The next day he altered his entire will and made Margaret O'Connell a special legacy. Ten days late a cable came:

I consent to my daughter's visiting you. FRANK OWEN O'CONNELL.

The lawyer cabled at once making all arrangements through their bankers in New York for Miss O'Connell's journey.

That night Kingsnorth slept without being disturbed. He awoke refreshed in the morning. It was the first kindly action he had done for many years.

How much had he robbed himself of all his life, if by doing so little he was repaid so much!



CHAPTER III

PEG LEAVES HER FATHER FOR THE FIRST TIME

O'Connell had a hard struggle with Peg before she would consent to leave him. She met all his arguments with counter-arguments. Nothing would move her for hours.

"Why should I go to a man I have never seen and hate the name of?"

"He's your uncle, Peg."

"It's a fine uncle he's been to me all me life. And it was a grand way he threated me mother when she was starvin'."

"He wants to do somethin' for ye now, Peg."

"I'll not go to him."

"Now listen, dear; it's little I'll have to lave ye when I'm gone," pleaded O'Connell.

"I'll not listen to any talk at all about yer goin'. Yer a great strong healthy man—that's what ye are. What are ye talkin' about? What's got into yer head about goin'?"

"The time must come, some day, Peg."

"All right, we'll know how to face it when it does. But we're not goin' out all the way to meet it," said Peg, resolutely.

"It's very few advantages I've been able to give ye, me darlin'," and O'Connell took up the argument again.

"Advantages or no advantages, what can anybody be more than be happy? Answer me that? An' sure it's happy I've been with you. Now, why should ye want to dhrive it all away from me?"

To these unanswerable reasons O'Connell would remain silent for a while, only to take up the cudgels again. He realised what it would mean to Peg to go to London to have the value of education and of gentle surroundings. He knew her heart was loyal to him: nothing strangers might teach her would ever alter that. And he felt he owed it to her to give her this chance of seeing the great world. HE would never be able to do it for her. Much as he hated the name of Kingsnorth he acknowledged the fact that he had made an offer O'Connell had no real right to refuse.

He finally persuaded Peg that it was the wise thing: the right thing: and the thing he wished for the most.

"I don't care whether it's wise or right," said poor Peg, beaten at last, "but if you wish it—" and she broke off.

"I do wish it, Peg."

"Ye'll turn me away from ye, eh?"

"No, Peg. Ye'll come back to me a fine lady."

"I'd like to see anybody thry THAT with me. A lady, indeed! Ye love me as I am. I don't want to be any different."

"But ye'll go?"

"If ye say so."

"Then it's all settled?"

"I suppose it is."

"Good, me darlin'. Ye'll never regret it" O'Connell said this with a cheery laugh, though his heart was aching at the thought of being separated from her.

Peg looked at him reproachfully. Then she said:

"It's surprised I am at ye turnin' me away from ye to go into a stuck-up old man's house that threated me mother the way he did."

And so the discussion ended.

For the next few days Peg was busy preparing herself for the journey and buying little things for her scanty equipment. Then the cable came to the effect that a passage was reserved for her and money was waiting at a banker's for her expenses. This Peg obstinately refused to touch. She didn't want anything except what her father gave her.

When the morning of her departure came, poor Peg woke with a heavy heart. It was their first parting, and she was miserable.

O'Connell, on the contrary, seemed full of life and high spirits. He laughed at her and joked with her and made a little bundle of some things that would not go in her bag—and that he had kept for her to the last minute. They were a rosary that had been his mother's, a prayer-book Father Cahill gave him the day he was confirmed, and lastly the little miniature of Angela. It wrung his heart to part with it, but he wanted Peg to have it near her, especially as she was going amongst the relations of the dead woman. All through this O'Connell showed not a trace of emotion before Peg. He kept telling her there was nothing to be sad about. It was all going to be for her good.

When the time came to go, the strange pair made their way down to the ship—the tall, erect, splendid-looking man and the little red-haired girl in her simple black suit and her little black hat, with red flowers to brighten it.

O'Connell went aboard with her, and an odd couple they looked on the saloon-deck, with Peg holding on to "Michael"—much to the amusement of the passengers, the visitors and the stewards.

Poor, staunch, loyal, honest, true little Peg, going alone to—what? Leaving the one human being she cared for and worshipped—her playmate, counsellor, friend and father—all in one!

O'Connell never dropped his high spirits all the time they were together on board the ship. He went aboard with a laugh and when the bell rang for all visitors to go ashore he said good-bye to Peg with a laugh—while poor Peg's heart felt like a stone in her breast. She stood sobbing up against the rail of the saloon deck as the ship swung clear. She was looking for her father through the mists of tears that blinded her.

Just as the boat slowly swept past the end of the dock she saw him right at the last post so that he could watch the boat uninterruptedly until it was out of sight. He was crying himself now—crying like a child, and as the boat swung away he called up, "My little Peg! Peg o' my Heart!" How she longed to get off that ship and go back to him! They stood waving to each other as long as they remained in sight.

While the ship ploughed her way toward England with little Peg on board, the man whom she was crossing the Atlantic to meet died quietly one morning with no one near him.

The nurse found Mr. Kingsnorth smiling peacefully as though asleep. He had been dead several hours.

Near him on the table was a cable despatch from New York:

My daughter sailed on the Mauretania to-day at ten o'clock. FRANK OWEN O'CONNELL.



BOOK IV

PEG IN ENGLAND

CHAPTER I

THE CHICHESTER FAMILY

Mrs. Chichester—whom we last saw under extremely distressing circumstances in Ireland—now enters prominently into the story. She was leading a secluded and charming existence in an old and picturesque villa at Scarboro, in the north of England. Although her husband had been dead for several years, she still clung to the outward symbols of mourning. It added a softness to the patrician line of her features and a touch of distinction to her manner and poise. She had an illustrious example of a life-long sorrow, and, being ever loyal, Mrs. Chichester retained the weeds of widowhood and the crepe of affliction ever present.

She was proud indeed of her two children—about whom she had written so glowingly to her brother Nathaniel.

Alaric was the elder. In him Mrs. Chichester took the greater pride. He was so nearly being great—even from infancy—that he continually kept his mother in a condition of expectant wonder. He was NEARLY brilliant at school: at college he ALMOST got his degree. He JUST MISSED his "blue" at cricket, and but for an unfortunate ball dribbling over the net at a critical moment in the semi-final of the tennis championships, he MIGHT have won the cup. He was quite philosophic about it, though, and never appeared to reproach fate for treating him so shabbily.

He was always NEARLY doing something, and kept Mrs. Chichester in a lively condition of trusting hope and occasional disappointment. She knew he would "ARRIVE" some day—come into his own: then all these half-rewarded efforts would be invaluable in the building of his character.

Her daughter, Ethel, on the other hand, was the exact antithesis to Alaric. She had never shown the slightest interest in anything since she had first looked up at the man of medicine who ushered her into the world. She regarded everything about her with the greatest complacency. She was never surprised or angry, or pleased, or depressed. Sorrow never seemed to affect her—nor joy make her smile. She looked on life as a gentle brook down whose current she was perfectly content to drift undisturbed. At least, that was the effect created in Mrs. Chichester's mind. She never thought it possible there might be latent possibilities in her impassive daughter.

While her mother admired Ethel's lofty attitude of indifference toward the world—a manner that bespoke the aristocrat—she secretly chafed at her daughter's lack of enthusiasm.

How different to Alaric—always full of nearly new ideas: always about to do something. Alaric kept those around him on the alert—no one ever really knew what he would do next. On the other hand, Ethel depressed by her stolid content with everything about her. Every one knew what she would do—or thought they did.

Mrs. Chichester had long since abandoned any further attempt to interest her brother Nathaniel in the children.

Angela's wretched marriage had upset everything,—driven Nathaniel to be a recluse and to close his doors on near and distant relatives.

Angela's death the following year did not relieve the situation. If anything, it intensified it, since she left a baby that, naturally, none of the family could possibly take the slightest notice of—nor interest in.

It was tacitly agreed never to speak of the unfortunate incident, especially before the children. It was such a terrible example for Ethel, and so discouraging to the eager and ambitious Alaric.

Consequently Angela's name was never spoken inside of Regal Villa.

And so the Chichester family pursued an even course, only varied by Alaric's sudden and DEFINITE decisions to enter either public life, or athletics, or the army, or the world of art—it was really extremely hard for so well-equipped a young man to decide to limit himself to any one particular pursuit. Consequently he put off the final choice from day to day.

Suddenly a most untoward incident happened. Alaric, returning from a long walk, alone—during which he had ALMOST decided to become a doctor—walked in through the windows from the garden into the living-room and found his mother in tears, an open letter in her hand.

This was most unusual. Mrs. Chichester was not wont to give vent to open emotion. It shows a lack of breeding. So she always suppressed it. It seemed to grow inwards. To find her weeping—and almost audibly—impressed Alaric that something of more than usual importance had occurred.

"Hello, Mater!" he cried cheerfully, though his looks belied the buoyancy of his tone. "Hullo! what's the matter? What's up?"

At the same moment Ethel came in through the door.

It was 11:30, and at precisely that time every morning Ethel practised for half an hour on the piano. Not that she had the slightest interest in music, but it helped the morning so much. She would look forward to it for an hour before, and think of it for an hour afterwards—and then it was lunch-time. It practically filled out the entire morning.

