"It is really difficult for me to say; I never like giving an opinion on a subject I don't understand."

"I know; but what do you think?"

Fortunately for Willy's peace, the conversation was at this moment violently interrupted by Triss. He rushed forth, and Frank was only in time to prevent a pitched battle. He returned leading the dog by his silk handkerchief, amid the murmur of nurse-maids and Jewesses.

"That's the worst of him; he never can see a big dog without wanting to go for him. Down, sir, down—I won't have you growl at me."

"I can't see what pleasure you can find in a brute like that."

"I assure you he's very good-tempered; he has a habit of growling, but he does not mean anything by it. What were we talking about?"

"I think we were talking about the ladies. Have you seen anything nice lately? What's the present Mrs. Escott like, dark or fair?"

"There isn't one, I assure you. I met rather a nice woman at my uncle's, about two months ago, a Lady Seely. I don't know that you would call her a pretty woman; rather a turned-up nose, a pinched-in waist, beautiful shoulders. Hair of a golden tinge, diamonds, and dresses covered with beads. She flirted a great deal. We talked about love, and we laughed at husbands, and she asked me to come and see her in rather a pointed way. It is rather difficult to explain these things, but I think that if I were to go in for her—"

"That you would pull it off?"

The young men laughed loudly, and then Frank said: "But somehow I don't much care about her. I met such a pretty girl the other day at the theatre. There were no stalls, and as I wanted to see the piece very much, I went into the dress circle. There was only one seat in the back row. I struggled past a lot of people, dropped into my place, and watched the piece without troubling myself to see who was sitting next to me. It was not until the entr'acte that I looked round. I felt my neighbour's eyes were fixed upon me. She was one of the prettiest girls you ever saw in your life—a blonde face, pale brown hair, and such wonderful teeth—her laughter, I assure you, was beautiful. I asked her what she thought of the piece. She looked away and didn't answer. It was rather a slap in the face for me, but I am not easily done. I immediately said: 'I should have apologised before for the way I inconvenienced you in crushing into my seat, but, really, the place is so narrow that you don't know how to get by.' This rather stumped her, she was obliged to say something. The girl on the other side (not half a bad looking girl, short brown curly hair, rather a roguish face) was the most civil at first. She wasn't as pretty as the one next to me, but she spoke the more willingly; the one next to me tried to prevent her. However, I got on with them, one thing led to another, and when the piece was over, I fetched their hats and coats and we walked a little way up the street together. I tried to get them to come to supper; they couldn't do that, for they had to be in at a certain time, so we went to Gatti's and had some coffee. I couldn't make out for a long time what they were; they were evidently not prostitutes, and they did not seem to me to be quite ladies. What do you think they were?"

"I haven't an idea—actresses?"

"No. They wouldn't tell me for a long time. I got it out of them at last; they're at the bar in the Gaiety Restaurant."

"Bar girls?"

"Yes."

"Some of those bar girls are very pretty; rather dangerous, though, I should think."

"They seemed to me to be very nice girls; you would be surprised if you heard them talk. I assure you the one that sat next to me spoke just like a lady. You know in these hard times people must do something. Lots of ladies have to buckle to and work for their bread."

Frank lapsed into silence. Willy sat apparently watching the blue and green spectacle of the sea. Frank knew that it interested him not the least, and he wondered if his friend had heard what he had been saying. Triss, seeing that smelling and fighting were equally vain endeavours, had laid himself out in the sun, and he returned his master's caresses by deep growls. One more menacing than the others woke Willy from his meditation, and he said: "What's the time? It ought to be getting on to lunch time."

"I daresay it is."

"Where shall we go? Do you know of a good place? What about that restaurant opposite the pier?"

"Well," said Willy, with a short, abrupt laugh, "the fact is, I must lunch at my office; but I shall be very glad if you will come."

"I didn't know you had an office—an office for what?"

"I started an agency at the beginning of the year for artificial manure, but I think I shall drop it. I am arranging to go on the Stock Exchange. The difficulty is whether I shall be able to get my father to allow me to take enough money out of the business."

"What business?"

"The distillery."

"Oh, but what about this office? Why are you obliged to lunch at your office? Are you expecting customers? I know nothing about that sort of thing."

"No, I wish I were. The fact is, my missis is staying in Brighton for a few weeks. The child has been ailing a good deal lately, and the doctor ordered change of air."

"Child! Missis! I know nothing of this."

"A very nice woman, I think you'll like her. She is devoted to me. We've been together now two years or more, I can't say exactly, I should have to refer to my diary."

"But the child?"

"The child isn't mine. She had the child before I knew her."

"And what is the matter with it?"

"Curvature of the spine. The doctor says she will outgrow it. Cissy will be quite strong and healthy although she may never have what you would call a good figure. But there is a matter on which I want to speak to you. The fact is, I am going to be married."

"To whom?"

"To the lady whom you will see at lunch, Cissy's mother."

Frank said: "If you really love her I have nothing to say against it." Willy did not answer. Frank waited for an answer and then broke the silence: "But do you love her?"

"Yes, I am very fond of her; she is a very good sort."

Frank was implacable. "Do you love her like the other one?" The question wounded, but Frank was absorbed in his own special sentimentalities.

"I was younger then, it is not the same; I am getting old. How many years older am I than you—seven, I think? You are three-and-twenty, I am thirty. How time flies!"

"Yes, I am three-and-twenty—you don't look thirty."

"I feel it, though; few fellows have had so much trouble as I have. Your life has been all pleasure."

"If a man really loves a woman he is always right to marry her. Why should we suppose that a woman may not reform—that true love may not raise her? I was talking to a novelist the other day; he told me thestory of a book he is writing. It is about a woman who leaves the husband she has never loved for the man she adores; she goes away with him, he marries her, and she sinks lower and lower, until she becomes a common prostitute."

"You are quite mistaken. I am sure that when you see the missis—"

"My dear fellow, pray do not misunderstand me. I would not for worlds. I am only telling you about a book, if you will only listen. I told him that I thought the story would be ten times as interesting if, instead of being degraded, the woman were raised by the love of the man who took her away from her husband. He made the husband a snivelling little creature, and the lover good-looking—that's the old game. I would have made the lover insignificant and the husband good- looking. Nevertheless she loved the lover better. I know of nothing more noble than for a man to marry the woman he loves, and to raise her by the force of his love; he could teach her, instruct her. Nellie will never forget me. I gave her a religion, I taught her and explained to her the whole of the Catholic faith—"

"I hope you won't try to convert my sisters."

"You do pull me up so! Don't you understand that I was very young then? I was only twenty, not much more; besides, I was engaged to Nellie."

"Come back to what we were talking about."

"Well, I have said that if you love her I believe you are quite right to marry her. But do you love her?"

"Yes, I do; how many times more do you want me to say I do?"

"Of course if you are going to be rude—"

"No—you understand what I mean, don't you? I am very fond of the missis; if I weren't I shouldn't marry, that goes without saying, but one likes to have things settled. I have been with her now more thantwo years. I've thought it out. There's nothing like having things settled. I'm sure I'm right."

The young men looked at each other in silence—Frank quite at a loss; he could nowise enter into the feelings of a man whom an undue sense of order and regularity compelled to marry his mistress, as it did to waste half his life in copying letters and making entries in a diary.

"Then why did you consult me?" he said, for he came to the point sharply when his brain was not muddled with sentiment.

"I am not heir to an entailed estate, like you."

"I am not heir to an entailed estate. Mount Rorke might marry to- morrow."

"He is not likely to do that. It is an understood thing that you are heir. My father might cut me off with a shilling if he were to hear I had married without his consent, and I should be left with the few hundreds which I draw out of the distillery, a poor man all my life."

"If that is so, why marry? You are not in love with her—at least not what I should call being in love."

"But can't you understand—"

"No, I can't, unless you mean that you are down with marriage fever."

"I have considered the matter carefully, and am convinced I am right," he answered, looking at Frank as if he would say, but didn't dare, "don't let's talk about it any more, it only distresses me." "The marriage must be kept a secret. If my father were to hear of it I should be ruined, whereas if Mary will consent to go on living as we are living now, one of these days she will be a rich woman. I daresay my share of his money will come to at least fifteen hundred a year, and then I shall be able to recompense her for the years she has waited for it. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly. The only thing I don't see is how I am to influence her. You've no doubt told her and fully explained to her what the consequences would be if you were to publish the banns."

