the Stars and Stripes,—"To 'oh moon' is a verb every woman likes to have conjugated by a male fool once at least in her life."

"Yes—and if you don't 'oh m-moon' with her,"—lisped a young fellow at the other end of the table—"She considers you a b-b-brute!"

Again the laugh went round.

"Well, I don't think Roxmouth will have a chance to go 'oh moon'-ing with our hostess,"—said Charlemont—"The whole idea of her marriage with him has been faked up by Mrs. Fred. The girl herself,—Miss Vancourt,—doesn't want him, and won't have him."

"Will you take a bet on it?" asked Mr. Bludlip Courtenay.

"Yes, if you like!" and Charlemont laughed—"I don't bet much, but I'll bet anything you choose to name on that. Maryllia Vancourt will never, unless she is bound, gagged and drugged into it, become Duchess of Ormistoune."

"Shall we say a tenner?" suggested Courtenay, writing the bet down in his notebook.

"Certainly."

"Good! I take the other side. I know something of Roxmouth,—he's seldom baffled. Miss Vancourt will be the Duchess before next year!"

"Not a bit of it! Next year Miss Vancourt will still be Miss Vancourt!" said Charlemont. emphatically—"She's a woman of character, and if she doesn't intend to marry Roxmouth, nothing will make her. She's got a mind of her own,—most women's minds are the minds of their favourite men."

"He-he-te-he—te-he—he!" giggled the young man who had before spoken,—"I know a girl—-"

"Shut up, old chappie! You 'know a bank whereon the wild thyme grows'—that's what YOU know!" said Charlemont. "Come and have a look at the motor."

Whereupon they rose from the table and dispersed.

From that day, however, a certain additional interest was given to the house-party entertainment at Abbot's Manor. Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay and Lady Beaulyon fell so neatly into the web which Maryllia carefully prepared for them, that she soon found out what a watch they kept upon her, and knew, without further trouble, that she must from henceforth regard them as spies in her aunt and Lord Roxmouth's service. The men took no part in this detective business, but nevertheless were keenly inquisitive in their own line, more bets being given and taken freely on what was likely to be the upshot of affairs. Meanwhile, Lord Roxmouth and Mr. Longford, sometimes accompanied by Sir Morton Pippitt, and sometimes without him, called often, but Maryllia was always out. She had two watch- dogs besides her canine friend, Plato,—and these were Cicely and Julian Adderley. Cicely had pressed the 'moon calf' into her service, and had told him just as much as she thought proper concerning Roxmouth and his persecution of her friend and patroness.

"Go as often as you can to Badsworth Hall,"—she commanded him—"and find out all their movements there. Then tell ME,—and whenever Roxmouth comes here to call, Maryllia will be out! Be vigilant and faithful!"

And she had shaken her finger at him and rolled her dark eyes with such tragic intensity, that he had entered zealously into the spirit of the little social drama, and had become as it were special reporter of the Roxmouth policy to the opposing party.

But this was behind the scenes. The visible action of the piece appeared just now to be entirely with Maryllia and her lordly wooer,—she as heroine, he as hero,—while the 'supers,' useful in their way as spies, messengers and general attendants, took their parts in the various scenes with considerable vivacity, wondering how much they might possibly get out of it for themselves. If, while they were guests at Abbot's Manor, an engagement between Lord Roxmouth and Maryllia Vancourt could be finally settled, they felt they could all claim a share in having urged the matter on, and 'worked' it. And it was likely that in such a case, Mrs. Fred Vancourt, with millions at her disposal, would be helpful to them in their turn, should they ever desire it. Altogether, it seemed a game worth playing. None of them felt any regret that Maryllia should be made the pivot round which to work their own schemes of self- aggrandisement. Besides, no worldly wise society man or woman could be expected to feel sorry for assisting a young woman to attain the position of a Duchess. Such an idea would be too manifestly absurd.

"It will soon be over now,"—said Cicely, consolingly, one afternoon in the last week of Maryllia's entertaining—"And oh, how glad we shall be when everybody has gone!"

"There's one person who won't go, I'm afraid!" said Maryllia.

"Roxmouth? Well, even HE can't stay at Badsworth Hall for ever!"

"No,—but he can stay as long as he likes,—long enough to work mischief. Sir Morton Pippitt won't send him away,—we may be sure of that!"

"If HE doesn't go, I suppose WE must?" queried Cicely tentatively.