Mrs. Chichester looked up as her beloved children came toward her—and REAL tears were in her eyes, and a REAL note of alarm was in her voice:

"Oh Ethel! Oh Alaric!"

Alaric was at her side in a moment. He was genuinely alarmed.

Ethel moved slowly across, thinking, vaguely, that something must have disagreed with her mother.

"What is it, mater?" cried Alaric.

"Mother!" said Ethel, with as nearly a tone of emotion as she could feel.

"We're ruined!" sobbed Mrs. Chichester.

"Nonsense!" said the bewildered son.

"Really?" asked the placid daughter.

"Our bank has failed! Every penny your poor father left me was in it," wailed Mrs. Chichester. "We've nothing. Nothing. We're beggars."

A horrible fear for a moment gripped Alaric—the dread of poverty. He shivered! Suppose such a thing should really happen? Then he dismissed it with a shrug of his shoulders. How perfectly absurd! Poverty, indeed! The Chichesters beggars? Such nonsense! He turned to his mother and found her holding out a letter and a newspaper. He took them both and read them with mingled amazement and disgust. First the headline of the newspaper caught his eye:

"Failure of Gifford's Bank."

Then he looked at the letter:

"Gifford's Bank suspended business yesterday!" Back his eye travelled to the paper: "Gifford's Bank has closed its doors!" He was quite unable, at first, to grasp the full significance of the contents of that letter and newspaper. He turned to Ethel:

"Eh?" he gasped.

"Pity," she murmured, trying to find a particular piece of music amongst the mass on the piano.

"We're ruined!" reiterated Mrs. Chichester.

Then the real meaning of those cryptic headlines and the business-like letter broke in on Alaric. All the Chichester blood was roused in him.

"Now that's what I call a downright, rotten, blackguardly shame—a BLACKGUARDLY SHAME!" His voice rose in tones as it increased in intensity until it almost reached a shriek.

Something was expected of him. At any rate indignation. Well, he was certainly indignant.

"Closed its doors, indeed!" he went on. "Why should it close its doors? That's what I want to know! Why—should—it?" and he glared at the unoffending letter and the non-committal newspaper.

He looked at Ethel, who was surreptitiously concealing a yawn, and was apparently quite undisturbed by the appalling news.

He found no inspiration there.

Back he went to his mother for support.

"What RIGHT have banks to fail? There should be a law against it. They should be made to open their doors and keep 'em open. That's what we give 'em our money for—so that we can take it out again when we want it."

Poor Mrs. Chichester shook her head sadly.

"Everything gone," she moaned. "Ruined! and at my age!"

"Nice kettle of fish," was all Alaric could think of. He was momentarily stunned. He turned once more to Ethel. He never relied on her very much, but at this particular crisis he would like to have some expression of opinion, however slight—from her.

"I say, Ethel, it's a nice kettle of fish all o-boilin', eh?"

"Shame!" she said quietly, as she found the particular movement of Grieg she had been looking for. She loved Grieg. He fitted into all her moods. She played everything he composed exactly the same. She seemed to think it soothed her. She would play some now and soothe her mother and Alaric.

She began an impassioned movement which she played evenly and correctly, and without any unseemly force. Alaric cried out distractedly: "For goodness' sake stop that, Ethel! Haven't you got any feelings? Can't you see how upset the mater is? And I am? Stop it. There's a dear! Let's put our backs into this thing and thrash it all out. Have a little family meetin', as it were."

Poor Mrs. Chichester repeated, as though it were some refrain: "Ruined! At my age!"

Alaric sat on the edge of her chair and put his arm around her shoulder and tried to comfort her.

"Don't you worry, mater," he said. "Don't worry. I'll go down and tell 'em what I think of 'em—exactly what I think of 'em. They can't play the fool with me. I should think NOT, indeed. Listen, mater. You've got a SON, thank God, and one no BANK can take any liberties with. What we put in there we've got to have out. That's all I can say. We've simply got to have it out. There! I've said it!"

Alaric rose, and drawing himself up to his full five feet six inches of manhood glared malignantly at some imaginary bank officials. His whole nature was roused. The future of the family depended on him. They would not depend in vain. He looked at Ethel, who was trying to make the best of the business by smiling agreeably on them both.

"It's bankrupt!" wailed Mrs. Chichester.

"Failed!" suggested Ethel, cheerfully.

"We're beggars," continued the mother. "I must live on charity for the rest of my life. The guest of relations I've hated the sight of and who have hated me. It's dreadful! Dreadful!"

All Alaric's first glow of manly enthusiasm began to cool.

"Don't you think we'll get anything?" By accident he turned to Ethel. She smiled meaninglessly and said for the first time with any real note of conviction:

"Nothing!"

Alaric sat down gloomily beside his mother.

"I always thought bank directors were BLIGHTERS. Good Lord, what a mess!" He looked the picture of misery. "What's to become of Ethel, mater?"

"Whoever shelters me must shelter Ethel as well," replied the mother sadly. "But it's hard—at my age—to be—sheltered."

Alaric looked at Ethel, and a feeling of pity came over him. It was distinctly to his credit—since his own wrongs occupied most of his attention. But after all HE could buffet the world and wring a living out of it. All he had to do was to make up his mind which walk in life to choose. He was fortunate.

But Ethel, reared from infancy in the environment of independence: it would come very hard and bitter on her.

Alaric just touched Ethel's hand, and with as much feeling as he could muster, he said: "Shockin' tough, old girl."

Ethel shook her head almost determinedly and said, somewhat enigmatically, and FOR HER, heatedly:

"NO!"

"No?" asked Alaric. "No—what?"

"Charity!" said Ethel.

"Cold-blooded word," and Alaric shuddered. "What will you do, Ethel?"

"Work."

"At what?"

"Teach."

"TEACH? Who in the wide world can YOU teach?"

"Children."

Alaric laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, come, that's rich! Eh, mater? Fancy Ethel teachin' grubby little brats their A B C's! Tush!"

"Must!" said Ethel, quite unmoved.

"A CHICHESTER TEACH?" said Alaric, in disgust.

"Settled!" from Ethel, and she swept her finger slowly across the piano.

"Very well," said Alaric, determinedly: "I'll work, too." Mrs. Chichester looked up pleadingly.

Alaric went on: "I'll put my hand to the plough. The more I think of it the keener I am to begin. From to-day I'll be a workin' man."

At this Ethel laughed a queer, little, odd, supercilious note, summed up in a single word: "Ha!" There was nothing mirthful in it. There was no reproach in it. It was just an expression of her honest feeling at the bare suggestion of her brother WORKING.

Alaric turned quickly to her:

"And may I ask WHY that 'Ha!'? WHY, I ask you? There's nothing I couldn't do if I were really put to it—not a single thing. Is there, mater?"

His mother looked up proudly at him.

"I know that, dear. But it's dreadful to think of YOU—WORKING."

"Not at all," said Alaric, "I'm just tingling all over at the thought of it. The only reason I haven't so far is because I've never had to. But now that I have, I'll just buckle on my armour, so to speak, and astonish you all."

Again came that deadly, cold, unsympathetic "Ha!" from Ethel.

"Please don't laugh in that cheerless way, Ethel. It goes all down my spine. Jerry's always tellin' me I ought to do something—that the world is for the worker—and all that. He's right, and I'm goin' to show him." He suddenly picked up the paper and looked at the date. "What's to-day? The FIRST? Yes, so it is. June the first. Jerry's comin' to-day—all his family, too. They've taken 'Noel's Folly' on the hill. He's sure to look in here. Couldn't be better. He's the cove to turn to in a case like this."

Jarvis, a white-haired, dignified butler who had served the family man and boy, came in at this juncture with a visiting card on a salver.

Alaric picked it up and glanced at it. He gave an expression of disgust and flung the card back on the salver.

"Christian Brent."

For the first time Ethel showed more than a passing gleam of interest. She stopped strumming the piano and stood up, very erect and very still.

Mrs. Chichester rose too: "I can't see any one," she said imperatively. "Nor I," added Alaric. "I'm all strung up." He turned to Jarvis. "Tell Mr. Brent we're very sorry, but—"

"I'LL see him," interrupted Ethel, almost animatedly. "Bring Mr. Brent here, Jarvis."

As Jarvis went in search of Mr. Brent, Mrs. Chichester went up the great stairs: "My head is throbbing. I'll go to my room."

"Don't you worry, mater," consoled Alaric. "Leave everything to me. I'll thrash the whole thing out—absolutely thrash it out."

As Mrs. Chichester disappeared, Alaric turned to his calm sister, who, strangely enough, was showing some signs of life and interest.

"Awful business, Ethel, eh?"

"Pretty bad."

"Really goin' to teach?"

"Yes."

"Right! I'll find somethin', too. Very likely a doctor. We'll pull through somehow."

Ethel made a motion toward the door as though to stop any further conversation.

"Mr. Brent's coming," she said, almost impatiently.

Alaric started for the windows leading into the garden.

"Jolly good of you to let him bore you. I hate the sight of the beggar, myself. Always looks to me like the first conspirator at a play."

The door opened, and Jarvis entered and ushered in "Mr. Brent." Alaric hurried into the garden.



CHAPTER II

CHRISTIAN BRENT

A few words of description of Christian Brent might be of interest, since he represents a type that society always has with it.