"I have, but it would strengthen my hand if you were to tell her all you know of my father. Tell her that he is very obstinate, pig-headed, and would certainly cut me off; tell her that he is sixty-six, that it is a hundred to one against his living till he is eighty, even if he did there would be only fourteen years to wait for fifteen hundred a year; tell her if she tells that I have married her it is just as if she threw fifteen hundred a year out of the window."

"And when shall I tell her all this?"

"Now. We are going to have lunch at my offices, she'll be there. We'll talk the matter over after lunch."

"Very well, let's start. Come along, Triss."

With Triss tugging dangerously at the silk handkerchief whenever he saw a likely pair of legs or a dog that he fancied, the young men sauntered up West Street.

"But tell me: how do you manage to have so many people to lunch in your office; your premises must be pretty extensive?"

"I have the whole house; I was obliged to take it. I couldn't get another place that would suit me, and I thought I should be able to let the upper part; I did have a tenant for a little while, but he was obliged to leave. I believe I am the unluckiest fellow alive. Here's the place."

"Agency for Artificial Manure" was printed over the door. Willy asked the office-boy if there were any letters, and they went upstairs. The windows of the front room were in view of a church spire, and overlooked a little shadowy cemetery; and at one window Cissy sat, the little crutches by her side, watching the children playing amid the tombs.

"Where's your mother, Cissy?"

"In the back room cooking herrings, uncle."

Mrs. Brookes was a homely, honest-eyed woman, with dingy yellow hair.

"Let me introduce you. This is my friend, Mr. Escott, you have often heard me speak of him."

"You must excuse my shaking hands with you, sir, I have been cooking."

"She is an excellent cook, too. Just you wait and see. What have we got?"

"Some herrings and a piece of steak."

"Is that good enough for you?"

"I love herrings."

"I am glad of that, these are quite fresh; they were caught this morning. You must excuse me, I must go back; they want a deal of attending to." Presently she appeared with a tray and a beer jug. Willy called to the office-boy. "We have no cheese," said Mrs. Brookes.

Cissy begged to be allowed to fetch the cheese and beer.

"No, dear, I am afraid you aren't well enough."

"Yes, I am, uncle; give me a shilling, and let me go with Billy." Then, breaking off with the unexpected garrulity of children, she continued: "I am getting quite strong now; I was down on the beach this morning, and watched the little boys and girls building mounds. When I am quite well, uncle, won't you buy me a spade and bucket, and mayn't I build sand mounds, too?"

"We'll see when the time comes."

"Well, let me go with Billy and fetch the cheese."

"No, you can't go now, dear, there are too many people about; this is not like London."

Cissy had the long sad face of cripples, but beautiful shining curls hung thickly, hiding the crookedness of the shoulders. She was nine years old, and was just beginning to awake to a sense of the importance of her affliction.

After lunch she was sent downstairs to the office-boy. Willy sat rubbing his hands slowly and methodically. After some hesitation he introduced the subject they had come to speak on. "Mr. Escott will tell you, Mary, how important it is that our marriage should be kept secret; he will tell you how the slightest suspicion of it would ruin my prospects." He then spoke of his position in the county, and the necessity of sustaining it. Frank thought this rather bad taste; but he assured Mrs. Brookes, with much Celtic gesticulation, that her marriage must be kept a secret till her father-in-law's death. The young men and Mrs. Brookes remained talking till the rays trailed among the green grass of the graves, and the blue roofs that descended into the valley, and clung about the sides of the opposite hill. It had been arranged that Willy and Mrs. Brookes should go to London to- morrow to be married. Frank was convinced that she would not break her promise, and he hoped they would be very happy. She had only raised one objection. She had said: "What is the use of my being married if I shall have to live with him as his mistress?"

"A great deal of good. Your position will be secured. Willy will not be able to leave you, even if he felt inclined, and you will know that only one life, that of an old man, stands between you and fifteen hundred a year."

"I want no assurance that my dear Willy will not leave me," she said, going over and putting her arms about him; "but as you like. I shall never say anything about the marriage till Willy tells me. I hope I shall never do anything but what he tells me." And she went over and sat on his knees.

"You are a dear old thing," he said, squeezing and planting a vigorous kiss on her neck.

Frank's eyes filled with hot tears, his heart seemed like bursting. "What a beautiful thing love is!" he said to himself, and the world melted away from him in the happiness he drew from the contemplation of these who were about to bind themselves together for life.

"Be most careful what you say to my sisters. I would not trust them. The temptation to get me cut out of everything might—I ought not to say that, but one never knows. I dare say no such accident could happen to any one else, but if I leave the smallest thing to chance I am sure to come to grief. They will question you. They will want to know what we did all day."

"I'll say we sat on the beach." "That's it. Good-bye. I shall be home the day after to-morrow."



IV



When the young ladies at the Manor House did not get their dresses from London, a dressmaker came from Brighton to help them, and all together they sat sewing and chattering in the work-room. Maggie would take a bow or a flower, and moving it quickly, guided by the instinct of a bird building its nest, would find the place where it decorated the hat or bonnet best. Neither Sally nor Grace could do this, nor could they drape a skirt or fit a bodice, but they could work well and enjoy their work. But what they enjoyed more was the opportunity these working days afforded for gossip. Mrs. Wood had the Brighton scandal at her tongue's tip, and what she would not tell, her niece told them when her aunt left the room. Secrecy was enjoined, but sometimes they forgot, and in Mrs. Wood's presence alluded too pointedly to stories that had not yet found their way beyond the precincts of the servants' hall, and then the dressmaker raised her mild eyes, and looked through large spectacles at Susan, who sat biting her lips. Susan told the young ladies of her love affairs; they told Susan of theirs; and the different codes of etiquette gave added zest to the anecdotes, in themselves interesting. The story of the young man who had said, "I am afraid that parcel is too heavy for you, miss," and had been promised a walk in the twilight on the cliff, evoked visions of liberty, and the story of the officer at the Henfield ball, with whom Sally had discovered a room that none knew of, did not fail to impress the little dressmaker. They talked a great deal about Frank. His face and manner called up the name, and after a few hesitations they used his Christian name as they did when he came to see them years ago.

"He is a very good fellow—I don't say he isn't. No one could say he wasn't nice-looking, but somehow he doesn't make you feel—you know, right down, you know, through and through."

"Electricity," said Maggie, with a low, subtle laugh, and her thread cracked through the straw of the hat.

"Yes," cried Sally boisterously. "Electricity, I never heard it called that before; but it isn't a bad name for it; it is like electricity. When a man looks at you—you know, in a peculiar way, it goes right down your back from the very crown of your head."

"No, not down my back; I feel it down my chest, just like forked lightning. Isn't it horrid? You know that it is coming and you can't help it. Some men fix their eyes on you."

"It is just when you meet a man's eyes—a man you like, but haven't seen much of."

"I don't think liking has anything to do with it. I hate it; don't you?"

"No, I don't know that I do. I can't see anything so disagreeable as that in it. 'Tis rather a shock, a sort of pang."

Mrs. Wood raised her mild face and looked surprised through her thick spectacles; the merry niece bit her lips, and strove to stay her laughter. Then Maggie said: "Sue, have you ever felt electricity?"

"Oh, miss! I don't think I understand," and she glanced at her aunt over the hem she was running.

"Now, come, tell the truth. You mean to say you never felt electricity?"

"I don't think I ever did, miss."

"I don't believe you. Not when that nice young man you were telling us about looked at you? Come, now, tell the truth."

"Well, miss, I don't know—I thought it was very revolting."

Mrs. Wood said nothing; with her hand in suspended gesture and her spectacles a-glimmer with round surprise, she sat looking at Miss Maggie. Her reveries, however, were soon cut short, for Sally not only asked her if she had ever experienced the doubtful pleasure of electricity, but advised her when she returned home to try if her husband's looks could thrill her.

"I don't think the conversation at all nice," said Grace, who had up to the present taken no part either by looks, or words, or laughter.

"Who cares what you think? You used to be fond enough of sitting out dances with him. You mean to say he never gave you electricity?"

"No, never."

"Then I hope Berkins will," said Sally, with a coarse laugh.

The association of Berkins with electricity proved so generally ludicrous that Mrs. Wood, conscious of the respect she owed Miss Brookes, pretended to look for her handkerchief, and it was for a moment doubtful if the spectacles would preserve their gravity. Tears started to Grace's eyes, and she bent over her work to hide them from her sisters, which was unnecessary, for Maggie and Sally were absorbed in past experiences.

"What about Frank?" Sally asked, and Susan looked up curious to hear Maggie's answer.