Maryllia's eyes grew sad and wistful.

"I'm afraid so—I don't know—we shall see!"—she replied slowly— "Something will have to be settled one way or another—pleasantly or unpleasantly."

Cicely's black brows almost met across her nose in a meditative frown.

"What a shame it is that you can't be left in peace, Maryllia!"—she exclaimed—"And all because of your aunt's horrible money! Why doesn't Roxmouth marry Mrs. Fred?"

"I wish he would!" said Maryllia, heartily, and then she began to laugh. "Then it would be a case of 'Oh my prophetic soul! mine uncle!' And I should be able to say: 'My aunt is a Duchess.' Imagine the pride and glory of it!"

Cicely joined in her laughter.

"It WOULD be funny!" she said—"But whatever happens, I do hope Roxmouth isn't going to drive us away from the Manor this summer. You won't let him, will you?"

Maryllia hesitated a moment.

"It will depend on circumstances," she said, at last—"If he persists in staying at Badsworth, I must leave the neighbourhood. There's no help for it. It would only be for a short time, of course—and it seems hard, when I have only just come home, as it were,—but there,—never mind, Cicely! We'll treat it as a game of hare and hounds,—and we'll baffle the hounds somehow!"

Cicely gave a comic gesture of resignation to the inevitable.

"Anyhow, if we want a man to help us,"—she said,—"There's Gigue. Fortunately he's here now."

Gigue WAS there—very certainly there, and all there. Louis Gigue, renowned throughout the world for his culture of the human voice divine, had arrived the previous day direct from Paris, and had exploded into the Manor as though he were a human bombshell. He had entered at the hour of afternoon tea, wild-eyed, wild-haired, travel-soiled, untidy and eminently good-natured, and had taken everybody by surprise. He had rushed up to Maryllia, and seizing her hand had kissed it rapturously,—he had caught Cicely in his arms and embraced her enthusiastically with a 'Mon enfant prodigue!' and, tossing his grizzled locks from off his broad forehead, he had seated himself, sans ceremonie, amidst the company, as though he had known everyone present all his life.

"Mon Dieu, ze mal der mer!" he had exclaimed—"Ze bouleversement of ze vagues! Ze choses terribles! Ze femmes sick!—zen men of ze coleur blieu! Ah, quel ravissement to be in ze land!"

Gigue's English was his own particular dialect—he disdained to try and read a single word of it, but from various sources he had picked up words which he fitted into his speech as best it suited him, with a result which was sometimes effective but more often startling. Maryllia was well accustomed to it, and understood what she called 'Gigue's vernacular'—but the ladies and gentlemen of her house- party were not so well instructed, and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, whose knowledge of the French language was really quite extraordinary, immediately essayed the famous singing-master in his own tongue.

"Esker vous avez un moovais passage, Mo'sieur?" she demanded, with placid self-assurance—"Le mer etait bien mal?"

Gigue laughed, showing a row of very white strong teeth under his grizzled moustache, as he accepted a cup of tea from Cicely's hand, who gave him a meaning blink of her dark eyes as she demurely waited upon him.

"Ah, Madame! Je parle ze Inglis seulement in ze England! Oui, oui! Je mer etait comme l'huile, mais avec un so-so!" And he swayed his hands to and fro with a rocking movement—"Et le so-so faisaient les dames—ah, ciel!—so-so!"

And he placed his hand delicately to his head, with an inimitable turning aside gesture that caused a ripple of laughter. Maryllia's eyes sparkled with fun. She saw Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay surveying Gigue through her lorgnon with an air of polite criticism amounting to disdain,—she noted the men hanging back a little in the way that well-born Britishers do hang back from a foreigner who is 'only' a teacher of singing, especially if they cannot speak his language,— and she began to enjoy herself. She knew that Gigue would say what he thought or what he wanted to say, reckless of censure, and she felt the refreshment and relief of having one, at least, in the group of persons around her, who was not in her Aunt Emily's service, and who uttered frankly his opinions regardless of results.

"Et maintenant,"—said Gigue, taking hold of Cicely's arm and drawing her close up to his knee—"Comment chante le rossignol? Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si, do! Chantez!"

All the members of the house-party stared,—they had taken scarcely any notice of Cicely Bourne, looking upon her as more or less beneath their notice—as a 'child picked up in Paris'—a 'waif and stray'—a 'fad of Maryllia Vancourt's'—and now here was this wild grey-haired man of renown bringing her into sudden prominent notice.

