"I'm not fond of giving advice, as you know—I have quite enough to do to think about my own affairs—but as you have often spoken to me on this matter, and as you have asked me for my opinion and my help, I had better tell you that I differ entirely from you concerning the wisdom of the course you are pursuing."

"How's that?" said Frank, at first surprised and then delighted at Willy's breaking from his reserve.

"What I mean is, that I think you would be more successful if you would lay aside daggers and revolvers, and try to win her affection by patience and gentleness. Maggie was talking to me about it no later than last night, and I could see clearly that you frighten her with bluster. I am sure there are times when she dreads you; it must be a positive terror to her to sit with you alone—so it would be to any girl."

"What do you mean?"

"Maggie is a very delicate and nervous girl, and it wouldn't surprise me if your threats to commit suicide seriously affected her health; you come with a revolver and a stiletto, and you ask her to marry you, and if she doesn't at once say yes, you abuse her, declaring all the time that you'll stab yourself with the revolver and shoot yourself with the stiletto—I beg your pardon, I mean—"

"Of course, if you've come here only to turn me into ridicule—"

"I assure you I didn't mean it—a slip of the tongue," and as their eyes met at that moment, neither could refrain from laughter.

"Admit that there is something in what I say. If you will behave a little more quietly—if you will talk to her nicely; leave off assuring her of your love, she knows all that already; have some patience and forbearance; you will see if before long she doesn't change towards you."

His interest in the matter was a desire that his sister should not miss this chance of marrying the future Lord Mount Rorke. But Maggie felt too sure of Frank to resist the temptation to tantalise him; besides her moods were naturally various, and the first relapse into her former coldness was answered by a sudden reversion to threats of murder and suicide, and one summer evening about six o'clock, when Mrs. Horlock took her dogs out and stood at the corner waiting for Angel, a rumour was abroad that Mr. Escott had stabbed himself to the heart, and had fallen weltering in his blood at Miss Brookes's feet.

Dr Dickinson walked across the green, watched with palpitating anxiety from the corner of the Southdown Road. The General spoke to the farmer, and the farmer's pupil nudged the general dealer. Mrs. Horlock spoke to the grocers, and the owners of the baths declared they had just heard from their servant that the young man was not dead, but mortally wounded.

There was, therefore, no doubt that Dr Dickinson was going to Mrs. Heald's, and would not turn to the right and walk to the station for the quarter-to-seven train; and expectation on this point ceasing, the group expressed its sympathy for the young man. Poor young man—and so good-looking too—what will she do if he should die?—and he must die —there was no doubt of it. Maria had met Mary—that was the housemaid at the Manor House—it was Mary who had mopped up the blood. She said there was a great pool right in the middle of the new carpet under the window—they were sitting there on the ottoman when he said suddenly, "I have come to ask you to marry me; if you won't I must die." Notwithstanding this she continued to play with him—the cruel little minx! He could stand it no longer, and he pulled out a dagger he had brought from the East, and stabbed himself twice close to the heart. What will she do?—she is his murderer—to all intents and purposes she is his murderer—she will have to go into a convent—she won't go into a convent—she'll brazen it out. No one thinks much of those girls—the way Sally carried on with young Meason—it was disgraceful —they say she used to steal her father's money and give it to him—Dr Dickinson could tell fine tales.

Then gossip ceased, and they were in doubt if they might intercept the doctor and obtain news of his patient when he left Mrs. Heald's. Some strolled about the green, pretending to be taking the air. Mrs. Horlock, however, had no scruples, and picking up Angel and calling to Rose and Flora, she walked straight to Mrs. Heald's, and was seen to go in. Some five minutes after she came out with the doctor. Frank was not dead, nor mortally wounded, nor even dangerously wounded, but he had had a very narrow escape.

"I said to him, 'You have had a very narrow escape.' The fact is—(I, of course, examined the weapon)—a small part of the point had been broken away; it was this that saved him. The first blow scarcely pierced his clothes; the second was more effective, it entered the flesh just above the heart, and I have no doubt if the steel had penetrated a quarter of an inch deeper that he would have killed himself. But so far as I can see at present, he will get over it without much difficulty."