"Well," said Maggie, staring at the window, "Frank is very good- looking, but I don't think that he electrifies one... he did once."

"And when was that?" said Sally.

"You remember the first time he came to stay here? Willy brought him down from London. We went to bed early and left them playing billiards; I lay awake waiting to hear them come up the stairs, and as he passed my room Frank stopped and I thought he was coming in. I felt it all down my spine, but never afterwards. You see, I didn't know him much then."

"And Jimmy?"

"I never liked Jimmy."

"If you don't like him why trouble about him?" Sally replied in her usually defiant manner. "You always take good care to trouble about my men. You tried all you could to get Jimmy away from me, yet you pretend to father that you never flirted with him."

"I didn't flirt with him; once a young man looks at you you think no one must speak to him but yourself. If young Meason asks me to dance with him, I cannot refuse; I am not going to make myself ridiculous though you were to look all the daggers in the world at me, but as for flirting with him, I never cared enough about him."

"And what about meeting him in London?"

Maggie coloured a little, and repudiated the accusation.

"You told him you were going to London, and you asked him if he were going, and what he would be doing that day. I don't know what more you could say."

"I never said any such thing."

"I have it from his own lips."

"It isn't true; I will ask him to your face if he ever said such a thing; I will tell father that."

"Well, there's no use in quarrelling," said Grace, "and I wouldn't advise you to worry father about it. You know he can't stand the name of Meason. It seems to me that neither of you care much whom you flirt with, you like so many young men."

"It is better to like a dozen young men than one old one."

"I shan't marry Mr. Berkins, no matter what you say. However, you can't accuse me of interfering in your affairs."

"No, you don't."

"No more do I. If you want Frank, take him, only don't come sneaking after Charley. I don't want Frank; I don't care twopence about him. If you want to see it out with him, I shan't interfere; only don't you come interfering with me and Jimmy, or Charley either."

Maggie did not like the idea of Sally getting two to her one. She would have liked to have introduced a proviso about Alfred, but the title Mount Rorke slipped between her thoughts, and she refrained. She knew the present treaty secured her immunity from Sally only so long as the affections and attentions of Jimmy and Charley showed no signs of declension, and she was aware that her promise would only hold good so long as Frank interested and Charley remained away in London.

The canary that had been twittering, now burst forth into long and prolonged shrillings. Grace folded up her work along her knees; and holding it in her hand like a roll of music, she said that they would never hear the end of this tennis party.

"I don't see why father should ever know anything about it, he has taken that horrid old Joseph with him, he never says more than a few words to the footman, and he never sees the cook or housemaid. We have all to-morrow to get the house straight."

"It is not certain that he is going to stay the night in London."

"Yes it is. Don't fidget. Have you got the wine out? We should have a dozen of champagne. Mind you make no mistake; '80, that is the wine you must get. Jimmy is most particular what he drinks, and Alfred has the most frightful headaches if he drinks anything but the very best. I hope he'll find the '80 all right."

"That's father's favourite wine; you mean to say that he won't miss it? Then the port and Burgundy and cherry brandy—I won't take the responsibility."

"Nobody asked you. All you have to do is to return the keys to Maggie that you took from her."

"I don't think father will be as angry as you think, Grace; besides there's no drawing back now the invitations are out. I think it would be better to tell him that we had a few friends in for tennis. We needn't tell him who was there—we will suppress the name of the Southdown Road people; and we can take the bottles out from the back. The wine won't be missed for a long time, and we will invent some better excuse before then. We will say that two bottles were drunk at this party and three at that; and further than that we can't remember."

"And what about the peaches? There are only a few ripe, and Sally says she'll want them all. Father has been looking forward to them for weeks and weeks."

"He'll have to do without them; if he wants peaches, he had better bring some down from Covent Garden."

A knock was heard at the door. "Please Miss, Mr. Escott is in the drawing-room."

"Tell him I will be downstairs in a moment," cried Maggie.

"Now off you go, my Lady Mount Rorke," said Sally, who had already begun to regret her promises, and to consider if she had not better break them.

Maggie asked him what train he came down by, then she called the dog; "Come here, my beautiful boy, come and kiss me." The bull-dog growled and wagged his tail.

"He won't hurt you; 'tis only his way of talking."

Maggie laughed, and they walked out on the green sward. "I suppose you've been to a great many balls this season?"

"I don't know that I have; a few, perhaps. I am glad to get away from town. I like no place like this. I don't know if it is the place or the associations."

"You are used to much finer places. I can fancy Mount Rorke—the lakes and the mountains; somehow I think I can see it. Isn't it strange, there are certain things and places you can realise so much better than others, and for no very understandable reason?"

"Yes, that is so," said Frank, obviously pleased by the remark. Then, after a pause, "Mount Rorke is a pretty place, and I don't think I could live long away from it. After a time I always find myself sighing for the bleakness and barrenness of the West. The hedgerows of England are pretty enough; but I hate the brick buildings."

"What kind of buildings do you have in Ireland?"

"Everything is built of grey stone, a cold grey tint on a background of green pasture lands and blue mountains. I daresay you wouldn't like it. It would recall nothing to you, but when I think of it, much less see it, I re-live my childhood all over again. I am a great person for old times. That is the reason I like coming down here. I knew you all so long ago; how well I can remember you—three dark little things. You used to sit on my knee."

"And do you find nothing nice in the present?"

"Of course I do; it is nice to walk in the garden with you, but it seems to me you have all moved away from me a little. Grace is engaged, you are engaged—"

"Who said I was engaged?"

"Ha, ha, you see I hear everything. What is his name—Alfred?"

"I suppose Sally told you."

"I won't tell you who told me, I never betray secrets. You had a desperate flirtation two years ago, and the man had to go away, and you promised to wait for him."

"I don't mind telling you—I did meet a man about two years ago whom I rather liked; I used to see a great deal of him at tennis parties and balls; he used to ask me to marry him. He wanted me to engage myself to him, and I told him it would be much better to wait and see what father would say."

"And what did your father say?"

"Father, he never knew anything about it. You may as well tell me, I know it was Sally. I suppose she told you I was very much in love with him?"

"She said, at least, the person who told me said, that you would never care for any one else."

"So you've been talking about me though you promised you wouldn't talk any more," Maggie said to herself, "All right, my lady—very well, we shall see."

"Grace is waving her parasol to us. Lunch must be ready."

Maggie and Grace had calculated that if they could limit the champagne to half a dozen bottles they would be able to hide the deficit from their father's scrutiny; but the servants seemed to be always filling the glasses of the Southdown Road people, and lunch was not half over when they heard the fourth bottle go pop. Maggie looked at Sally across the pile of peaches, but Sally had no ears for the report, only for Jimmy's voice. Her head wagged as she talked, and Maggie wondered if they were exchanging napkins or rings beneath the table.

At that moment the servant handed a letter on a salver to Maggie, saying, "From Mrs. Horlock; the servant is waiting an answer, miss." Grace trembled. Sally whispered to Jimmy, "What can she want?" In a reassuring voice Maggie said, "She has heard we are having a few people in to tennis, and she wants to know if she may send us round a young man; she will come round herself with the General some time during the afternoon." At the mention of a young man many eyes gleamed, and Sally said, "You had better go at once and write a note and say that we shall be delighted." When they went into the verandah coffee was handed round, and Maggie, as the gentlemen lit their cigarettes, said to Grace, "Nothing could have happened better; father is sure to hear of this, we couldn't have kept it from him: now we can say Mrs. Horlock was our chaperon. None will know when she came, or when she went away." Then turning to her company, Maggie said, "Now gentlemen, as soon as you have finished your cigarettes we will begin."

Sally not only insisted on playing, but on playing with Jimmy; and Grace, who was striving to struggle into the position of Miss Brookes, could do nothing but set the girl in the florid dress and the man who stood next to her to play against them. The garden seemed to absorb the girls, but Maggie, catching sight of Mrs. Horlock, went to meet her.

Mrs. Horlock was sixty, but her figure was like a girl's. She led a blind pug in a complicated leading apparatus, and several other pugs in various stages of fat and decrepitude followed her. It was not long before she raised a discussion on hydrophobia, defending the disease from all the charges of horror and contagion that had been urged against it, narrating vehemently how a mad dog had died in her arms licking her hands and face, and appealing to the General, who denounced muzzling; but when the mangy mastiff came near him he whispered to Frank, "I wish they were all shot. You must come and see us; you must come and see us; I have a pretty little place in the Southdown Road (dreadful place to mention here, they don't like it; of course the people there aren't all quite the thing, but what are you to do, you know?). Lunch at two, dinner at eight—old Indians, you know. I have everything I want. Too many animals, perhaps, but that can't be helped."