"Chantez!" reiterated Gigue, furrowing his brows into a commanding frown—"Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si, do!"

Cicely's dark eyes flashed—and her lips parted.

"Do—re—mi—sol—-"

Round and full and clear rang the notes, pure as a crystal bell,— and the listeners held their breath, as she made such music of the common scale as only a divinely-gifted singer can.

"Bien!—tres-bien!" said Gigue, approvingly, with a smile round at the company—"Mademoiselle Cicely commence a chanter! Ze petite sera une grande cantatrice! N'est-ce-pas?"

A stiffly civil wonderment seemed frozen on the faces of Lady Beaulyon and the others present. Wholly lacking in enthusiasm for any art, they almost resented the manner in which Cicely was thus brought forward as a kind of genius, a being superior to them all. Gigue sniffed the air, as though he inhaled offence in it. Then he shook his finger with a kind of defiance.

"Mais—pas en Angleterre!" he said—"Ze petite va commencer a Milan- -St. Petersburg—Vienna! Zen, ze Inglis vill say—'Ha ha! Zis prima donna chante pour les Francais, les Italiens, les Russes!—il faut qu'elle chante pour nous!' Zen—zey vill pay ze guinea—ces commes des moutons! Zey follow les autres pays—zey know nosing of ze art demselves!"

Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay coughed delicately.

"Music is so very much overdone in England"—she said, languidly— "One gets so tired of it! Concerts are quite endless during the season, and singers are always pestering you to take tickets. It's quite too much for anyone who is not a millionaire."

Gigue did not catch this flow of speech—but Cicely heard it,

"Well, I shall never ask anyone to 'take tickets' to hear me!" she said, laughing. "A famous prima donna never does that kind of thing!"

"How do you know you will be famous?" asked Lady Beaulyon, amused.

"Instinct!" replied Cicely, gaily—"Just as the bird knows, it will be able to make a nest, so do I know I shall be famous! Don't let us talk any more about singing! Come and see the garden, Gigue!—I'll take you round it—and I want a chat with you."

The two went off together, much to the relief of the rest of the party.

"What an extraordinary-looking creature!" said Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay—"Is he quite a gentleman, Maryllia?"

Maryllia smiled.

"He is a gentleman according to my standard," she said. "He is honest, true to his friends, and faithful to his work. I ask nothing more of any man."

She changed the subject of conversation,—and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, in the privacy of her own apartment, confided to her husband that she really thought Maryllia Vancourt was a little 'off her head'—just a little.

"Because, really,"—said Mrs. Courtenay—"when it comes to harbouring geniuses in one's own house, it is quite beyond all reason. I sympathise so much with poor Mrs. Fred! If Maryllia would only marry Lord Roxmouth, all these flighty and fantastic notions of hers about music and faithful friends and honour and principle would disappear. I am sure they would!—and she would calm down and be just like one of us."

Mr. Bludlip Courtenay stared hard through his monocle.

"Why don't you talk to her about it?" he said—"You might do more for Roxmouth than you are doing, Peggy! I may tell you it would mean good times for both of us if you pushed that affair on!"

Mrs. Courtenay looked meditative.

"I'll try!"—she said, at last—"Roxmouth is to dine here to-morrow night—I'll say something before he comes."

And she did. She took an opportunity of finding Maryllia alone in her morning-room, where she was busy answering some letters. Gliding in, without apology, she sank into the nearest comfortable chair.

"We shall soon all be gone from this dear darling old house!" she said, with a sigh—"When are you coming back to London, Maryllia?"

"Never, I hope,"—Maryllia answered—"I am tired of London,—and if I go anywhere away from here for a change it will be abroad—ever so far distant!"

"With Lord Roxmouth?" suggested Mrs. Courtenay, with a subtle blink in her eyes.

Maryllia laid down the pen she held, and looked straight at her.

"I think you are perfectly aware that I shall never go anywhere with Lord Roxmouth,"—she said—"Please save yourself the trouble of discussing this subject! I know how anxious you are upon the point— Aunt Emily has, of course, asked you to use your influence to persuade me into this detestable marriage—now do understand me, once and for all, that it's no use. I would rather kill myself than be Lord Roxmouth's wife!"

"But why—" began Mrs. Courtenay, feebly.

"Why? Because I know what kind of a man he is, and how hypocritically he conceals his unnameable vices under a cloak of respectability. I can tolerate anything but humbug,—remember that!"