"When did it occur?"

"About an hour ago, at the Manor House. It appears that he has gone there every day for the last three weeks to ask Miss Brookes to marry him; she, however, would not give him any definite answer—"

"Horrid girl!"

"I never liked her; most deceitful; no doubt she flirted with him outrageously."

"I can't say. I hear that he often threatened to kill himself, and to- day, to conclude, he pulled out his stiletto."

"I thought it was a dagger he had brought from the East?"

"No, the weapon they showed me was an Italian stiletto."

The grocer's daughter shuddered, her mother murmured, "And for that girl."

"We didn't know him. The Brookes never allow their friends to know any one in Southwick, but I have heard that he is an exceedingly nice—"

"He will be Lord Mount Rorke, if his uncle doesn't marry again."

"He must have been desperately in love; no one ever heard of such a thing before. It sounds like the Middle Ages—a stiletto!"

"But what could he see in her? That's what I can't make out; can you?"

"Ah! there I can't assist you. I hope to be able to cure him of the stiletto wound, but Cupid's arrows are beyond me. They did not fly so thickly or strike so hard in my time." And, laughing, the doctor withdrew.

"I suppose that after this she will marry him; she never intended to let him slip through her fingers. I can see her face when she heard that another quarter of an inch and her chance of being Lady Mount Rorke was gone for ever."

"I daresay he won't marry her now. It would serve her right. I should be so glad."

And so pouring their gall out upon the unfortunate Maggie, the tradespeople returned to their homes. The stiletto was so utterly unprecedented, and so complete a reversal of all conception of the chances of life at Southwick, that every one felt puzzled and dissatisfied, even when gossip had brought to light every circumstantial detail of the romantic story. Had the deed been done with a knife, with anything but a stiletto; had he hanged himself, or cut his throat with a razor, or shot himself with his revolver, the wonder of the Southwickians would not have been so excited. But a stiletto! And for a week an Italy of brigands and bravoes, and stealthy surprises haunted shadows of picturesque archways, an Italy of chromo-lithographed skies and draperies in the Southdown Road. Maggie was spoken of with alternate fear and hate; her wickedness seemed more than natural, and had the Southdown Road known anything of Italian opera, there is little doubt that Miss Brookes would have been compared to Lucretia Borgia. The young women looked out of their windows at night, and wondered how they'd feel if a troubadour were suddenly to sing to them from behind the privet hedges. The young men were even more impressed than their womenfolk; they cursed their place of birth and habitation, knowing that it incapacitated them from knowing her; they wasted their mothers' candles sitting up till two in the morning writing odes to cruel women with raven hair; and all gazed sadly on the old ship in the harbour, and the Spanish main seemed nearer, and those gallant days more realisable than they had ever been before.

The direct cause of this revival of romance lived, however, unconscious of it. She was genuinely frightened. She said her prayers with great fervour, begging God that He might save Frank, and that she might not be a murderess. She made him soups, she sent him wine, she brought him books, and she sat with him for hours. She thought he had never looked so nice as now—so pale, so aristocratic, so elegantly weak, his head laid upon a cushion, which she had brought him, and when he took her hand and said, "Will you, darling?" and she murmured, "Yes," then it seemed that the happiness of his life was upon his face.

Three days after Frank was sitting at his table writing to Mount Rorke, and on the following Sunday he walked to the Manor House to tell Mr. Brookes that he was engaged to his daughter, and to ask his consent. He did not think of his folly, he was too happy; he seemed like one in a quiet dulcet dream; he walked slowly, leaning from time to time against the wooden paling, for he wished to prolong this meditative moment; he saw everything vaguely, and loved all with a quiet fulness of heart; he took in the sense of this village and its life as he had never done before. He compared it with Ireland; Mount Rorke, with its towers, and lakes, and woods arose, and he was grateful that Maggie was going there, yet he was sure that he could not live without sometimes seeing this village where he had found so much happiness.