"Do you live here all the year?"

"Yes, all the year round. We don't go away much. We have everything here—coach-houses, horses, you'll see when you come. The only thing I want is a little occupation, a little something to bring me out, you know. I read the Morning Post every morning, and I have the St James's in the evening; but then there is the middle of the day," and, with laughter full of genial kindness and goodwill, the General repeated this phrase: "I want a little something to bring me out, you know."

Forty years of Indian sun! Balls in the Government House in Calcutta! Viceroys, tigers, horse-racing, elephants, jealousies, flirtations, deaths, all now forgotten, and if not forgotten, at rest; and now glad to watch life unfolding itself again in an English village, this old couple sat in the calm sunlight of an English garden, relics of another generation, emblems of an England drawing to a close.

At five o'clock Grace was busy at the tea-table; and very hot and moist Sally threw herself into a cane chair. Maggie, who had suddenly appeared upon the scene, arranged some fresh sets in which she and Frank did not take part—she having promised to walk with him; and they went towards the shade of the sycamores. She had neglected him nearly the whole day, and he was vexed with her. But she excused herself volubly, accusing Sally of indifference to all things except her own pleasures, and impressed upon him that it was her duty to show some politeness to Mrs. Horlock's friend.

"Sally would play tennis, she played two sets, three if I am not mistaken, and she never left Jimmy's side. She took no notice of any one; for that reason I hate having people to the house when she is here; everything devolves upon Grace and me. It is really too bad. Father wouldn't mind our giving this party at all, if it weren't for him. If he hears that he was here, well, I don't know what will happen."

"He doesn't look quite a gentleman, does he? He is a ship's mate, isn't he?"

"Yes, but it isn't that; father cannot bear those Southdown Road people. A lot of young men live there—quite as good as ourselves, no doubt, but they are all so poor, and father thinks of nothing but money. And Sally meets them. When she goes out driving in the cart she picks them up, and they go off together. Father doesn't know any of them, and he says they laugh at him when he goes to the station in the morning. 'Tisn't true, it is only his imagination; but I can quite well understand his feelings. You know Sally won't give way in anything. Once she ran into the kitchen, and told cook to put back the dinner, so that she might run down the slonk to finish her conversation with him. Of course father was mad at that, coming home tired from the City, and finding that his dinner had been put back. You saw the way they went on at lunch, sitting close together."

"We were all sitting close together."

"Yes, but not like they were. And all that nonsense with their napkins under the table. If you didn't see it, so much the better. I thought everybody saw it. I wish Sally wouldn't do it. Father, as you know, has a lot of money to leave, and if she did really go too far, I fear he would cut her off."

"But she never would go too far."

"No, I don't think so; I am sure Sally wouldn't do anything that was really wrong, but she is very imprudent."

"How do you mean?"

"I don't know that I ought to tell you."

"I promise not to tell any one—you know you can trust me."

"Well, she brings people up to her room."

"You don't mean to her bedroom?"

"She says you can't call it a bedroom, but she sleeps there for all that. She covers up the bed and makes it look like a couch; she keeps birds and dogs there; Flossie had her puppies there. That's her room," said Maggie, lifting one of the boughs. "I shouldn't be surprised if Jimmy were there with her now."

The foliage glinted in the sunset, and as Maggie stood pointing, still holding the bough, the picture flashed upon Frank, and he said: "Oh, how pretty you are now! How I should like to paint you!" And a moment after he said, interested, solely interested in sentimental affection, "Sally's ideas of love seem to me very funny; if she really loves Meason, why doesn't she marry him?"

"He has no money, and father would never hear of it."

"Never hear of it! If I loved a girl, nothing in the world would prevent my marrying her."

"I wonder if that's true," said Maggie, and she let go the bough and stood facing him, her hands clasped behind her back.

"Of course it is. What is life for if it isn't to get the woman we love?"

"It is nice to hear you say so; but I am afraid very few young men think like you nowadays. One woman is the same as another to them."

"I cannot understand any one thinking so. If it were so, the whole charm would be lost."

So the young people talked, and lost in the charm of each thrilling minute, they walked through the shadows and darkening leaves. The soft garden echoed with the sound of a girl's voice crying, "Cuckoo, cuckoo," and the white dresses flew over the sward, and the young men ran after them and caught them. They were playing hide and seek. Excited beyond endurance, Triss barked loudly, and forms were seen flying precipitately.

"Tie him up to this tree," said Maggie.

"No, no, better take him to the house," said Frank; "it would make him savage to tie him up."

When the ninth bottle of champagne had been opened, and the supper table was noisy, Frank whispered to Maggie, "Did you ever see Macbeth?"

"Yes, but why?"

"Because I can't help thinking what a splendid occasion it would be for Banquo's ghost to appear."

Maggie pressed his hand and laughed.

Soon after the sound of wheels was heard. Grace turned pale, Sally said: "Who would have thought it?" A moment after Mr. Brookes, with Berkins and Willy behind him, entered. He stood amazed, and seeing that the tears were mounting to his eyes, Maggie said: "Father, how tired and faint you look. We thought you wouldn't be coming home to- night. Do sit down and have a glass of wine." But neither winning words nor ways could soothe this storm, and in reply to a question from Berkins, Mr. Brookes declared passionately that he knew none of the young men who came to his house.



V



"Father's just gone downstairs. I think we had better wait a minute or two. In that way we shall escape a scolding. Father won't miss the ten o'clock."

"Not a bad idea. You are always up to some cunning dodge. What's the time?"

"Twenty minutes to nine. I'll slip down the passage and tell Grace to go down and give him his breakfast. He won't say anything to her; he knows well that since Fatty went to India she wouldn't see a soul if she could help it."

"Father never says anything to you either; you tell him a lot of lies, and leave him to understand that I do everything."

"That's not true; I never speak against you to father; but at the same time I must say that if it weren't for you we could do as we liked. You don't try to manage father."

"Manage him, indeed! that's what I can't bear in you, you're always trying to manage some one; I hate the word."

"You got out of bed the wrong side this morning. However, I must go and tell Grace to go down at once, or father will be ringing for us."

"What did she say?" said Sally, when Maggie returned.

"'Tis all right; I got her to go, and she said she was always being made a cat's-paw of. I assure you it wasn't easy to persuade her to go down to father, but I told her she might be the means of averting a very serious row."

"I suppose you said there was no counting on what answers I might make to father?"

This was exactly what Maggie had said.

"Very well; you are always objecting to what I do, and the way I do it. I wish you would go and do things yourself. You think of nothing but yourself, or some young man you are after. I wouldn't do what you did yesterday. I wouldn't go sneaking round the garden with a young man I had never seen before."

Maggie shrugged her shoulders and went on dressing. Sally, who had taken a seat on the bed, watched her. She thought how she might best pursue the quarrel, but her stomach called her thoughts from her sister, and she said: "I don't know how you feel, but I am dying of hunger. What time is it now?"

"Nine o'clock."

"Another half-hour. I suppose he won't start before the half-hour."

"Miss," said the maid, knocking at the door, "Mr. Brookes wants to know if you are coming down to breakfast."

"Say that we are not nearly ready; that there's no use waiting for us."

"I think I had better go back to my room," said Sally.

"I think you had. I wish you wouldn't bring that horrid little dog into my room. She made a mess here the other day."

"That I am sure she didn't. Flossie is the cleanest dog in the world."

"Clean or unclean, I would rather not have her in my room. There she is trying to drink out of my jug. Get away, you little beast!"

Sally caught up her dog, and marched out of the room, slamming the door after her.

"At last I have got rid of her," thought Maggie, and she rolled and pinned up the last plait of her black hair, but she did not go down to breakfast until the wheels grated on the gravel and the carriage was heard moving away. Then she begged Grace to tell her what her father had said.

"He said his children were persecuting him, that he had not had an hour's peace since their poor mother died."

"Fudge! Mother knew how to keep him in order. Do you remember when she threw the carving knife?"

"Sally, for shame! How can you speak of poor mother so?"

"You know it is true, Hypocrisy. There is no harm in coming to the point."

"It was very nearly coming to the point," said Maggie, giggling.

"Well, what else did he say?"

"He said he didn't know what course he should adopt, but that things couldn't go on as they were; he thought he should write to Aunts Mary and Hester, and just as he was going out of the door he said that he'd prefer to sell the whole place up than continue living here and be the laughing-stock of the neighbourhood."