Mrs. Courtenay winced, but stuck to her guns.

"I'm sure he's no worse than other men!"—she said—"And he's perfectly devoted to you! It would be much better to be Duchess of Ormistoune, than a poor lonely old maid looking after geniuses. Geniuses are perfectly horrible persons! I've had experience with them. Why, I tried to bring out a violinist once—such a dirty young man, and he smelt terribly of garlic—he came from the Pyrenees—but he was quite a marvellous fiddler—and he turned out most ungratefully, and married my manicurist. Simply shocking! And as for singers!—my dear Maryllia, you never seem to realise what an utter little fright that Cicely Bourne of yours is! She will never get on with a yellow face like that! And SUCH a figure!"

Maryllia laughed.

"Well, she's only fourteen—-"

"Nonsense!" declared Mrs. Courtenay—"She tells you that—but she's twenty, if she's a day! She's 'doing' you, all round, and so is that artful old creature Gigue! Taking your money all for nothing!—you may be sure the two of them are in a perfect conspiracy to rob you! I can't imagine why you should go out of your way to pick up such people—really I can't—when you might marry into one of the best positions in England!"

Maryllia was silent. After a pause, she said gently:

"Is there anything else you want to tell me? I'm rather pressed for time,—I have one or two letters to write—-"

"Oh, I see you want to get rid of me," and Mrs. Courtenay rose from her chair with a bounce—"You have become so rude lately, Maryllia,- -you really have! Your aunt is quite right! But I'm glad you have asked Roxmouth to dine to-night—that is at least one step in the right direction! I'm sure if you will let him say a few words to you alone—-"

Maryllia lifted her eyes.

"I have already asked you to drop this subject," she said.

"Well!—if you persist in your obstinacy, you can only blame yourself for losing a good chance,"—said Mrs. Courtenay, with real irritation—"You won't see it, of course, but you're getting very passee, Maryllia—and it's only an old friend of your aunt's like myself that can tell you so. I have noticed several wrinkles round your eyes—you should massage with some 'creme ivoire' and tap those lines—you really should—tap on to them so—-" and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay illustrated her instructions delicately on her own pink- and-white dolly face with her finger-tips—"I spend quite an hour every day tapping every line away round my eyes—but you've really got more than I have—-"

"I'm not so young as you are, perhaps!" said Maryllia, with a little smile—"But I don't care a bit how I look! If I'm getting old, so is everyone—it's no crime. If we live, we must also die. People who sneer at age are likely to be sneered at themselves when their time comes. And if I'm growing wrinkles, I'd rather have country ones than town ones. See?"

"Dear me, what odd things you do say!" and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay shook out her skirts and glanced over her shoulder at her own reflection in a convenient mirror—"You seem to be quite impossible at times—-"

"Yes,—Aunt Emily always said so!"—interposed Maryllia, quietly.

"And yet think of the advantages you have had!—the education—the long course of travel!—you should really know the world by this time better than you do?"—went on the irrepressible lady—"You should surely be able to see that there is nothing so good for a woman as a good marriage. Everything in a girl's life points to that end—she is trained for it, dressed for it, brought up to it—and yet here you are with a most brilliant position waiting for you to step into it, and you turn your back upon it with contempt! What do you imagine you can do with yourself down here all alone? There are no people of your own class residing nearer to you than three or four miles distant—the village is composed of vulgar rustics—the rural town is inhabited only by tradespeople, and though one of your near neighbours is Sir Morton Pippitt, one would hardly call him a real gentleman—so there's really nobody at all for YOU to associate with. Now is there?"

Maryllia glanced up, her eyes sparkling.

"You forget the parson!" she said.

"Oh, the parson!" And Mrs. Courtenay tittered. "Well, you're the last woman in the world to associate with a parson! You're not a bit religious!"

"No," said Maryllia—"I'm afraid I'm not!"

"And you couldn't do district visiting and soup kitchens and mothers' meetings"—put in Mrs. Courtenay—"It would be too sordid and dull for words. In fact, you wil simply die of ennui down here when the summer is over. Now, if you married Roxmouth—-"

"There would be a gall-moon, instead of a honey one," said Maryllia, calmly,—"But there won't be either. I MUST finish my letters! Do you mind leaving me to myself?"