His wound had sucked away his strength, the sunlight dazzled him, and feeling a little overcome, and not equal, without pause, to the long interview that awaited him, he stayed awhile in a shady laurel corner, and leaning against a piece of iron railing, watched Mr. Brookes and Mr. Berkins as they paced the tennis lawn to and fro. The old gentleman frequently stopped in his walk to point at the glass houses.

"My dear Berkins, I wish you would try to get Willy some appointment; he would, I am sure, take anything over two hundred and fifty a year. He would do marvellously well in an office—he loves it. I assure you his eyes twinkle when one speaks of how books are kept, or alludes in any way to the routine of office work. You should see his accounts and his letter books, they would make the best clerk you ever had feel ashamed of himself; but left to himself I am afraid he will do no good; he has all the method, but nothing else. He lost money in Bond Street; I am afraid to tell you how much he dropped on the Stock Exchange, but that was not entirely his fault—the firm went bankrupt; nobody could have foreseen it, it was quite unheard of."

"I have always noticed that successful men do not buy partnerships in firms that go bankrupt."

"Very true, Berkins; I wish I had asked your advice on the subject."

"I wish you had, Mr. Brookes. You are no doubt a very clever man, but on one or two points you are liable to make mistakes; you are, if I may so speak, a little weak. You should come and live with me for a few months, I would put you right."

"This is really too much," thought Mr. Brookes; and had it not been for the certain knowledge that Berkins had lately increased his income by a couple of thousands a year, he would have answered him tartly enough; but as this fact admitted of no doubt he bridled his anger and said: "If you could put my boy right it would be more to the point. He has all the method of the best clerk in London; he loves the work, he would do honour to any office, but on his own hook I am afraid he will never do anything but lose his money."

"Your money, you mean."

"Well, my money if you like. You are very provoking, Berkins. I don't know if you do it with the express purpose of annoying me. I was saying, when you interrupted me, that Nature had evidently intended my son for a clerk rather than for a speculator. I fear he is doing very badly with his shop in Brighton. The rents are very high in East Street, and I don't think he sells anything. He takes enough away from here, though. I don't remember if I ever told you that I was foolish enough to agree to his taking away, buying from me at the market price he calls it, the surplus produce of my garden and greenhouses. I dare say I shall get the money one of these days, but at present I see no sign of it. He is always making up the accounts, and, so far as we have gone, the result of this arrangement is that, when I complain that there is neither fruit nor vegetables on my table, I am told that everything went to Brighton. I am forced, I assure you, to send my carriage and my horses, that I paid two hundred guineas for, to fetch potatoes, and he, too, uses my carriage to take his vegetables to the shop. He gets his sisters to bring them when they go out driving, nor can I even buy my fruit and vegetables off him at cost price; he says that would interfere with his book-keeping, and so I am obliged to buy everything from Hutton, and you know what his prices are. I assure you, it is most annoying."

"Mr. Brookes, your fortune will not bear this constant drain; you must remember that we are living in very bad times—times that are not what they were. I have heard that your distillery—"

"Yes, times are very bad. I have never known them worse, and no doubt you find them so too. They ought to affect you even more than they do me. My income is, as you know, all invested money, whereas yours is all in your business."

"Of course, I am affected by the times; had they remained what they were, even what they were towards the end of the seventies, I should be making now something over ten thousand pounds a year. But, thank God! I have not to complain. Next year I hope to invest another five thousand pounds. The worst of it is, that there is no price for money in legitimate securities."

"Everything is very bad; you never will invest your money as I did mine ten years ago. My business is not, of course, what it used to be, but I don't complain; if it weren't for troubles nearer home I should get on very well."

"I hope that Sally has commenced no new flirtation in the Southdown Road. I thought she had promised you—since she gave up Meason—that she would for the future know no one that lived there."