At these words all looked frightened, even Sally. She flaunted her head, however, and said disdainfully: "I wonder he didn't speak of marrying again."

"Did he say nothing more?" asked Maggie, who determined to know how matters stood.

"He spoke of Sally; he said it must be put a stop to. I don't know what he has found out, but I am sure he has found out something."

"Why didn't you ask him?"

"I did. He said the way you were carrying on with young Meason was something too disgraceful, and that every one was talking of it; he said that you had been seen crossing the canal locks, and that you had spent hours with him on the beach, and he spoke about the cart and Bamber—I don't know if you ever drove there to meet him; I couldn't get anything more out of him, for he began to cry."

"Didn't he speak of the party?"

"Oh, yes, a great deal. He said that henceforth he would have none of the Southdown Road people, male or female, at the Manor House. I thought he was going to curse the Horlocks; but I reminded him of the Viceroys. As for the Measons, I don't know what he would have said if he hadn't been crying."

"The Measons are just as good as we are, though they mayn't be so rich. I should like to know who has been talking to him about me; I wonder who told him I spent hours on the beach with Jimmy; I met him once there quite by accident, and we sat down for ten minutes. I daresay it was Berkins."

"No, Sally, don't," said Grace, clasping her hands. "Father said that Maggie was nearly as bad, and was a great deal too much disposed towards young men."

"I should think she is indeed; I wonder what father would say if he had seen her walking round the garden out of sight of every one with that fellow, a man she had never seen before."

"There is no harm in walking round the garden with a man, but I should like to know what father would say if he knew that you brought Jimmy up to your bed-room."

"My bed-room isn't a bed-room. How dare you make such accusations, how dare you? I should not be surprised if you were at the bottom of all this. I know you are mad with jealousy. Do you think I don't know how you flirted with Jimmy? Do you think I didn't see how you shifted Frank on to me so that you might walk with Jimmy to the station? But I'll tell you what, I'll not stand it, and if you try to come between me and him I'll knock you down."

Sally sprang from her place and raised her fist. Maggie rushed from the room, or, more correctly speaking, into the arms of Willy.

"What the deuce are you up to?" cried this staid young man, who had been twisted round and thrown against the wall.

"Oh, save me! Sally says she'll knock me down," cried the girl, clinging for a moment to her brother's shoulder, but as if conscious of the dubiousness of his protection, she loosed him and fled upstairs to her room.

"What damned nonsense this is! The trouble young girls are in a house!—Nothing but pleasure; from one year's end to another, it is nothing but pleasure. I am sick of it."

Having by such unusual emphasis of manner reduced his sisters to silence, Willy sat down, and chewed with gravity and deliberation. Grace and Sally watched him. After a long and elaborate silence he put some brief questions, and appeared to devote to them the small part of his attention not already engaged in the judicious breaking of his bread. He did not answer nor did he comment; and when he had finished eating he commenced packing up his diary and letters in a brown paper parcel, and for three-quarters of an hour he walked up and down stairs collecting and forgetting; finally he left the house with many parcels.

As some days are sweet and fugitive, others are obtuse, complex, and tortuous as nightmares—difficult to understand and well-nigh impossible to relate. And the day after the tennis party was such a day in the Brookes household, nor did its tumult cease when the lights were turned out in the billiard-room. It was revived with fierce gusts of passion and despair during several succeeding days.

In the afternoon both Sally and Maggie wanted to go out in the cart. The wrangle was a long one, but the argument of the fist eventually brought it to a close, and Maggie was obliged again to shut herself into her room. Thence Grace's solicitations could not move her, and she remained there until she saw her father coming up the drive; then she ran down to meet him, and made a frank accusation of Sally's treatment of her. But he was enthralled by his own woes, and without even promising her protection and immunity, at least from her sister's right arm, the old gentleman launched forth into more than usual lamentations.

He had had a stormy interview with Berkins going up in the train, and Berkins had so upset him that he had not been able to get through any business in the City. Berkins admitted of no equivocation. He had told him that he would not allow the young lady that was going to be his wife to spend her days feasting and skylarking with a lot of vulgar and penniless young men from the Southdown Road. He had declared that it was time to settle definitely the terms and the day of the marriage. He had been engaged now more than two months, and was prepared to do his share; Mr. Brookes must be prepared to do his, viz., to settle four hundred a year on his daughter.

The idea of parting for ever with so much of his money convulsed Mr. Brookes. He burst into tears, and their bitterness was neither assuaged nor softened by Grace's rather haughty statement that she didn't care at all for Mr. Berkins, and was not at all sure whether she would have him or not.

"So, father, you may be able to keep your money."

"But did any one ever know me to think of myself?" and he drew his silk handkerchief forth. In the new trouble, suddenly created, all other considerations were lost, and Grace became the centre of many conflicting interests; everybody asked if this marriage so long looked forward to was going to tumble into ruin among so many ruins? At dinner Willy seemed to consider himself called from the problem of perfect mastication, and he said a few words intended to allay this new family excitement; but his efforts were vain, for it had occurred to Mr. Brookes that he might find calm in a bottle of '34 port. There were a few bottles left which he appreciated at their right value. He rang for the wine, and old Joseph announced, with all the intolerable indifference of a well-trained servant, that the young gentleman had drunk it all up yesterday. Mr. Brookes kept his temper better than the girls anticipated, and it was not until he had drunk a bottle of a latter-day wine that he seemed to realise the wrong that had been done to him. He begged of Willy to listen to him, and he talked so vehemently, and cried so bitterly, and laughed so joyously, and declared so often that it would be all the same a hundred years hence, that letters and diary had to be packed away in the brown paper parcel, and all work abandoned for that evening. The next day and the next passed in continual quarrel and argument, and at the end of the week the aunts were summoned.

Aunt Mary's features were sharp, her eyes were bright and she sat bolt upright on the sofa, her hands crossed over a shawl drawn tightly about her.

"Now, my dear James," she said, "I am very sorry for you; of course I am. I know it is very trying, but there is no use in sitting there lamenting. Put up your silk handkerchief and come to the point. We all know it will be the same a hundred years hence, but in the meantime you don't want your dinner put back, so that Sally may continue her flirtations in the slonk," and Aunt Mary burst into a merry peal of laughter.

"You are most unsympathetic, I never knew one so unsympathetic; you were always so, you'll never change."

"Unsympathetic," said Aunt Mary, shaking with laughter; "how can you say so? I have never done anything all my life but listen to you and sympathise with you. When you were a boy and sold my books to the boys at your school, and when you were a young man and took my poor husband to oyster shops—you remember the stories you used to tell me?"

Mr. Brookes waved his handkerchief, and Aunt Hester, who was a spinster, cast down her eyes and fidgeted with some papers which she had taken from her hand-basket.

"Of course, if my afflictions are only a subject for laughter—"

"I am not laughing at your afflictions, my dear James. I laughed because you said I was not a sympathetic listener. You used to think me so once." Then becoming instantly serious, Aunt Mary said: "Of course I think this is a matter of great importance—the health, the welfare of my dear nieces, and your happiness."

"And their salvation," murmured Aunt Hester.

"If I did not think it important, do you think I would have left home, and at such a time, when I am most wanted? I always said that that big place would kill me, I never wanted to leave the Poplars; a little place like that is no trouble—my greenhouse, a few servants, and just as I had got everything to look nice—I could do it all in a few hours; but now I am never still, there is always something to be done. No one can take up my work. I am behindhand; oh, I assure you when I go back I shall be afraid to go into the greenhouse. I am worn out, I really am; it never ends. In a big house like Woborn one is always behindhand. The days aren't long enough, that's the fact of it; when one thinks one is getting through one thing one is called away to another. 'Please, mum, the cook would like to speak with you for a moment.' 'There is no tea in the house, mum.' 'What! is all the tea I gave out last week gone?' 'Yes, mum. There was, you remember, the dressmaker here three days, and we had Mrs. Jones in to help. And we shall want another piece of cheese for the servants' hall.' I don't know how it is with you, but at Woborn the cloth is never off the table in the servants' hall. They have five meals a day—breakfast at eight, and they won't eat cold bacon, they must have it hot; of course the waste is something fearful; at eleven they have beer and cheese; at one there is dinner; at five they have tea; and at nine supper. Five meals a day—it really is terrible, it is wicked, it really is! You have had none of these troubles, Hester, and you may think yourself very lucky.