They begin by deceiving others: they end by deceiving themselves.

Christian Brent was a dark, tense, eager, scholarly-looking man of twenty-eight years of age. His career as a diplomatist was halted at its outset by an early marriage with the only daughter of a prosperous manufacturer. Brent was moderately independent in his own right, but the addition of his wife's dowry seemed to destroy all ambition. He no longer found interest in carrying messages to the various legations or embassies of Europe, or in filling a routine position as some one's secretary. From being an intensely eager man of affairs he drifted into a social lounger—the lapdog of the drawing-room—where the close breath of some rare perfume meant more than the clash of interests, and the conquest of a woman greater than that of a nation.

Just at this period Ethel Chichester was the especial object of his adoration.

Her beauty appealed to him.

Her absolute indifference to him stung him as a lash. It seemed to belittle his powers of attraction. Consequently he redoubled his efforts.

Ethel showed neither like nor dislike—just a form of toleration. Brent accepted this as a dog a crumb, in the hope of something more substantial to follow. He had come that morning with a fixed resolve. His manner was determined. His voice wooed as a caress. He went tenderly to Ethel the moment the door closed on Jarvis.

"How are you?" he asked, and there was a note of subdued passion in his tone.

"Fair," replied Ethel, without even looking at him. "Where is your mother?" suggesting that much depended on the answer.

"Lying down," answered Ethel, truthfully and without any feeling.

"And Alaric?"

"In the garden."

"Then we have a moment or two—alone?" Brent put a world of meaning into the suggestion.

"Very likely," said Ethel, picking up a score of Boheme and looking at it as if she saw it for the first time: all the while watching him through her half-closed eyes.

Brent went to her. "Glad to see me?" he asked.

"Why not?"

"I am glad to see you." He bent over her. "More than glad."

"Really?"

He sat beside her: "Ethel," he whispered intensely: "I am at the Cross-roads."

"Oh?" commented Ethel, without any interest.

"It came last night."

"Did it?"

"This is the end—between Sybil and myself."

"Is it?"

"Yes—the end. It's been horrible from the first—horrible. There's not a word of mine—not an action—she doesn't misunderstand."

"How boring," said Ethel blandly.

"She would see harm even in THIS!"

"Why?"

"She'd think I was here to—to—" he stopped.

"What?" innocently inquired Ethel.

"Make love to you," and he looked earnestly into her eyes.

She met his look quite frankly and astonished him with the question: "Well? Aren't you?"

He rose anxiously: "Ethel!"

"Don't you always?" persisted Ethel.

"Has it seemed like that to you?"

"Yes," she answered candidly. "By insinuation: never straightforwardly."

"Has it offended you?"

"Then you admit it?"

"Oh," he cried passionately, "I wish I had the right to—to—" again he wavered.

"Yes?" and Ethel looked straight at him.

"Make love to you straightforwardly." He felt the supreme moment had almost arrived. Now, he thought, he would be rewarded for the long waiting; the endless siege to this marvellous woman who concealed her real nature beneath that marble casing of an assumed indifference.

He waited eagerly for her answer. When it came it shocked and revolted him.

Ethel dropped her gaze from his face and said, with the suspicion of a smile playing around her lips:

"If you had the right to make love to me straightforwardly—you wouldn't do it."

He looked at her in amazement.

"What do you mean?" he gasped. "It's only because you haven't the right that you do it—by suggestion," Ethel pursued.

"How can you say that?" And he put all the heart he was capable of into the question.

"You don't deny it," she said quietly.

He breathed hard and then said bitterly:

"What a contemptible opinion you must have of me."

"Then we're quits, aren't we?"

"How?" he asked.

"Haven't YOU one of ME?"

"Of YOU? Why, Ethel—"

"Surely every married man MUST have a contemptible opinion of the woman he covertly makes love to. If he hadn't he couldn't do it, could he?" Once again she levelled her cold, impassive eyes on Brent's flushed face.

"I don't follow you," was all Brent said.

"Haven't you had time to think of an answer?"

"I don't now what you're driving at," he added.

Ethel smiled her most enigmatical smile:

"No? I think you do." She waited a moment. Brent said nothing. This was a new mood of Ethel's. It baffled him.

Presently she relieved the silence by asking him:

"What happened last night?"

He hesitated. Then he answered:

"I'd rather not say. I'd sound like a cad blaming a woman."

"Never mind how it sounds. Tell it. It must have been amusing."

"Amusing? Good God!" He bent over her again. "Oh, the more I look at you and listen to you, the more I realise I should never have married."

"Why DID you?" came the cool question.

Brent answered with all the power at his command. Here was the moment to lay his heart bare that Ethel might see.

"Have you ever seen a young hare, fresh from its kind, run headlong into a snare? Have you ever seen a young man free of the trammels of college, dash into a NET? I did! I wasn't trap-wise!"

He paced the room restlessly, all the self-pity rising in him. He went on: "Good God! what nurslings we are when we first feel our feet! We're like children just loose from the leading-strings. Anything that glitters catches us. Every trap that is set for our unwary feet we drop into. I did. Dropped in. Caught hand and foot—mind and soul."

"Soul?" queried Ethel, with a note of doubt.

"Yes," he answered.

"Don't you mean BODY?" she suggested.

"Body, mind AND soul!" he said, with an air of finality.

"Well, BODY anyway," summed up Ethel.

"And for what?" he went on. "For WHAT? Love! Companionship! That is what we build on in marriage. And what did I realise? Hate and wrangling! Wrangling—just as the common herd, with no advantages, wrangle, and make it a part of their lives—the zest to their union. It's been my curse."

"Why wrangling?" drawled Ethel.

"She didn't understand."

"You?" asked Ethel, in surprise.

"My thoughts! My actions!"

"How curious."

"You mean you would?"

"Probably."

"I'm sure of it." He tried to take her hand. She drew it away, and settled herself comfortably to listen again:

"Tell me more about your wife."

"The slightest attention shown to any other woman meant a ridiculous—a humiliating scene."

"Humiliating?"

"Isn't doubt and suspicion humiliating?"

"It would be a compliment in some cases."

"How?"

"It would put a fictitious value on some men."

"You couldn't humiliate in that way," he ventured, slowly.

"No. I don't think I could. If a man showed a preference for any other woman she would be quite welcome to him."

"No man could!" said Brent, insinuatingly.

She looked at him coldly a moment.

"Let me see—where were you? Just married, weren't you? Go on."

"Then came the baby!" He said that with a significant meaning and paused to see the effect on Ethel. If it had any, Ethel effectually concealed it. Her only comment was:

"Ah!"

Brent went on:

"One would think THAT would change things. But no. Neither of us wanted her. Neither of us love her. Children should come of love—not hate. And she is a child of hate." He paused, looking intently at Ethel. She looked understandingly at him, then dropped her eyes.

Brent went on as if following up an advantage: "She sits in her little chair, her small, wrinkled, old disillusioned face turned to us, with the eyes watching us accusingly. She submits to caresses as though they were distasteful: as if she knew they were lies. At times she pushes the nearing face away with her little baby fingers." He stopped, watching her eagerly. Her eyes were down.

"I shouldn't tell you this. It's terrible. I see it in your face. What are you thinking?"

"I'm sorry," replied Ethel simply.

"For me?"

"For your wife."

"MY WIFE?" he repeated, aghast.

"Yes," said Ethel. "Aren't you? No? Are you just sorry for yourself?"

Brent turned impatiently away. So this laying-open the wound in his life was nothing to Ethel. Instead of pity for him all it engendered in her was sorrow for his wife.

How little women understood him.

There was a pathetic catch in his voice as he turned to Ethel and said reproachfully:

"You think me purely selfish?"

"Naturally," she answered quickly. "I AM. Why, not be truthful about ourselves sometimes? Eh?"

"We quarrelled last night—about you!" he said, desperately.

"Really?"

"Gossip has linked us together. My wife has heard and put the worst construction on it."

"Well?"

"We said things to each other last night that can never be forgiven or forgotten. I left the house and walked the streets—hours! I looked my whole life back and through as though it were some stranger's" He turned abruptly away to the windows and stayed a moment, looking down the drive.

Ethel said nothing.

He came back to her in a few moments. "I tell you we ought to be taught—we ought to be taught, when we are young, what marriage really means, just as we are taught not to steal, nor lie, nor sin. In, marriage we do all three—when we're ill-mated. We steal affection from some one else, we lie in our lives and we sin in our relationship."

Ethel asked him very quietly:

"Do you mean that you are a sinner, a thief, and a liar?"

Brent looked at her in horror.

"Oh, take some of the blame," said Ethel; "don't put it all on the woman."

"You've never spoken to me like this before."

"I've often wanted to," replied Ethel. Then she asked him: "What do you intend doing?"

"Separate," he answered, eagerly. "You don't doctor a poisoned limb when your life depends on it; you cut it off. When two lives generate a deadly poison, face the problem as a surgeon would. Amputate."

"And after the operation? What then?" asked Ethel.

"That is why I am here facing you. Do you understand what I mean?"

"Oh, dear, yes. Perfectly. I have been waiting for you to get to the point."

"Ethel!" and he impulsively stretched out his arms as though to embrace her.

She drew back slightly, just out of his reach.