"I was thinking for the moment of Willy, not of Sally; she has not been so troublesome lately. But no sooner are we out of one trouble than we are in another. It is, of course, very regrettable that young Escott should have stabbed himself, and in my garden too. I, who hate scandals, seem always plunged in one. I hear they are talking of it in the clubs in Brighton. I hope Lord Mount Rorke will not hear of it; if he did, do you think it would prejudice him against the match?"

"Then you're prepared to give your consent?"

"Why not? Surely! I really don't see—Lord Mount Rorke is a very rich man."

"Possibly, but Irish peers are not always as rich as they would like us to believe they are. The connection is, of course, desirable, but I hope your anxiety to secure it will not lead you into making foolish, I will say reprehensible, monetary concessions. What I mean is this. I am a straightforward man, Mr. Brookes, brought up in a hard school, and I always come straight to the point. You are a rich man, Mr. Brookes—you have the reputation of being a richer man than you are— and it is possible, I don't say it is probable, that Lord Mount Rorke will expect you to make a large settlement. He will possibly—mind you, I do not say probably—taking the coronet into consideration— those people think as much of their titles as we do of our money—ask you to settle a thousand a year, may be fifteen hundred a year, upon your daughter."

"Settle a thousand—maybe fifteen hundred—a year on my daughter!" cried the horror-stricken Brookes.

"He may even ask for two thousand a year. Remember, you are a distiller—he is a peer of the realm. And now I say," continued Berkins, growing more emphatic as he reached the close of his declamation, "that in my wife's interest I will oppose any and all attempts to purchase a coronet for Maggie at her sister's expense."

Mr. Brookes stood for a moment stupefied—as if some great calamity had befallen him. The housekeeping bills, the loss of his fruit and vegetables, even the Southdown Road seemed as nothing in the face of this new misfortune. Troublesome as his daughters were, he preferred an occasional recrudescence of flirtation in his garden to settling the money that he had made himself and letting them go; no pen can describe the anguish that the surrendering of the ten thousand pounds which he had settled on Grace had caused him; but to be told now that the alliance with a lord which he so greedily coveted, and which had been so agreeably tickling him for the last few days, would cost him perhaps two thousand a year, was more than he could bear. He had avoided as much as possible even thinking of the money question. One hundred—two hundred—the shadow of three hundred had fallen for a moment on his mind, but he had successfully chastened these unpleasantnesses by thoughts of the liberality, the generosity of the aristocracy, and he had encouraged a hope that Mount Rorke would let him off with a statement of how much Maggie would have at his death. And now to hear these terrible prognostications, and from his own son- in-law, too. It was too bad—it was too cruel. "You don't know what you are talking about, Berkins. If it were business I would listen to you, but really when it comes to discussing the aristocracy it is more than I can stand. What do you know about the aristocracy—not that," cried Mr. Brookes, snapping his fingers. "You were brought up in an office—what should you know? You were a clerk once at thirty shillings a week—what should you know? Lord Mount Rorke would never think of making such ridiculous proposals to me. You judge him by yourself, Berkins, that's it, that's it! I dare say he has heard of me in the City—many of your great lords do business in the City. I dare say he has heard of me, and if he has he'll not try any nonsense with me. Twist him round my finger, twist him round my finger."

Berkins liked a lord, but Berkins liked lords without thinking himself one jot their inferior, and he was sure that his horse and his dog and his house and everything belonging to him were better than theirs; and secure in the fact that his grandfather had been a field officer, he did not think it amiss to brag that he had begun life with thirty shillings a week, so he only smiled at his father-in-law's wrath, feeling now easy in his mind that Grace's future fortune would not be prejudiced for Maggie's glorification.

The discussion had fallen, and Mr. Brookes went to meet the young man whom he caught sight of coming across the sward.

"Most imprudent of you to come out to-day," he said, scanning the white face.

"Oh, I am very well now, thanks. The sun is a little overpowering, that is all. I want to speak to you, Mr. Brookes."

"Speak to me? Yes. Will you go into the billiard-room, my boy? I can see the heat has upset you. Take my arm."