"We have just got rid of our cook; the trouble she gave us, it really is beyond words. She said she was troubled with fits, hysteria, or something of that sort—at least that is the reason she gave for her conduct. I knew there was something wrong, I could see it in her eyes. I said: 'This is not right; it can't be right.' One night she left the dinner half cooked and went roaming all over the country; she came back the next afternoon, and I found her baking. Then there was Robinson. Do you remember the pretty housemaid? You saw her when you were at Woborn. I am sure she must have had gentle blood in her veins; she wasn't a bit like a servant, so elegant and graceful. Those soft blue eyes of hers. I often used to look at them and think how beautiful they were. Well, she fell madly in love with West. Notwithstanding his bandy legs, there was something fascinating about him. He had a way about him that the maid-servants used to like; Robinson wasn't the first. Well, she completely lost her head, perfectly frantic—frantic; her eyes on fire. I saw it at once; you know I am pretty sharp. I just look round, one look round; I see it all, I take it all in. I said: 'This is not right; this cannot be right. Robinson is a respectable girl.' Her people I knew to be most respectable people in Chichester; I had heard all about them through the Eastwicks. I said, 'Robinson, you must go, I will give you a month's wages, but you must go back to your people. You know why I am sending you away; it is for your own good, otherwise I am sorry to part with you; but you must go.'

"Robinson didn't say much, she was always rather haughty, a reserved sort of girl; but soon after—I always hear everything—I heard that she had not gone back to her people, but was living in lodgings in Brighton, and that West used to go and see her. I didn't say anything about it to West, but he saw there was something wrong. When I told him to put the carriage to, he said, 'Yes, mum, where to, mum?' 'Brighton.' I could see he saw there was something wrong, and when I told him not to put the carriage up, but to drive up and down the King's Road, and that I would meet him in about an hour at the bottom of West Street, he looked so frightened that I could hardly help laughing; he did look so comical, for he knew now that I was going to see Robinson. (Here the remembrance of West proved too much for Aunt Mary, and she shook with laughter.) Of course if I had let him put up the horses he would have run round to Robinson's and warned her that I was coming. Oh, I shall never forget that day! It was broiling, the sun came down on the flagstones in those narrow little back streets, and there was I toiling, toiling up that dreadful hill, inquiring out the way. I found the street, it was on the very top of the hill: such a poor, miserable place you never saw. Such a dreadful old woman opened the door to me, and I said, 'Is Miss Robinson in?' She said, 'Yes.' I could hear Robinson whispering over the banisters, saying, 'No, no, no, say I am out.' And then I said, 'It is no use, Robinson, I must see you, and I will not leave this place until I have seen you.' I went upstairs to her room. At first she was rather haughty, rather inclined to impertinence. She said, 'Mum, you have no right to come after me—you sent me away; I am looking out for a place in Brighton—I don't want to go back to my people.' I said, 'Robinson, it is no use trying to deceive me, I know very well why you are in Brighton; no good can come of this, it is nothing but wickedness. You must try to be good, Robinson. West has, as you know, a wife and children, and you must not think of him any more. You have taken this lodging so that you may see him. You must think of your future; this can't last.'"

"No, indeed, this life is but a moment," sighed Aunt Hester. "I wish you had had one of these books to give her."

"I did better, Hester. I told her some plain truths, and she put off her high and mighty airs and began to cry. I shall never forget it. Oh, how hot it was in that little room just under the slates, with one garret window and the sun pouring in. There was scarcely any furniture, and I was sitting on her bed. I said, 'Now, Robinson, you must give me back the presents West made you, and you must promise me to go back to Chichester.' And I didn't leave her until she promised me to go home next day.

"When I stepped into the carriage you should have seen West's face. He didn't know what had happened; I didn't speak to him till next day. As I was going into the garden I called him. I said, 'West, I want to speak to you.' 'Yes, mum.' We went into the back garden; I was planting there. Edward was out riding, so I knew we shouldn't be disturbed. I said, 'West, I saw Robinson yesterday, and I have a parcel for you; she has promised me not to see you, and you must promise me not to see her.' 'Very well, mum, since you say it.' 'This is a very sad affair, West.' 'A bad business, mum—a bad business, mum.' There was always something in West's stolid face that used to amuse me. You should have heard him. 'I don't think she could help it, mum; she never loved another man—I really don't. But I was going to tell you, mum, I once knew a servant, a married man, he was in love with a young woman, and they waited long years, and when the wife died they married, mum.' 'That was all very well long ago, West, but wives don't die nowadays.'"

So Aunt Mary talked, realising and giving expression to both the pathos and the comedy of her story. Then, feeling that she wasdigressing at too great length, she strove to generalise from the particular incident which she had related, and get back to the theme of the conversation.

"I don't know what we shall do, I don't know what we are coming to; servants are getting too strong for us. My last cook gave us no end of trouble; the butler used to have to lock himself up in the pantry; and yet I had to give her a character. Of course it was very wrong of me to enable her to thrust herself upon another family, but what was I to do? I couldn't deprive her of the means of earning her living. She'll give trouble wherever she goes. There is no remedy, there really isn't; I don't know what's to be done unless we ladies combine and refuse to give them characters."

Here Aunt Mary's thoughts and words began to fail her, for she felt she was not getting back to the point where she had entered on her various digressions, and without further ado, and quite undisconcerted, she said, "But I forget where I was; what were we talking about?"

"We were talking about dear Sally and Maggie, and the need they stand of counsel and help. Their conduct is to be deeply regretted; but theirs is only youthful folly. They have not done anything, I am sure, that—"

"Quite so, Hester; of course. But at the same time a stop must be put to all this nonsense; it cannot be allowed. I have only to look round to take it all in. They are worrying their father into his grave. His position is a very trying one. He has no one whom he can depend on—no one."

"I am alone since poor Julia—"

Aunt Mary and Aunt Hester looked at each other, and they wondered if the terrors of the carving knife were completely forgotten.

"Poor James," said Aunt Mary, recrossing her hands, "is obliged to go to London every morning, from ten till, I may say, half-past six."

"I am never home before seven."

"These girls are their own mistresses; they go out when they like, they order the carriage whenever they like, and they invite here every one it pleases their fancy to invite without consulting their father. I believe he doesn't even—"

"I know none of the young men who come to my house. All I know of them is that they come from the Southdown Road."

"Don't be so silly, James, put up that handkerchief. Of course, the Southdown Road is one of the great disadvantages of the place. Those villa residences have brought into Southwick a host of people that a man living in a big place like the Manor House cannot know—little people who have—"

"Not two hundred pounds invested—no, nor yet a hundred."

"Well, I don't wish to offend them, I'll say small incomes. They are all devoured with envy, and all they think of is what goes on at the Manor House."

"A lot of penniless young jackanapeses. Every morning I see them at the station watching me over the tops of their newspapers."

"You must understand, Hester, poor James up in London, toiling, not knowing what is going on in his own home; feasting and pleasure going on morning, noon, and, I may say, night, for when James returned home unexpectedly about ten o'clock at night, he found them—how many were there?"

"About a dozen, the others had gone."

"Feasting, drinking his champagne—his very best."

"The last few bottles of '34 port were drunk; the peaches, that the gardener has been forcing so carefully for months past, were all eaten. I returned home unexpectedly; I had intended to spend the night in London—you know I went there to see about starting Willy on the Stock Exchange; he has drawn three thousand more out of the distillery; I hope he won't lose it. Well, I met Berkins in Pall Mall, and he said if I would return by the late train that he would spend the night here, and we would go up to town together in the morning. I suspected nothing; I went into my dining-room, and there I found them all at supper. Had it not been for Berkins it wouldn't have mattered. He was indignant when he saw one of those jackanapeses with his arm round the back of Grace's chair; he says that such company is not fit for the lady that is going to be his wife; and he now insists on fixing the day, the settlements, and everything, or of breaking off the match."

"Then why don't you fix the day and the settlements?"

"Grace is not willing; she is quite undecided. She says she doesn't know whether she will have him or not. Sally tries to set her against him; she laughs at him, says he is pompous, and imitates him. Of course, it is quite true that he thinks everything he has is betterthan anybody else's. She says he is old, and says that kissing him would be like rubbing your face in a mattress."

"The fact is," said Aunt Mary, "Sally ought to have been a man; had she been a man, it would have been all right."

Aunt Hester, who had spent her life in a vicarage, glanced uneasily at her sister, and fidgeted with the papers in her satchel.

"I suppose it will be all the same a hundred years hence."