"Wait." She looked up at him, quizzically: "Suppose we generate poison? What would you do? Amputate me?"

"You are different from all other women."

"Didn't you tell your wife that when you asked her to marry you?"

He turned away impatiently: "Don't say those things, Ethel, they hurt."

"I'm afraid, Christian, I'm too frank, aren't I?"

"You stand alone, Ethel. You seem to look into the hearts of people and know why and how they beat."

"I do—sometimes. It's an awkward faculty."

He looked at her glowingly: "How marvellously different two women can be! You—my wife."

Ethel shook her head and smiled her calm, dead smile "We're not really very different, Christian. Only some natures like change. Yours does. And the new have all the virtues. Why, I might not last as long as your wife did."

"Don't say that. We lave a common bond—UNDERSTANDING."

"Think so?"

"I understand you."

"I wonder."

"You do me."

"Yes—that is just the difficulty."

"I tell you I am at the cross-roads. The fingerboard points the way to me distinctly."

"Does it?"

"It does." He leaned across to her: "Would you risk it?"

"What?" she asked.

"I'll hide nothing. I'll put it all before you. The snubs of your friends. The whisper of a scandal that would grow into a roar. Afraid to open a newspaper, fearing what might be printed in it. Life, at first, in some little Continental village—dreading the passers through—keeping out of sight lest they would recognise one. No. It wouldn't be fair to you."

Ethel thought a moment, then answered slowly:

"No, Chris, I don't think it would."

"You see I AM a cad—just a selfish cad!"

"Aren't you?" and she smiled up at him.

"I'll never speak of this again. I wouldn't have NOW—only—I'm distracted to-day—completely distracted. Will you forgive me for speaking as I did?"

"Certainly," said Ethel. "I'm not offended. On the contrary. Anyway, I'll think it over and let you know."

"You will, REALLY?" he asked greedily, grasping at the straw of a hope. "You will really think it over?"

"I will, really."

"And when she sets me free," he went on, "we could, we could—" He suddenly stopped.

She looked coolly at him as he hesitated and said: "It IS a difficult little word at times, isn't it?"

"WOULD you marry me?" he asked, with a supreme effort.

"I never cross my bridges until I come to them," said Ethel, languidly. "And we're such a long way from THAT one, aren't we?"

"Then I am to wait?"

"Yes. Do," she replied. "When the time comes to accept the charity of relations, or do something useful for tuppence a week, Bohemian France or Italy—but then the runaways always go to France or Italy, don't they?—Suppose we say Hungary? Shall we?"

He did not answer.

She went on: "Very well. When I have to choose between charity and labour, Bohemian Hungary may beckon me."

He looked at her in a puzzled way. What new mood was this?

"Charity?" he asked. "Labour?"

"Yes. It has come to that. A tiresome bank has failed with all our sixpences locked up in it. Isn't it stupid?"

"Is ALL your money gone?"

"I think so."

"Good God!"

"Dear mamma knows as little about business as she does about me. Until this morning she has always had a rooted belief in her bank and her daughter. If I bolt with you, her last cherished illusion will be destroyed."

"Let me help you," he said eagerly.

"How?" and she looked at him again with that cold, hard scrutiny. "Lend us money, do you mean?"

He fell into the trap.

"Yes," he said. "I'd do that if you'd let me."

She gave just the suggestion of a sneer and turned deliberately away.

He felt the force of the unspoken reproof:

"I beg your pardon," he said humbly.

She went on as if she had not heard the offensive suggestion: "So you see we're both, in a way, at the crossroads."

He seized her hand fiercely: "Let me take you away out of it all!" he cried.

She withdrew her hand slowly.

"No," she said, "not just now. I'm not in a bolting mood to-day."

He moved away. She watched him. Then she called him to her. Something in the man attracted this strange nature. She could not analyse or define the attraction. But the impelling force was there.

He went to her.

Ethel spoke to him for the first time softly, languorously, almost caressingly:

"Chris! Sometime—perhaps in the dead of night—something will snap in me—the slack, selfish, luxurious ME, that hates to be roused into action, and the craving for adventure will come. Then I'll send for you."

He took her hand again and this time she did not draw it away. He said in a whisper:

"And you'll go with me?"

Ethel stretched lazily, and smiled at him through her half-closed eyes.

"I suppose so. Then Heaven help you!"

"Why should we wait?" he cried.

"It will give us the suspense of expectation."

"I want you! I need you!" he pleaded.

"Until the time comes for AMPUTATION?"

"Don't! Don't!" and he dropped her hand suddenly.

"Well, I don't want you to have any illusions about me, Chris. I have none about you. Let us begin fair anyway. It will be so much easier when the end comes."

"There will be no end," he said passionately. "I love you—love you with every breath of my body, every thought in my mind, every throb of my nerves. I love you!" He kissed her hand repeatedly. "I love you!" He took her in his arms and pressed her to him.

She struggled with him without any anger, or disgust, or fear. As she put him away from her she just said simply:

"Please don't. It's so hot this morning."

As she turned away from him she was struck dumb. Sitting beside the table in the middle of the room, her back turned to them, was the strangest, oddest little figure Ethel had ever seen.

Who was she? How long had she been in the room?

Ethel turned to Brent. He was quite pale now and was nervously stroking his slight moustache.

Ethel was furious! It was incredible that Brent could have been so indiscreet!

How on earth did that creature get there without their hearing or seeing her?

Ethel went straight to the demure little figure sitting on the chair.



CHAPTER III

PEG ARRIVES IN ENGLAND

Peg's journey to England was one of the unhappiest memories of her life. She undertook the voyage deliberately to please her father, because he told her it would please him. But beneath this feeling of pleasing him was one of sullen resentment at being made to separate from him.

She planned all kinds of reprisals upon the unfortunate people she was going amongst. She would be so rude to them and so unbearable that they would be glad to send her back on the next boat. She schemed out her whole plan of action. She would contradict and disobey and berate and belittle. Nothing they would do would be right to her and nothing she would do or say would be right to them. She took infinite pleasure in her plan of campaign. Then when she was enjoying the pleasure of such resentful dreams she would think of her father waiting for news of her: of his pride in her: of how much he wanted her to succeed. She would realise how much the parting meant to HIM, and all her little plots would tumble down and she would resolve to try and please her relations, learn all she could, succeed beyond all expression and either go back to America prosperous, or send for her father to join her in England. All her dreams had her father, either centrifugally or centripetally, beating through them.

She refused all advances of friendship aboard ship. No one dared speak to her. She wanted to be alone in her sorrow. She and "MICHAEL" would romp on the lower deck, by favour of one of the seamen, who would keep a sharp look-out for officers.

This seaman—O'Farrell by name—took quite a liking to Peg and the dog and did many little kindly, gracious acts to minister to the comfort of both of them.

He warned her that they would not let "Michael" go with her from the dock until he had first been quarantined. This hurt Peg more than anything could. She burst into tears. To have "Michael" taken from her would be the last misfortune. She would indeed be alone in that strange country. She was inconsolable.

O'Farrell, at last, took it on himself to get the dog ashore. He would wrap him up in some sail cloths, and then he would carry "Michael" outside the gates when the Customs' authorities had examined her few belongings.

When they reached Liverpool O'Farrell was as good as his word, though many were the anxious moments they had as one or other of the Customs' officers would eye the suspicious package O'Farrell carried so carelessly under his arm.

At the dock a distinguished-looking gentleman came on board and after some considerable difficulty succeeded in locating Peg. He was a well-dressed, soft-speaking, vigorous man of forty-five. He inspired Peg with an instant dislike by his somewhat authoritative and pompous manner. He introduced himself as Mr. Montgomery Hawkes, the legal adviser for the Kingsnorth estate, and at once proceeded to take charge of Peg as a matter of course.

Poor Peg felt ashamed of her poor little bag, containing just a few changes of apparel, and her little paper bundle. She was mortified when she walked down the gangway with the prosperous-looking lawyer whilst extravagantly dressed people with piles of luggage dashed here and there endeavouring to get it examined.

But Mr. Hawkes did not appear to notice Peg's shabbiness. On the contrary he treated her and her belongings as though she were the most fashionable of fine ladies and her wardrobe the most complete.

Outside the gates she found O'Farrell waiting for her, with the precious "Michael" struggling to free himself from his coverings. Hawkes soon had a cab alongside. He helped Peg into it: then she stretched out her arms and O'Farrell opened the sail-cloths and out sprang "Michael," dusty and dirty and blear-eyed, but oh! such a happy, fussy, affectionate, relieved little canine when he saw his beloved owner waiting for him. He made one spring at her, much to the lawyer's dignified amazement, and began to bark at her, and lick her face and hands, and jump on and roll over and over upon Peg in an excess of joy at his release.

Peg offered O'Farrell an American dollar. She had very little left.

O'Farrell indignantly refused to take it.

"Oh, but ye must, indade ye must," cried Peg in distress. "Sure I won't lie aisy to-night if ye don't. But for you poor 'Michael' here might have been on that place ye spoke of—that Quarantine, whatever it is. Ye saved him from that. And don't despise it because it's an American dollar. Sure it has a value all over the wurrld. An' besides I have no English money." Poor Peg pleaded that O'Farrell should take it. He had been so nice to her all the way over.