Frank took the offered arm. He was feeling very faint, but the cool and dim colour of the billiard-room revived him, and when he had had some claret and water, he said that he felt quite strong, and listened patiently to Mr. Brookes.

"Well, I never! No, I never heard of such a thing. A stiletto, too. You brought it from Italy? It makes me feel quite young again. Ah! 'tis hard to say what we won't do for a girl when Miss Right comes along. I was just the same—pretty keen on it, I can tell you, when I was your age; and I don't know, even now,—but a man with grown-up daughters must be careful. Still when I see a little waist, high heels, plump—you know, that's the way I used to like them when I used to go to the oyster shops; there was one at the top of the Haymarket. Ah! I was young then, young as you are; I was keen on it—Aunt Mary will tell you that—there was nothing I wouldn't do; I never went as far as stabbing—walking about at night, tears, torments as much as you like, but I never went so far as stabbing. Wonderful what love will make a man do! Supposing you had killed yourself; in my garden, too—awful! What would people say? I hear they are talking of it in the clubs—hope it won't go any further. Should Mount Rorke hear of it! Eh? Might set him against us; might not give his consent—eh? We should be up a tree, then."

"I don't think there is much danger of that. I came to-day, Mr. Brookes, to ask for your consent; am I to understand that you give it?"

"Well, my dear Frank, I don't see why I should refuse it; I have known you since you were quite a small boy. I don't want to flatter you. I don't know that I care much about young men as a rule, but you, I have always found you—well, just what you should be. Of course the connection is very flattering. You will one day be Lord Mount Rorke, and to see my darling Maggie sharing your honours will be—that is to say if I live to see it—a great, a very gre—great hon—our."

Feeling much embarrassed Frank begged of him not to mention it. "I shall be writing to-morrow or next day to my uncle; shall I say that you have given your consent to my marriage with your daughter? I may say that I have already written to him on the subject."

"By all means, my dear boy. I think I can say you have my consent— that is to say, you have my consent if the money's all right. All is, of course, subject to that. Now you are for love in a cottage, bread and cheese romance; a man who will use a stiletto can't be expected to know much about money, but I am a father, my stiletto days are over, and I couldn't give my daughter without a settlement. You will, no doubt, be—of course you will be—Lord Mount Rorke one of these days; but in the meantime there must be a proper settlement. My daughter must be properly provided for; it is my duty to look after her interests, so you may as well tell your uncle that I shall be pleased to meet him and talk the matter over with him. I will meet him in London, when it suits his convenience; I need hardly say that if he should choose to come down here that I shall be pleased to see him. And now tell me—of course he will be prepared to act handsomely; I have no doubt he will, the aristocracy always do act handsomely, no one is so liberal as your aristocrat. I hope he will settle a good round sum on my daughter—money invested in first-class securities, not what Berkins would call first-class, but what I should call first- class securities; and should your uncle prove the liberal man that I have no doubt he is, I don't say that I won't behave handsomely. Of course you know that my dear children will have all my money at my death. I shall never marry again, that is a settled thing; but in the meantime I will do something. When Grace was married I behaved very generously—too generously—a lot of money—mustn't do it again, times are not what they were. But at my death I shall make no difference, all three will share and share alike."

Frank hoped when Brookes and Mount Rorke met, that the former would modify his demands, and what was still more important, his mode of expressing them. But why should Mr. Brookes appear to him in such a sudden glow of vulgarity? He had never thought of him as a refined and cultivated gentleman, but was unprepared for this latest manifestation.

"Lord Mount Rorke allows me a certain annual income, he will no doubt double this income upon my marriage; I daresay he would—since he has recognised me as his heir—make this income legally mine by deed, I could then settle a certain sum on Maggie, in case of my death; but then further settlements would be required when I succeed to the title and the property. I had thought—and indeed I think still—that if my uncle makes me a sufficient allowance, that we might avoid touching on this matter at all. Lord Mount Rorke is an irritable man, and I am sure that if you were to speak to him as you—"

"Pooh! pooh! Nonsense! nonsense! You don't suppose I am going to give my daughter to a man unless he can settle a sufficient sum of money upon her? Berkins wouldn't hear of it. He was only telling me just now—"

"But I don't think you understand me, Mr. Brookes. I do not propose that you should give me any money with your daughter. Let what you give her be settled upon her, and let it be tied up as strictly as the law can tie it."