"No, James, it will not," replied Aunt Hester, with unusual determination.

The conversation dropped, and the speakers stared at each other at a loss how to proceed.

"She is a very difficult girl to manage. If it were not for her we could get on very well; it is she who upsets everything. She can't agree with Maggie; they are always quarrelling. The day after the party she threatened to knock her down if she interfered with her young man."

"Is it possible! Did she say that? Well, when it comes to young ladies knocking each other down! Young ladies were very different in my young days. It only proves what I said about Sally—she ought to have been a man, she really ought to have been a man. I see it all; I have only to give one look round to take it all in one glance. When she came to meet me in Brighton I understood it all at once; I saw she could not restrain herself, no powers of self-restraint. Her eyes fixed on every man as if she couldn't see enough of him; her black eyes flashing. I wanted no telling—I saw it all; the moment a young man went by her eyes flashed. Here she was—'Aunt Mary, Aunt Mary, there's Meason, there's Meason, Aunt Mary, Meason, Meason, Aunt Mary.' It is not right, it can't be right; and to my thinking Maggie is just as bad—a little more sly perhaps."

"No, not dear Maggie."

"I say it is not right; girls in good health could not go on like that. If I were you, James, I would take them up to a first-rate London physician, the very best that can be had for money. Those girls are highly organised, highly sensitive; their nerves are highly strung. They want something to bring them down," said Aunt Mary; but catching at that moment sight of her sister's face, she laughed consumedly, and, speaking through her laughter, said, "So-and-so, a first-rate man, I can't think of his name—he will give you the very best advice."

"I think if our dear nieces could be brought to understand the sinfulness of their disobedience. I have here one or two little books which I think it would be advisable for them to read."

"Later on, my dear Hester; the best thing that James can do is to see to their health. No girls in good health could act as they do; it is radically impossible."

"I suppose that is what I must do; I don't know if I shall succeed, but I will try to get them to come up to London and have medical advice. Since the death of poor Julia I have been all alone; my position is a very hard one. I have no one to talk to, to assist me, to take my place in any way. I am obliged to go to London every day, and I assure you my heart is all of a flutter in the morning when I take the train, for I don't know what may happen before I return. The girls can do what they like; they are mistresses of this big house, they take the carriage into Brighton when they like, Sally takes the cart. I have thought of getting rid of that cart."

Although passionately fond of talking, Aunt Mary would with patience, and even with pleasure, cross her hands and settle herself down to listen to one of Uncle James's interminable lamentations, but Aunt Hester, a nervous and timid creature who talked but little, not only declared that she could not bear to hear the same stories over and over again, but interrupted her brother with firmness and determination. Indeed, it was only on occasion of Uncle James's soliloquies that she had ever shown any strength of will.

"We know very well, James, that your position is a trying one—that since the death of poor Julia you have no one whom you can look to. There is no use in telling us this over again; it is mere waste of time. What we have to do now is by all means in our power to convince dear Sally of the sinfulness of her conduct, and so strive to bring her back to a state of grace."

"Her spirit must be broken, she must be subdued," interjected Aunt Mary.

"Christ is the real healer, prayer is the true medicine, and by it alone is the troubled spirit soothed."

It being impossible to contravene these opinions, the conversation came to a pause, which was at length interrupted by Mr. Brookes, who through the folds of his handkerchief declared again that it would be all the same a hundred years hence. Even Aunt Mary's realism did not offend Aunt Hester as did this un-Christian philosophy; she gathered her strength for a grave reproof, but was cut short by her sister's laughter. All the teeth were glittering now, and peal after peal of laughter came. Aunt Hester's courage died, and her long, freckled face drooped like a sad flower.

"Now let us hear something about Grace. What about this marriage? Is Berkins as amorous as ever? That man does amuse me—his waistcoat buttons are better than any other man's."

"Mary, Mary, I beg of you to remember Mr. Berkins is a man of eight thousand a-year."

"He may make eight thousand a-year, but he has very little money invested," said Aunt Mary.

"That is true," Mr. Brookes replied reflectively, and he was about to rush off into a long financial statement when his sister, who already regretted her joke, checked him with an abrupt question.

"My dear James, is this marriage to be or not to be? That is what I want to know."

"I really can't say, Mary; Sally has contrived to upset her sister; she would have been, I feel sure, glad to marry Mr. Berkins if she had not been upset by Sally."

"Upset by Sally, what do you mean?"

"I told you that Sally tries to turn Berkins into ridicule, laughs at his beard among other things."

"I must see Grace about this," said Aunt Mary; "you must excuse my laughing, but Sally is often very droll."

Choosing the first occasion when Maggie and Sally were absent from the room, Aunt Mary said, "Come, Gracie, dear, tell me about this marriage. I hear that your mind is not made up—that you are not at all decided. This is not acting fairly towards your father. You are placing him in a very false position."

"I don't think so, aunty. No one, so far as I can make out, is either decided or satisfied. Mr. Berkins is not satisfied with the society we see."

"The Southdown Road you mean," interrupted Mr. Brookes, "and very properly, too."

"And father and he cannot agree upon money matters, and I don't like a beard—"

"You never objected to a beard until Sally put you against it."

"Yes, I did, father; I always told you—"

"Never mind the beard, tell me about the money matters that your father and Mr. Berkins can't agree upon."

"Mr. Berkins has offered to settle twelve thousand pounds upon me if father will settle the same amount. But father won't agree to this; he wants Mr. Berkins to settle twelve, but does not want to settle more than seven himself upon me."

"Is this so, James?" asked Aunt Mary.

Mr. Brookes avoided answering the question, and entered into a long and garrulous statement concerning himself and his money: he had made it all himself! he spoke of his investments with pride, and pathetically declared that he would not marry again because he would not deprive his dear children of anything. Aunt Mary crossed her hands over her shawl, and set herself to listen to the old gentleman's rigmarole. Aunt Hester tried several times to cut him short, but this time he would not be silenced.

Then Aunt Mary started the story of a girl whom she had known intimately in early life, which she no doubt thought would help Grace to a better comprehension of her difficulties; but the dear lady lost herself in the domestic entanglement of many families, on the subject of which she contributed much curious information, without, however, elucidating the matter in hand. She wandered so far that at length all hope of return became impossible, and she was obliged to pull up suddenly and ask what she had been talking about.

"What was I talking about, James; you have been listening to me—what was I talking about?"

Mr. Brookes made no attempt to give the information necessary for the blending of her many narratives, and she was forced to seek unaided for the lost thread. Soon after the girls came in with their gin and water. They drank their grog, kissed their relations, and retired to bed.

And the next evening, and the next, and the next, so long as Aunt Mary and Aunt Hester remained at the Manor House, the evenings passed in a similar fashion; and, notwithstanding the doleful faces they occasionally assumed, they found pleasure in lamenting the follies of the young people. The same stories were told, almost the same words were uttered. The only malcontent was Willy. He had no interest in his sisters, and the hours after dinner in the billiard-room when his sisters were in the drawing-room were those he devoted to looking through his letters and filling up his diary; so when Sally's name was mentioned he caught at his short crisp hair and gnashed his teeth.



VI



"My dear fellow, just as I'm settling down to do some work, Aunt Mary comes along the passage; I know her step so well. And then it begins, the old story that I have heard twenty times before, all over again. You have no idea how worrying it is."

Frank laughed, and talked of something else. These discussions of Sally's character and general behaviour did not appeal to him in either a comic or serious light, and the havoc they made of Willy's business hours did not perceptibly move him; he was full of his good looks, his clothes, his affections, his bull-dog, and the fact that his youth was going by, as it should go by, among girls, in an old English village, in a garden by the sea.

Aunt Mary was a woman that a rarer young man would have been attracted by; indeed the delicacy of a young man may be tested by the sympathy he may feel for women when age has drawn a veil over, and put sexual promptings aside. Her bright teeth and eyes, the winsome little face, so glad, would have at once charmed and led any young man not so brutally young as Frank Escott. It would have pleased another to watch her, to wait on her, to listen to her rambling stories all so full of laughter and the sunshine of kindness and homely wit; it would have pleased him to note that she was gratified by the admiration of a young man; it would please him to hear himself called by his Christian name, while he must address her as Mrs. So-and-so, and in maintaining this difference they would both become conscious of pleasing restraint.