Hawkes interposed skilfully, gave 'O'Farrell five shillings; thanked him warmly for his kindness to Peg and her dog; returned the dollar to Peg; let her say good-bye to the kindly sailor: told the cabman to drive to a certain railway station, and in a few seconds they were bowling along and Peg had entered a new country and a new life. They reached the railway station and Hawkes procured tickets and in half an hour they were on a train bound for the north of England.

During the journey Hawkes volunteered no information. He bought her papers and magazines and offered her lunch. This Peg refused. She said the ship had not agreed with her. She did not think she would want food for a long time to come.

After a while, tired out with the rush and excitement of the ship's arrival, Peg fell asleep.

In a few hours they reached their destination. Hawkes woke her and told her she was at her journey's end. He again hailed a cab, told the driver where to go and got in with Peg, "MICHAEL" and her luggage. In the cab he handed Peg a card and told her to go to the address written on it and ask the people there to allow her to wait until he joined her. He had a business call to make in the town. He would be as short a time as possible. She was just to tell the people that she had been asked to call there and wait.

After the cab had gone through a few streets it stopped before a big building; Hawkes got out, told the cabman where to take Peg, paid him, and with some final admonitions to Peg, disappeared through the swing-doors of the Town Hall.

The cabman took the wondering Peg along until he drove up to a very handsome Elizabethan house. There he stopped. Peg looked at the name on the gate-posts and then at the name on the card Mr. Hawkes had given her. They were the same. Once more she gathered up her belongings and her dog and passed in through the gateposts and wandered up the long drive on a tour of inspection. She walked through paths dividing rosebeds until she came to some open windows. The main entrance-hall of the house seemed to be hidden away somewhere amid the tall old trees.

Peg made straight for the open windows and walked into the most wonderful looking room she had ever seen. Everything in it was old and massive; it bespoke centuries gone by in every detail. Peg held her breath as she looked around her. Pictures and tapestries stared at her from the walls. Beautiful old vases were arranged in cabinets. The carpet was deep and soft and stifled all sound. Peg almost gave an ejaculation of surprise at the wonders of the room when she suddenly became conscious that she was not alone in the room: that others were there and that they were talking.

She looked in the direction the sounds came from and saw to her astonishment, a man with a woman in his arms. He was speaking to her in a most ardent manner. They were partially concealed by some statuary.

Peg concluded at once that she had intruded on some marital scene at which she was not desired, so she instantly sat down with her back to them.

She tried not to listen, but some of the words came distinctly to her. Just as she was becoming very uncomfortable and had half made up her mind to leave the room and find somewhere else to wait, she suddenly heard herself addressed, and in no uncertain tone of voice. There was indignation, surprise and anger in Ethel's question:

"How long have you been here?"

Peg turned round and saw a strikingly handsome, beautifully dressed young lady glaring down at her. Her manner was haughty in the extreme. Peg felt most unhappy as she looked at her and did not answer immediately.

A little distance away was a dark, handsome young man who was looking at Peg with a certain languid interest.

"How long have you been here?" again asked Ethel.

"Sure I only came in this minnit," said Peg innocently and with a little note of fear. She was not accustomed to fine-looking, splendidly-dressed young ladies like Ethel.

"What do you want?" demanded the young lady.

"Nothin'," said Peg reassuringly.

"NOTHING?" echoed Ethel, growing angrier every moment.

"Not a thing. I was just told to wait," said Peg.

"Who told you?"

"A gentleman," replied Peg.

"WHAT gentleman?" asked Ethel sharply and suspiciously.

"Just a gentleman." Peg, after fumbling nervously in her pocket, produced the card Mr. Hawkes had given her, which "MICHAEL" immediately attempted to take possession of. Peg snatched it away from the dog and handed it to the young lady.

"He told me to wait THERE."

Ethel took the card irritably and read:

"'Mrs. Chichester, Regal Villa.' And what do you want with Mrs. Chichester?" she asked Peg, at the same time looking at the shabby clothes, the hungry-looking dog, and the soiled parcel.

"I don't want anythin' with her. I was just told to wait!"

"Who are you?" Peg was now getting angry too. There was no mistaking the manner of the proud young lady. Peg chafed under it. She looked up sullenly into Ethel's face and said:

"I was not to say a wurrd, I'm tellin' ye. I was just to wait." Peg settled back in the chair and stroked "MICHAEL." This questioning was not at all to her liking. She wished Mr. Hawkes would come and get her out of a most embarrassing position. But until he DID she was not going to disobey his instructions. He told her to say nothing, so nothing would she say.

Ethel turned abruptly to Brent and found that gentleman looking at the odd little stranger somewhat admiringly. She gave an impatient ejaculation and turned back to Peg quickly:

"You say you have only been here a minute?"

"That's all," replied Peg. "Just a minnit."

"Were we talking when you came in?"

"Ye were."

Ethel could scarcely conceal her rage.

"Did you hear what we said?"

"Some of it. Not much," said Peg.

"WHAT did you hear?"

"Please don't—it's so hot this mornin'," said Peg with no attempt at imitation—just as if she were stating a simple, ordinary occurrence.

Ethel flushed scarlet. Brent smiled.

"You refuse to say why you're here or who you are?" Ethel again asked.

"It isn't ME that's refusin'. All the gentleman said to me was, 'Ye go to the place that's written down on the card and ye sit down there an' wait. And that's all ye do.'" Ethel again turned to the perplexed Brent: "Eh?"

"Extraordinary!" and Brent shook his head.

The position was unbearable. Ethel decided instantly how to relieve it. She looked freezingly down at the forlorn-looking little intruder and said:

"The servants' quarters are at the back of the house."

"ARE they?" asked Peg, without moving, and not in any way taking the statement to refer to her.

"And I may save you the trouble of WAITING by telling you we are quite provided with servants. We do not need any further assistance."

Peg just looked at Ethel and then bent down over "MICHAEL." Ethel's last shot had struck home. Poor Peg was cut through to her soul. How she longed at that moment to be back home with her father in New York. Before she could say anything Ethel continued:

"If you insist on waiting kindly do so there."

Peg took "MICHAEL" up in her arms, collected once more her packages and walked to the windows. Again she heard the cold hard tones of Ethel's voice speaking to her:

"Follow the path to your right until you come to a door. Knock and ask permission to wait there, and for your future guidance go to the BACK door of a house and ring, don't walk unannounced into a private room."

Peg tried to explain:

"Ye see, ma'am, I didn't know. All the gentleman said was 'Go there and wait'—"

"That will do."

"I'm sorry I disturbed yez." And she glanced at the embarrassed Brent.

"THAT WILL DO!" said Ethel finally.

Poor Peg nodded and wandered off through the windows sore at heart. She went down the path until she reached the door Ethel mentioned. She knocked at it. While she is waiting for admission we will return to the fortunes of the rudely-disturbed LOVERS(?).



CHAPTER IV

THE CHICHESTER FAMILY RECEIVES A SECOND SHOCK

Ethel turned indignantly to Brent, as the little figure went off down the path.

"Outrageous!" she cried.

"Poor little wretch." Brent walked to the windows and looked after her. "She's quite pretty."

Ethel looked understandingly at him: "IS she?"

"In a shabby sort of way. Didn't you think so?"

Ethel glared coldly at him.

"I never notice the lower orders. You apparently do."

"Oh, yes—often. They're very interesting—at times." He strained to get a last glimpse of the intruder:

"Do you know, she's the strangest little apparition—"

"She's only a few yards away if you care to follow her!"

Her tone brought Brent up sharply. He turned away from the window and found Ethel—arms folded, eyes flashing—waiting for him. Something in her manner alarmed him. He had gone too far.

"Why, Ethel,"—he said, as he came toward her.

"Suppose my mother had walked in here—or Alaric—instead of that creature? Never do such a thing again."

"I was carried away," he hastened to explain.

"Kindly exercise a little more restraint. You had better go now." There was a finality of dismissal in her tone as she passed him and crossed to the great staircase. He followed her:

"May I call to-morrow?"

"No," she answered decidedly. "Not to-morrow."

"The following day, then," he urged.

"Perhaps."

"Remember—I build on you."

She looked searchingly at him:

"I suppose we ARE worthy of each other."

Through the open windows came the sound of voices.

"Go!" she said imperatively and she passed on up the stairs. Brent went rapidly to the door. Before either he could open it or Ethel go out of sight Alaric burst in through the windows.

"Hello, Brent," he cried cheerfully. "Disturbin' ye?" And he caught Ethel as she was about to disappear: "Or you, Ethel?"

Ethel turned and answered coolly:

"You've not disturbed me."

"I'm just going," said Brent.

"Well, wait a moment," and Alaric turned to the window and beckoned to someone on the path and in from the garden came Mr. Montgomery Hawkes.

"Come in," said the energetic Alaric. "Come in. Ethel, I want you to meet Mr. Hawkes—Mr. Hawkes—my sister. Mr. Brent—Mr. Hawkes." Having satisfactorily introduced everyone he said to Ethel: "See if the mater's well enough to come down, like a dear, will ye? This gentleman has come from London to see her. D'ye mind? And come back yourself, too, like an angel. He says he has some business that concerns the whole family."

Ethel disappeared without a word.

Alaric bustled Hawkes into a chair and then seized the somewhat uncomfortable Brent by an unwilling hand and shook it warmly as he asked:

"MUST you go?"