"Pooh! pooh! the man that marries my daughter must settle a sum of money at least equal to what I settle upon her; and it must be money invested in first-class security, otherwise I couldn't think of giving her one penny."

"I am sorry, Mr. Brookes, that you are so determined on this point. These matters generally arrange themselves if people incline to meet each other half way, and I am sure that my uncle will resent it if you insist on pounds, shillings, and pence as you propose doing. He is not accustomed to strict business—marriages in our family were never made on such principles; my happiness is bound up in Maggie. I hope you will consider what you are risking."

"I would do more for you than any one else, Frank, but business is business, and the man who has my daughter must settle a sum of money equivalent to what I settle."

"I am afraid I have talked too much, I am not very strong, yet with your permission we will adjourn this discussion to another day—in the meantime I will write to my uncle."

Mr. Brookes did not offer the assistance of his arm, and had he, Frank would certainly not have accepted it. Holding the door, the old man waited for his visitor to pass out. "Southdown Road or the heir to a peerage: it is all the same, my money is what is wanted—the money I had made myself," thought Mr. Brookes. "Dreadful old man, he would sell his daughter for a settlement of a few hundred pounds a year. I never knew he was so bad, my eyes are opened," thought Frank. Both were equally angry, and without secrecy or subterfuge they sought consolation in different parts of the garden. Mr. Brookes resumed his walk on the tennis ground with Berkins, and stopping frequently to point to his glass-houses, he described his misfortunes with profuse waves of his stick. Frank had found Maggie, and they now walked together in the shade and silence of the sycamores—he, vehement and despairing of the future; she, subtle and strangely confident that things would happen as she wished them.

Having once yielded and felt the pang of possession she was wholly his, in all ramifications of spirit and flesh, both in her brain and blood, and the utmost ends of her sense mingled with him. But to him, she was the symbol of the desire of which he was enamoured, the desire which held together his nature and gave it individuality—love of the young girl.

"Oh! my darling, if he should speak so to Mount Rorke, we should be parted for ever—no, that could never be—nothing in heaven or earth would induce me to give you up, be true to me and I will be true to you; but our happiness—no, not our happiness, that is in ourselves— but all our prospects in life will be wrecked if he will not give way. Should he and Mount Rorke meet—"

"But they won't meet; have patience—I know how to manage father. He doesn't like to part with his money, and I can understand it, he made it all himself; but he will get used to the idea in time, leave him to me; put your trust in me."

She extended her hand, he took it, pressed it to his lips; he took her in his arms and kissed her, and the leaves of the sycamores were filled with the sunset.

"DEAR SIR,—I received a letter this morning from my nephew, apprising me of his engagement to your daughter. He has apparently obtained your consent, and he asks for mine, and he also asks from me not only an increase of income to meet the requirements of altered circumstances, but he tells me that you will expect me to settle some seven, eight, or ten thousand pounds upon your daughter.

"I do not propose to discuss the reasonableness of his or your demands, but it seems that a statement of his prospects is owing to you.

"Having never married when I was a young man, many have assumed—I among the number—that I never would marry; and I admit that I have allowed my nephew to grow up in the belief that he is my heir and the successor to the title of Mount Rorke; but beyond a general assumption existing in my mind, his mind, and the minds of those who know us, there is no reason to suppose that I shall not marry, or that I shall leave him a single sixpence, and I willingly make use of this opportunity to say that I have no faintest intention of entering intoany engagement either verbal or written with him upon this matter.— Yours very truly, MOUNT RORKE."