Mrs. Courtenay tossed her head, bit her lip, and rustled out of the room in a huff. She reported her ill-success with 'Maryllia Van' to her husband, who, in his turn, reported it to Lord Roxmouth, who straightway conveyed these and all other items of the progress or retrogression of his wooing to Mrs. Fred Vancourt. That lady, however, felt so perfectly confident that Roxmouth would,—with the romantic surroundings of the Manor, and the exceptional opportunities afforded by long afternoons and moonlit evenings,— succeed where he had hitherto failed, that she almost selected Maryllia's bridal gown, and went so far as to study the most elaborate designs for wedding-cakes of a millionaire description.

"For,"—said she, with comfortable self-assurance—"St. Rest, as I remember it, is just the dullest place I ever heard of, except heaven! There are no men in it except dreadful hunting, drinking provincial creatures who ride or play golf all day, and go to sleep after dinner. That kind of thing will never suit Maryllia. She will contrast Roxmouth with the rural boors, and as a mere matter of good taste, she will acknowledge his superiority. And she will do as I wish in the long run,—she will be Duchess of Ormistoune."



XXII

The long lazy afternoons of July, full of strong heat and the intense perfume of field-flowers, had never seemed so long and lazy to John Walden as during this particular summer. He felt as if he had nothing in the world to do,—nothing to fill up his life and make it worth living. All his occupations seemed to him very humdrum,—his garden, now ablaze with splendid bloom and colour, looked tawdry, he thought; it had been much prettier in spring-time when the lilac was in blossom. There was not much pleasure in punting,—the river was too glassy and glaring in the sun,—the water dripped greasily from the pole like warm oil—besides, why go punting when there was nobody but one's self to punt? Whether it was his own idle fancy, or a fact, he imagined that the village of St. Rest and its villagers had, in some mysterious way, become separated from him. Everybody in the place, or nearly everybody, had something to do for Miss Vancourt, or else for one or other of Miss Vancourt's guests. Everything went 'up to the Manor '—or came 'down from the Manor'—the village tradespeople were all catering for the Manor— and Mr. Netlips, the grocer, driving himself solemnly ever to Riversford one day, came back with a board—'a banner with a strange device'—painted in blue letters on a white ground, which said:

PETROL STORED HERE.

This startling announcement became a marvel and a fascination to the eyes of the villagers, every one of them coming out of their houses to look at it, directly it was displayed.

"You'll be settin' the 'ouse on fire, Mr. Netlips, I'm afraid," said Mrs. Frost, severely, putting her arms akimbo, and sniffing at the board as though she could smell the spirit it proclaimed—"You don't know nothink about petrol! An' we ain't goin' to have motor-cars often 'ere, please the Lord's goodness!"

Mr. Netlips smiled a superior smile.

"My good woman,"—he said, with his most magisterial air—"if you will kindly manage your own business, which is that of pruning the olive and uprooting the vine, and leave me to manage my establishment as the reversible movement of the age requires, it will be better for the equanimity of the gastritis."

"Good Lord!" and Mrs. Frost threw up her hands—"You're a fine sort of man for a grocer, with your reversibles and your gastritis! What in the world are you talking about?"

Mr. Netlips, busy with the unpacking of a special Stilton cheese which he was about to send 'up to the Manor,' waved her away with one hand.

"I am talking above your head altogther, Mrs. Frost,"—he said, placidly—"I know it! I am aware that my consonances do not tympanise on your brain. Good afternoon!"

"Petrol Stored Here!"—said Bainton, standing squat before the announcement, as he returned from his day's work—"Hor-hor-hor! Hor- hor! I say, Mr. Netlips, don't blow us all into the middle of next week. Where does ye store it? Out in the coal-shed? It's awful 'spensive, ain't it?"

"It is costly,"—admitted Mr. Netlips, with a grandiose manner, implying that even if it had cost millions he would have been equal to 'stocking' it—"But the traveling aristocrat does not interrogate the lucrative matter."

"Don't he?" and Bainton scratched his head ruminatively. "I s'pose you knows what you means, Mr. Netlips, an' you gen'ally means a lot. Howsomever, I thought you was dead set against aristocrats anyway— your pol'tics was for what you call masses,—not classes, nor asses neither. Them was your sentiments not long ago, worn't they?"

Mr. Netlips drew himself up with an air of offended dignity.

"You forestall me wrong, Thomas Bainton,"—he said—"And I prefer not to amplify the conference. A sentiment is no part of a political propinquity."