"Yes," replied Brent with a sigh of relief.

Alaric dashed to the door and opened it as though to speed the visitor on his way.

"So sorry I was out when you called," lied Alaric nimbly. "Run in any time. Always delighted to see you. Delighted. Is the angel wife all well?"

Brent bowed: "Thank you."

"And the darling child?"

Brent frowned. He crossed to the door and turned in the frame and admonished Alaric:

"Please give my remembrances to your mother." Then he passed out. As he disappeared the irrepressible Alaric called after him:

"Certainly. She'll be so disappointed not to have seen you. Run in any time—any time at all." Alaric closed the door and saw his mother and Ethel coming down the stairs.

All traces of emotion had disappeared from Ethel's face and manner. She was once again in perfect command of herself. She carried a beautiful little French poodle in her arms and was feeding her with sugar.

Alaric fussily brought his mother forward.

"Mater, dear," he said; "I found this gentleman in a rose-bed enquiring the way to our lodge. He's come all the way from dear old London just to see you. Mr. Hawkes—my mother."

Mrs. Chichester looked at Hawkes anxiously.

"You have come to see me?"

"On a very important and a very private family matter," replied Hawkes, gravely. "IMPORTANT? PRIVATE?" asked Mrs. Chichester in surprise.

"We're the family, Mr. Hawkes," ventured Alaric, helpfully.

Mrs. Chichester's forebodings came uppermost. After the news of the bank's failure nothing would surprise her now in the way of calamity. What could this grave, dignified-looking man want with them? Her eyes filled.

"Is it BAD news?" she faltered.

"Oh, dear, no," answered Mr. Hawkes, genially.

"Well—is it GOOD news?" queried Alaric.

"In a measure," said the lawyer.

"Then for heaven's sake get at it. You've got me all clammy. We could do with a little good news. Wait a minute! Is it by any chance about the BANK?"

"No," replied Mr. Hawkes. He cleared his throat and said solemnly and impressively to Mrs. Chichester:

"It is about your LATE brother—Nathaniel Kingsnorth."

"Late!" cried Mrs. Chichester. "Is Nathaniel DEAD?"

"Yes, madam," said Hawkes gravely. "He died ten days ago."

Mrs. Chichester sat down and silently wept. Nathaniel to have died without her being with him to comfort him and arrange things with him! It was most unfortunate.

Alaric tried to feel sorry, but inasmuch as his uncle had always refused to see him he could not help thinking it may have been retribution. However, he tried to show a fair and decent measure of regret.

"Poor old Nat," he cried. "Eh, Ethel?"

"Never saw him," answered Ethel, her face and voice totally without emotion. "You say he died ten days ago?" asked Mrs. Chichester.

Mr. Hawkes bowed.

"Why was I not informed? The funeral—?"

"There was no funeral," replied Mr. Hawkes.

"No funeral?" said Alaric in astonishment.

"No," replied the lawyer. "In obedience to his written wishes he was cremated and no one was present except the chief executor and myself. If I may use Mr. Kingsnorth's words without giving pain, he said he so little regretted not having seen any of his relations for the last twenty years of his life-time he was sure THEY would regret equally little his death. On no account was anyone to wear mourning for him, nor were they to express any open sorrow. 'They wouldn't FEEL it, so why lie about it?' I use his own words," added Mr. Hawkes, as if disclaiming all responsibility for such a remarkable point of view.

"What a rum old bird!" remarked Alaric, contemplatively.

Mrs. Chichester wept as she said:

"He was always the most unfeeling, the most heartless—the most—"

"Now in his will—" interrupted the lawyer, producing a leather pocket-book filled with important-looking papers: "In his will—" he repeated—

Mrs. Chichester stopped crying:

"Eh? A will?"

"What?" said Alaric, beaming; "did the dear old gentleman leave a will?"

Even Ethel stopped playing with "Pet" and listened languidly to the conversation.

Mr. Hawkes, realising he had their complete interest, went on importantly: "As Mr. Kingsnorth's legal adviser up to the time of his untimely death I have come here to make you acquainted with some of its contents."

He spread a formidable-looking document wide-open on the table, adjusted his pince-nez and prepared to read. "Dear old Nat!" said Alaric reflectively. "Do you remember, mater, we met him at Victoria Station once when I was little more than a baby? Yet I can see him now as plainly as if it were yesterday. A portly, sandy-haired old buck, with three jolly chins."

"He was white toward the end, and very, very thin," said Mr. Hawkes softly.

"Was he?" from Alaric. "Fancy that. It just shows, mater, doesn't it?" He bent eagerly over the table as Hawkes traced some figures with a pencil on one of the pages of the will.

"How much did he leave?" And Alaric's voice rose to a pitch of well-defined interest.

"His estate is valued, approximately, at some two hundred thousand pounds," replied the lawyer.

Alaric gave a long, low whistle, and smiled a broad, comprehensive smile.

Ethel for the first time showed a gleam of genuine interest.

Mrs. Chichester began to cry again. "Perhaps it was my fault I didn't see him oftener," she said.

Alaric, unable to curb his curiosity, burst out with: "How did the old boy split it up?"

"To his immediate relations he left" Mr. Hawkes looked up from the will and found three pairs of eyes fixed on him. He stopped. It may be that constant association with the law courts destroys faith in human nature—but whatever the cause, it seemed to Mr. Hawkes in each of those eyes was reflected the one dominant feeling—GREED. The expression in the family's combined eyes was astonishing in its directness, its barefacedness. It struck the dignified gentleman suddenly dumb.

"Well? Well?" Cried Alaric. "How much? Don't stop right in the middle of an important thing like that. You make me as nervous as a chicken."

Mr. Hawkes returned to the will and after looking at it a moment without reading said:

"To his immediate relations Mr. Kingsnorth left, I regret to say—NOTHING."

A momentary silence fell like a pall over the stricken Chichester family.

Mrs. Chichester rose, indignation flashing from the eyes that a moment since showed a healthy hope.

"Nothing?" she cried incredulously.

"Not a penny-piece to anyone?" ventured Alaric.

The faintest suspicion of a smile flitted across Ethel's face.

Hawkes looked keenly at them and answered:

"I deeply regret to say—nothing."

Mrs. Chichester turned to Ethel, who had begun to stroke "Pet" again.

"His own flesh and blood!" cried the poor lady.

"What a shabby old beggar!" commented Alaric, indignantly.

"He was always the most selfish, the most—" began Mrs. Chichester, when Mr. Hawkes, who bad been turning over the pages of the document before him, gave an ejaculation of relief.

"Ah! Here we have it. This, Mrs. Chichester, is how Mr. Kingsnorth expressed his attitude toward his relations in his last will and testament."

"'I am the only member of the Kingsnorth family who ever made any money. All my precious relations either inherited it or married to get it.'—"

"I assure you—" began Mrs. Chichester.

Alaric checked her: "Half a moment, mater. Let us hear it out to the bitter end. He must have been an amusin' old gentleman!"

Mr. Hawkes resumed: "—'consequently I am not going to leave one penny to relations who are already, well-provided for.'"

Mrs. Chichester protested vehemently:

"But we are NOT provided for."

"No," added Alaric. "Our bank's bust."

"We're ruined," sobbed Mrs. Chichester.

"Broke!" said Alaric.

"We've nothing!" wailed the old lady.

"Not thruppence," from the son.

"Dear, dear," said the lawyer. "How extremely painful."

"PAINFUL? That's not the word. Disgustin' I call it," corrected Alaric.

Mr. Hawkes thought a moment. Then he said: "Under those circumstances, perhaps a clause in the will may have a certain interest and an element of relief."

As two drowning people clinging to the proverbial straws the mother and son waited breathlessly for Mr. Hawkes to go on.

Ethel showed no interest whatever.

"When Mr. Kingsnorth realised that he had not very much longer to live he spoke constantly of his other sister—Angela," resumed Mr. Hawkes.

"Angela?" cried Mrs. Chichester in surprise; "why, she is dead."

"That was why he spoke of her," said Hawkes gravely. "And not a word of me?" asked Mrs. Chichester.

"We will come to that a little later," and Mr. Hawkes again referred to the will. "It appears that this sister Angela married at the age of twenty, a certain Irishman by name O'Connell, and was cut off by her family—"

"The man was an agitator—a Fenian agitator. He hadn't a penny. It was a disgrace—"

Alaric checked his mother again.

Hawkes resumed: "—was cut off by her family—went to the United States of America with her husband, where a daughter was born. After going through many, conditions of misery with her husband, who never seemed to prosper, she died shortly after giving birth to the child." He looked up: "Mr. Kingsnorth elsewhere expresses his lasting regret that in one of his sister's acute stages of distress she wrote to him asking him, for the first time, to assist her. He replied: 'You have made your bed; lie in it.'"

"She had disgraced the family. He was justified," broke in Mrs. Chichester.

"With death approaching," resumed Hawkes, "Mr. Kingsnorth's conscience began to trouble him and the remembrance of his treatment of his unfortunate sister distressed him. If the child were alive he wanted to see her. I made inquiries and found that the girl was living with her father in very poor circumstances in the City of New York. We sent sufficient funds for the journey, together with a request to the father to allow her to visit Mr. Kingsnorth in England. The father consented. However, before the young girl sailed Mr. Kingsnorth died."