"MY DEAR FRANK,—The enclosed is a copy of the letter which I send by this post to Mr. Brookes. And I make no disguise of the fact that it was written with the full intention of rendering your marriage an impossibility. It will no doubt appear to you a harsh and cruel letter; it will no doubt grieve you, madden you—in your rage you may call me a brute. The epithet will be unjust; but knowing very well indeed what love is at twenty-five, I will forgive it. And now to the point. I know something about old Brookes, and I remember the lean boy you used to bring here, and judging from some slight traces that Eton had not succeeded in effacing, I think I can guess what the rest of the family is like; indeed, the old gentleman's preposterous demand that I should settle ten thousand pounds on his daughter throws a sufficient light on his character, and in some measure reveals what sort of manner of man he is. But let all this be waived. I admit that with some show of reason, you may say it is unjust, nay more, it is ridiculous, to pronounce judgment on people I have never seen, and it is cruelty worthy of a Roman Emperor to wreck the lifelong happiness of two young people for the sake of a prejudice that the trouble of a journey to Brighton will most certainly extinguish. I will not irritate you by assuring you that the world is full of desirable women-women that will appeal to you two years hence precisely as Miss Brookes appeals to you now. Were I to whisper that it is unwise to give up all women for one woman, you could not fail, in your present mood, to see in my philosophy only the nasty wisdom of a cynical old reprobate. Therefore I will not weary you with advice—what I have said must be considered not as advice, but rather as an expression of personal experience in the love passion, serving as illustration of the attitude of my mind towards you. I will limit myself to merely asking you—no, not to think again of Miss Brookes—that would be impossible, but to leave Southwick for London or Paris, the latter for preference. I will give you a letter of introduction to a charming lady (ah! were I thirty years younger). Put yourself in her hands, and I have no doubt in the world but that she will send you back cured in six months, as my bank-book will abundantly prove.

"If you cannot do this—if so drastic a remedy should be too repugnant to your present feelings, I would remember, were I in your place, that my uncle had never refused me anything; that I could draw upon him for what money I liked—that is to say, for all pleasures and satisfaction save one. I would remember that at his death I was to inherit ten thousand a year and a title; and I would weigh (first examining each weight carefully, to see if it were true weight) all these present and future advantages against the gratification of possessing a woman I loved when I was twenty-five for a period of time extending perhaps over half a century; I would think—at least I think and hope I should hesitate—before I refused to obey one of whose affection I was sure, and I feel certain it would go hard with me before I refused to gratify the whim—call it a whim if you like—of one who had often given but never asked before.

"Somehow I think you owe me this sacrifice; I have done much for you and am prepared to do more, and to speak quite candidly, I want something in return; I do not mean that I am desirous of striking a bargain with you, but we all expect to receive—of course not directly, but in some remote way—something for what we give, and I confess that I look forward to your companionship to assist me through the last course of life. I do not want you now—for the next few years I want you to see the world, to educate yourself; I want you to improve your taste in art and letters, and later on, if possible, to turn yourself to some public account. Besides other work, I am now working at my memoirs; they are to be published after my death, as I have arranged, under your supervision. I regard these memoirs as being of the first importance, and it is advisable that you should be in full possession of all my intentions respecting them. Hitherto I have always looked after everything myself, but the time will come when I shall not be able to do this, and shall require you to relieve me of the burden of business. Then I wish you to live here, so that you may learn to love Mount Rorke. I am very busy now with improvements, and I would wish you to be with me so that you might adequately enter into my views and ideas. To conclude, I do not marry for your sake; do you not marry for mine, at least do not marry for the present. I do not say that if I knew and liked the girl of your choice—if she were in your own set—that I could not be won over, but on the whole I would sooner you didn't marry. But I could not really endure a lot of new acquaintances—people who had never dined in a lord's house, and would all want to be asked—no, I could not endure it. I am an old man, and now I want to enjoy myself in my own way, and my desire is to get through the last years of my life with you.

"You can do what you please, ask here whomever you please, give me a few hours of your time when I am particularly busy with my memoirs, and, above all, let us be alone sometimes after dinner, so that we can turn our chairs round to the fire and talk at our ease.—Your affectionate uncle, MOUNT RORKE."