His comprehension of life was invariably a sentimental one, so the aunts were to him merely middle-aged women—uninteresting, and useful only so far as their efforts contributed to render the lives of young people easy and pleasurable. In abrupt and passing impressions he concluded that Aunt Mary was bright and pleasant, but tediously voluble, given to wasting that time which he would have liked to spend talking to the young ladies of poetry and Italy.

He scorned poor Aunt Hester. She shrank from him, frightened by his harsh, blunt manners; she was afraid he led a sinful life in London. Aunt Mary had few doubts on the subject, and her comments made her sister tremble. She spoke of him as a most desirable husband for Maggie. "He will be a peer, my dear James. Lord Mount Rorke will never marry again. He is the acknowledged heir to the title and estates."

And the young man went as he came—full of himself, his clothes, his good looks; bumptious and arrogant, effusive in his love of his friends, and yet sincere. He looked out of the railway carriage window to seize a last look of the green, with its horse pond and its downs, and the cricketers all in white, running to and fro (young Meason had just made a three, and Sally was applauding). The porches of the Southdown Road he could just see over the fields, and Mr. Brooke's glass glittered amid the summer foliage. At that moment he loved the ugly little village, with its barren downs and all its anomalous aspects of town and country. He thought of his friends there, and his life appeared to be theirs, and theirs his, and he wished it might flow on for ever in this quiet place. He seemed to understand it all so well, and to love it all so dearly. He accepted it all, even its vulgarest aspects. Even pompous Berkins appeared to him under a tenderer light—the light of orange-flowers and married love. For Aunt Mary had smoothed away all difficulties, hirsute and monetary, and the wedding had been fixed for the autumn. The gaiety of the day he had spent with the girls, its feasting and its flirtation, arose, memorised in a soft halo of imagination—a day of fruit, wine, and light words, and the dear General, with his St James's politics and his only desire—"a little something to do—something to bring me out, you know." The pugs, the mangy mastiff, the hospitable house always open, its ready welcome, and, above all, the air which it held of the lives of its occupants; its pictures of white arab horses, and elephants richly caparisoned; the wonderful goats in the field, and the tropical birds and animals in the back garden! Above all, the walks on the green with the chemist's wife, and the annoyance such familiarity caused Mr. Brookes—how funny, how charming, how amusing! He was smiling through the tears that rose to his eyes when the train rolled into Brighton.

On arriving in London he drove straight to the Temple. The creaking, disjointed staircases, with the lanterns of old time in the windows, jarred his thoughts, which were still of Southwick; and when he entered his rooms their loneliness struck him with a chill. He pictured Maggie sitting in the arm-chair waiting for him, and he imagined how she would lay her book aside and say, "Oh, here you are!" He sat down to read his letters. One was from Lord Mount Rorke, enclosing a cheque, another a daintily cut envelope, smelling daintily, came from Lady Seveley.

"DEAR MR ESCOTT,—I have not seen anything of you for a very long time; you promised to lunch with me before you left town, but I suppose amid the general gaieties and friends of the season you were carried far away quite out of my reckoning. However, I hope when you return you will come and see me. I got your address from Mr. —-, but you need not tell him that I wrote to you; he is, as you know, a dreadful chatterbox, and somehow or other, without meaning it, contrives to make gossip and mischief out of everything.

"The weather here is delicious—perhaps a trifle too hot; and sometimes I envy you your cool sea-side resort. I wonder what the attraction is? It must be a very special one to keep you out of London in June.

"Should you be in town next Thursday, come and dine; I have a box for the theatre. And as an extra inducement I will tell you that I have two very nice girls staying with me, who will interest you.—Yours very truly, HELEN SEVELEY."

Some men of thirty would have instantly understood Lady Seveley's letter. But age gives us nothing we do not already possess, the years develop what is latent in us in youth, and it is certain that Frank at thirty would have understood the letter as vaguely and incompletely as he did to-day. We read our sympathies and antipathies in all we look upon, and Frank read in this letter an old woman with diamonds and dyed hair. He had met her twice. The first time was at a ball where he knew nobody; the second was at a dinner party. She had fixed her eyes upon him; she had prevented him from talking after dinner to a young girl whom he had admired across the table during dinner. He did not like her, and he thought now of the young girls he would meet if he accepted her invitation. Lady Seveley was a shadow; and when the shadow defined itself he saw the slight wrinkling of the skin about the eyes, the almost imperceptible looseness of the flesh about the chin; but, worse to him than these physical changes, were the hard measured phrases in which there is knowledge of the savour and worth of life. He unpacked his portmanteau, and, dallying with his resolutions, he wondered if he should go to Lady Seveley's: conclusions and determinations were constitutionally abhorrent, self- deception natural to him. Were he asked if he intended to turn to the right or the left, although he were going nowhere and an answer would compromise him in nothing, he would certainly say he did not know; and if he were expostulated with, he would reply rudely, arrogantly. This is worthy of notice, for what was special in his character was the combination it afforded of degenerate weakness and pride, complicated with a towering sense of self-sufficiency. Youth's illusions would not pass from him easily; in his eyes and heart the hawthorn would always be in bloom, young girls would always be beautiful, innocent, true to the lovers they had selected; nor was there of necessity degradation nor forced continuance in any state of vice. Love could raise and purify, love could restore, love could make whole; if one woman were faithless, another would be constant; if to-day were dark, to-morrow would be bright. Life had no deep truth for him, no underlying mysteries; it was not a problem capable of demonstration, capable of definition; it was not a thing of limitations and goals and ends; he could feel nothing of this—the philosophic temperament was absent in him. Life had no deep truth for him, no underlying mysteries; he did not dream of past times, and he placed few hopes in the future; life was a thing to be enjoyed in the moment of living, and the present moment was a very pleasant one. He leaned over the doors of the hansom resting his gloved hand upon his crutched stick. He was struck with the pride we feel when we are dressed for amusement and contemplate those in workaday garb; and in these sensations of pride he leaned forward, proud of his good looks, his shirt front, his shirt cuffs, his glazed shoes; he pleasured in the knowledge that many saw he was going to elegant company, to amusement. He was full of scorn for the women loitering, for the clerks hurrying, and especially for the crowds pressing about the entrances of the theatres.

London opened up upon a little black space of asphalt; crimson clouds moved over the many windowed walls of the great hotels, the black monumented square foamed with white water, children played, and the gold of the inscriptions over the shops caught the eye. London was tall on the heavens. Regent Street was full of young men as elegant as himself driving to various pleasures, and Frank wondered what sort of dinners they would eat, what kind of women they would sit by. Then as he drove through Mayfair he thought of his own party. He wondered what the girls would think of him.

Lady Seveley lived in Green Street. When he had rung the bell he listened impatiently for approaching steps, for he tingled with presentiment that he would somehow be disappointed, and he dreaded dinner by himself and his lonely lodgings. Nor was he wholly wrong. The butler who opened the door seemed surprised at seeing him, and in reply to his question if Lady Seveley was at home, replied hesitatingly:

"Her ladyship is at home, but she is not at all well, sir. She is, I think, in her room lying down, sir."

"Oh, but did she not expect me? I was to have dined here to-night."

"I heard nothing about it, sir; but I'd better ask. Will you come in, sir?"

Lady Seveley's house was a house of scent and soft carpets. The staircase was covered with pink silk, and in the recess on the first landing, or rather where the stairs paused, there was an aviary in which either hawks screeched or owls blinked; generally there was a magpie there, and the quaint bird now hopped to Frank's finger, casting a thievish look on his rings. The drawing-room was full of flowers. There was a grand piano, dark and bright; the skins of tigers Lord Seveley had shot carpeted the floor, and on their heads, Helen rested her feet, showing her plump legs to her visitors. On the walls there were indifferent water-colours, there were gold screens, the cabinets were full of china, there were three-volume novels on the tea-table—it was the typical rich widow's house, a house where young men lingered. Frank stood examining a portrait on china of Lady Seveley, it was happily hung with blue ribbon from the top of the mirror. It represented a woman inclined to stoutness, about three and thirty. The chestnut hair was piled and curled with strange art about the head. Above the face there was a mask, roses wreathed, and a swallow carrying a love missive, butterflies and arrows everywhere, and below the face there was a skull profusely wreathed and almost hidden in roses. This portrait would have stirred the imagination of many young men, but Frank thought nothing of it—the theatrical display displeased him, it seemed to him even a little foolish. He crossed over to the flowers.

"Lady Seveley will be down in a moment, sir," said the maid. A few minutes after the door opened.

"How do you do? I am so glad to see you. Won't you sit down? I have been suffering terribly to-day—neuralgia; nothing for it but to lie down in a dark room."