"Oh!" cried Alaric, who had been listening intently. "Died, eh? That was too bad. Died before seeing her. Did you let her sail, Mr. Hawkes?"

"Yes. We thought it best to bring her over here and acquaint her with the sad news after her arrival. Had she known before sailing she might not have taken the journey."

"But what was the use of bringing her over when Mr. Kingsnorth was dead?" asked Alaric.

"For this reason," replied Hawkes: "Realising that he might never see her, Mr. Kingsnorth made the most remarkable provision for her in his will."

"Provided for HER and not for—?" began Mrs. Chichester.

"Here is the provision," continued Mr. Hawkes, again reading from the will: "'I hereby direct that the sum of one thousand pounds a year be paid to any respectable well-connected woman of breeding and family, who will undertake the education and up-bringing of my niece, Margaret O'Connell, in accordance with the dignity and tradition of the Kingsnorths'—"

"He remembers a niece he never saw and his own sister—" and Mrs. Chichester once more burst into tears.

"It beats cock-fighting, that's all I can say," cried Alaric. "It simply beats cock-fighting."

Mr. Hawkes went on reading: "'If at the expiration of one year my niece is found to be, in the judgment of my executors, unworthy of further interest, she is to be returned to her father and the sum of two hundred and fifty pounds a year paid her to provide her with the necessities of life. If, on the other hand, she proves herself worthy of the best traditions of the Kingsnorth family, the course of training is to be continued until she reaches the age of twenty-one, when I hereby bequeath to her the sum of five thousand pounds a year, to be paid to her annually out of my estate during her life-time and to be continued after her death to any male issue she may have—by marriage.'"

Mr. Hawkes stopped, and once again looked at the strange family. Mrs. Chichester was sobbing: "And me—his own sister—"

Alaric was moving restlessly about: "Beats any thing I've heard of. Positively anything."

Ethel was looking intently at "Pet's" coat.

Hawkes continued: "'On no account is her father to be permitted to visit her, and should the course of training be continued after the first year, she must not on any account visit her father. After she reaches the age of twenty-one she can do as she pleases.'" Mr. Hawkes folded up the will with the air of a man who had finished an important duty.

Alaric burst out with:

"I don't see how that clause interests us in the least, Mr. Hawkes."

The lawyer removed his pince-nez and looking steadily at Mrs. Chichester said:

"Now, my dear Mrs. Chichester, it was Mr. Kingsnorth's wish that the first lady to be approached on the matter of undertaking the training of the young lady should be—YOU!"

Mrs. Chichester rose in astonishment: "I?"

Alaric arose in anger: "My mother?"

Ethel quietly pulled "Pet's" ear and waited.

Mr. Hawkes went on quietly:

"Mr. Kingsnorth said, 'he would be sure at least of his niece having a strict up-bringing in the best traditions of the Kingsnorths, and that though his sister Monica was somewhat narrow and conventional in ideas'—I use his own words—'still he felt sure she was eminently fitted to undertake such a charge.' There—you have the whole object of my visit. Now—will you undertake the training of the young lady?"

"I never heard of such a thing!" cried Mrs. Chichester furiously.

"Ridiculous!" said Ethel calmly.

"Tush and nonsense," with which Alaric dismissed the whole matter.

"Then I may take it you refuse?" queried the astonished lawyer.

"Absolutely!" from Mrs. Chichester.

"Entirely!" from Ethel.

"I should say so!" and Alaric brought up the rear.

Mr. Hawkes gathered up his papers and in a tone of regret ventured: "Then there is nothing more to be said. I was only carrying out the dead man's wishes by coming here and making the facts known to you. Mr. Kingsnorth was of the opinion that you were well provided for and, that, outside of the sentimental reason that the girl was your own niece, the additional thousand pounds a year might be welcome as, say, pin-money for your daughter."

Ethel laughed her dry, cheerless little laugh. "Ha! Pin-money!"

Alaric grew suddenly grave and drew his mother and sister out of Mr. Hawkes' vicinity.

"Listen, mater—Ethel. It's a cool thousand, you know? Thousands don't grow on raspberry bushes when your bank's gone up. What do ye think, eh?"

Mrs. Chichester brightened:

"It would keep things together," she said.

"The wolf from the door," urged Alaric.

"No charity," chimed in Ethel.

Mrs. Chichester looked from daughter to son. "Well? What do you think?"

"Whatever you say, mater," from Alaric.

"You decide, mamma," from Ethel.

"We might try it for a while, at least," said Mrs. Chichester.

"Until we can look around," agreed Alaric.

"Something may be saved from the wreck," reasoned Mrs. Chichester more hopefully.

"Until I get really started," said Alaric with a sense of climax.

Mrs. Chichester turned to her daughter: "Ethel?"

"Whatever you decide, mamma."

Mrs. Chichester thought a moment—then decided "I'll do it," she said determinedly. "It will be hard, but I'll do it." She went slowly and deliberately to Mr. Hawkes, who by this time had disposed of all his documents and was preparing to go. A look in Mrs. Chichester's face stopped him. He smiled at her. "Well?" he asked.

"For the sake of the memory of my dead sister, I will do as Nathaniel wished," said Mrs. Chichester with great dignity and self-abnegation.

Mr. Hawkes breathed a sigh of relief.

"Good!" he said. "I'm delighted. It is splendid. Now that you have decided so happily there is one thing more I must tell you. The young lady is not to be told the conditions of the will, unless at the discretion of the executors should, some crisis arise. She will be to all intents and purposes—your GUEST. In that way we may be able to arrive at a more exact knowledge of her character. Is that understood?"

The family signified severally and collectively that it was.

"And now," beamed the lawyer, happy at the fortunate outcome of a situation that a few moments before seemed so strained, "where is your bell?"

Alaric indicated the bell.

"May I ring?" asked the lawyer.

"Certainly," replied Alaric.

Mr. Hawkes rang.

Alaric watched him curiously: "Want a sandwich or something?"

Hawkes smiled benignly on the unfortunate family and rubbed his hands together self-satisfiedly:

"Now I would like to send for the young lady,—the heiress."

"Where is she?" asked Mrs. Chichester.

"She arrived from New York this morning and I brought her straight here. I had to call on a client, so I gave her your address and told her to come here and wait."

At the word "wait" an uneasy feeling took possession of Ethel. That was the word used by that wretched-looking little creature who had so rudely intruded upon her and Brent. Could it be possible—?

The footman entered at that moment.

The lawyer questioned him.

"Is there a young lady waiting for Mr. Hawkes?"

"A YOUNG LADY, sir? No, sir." answered Jarvis. Mr. Hawkes was puzzled. What in the world had become of her? He told the cabman distinctly where to go.

Jarvis opened the door to go out, when a thought suddenly occurred to him. He turned back and spoke to the lawyer:

"There's a young person sitting in the kitchen: came up and knocked at the door and said she had to wait until a gentleman called. Can't get nothin' out of her." Hawkes brightened up.

"That must be Miss O'Connell," he said. He turned to Mrs. Chichester and asked her if he might bring the young lady in there.

"My niece in the kitchen!" said Mrs. Chichester to the unfortunate footman. "Surely you should know the difference between my niece and a servant!"

"I am truly sorry, madam," replied Jarvis in distress, "but there was nothing to tell."

"Another such mistake and you can leave my employment," Mrs. Chichester added severely.

Jarvis pleaded piteously:

"Upon my word, madam, no one could tell."

"That will do," thundered Mrs. Chichester. "Bring my niece here—at once."

The wretched Jarvis departed on his errand muttering to himself: "Wait until they see her. Who in the world could tell she was their relation."

Mrs. Chichester was very angry.

"It's monstrous!" she exclaimed.

"Stoopid!" agreed Alaric. "Doocid stoopid."

Ethel said nothing. The one thought that was passing through her mind was: "How much did that girl hear Brent say and how much did she see Mr. Brent do?"

Hawkes tried to smooth the misunderstanding out.

"I am afraid it was all my fault," he explained. "I told her not to talk. To just say that she was to wait. I wanted to have an opportunity to explain matters before introducing her."

"She should have been brought straight to me," complained Mrs. Chichester. "The poor thing." Then with a feeling of outraged pride she said: "My niece in kitchen. A Kingsnorth mistaken for a servant!"

The door opened and Jarvis came into the room. There was a look of half-triumph on his face as much as to say: "Now who would not make a mistake like that? Who could tell this girl was your niece?"

He beckoned Peg to come into the room.

Then the Chichester family received the second shock they had experienced that day—one compared with which the failure of the bank paled into insignificance. When they saw the strange, shabby, red-haired girl slouch into the room, with her parcels and that disgraceful-looking dog, they felt the hand of misfortune had indeed fallen upon them.



CHAPTER V

PEGS MEETS HER AUNT

As Peg wandered into the room Mrs. Chichester and Alaric looked at her in horrified amazement.

Ethel took one swift glance at her and then turned her attention to "Pet."

Jarvis looked reproachfully at Mrs. Chichester as much as to say: "What did I tell you?" and went out.

Alaric whispered to his mother:

"Oh, I say, really, you know—it isn't true! It CAN'T be."

"Pet" suddenly saw "Michael" and began to bark furiously at him. "Michael" responded vigorously until Peg quieted him.

At this juncture Mr. Hawkes came forward and, taking Peg gently by the arm, reassured her by saying:

"Come here, my dear. Come here. Don't be frightened. We're all your friends."