With that, he retired into the recesses of his 'general store,' leaving Bainton chuckling to himself, with a broad grin on his weatherbeaten countenance.

The 'Petol' board displayed on the front of Mr. Netlips' shop, however, was just one of those slight indications which showed the vague change that had crept over the erstwhile tranquil atmosphere of St. Rest. Among other signs and tokens of internal disquiet was the increasing pomposity of the village post-mistress, Mrs. Tapple. Mrs. Tapple had grown so accustomed to various titles and prefixes of rank among the different guests who came in turn to stay at the Manor, that whereas she had at one time stood in respectful awe of old Pippitt because he was a 'Sir,' she now regarded him almost with contempt. What was a 'Sir' to a 'Lord'? Nothing!—less than nothing! For during one week she had sold stamps to a real live Marquis and post-cards to a 'Right Honourable,' besides despatching numerous telegrams for the Countess of Beaulyon. By all the gods and little fishes, Sir Morton Pippitt had sunk low indeed!—for when Mrs. Tapple, bridling with scorn, said she 'wondered 'ow a man like 'im wot only made his money in bone-boilin' would dare to be seen with Miss Vancourt's real quality' it was felt that she was expressing an almost national sentiment.

Taking everything into consideration, it was not to be denied that the new element infused into the little village community had brought with it a certain stir and excitement, but also a sense of discontent. And John Walden, keenly alive to every touch of feeling, was more conscious of the change than many another man would have been who was not endowed with so quick and responsive a nature. He noted the quaint self-importance of Mrs. Tapple with a kindly amusement, not altogether unmixed with pain,—he watched regretfully the attempts made by the young girls of his little parish to trick themselves out with cheap finery imported from the town of Riversford, in order to imitate in some fashion, no matter how far distant, the attire of Lady Beaulyon, whose dresses were a wonder, and whose creditors were legion,—and he was sincerely sorry to see that even gentle and pretty Susie Prescott had taken to a new mode of doing her hair, which, though elaborate, did not suit her at all, and gave an almost bold look to an otherwise sweet and maidenly countenance.

"But I am old,—and old-fashioned too!"—he said to himself, resignedly—"The world must move on—and as it moves it is bound to leave old times behind it—and me with them. I must not complain— nor should I, even in my own heart, find too many reproaches for the ways of the young."

And involuntarily he recalled Tennyson's lines:—

"Only 'dust to dust' for me that sicken at your lawless din,— Dust in wholesome old-world dust before the newer world begin!"

"'Wholesome old-world dust'!" he mused—"Yes! I think it WAS more wholesome than our too heavily manured soil!"

And a wave of pained regret and yearning arose in him for the days when life was taken more quietly, more earnestly, more soberly—with the trust and love of God inspiring the soul to purity and peace— when to find a woman who was at the same time an atheist was a thing so abnormal and repulsive as to excite the utmost horror in society. Society! why, now, many women in society were atheists, and made no secret of their shame!

"I must not dwell on these thoughts,"—he said, resolutely. "The sooner I see Brent, the better. I've accepted his invitation for the last week of this month—I can be spared then for two or three days- -indeed, I doubt whether I shall even be missed! The people only want me on Sundays now—and—though I do try not to notice it,—a good many of the congregation are absent from their usual places."

He sighed. He would not admit to himself that it was Maryllia Vancourt—'Maryllia Van'—or rather her guests who had exercised a maleficent influence on his little cure of souls, and that because the 'quality' did not go to church on Sundays, then some of the villagers,—like serfs under the sway of nobles,—stayed away also. He realised that he had given offence to this same 'quality,' by pausing in his reading, when they entered late on the one occasion they did attend divine service,—but he did not care at all for that. He knew, that the truth of the mischief wrought by the idle, unthinking upper classes of society, is always precisely what the upper classes do not want to hear;—and he was perfectly aware in his own mind that his short, but explicit sermon, on the 'Soul,' had not been welcome to any one of his aristocratic hearers, while it had been a little over the heads of his own parishioners.

"Mere waste of words!" he mused, with a kind of self-reproach—"I don't know why I chose the text or subject at all. Yes—yes!—I do know! Why do I play the deceiver with myself! She was there—so winsome—so pretty!—and her soul is sweet and pure;—it must be sweet and pure, if it can look out of such clear windows as her eyes. Let all the world go, but keep that soul, I thought!—and so I spoke as I did. But I think she scarcely listened—it was all waste of time, waste of words,—waste of breath! I shall be glad to see dear old Brent again. He wants to talk to me, he says—and I most certainly want to talk to him. After the dinner-party at the Manor, I shall be free. How I dread that party! How I wish I were not going! But I have promised her—and I must not break my word!"