He brought Peg over to Mrs. Chichester, who was staring at her with tears of mortification in her eyes. When Peg's eyes met her aunt's she bobbed a little curtsey she used to do as a child whenever she met a priest or some of the gentle folk.

Mrs. Chichester went cold when she saw the gauche act. Was it possible that this creature was her sister Angela's child? It seemed incredible.

"What is your name?" she asked sternly.

"Peg, ma'am."

"What?"

"Sure me name's Peg, ma'am," and she bobbed another little curtsey.

Mrs. Chichester closed her eyes and shivered. She asked Alaric to ring. As that young gentleman passed Ethel on his way to the bell he said: "It can't really be true! Eh, Ethel?"

"Quaint," was all his sister replied.

Hawkes genially drew Peg's attention to her aunt by introducing her:

"This lady is Mrs. Chichester—your aunt." Peg looked at her doubtfully a moment then turned to Hawkes and asked him:

"Where's me uncle?"

"Alas! my dear child, your uncle is dead."

"Dead!" exclaimed Peg in surprise. "Afther sendin' for me?"

"He died just before you sailed," added Hawkes.

"God rest his soul," said Peg piously. "Sure if I'd known that I'd never have come at all. I'm too late, then. Good day to yez," and she started for the door.

Mr. Hawkes stopped her.

"Where are you going?"

"Back to me father."

"Oh, nonsense."

"But I must go back to me father if me uncle's dead."

"It was Mr. Kingsnorth's last wish that you should stay here under your aunt's care. So she has kindly consented to give you a home."

Peg gazed at Mrs. Chichester curiously.

"Have yez?" she asked.

Mrs. Chichester, with despair in every tone, replied: "I have!"

"Thank yez," said Peg, bobbing another little curtsey, at which Mrs. Chichester covered her eyes with her hand as if to shut out some painful sight.

Peg looked at Mrs. Chichester and at the significant action. There was no mistaking its significance. It conveyed dislike and contempt so plainly that Peg felt it through her whole nature. She turned to Alaric and found him regarding her as though she were some strange animal. Ethel did not deign to notice her. And this was the family her father had sent her over to England to be put in amongst. She whispered to Hawkes:

"I can't stay here."

"Why not?" asked the lawyer.

"I'd be happier with me father," said Peg.

"Nonsense. You'll be quite happy here. Quite."

"They don't seem enthusiastic about us, do they?" and she looked down at "Michael" and up at Hawkes and indicated the Chichester family, who had by this time all turned their backs on her. She smiled a wan, lonely smile, and with a little pressure on "Michael's" back, murmured: "We're not wanted here, 'Michael!'"

The terrier looked up at her and then buried his head under her arm as though ashamed.

Jarvis came in response to the ring at that moment, bearing a pained, martyr-like expression on his face.

Mrs. Chichester directed him to take away Peg's parcels and the dog.

Peg frightenedly clutched the terrier.

"Oh, no, ma'am," she pleaded. "Plaze lave 'Michael' with me. Don't take him away from me."

"Take it away," commanded Mrs. Chichester severely, "and never let it INSIDE the house again."

"Well, if ye don't want HIM inside yer house ye don't want ME inside yer house," Peg snapped back.

Hawkes interposed. "Oh, come, come, Miss O'Connell, you can see the little dog whenever you want to," and he tried to take "Michael" out of her arms. "Come, let me have him."

But Peg resisted. She was positive when she said:

"No, I won't give him up. I won't. I had a hard enough time gettin' him ashore, I did."

Hawkes pleaded again.

"No," said Peg firmly. "I WILL NOT GIVE HIM UP. And that's all there is about it."

The lawyer tried again to take the dog from her: "Come, Miss O'Connell, you really must be reasonable."

"I don't care about being reasonable," replied Peg. "'Michael' was given to me by me father an' he's not very big and he's not a watchdog, he's a pet dog—and look—" She caught sight of Ethel's little poodle and with a cry of self-justification, she said:

"See, she has a dog in the house—right here in the house. Look at it!" and she pointed to where the little ball of white wool lay sleeping on Ethel's lap. Then Peg laughed heartily: "I didn't know what it was until it MOVED."

Peg finally weakened under Mr. Hawkes' powers of persuasion and on the understanding that she could see him whenever she wanted to, permitted the lawyer to take "Michael" out of her arms and give him to the disgusted footman, who held him at arm's length in mingled fear and disgust.

Then Hawkes took the bag and the parcels and handed them also to Jarvis. One of them burst open, disclosing her father's parting gifts. She kept the rosary and the miniature, and wrapping up the others carefully she placed them on the top of the other articles in the outraged Jarvis's arms, and then gave him her final injunctions. Patting "Michael" on the head she said to the footman:

"Ye won't hurt him, will ye?"

"Michael" at that stage licked her hand and whined as though he knew they were to be separated. Peg comforted him and went on: "And I'd be much obliged to ye if ye'd give him some wather and a bone. He loves mutton bones."

Jarvis, with as much dignity as he could assume, considering that he had one armful of shabby parcels and the other hand holding at arm's length a disgraceful looking mongrel, went out, almost on the verge of tears.

Peg looked down and found Alaric sitting at a desk near the door staring at her in disgust.

He was such a funny looking little fellow to Peg that she could not feel any resentment toward him. His sleek well-brushed hair; his carefully creased and admirably-cut clothes; his self-sufficiency; and above all his absolute assurance that whatever he did was right, amused Peg immensely. He was an entirely new type of young man to her and she was interested. She smiled at him now in a friendly way and said: "Ye must know 'Michael' is simply crazy about mutton. He LOVES mutton."

Alaric turned indignantly away from her. Peg followed him up. He had begun to fascinate her. She looked at his baby-collar with a well-tied bow gleaming from the centre; at his pointed shoes; his curious, little, querulous look. He was going to be good fun for Peg. She wanted to begin at once. And she would have too, not the icy accents of Mrs. Chichester interrupted Peg's plans for the moment.

"Come here," called Mrs. Chichester.

Peg walked over to her and when she got almost beside the old lady she turned to have another glimpse at Alaric and gave him a little, chuckling, good-natured laugh.

"Look at ME!" commanded Mrs. Chichester sternly.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Peg, with a little curtsey. Mrs. Chichester closed her eyes for a moment. What was to be done with this barbarian? Why should this affliction be thrust upon her? Then she thought of the thousand pounds a year. She opened her eyes and looked severely at Peg.

"Don't call me 'ma'am'!" she said.

"No, ma'am," replied Peg nervously, then instantly corrected herself: "No, ANT! No, ANT!"

"AUNT!" said Mrs. Chichester haughtily. "AUNT. Not ANT."

Alaric commented to Ethel:

"ANT! Like some little crawly insect."

Peg heard him, looked at him and laughed. He certainly was odd. Then she looked at Ethel, then at Mr. Hawkes, then all round the room as if she missed someone. Finally she faced Mrs. Chichester again.

"Are you me Uncle Nat's widdy?"

"No, I am not," contradicted the old lady sharply.

"Then how are you me—AUNT?" demanded Peg.

"I am your mother's sister," replied Mrs. Chichester.

"Oh!" cried Peg. "Then your name's Monica?"

"It is."

"What do ye think of that?" said Peg under her breath. She surreptitiously opened out the miniature and looked at it, then she scrutinised her aunt. She shook her head.

"Ye don't look a bit like me poor mother did."

"What have you there?" asked Mrs. Chichester.

"Me poor mother's picture," replied Peg softly.

"Let me see it!" and Mrs. Chichester held out her hand for it. Peg showed it to Mrs. Chichester, all the while keeping a jealous hold on a corner of the frame. No one would ever take it away from her. The old lady looked at it intently. Finally she said:

"She had changed very much since I last saw her—and in one year."

"Sorrow and poverty did that, Aunt Monica," and the tears sprang unbidden into Peg's eyes.

"AUNT will be quite sufficient. Put it away," and Mrs. Chichester released the miniature.

Peg hid it immediately in her bosom.

"Sit down," directed the old lady in the manner of a judge preparing to condemn a felon.

Peg sprawled into a chair with a great sigh of relief.

"Thank ye, ant—AUNT," she said. Then she looked at them all alternately and laughed heartily:

"Sure I had no idea in the wurrld I had such fine relations. Although of course my father often said to me, 'Now, Peg,' he would say, 'now, Peg, ye've got some grand folks on yer mother's side'—"

"Folks! Really—Ethel!" cried Alaric disgustedly.

"Yes, that's what he said. Grand FOLKS on me mother's side."

Mrs. Chichester silenced Peg.

"That will do. Don't sprawl in that way. Sit up. Try and remember where you are. Look at your cousin," and the mother indicated Ethel. Peg sat up demurely and looked at Ethel. She chuckled to herself as she turned back to Mrs. Chichester:

"Is she me cousin?"

"She is," replied the mother.

"And I am too," said Alaric. "Cousin Alaric."

Peg looked him all over and laughed openly. Then she turned to Ethel again, and then looked all around the room and appeared quite puzzled. Finally she asked Mrs. Chichester the following amazing question:

"Where's her husband?"

Ethel sprang to her feet. The blow was going to fall. She was to be disgraced before her family by that beggar-brat. It was unbearable.