He began to think about one or two matters that to him were not altogether pleasing. Chief among these was the fact that Sir Morton Pippitt had driven over twice now 'to inspect the church'— accompanied by Lord Roxmouth, and the Reverend 'Putty' Leveson. Once Lord Roxmouth had left his card at the rectory, and had written on it: 'Wishing to have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Walden'—a pleasure which had not, so far, been gratified. Walden understood that Lord Roxmouth was, or intended to be, the future husband of Miss Vancourt. He had learned something of it from Bishop Brent's letter- -but now that his lordship was staying as a guest at Badsworth Hall, rumour had spread the statement so very generally that it was an almost accepted fact. Three days had been sufficient to set the village and county talking;—Roxmouth and his tools never did their mischievous work by halves. John Walden accepted the report as others accepted it—only reserving to himself an occasion to ask Miss Vancourt if it were indeed true. Meantime, he kept himself apart from the visitors—he had no wish to meet Lord Roxmouth— though he knew that a meeting was inevitable at the forthcoming dinner-party at Abbot's Manor. Bainton had that dinner-party on his mind as well as his master. He had heard enough of it on all sides. Mrs. Spruce had gabbled of it, saying that 'what with jellies an' ices an' all the things as has to be thought of an' got in ready,' she was 'fair mazed an' moithered.' And she held forth on the subject to one of her favourite cronies, Mrs. Keeley, whose son Bob was still in a state of silent and resentful aggressiveness against the 'quality' for the death of his pet dog.

"It's somethin' too terrible, I do assure you!" she said—"the way these ladies and gentlemen from Lunnon eats fit to bust themselves! When they fust came down, I sez to cook, I sez—'Lord bless 'em, they must 'ave all starved in their own 'omes'—an' she laughed—she 'avin 'sperience, an' cooked for 'ouse-parties ever since she learned makin' may'nases [mayonnaise] which she sez was when she was twenty, an' she's a round sixty now, an' she sez, 'Lor, no! It do frighten one at first wot they can put into their stummicks, Missis Spruce, but don't you worry—you just get the things, and they'll know how to swaller 'em.' Well now, Missis Keeley, if you'll b'lieve me"—and here Mrs. Spruce drew a long breath and began to count on her fingers—"This is 'ow we do every night for the visitors, makin' ready for hextras, in case any gentleman comes along in a motor which isn't expected—fust we 'as horduffs—-"

"Save us!" exclaimed Mrs. Keeley—"What's they?"

"Well I calls 'em kickshaws, but the right name is horduffs, Primmins sez, bein' a butler he should know the French, an' 'tis a French word, an' it's nothin' but little dishes 'anded round, olives an' anchovies, an' sardines an' messes of every kind, enough to make ye sick to look at 'em—they swallers 'em, an' then we sends in soup—two kinds, white an' clear. They swallers THAT, an' the fish goes in—two kinds—the old Squire never had but one—THAT goes down, an' then comes the hentreys. Them's sometimes two—sometimes four—it just depends on the number we 'as at table. They'se all got French names—there's nothing plain English about them. But they'se only bits o' meat an' fowl, done up in different ways with sauces an' vegetables, an' the quality eats 'em up as though they was two bites of an apple. Then we sends in the roast and b'iled—and they takes good cuts off both—then there's game,—now that's nearly allus all eat up, for I like to pick a bone now and then myself if it comes down on a dish an' no one else wants it—but there's never a morsel left for me, I do assure you! Then comes puddings an' sweets—then cheese savouries—then ices—an' then coffee—an' all the time the wine's a-goin', Primmins sez, every sort, claret, 'ock, chably, champagne,—an' the Lord alone He knows wot their poor insides feels like when 'tis all a-mixin' up together an' workin' round arterwards. But, as I sez, 'tain't no business o' mine if the fash'nables 'as trained their stummicks to be like the ostriches which eats, as I'm told, 'ard iron nails with a relish, I onny know I should 'a' bin dead an' done with long ago if I put a quarter of the stuff into me which they puts into theirselves, while some of the gentlemen drinks enough whiskey an' soda to drown 'em if 'twas all put in a tub at once—-"