"So he won't pay for a secretary, and wants me to do the work; that's about the meaning of that letter." Frank re-read the letter sentence for sentence, and as he read new sneers and new expressions of scorn rose in his brain in tremulous ebullition. There was scarcely a plan for the chastisement of his uncle that he did not for some fleeting moment entertain, and one most ironical letter he committed to paper; but Maggie would not hear of its being sent, and he was surprised and glad to see that she was not depressed and disheartened at the turn affairs had taken.

"I can do what I like with father; Sally can't, but I can. You leave it me."

"What's the good of that? You can't get round Mount Rorke."

"Never mind; we don't want to get married yet awhile. We'll be engaged, it is nearly the same thing. We shall be able to go anywhere together—up to town, if we only come back the same day. Write a nice letter to your uncle, saying you'll do nothing without his consent; that it is true your affections are very much engaged, but that your first thought is of him—"

"Oh! but my darling, I want to make you mine."

"So you shall—we shall be engaged; father won't consent to our being married, but he can't prevent us being engaged. You'll see, I'll get round father sooner or later; he'll give in."

"But you won't get round Mount Rorke; if he would only come here and see you."

"He won't do that; but one of these days he'll be in London. I suppose he goes to the Park sometimes; we'll go too, you'll introduce me—a little impromptu, and I'll see if I can't get him to like me."

"How clever you are!"

"I understand father."

Still it required all Maggie's adroitness to even partially reconcile Mr. Brookes to Lord Mount Rorke's letter. She accepted without argument that marriage in the present circumstances was out of the question. She even went so far as to cordially assent that a man would be a fool to give his daughter to a man who could not settle a substantial sum of money upon her, and she only ventured to suggest that it would be foolish not to give Lord Mount Rorke the opportunity of changing his mind. She spoke of his immense fortune, and exaggerated it until she made even Berkins seem a paltry creature in the old man's eyes.

Frank was anxious to propitiate Sally. He returned from London with presents for her, and he always spoke to her, looking at her admiringly.

He showed much anxiety, and, fearing that she found it dull at his studio, when the sisters came to tea he begged her to give him Meason's address. Sally tossed her head; she had had enough of Meason, and her manner left no doubt as to her sincerity. But happening to meet Meason a few days after in the train, Frank slipped easily into asking him to come and see him; and in the easy atmosphere of the studio the acquaintanceship soon ripened into intimacy, and after a preliminary ruffling of plumage, Sally restored her old sweetheart to all the rights of wrong. Life went well amid incessant secrets, letter-writing, and tea parties. Grace came to the studio to lunch sometimes, and she had been betrayed into a promise not to say a word about Meason. It was never ascertained whether, in the indiscretion of the marital night, she had betrayed this trust, or whether some jealous enemy had spoken or written to Mr. Brookes on the subject; but certain it is that one joyful day when Meason, Sally, and Maggie were eating oysters, and Frank was twisting the corkscrew into a bottle of Chablis, there came an ominous ringing at the door.

"I wonder who that can be. Shut up, Triss."

"Perhaps it is father."

"He is in London."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"No matter—we don't want to see them."

"Rather not! They wouldn't have known we were here had it not been for that dog."

"I must go and see who it is. Come here, sir; come here, you brute."

"Supposing it is father?"

"Get behind that piece of tapestry. I'll say that Meason and I were having some oysters."

"Come here, sir. I'd better tie up that dog—I wonder who it is?"

"Open the door."

"Oh! Mr. Brookes, quite an unexpected pleasure."

"I have come, sir, for my daughters."

"Your daughters? Your daughters are not here. Mr. Brookes."

"I have reason to know they are here, and I will not leave without them."

"You will do well to let us in, Mr. Escott; we are determined—"

"Who are you? What business is it of yours?"

"Should you refuse us admission we are resolved to wait here till evening, till midnight if necessary!" exclaimed Berkins. "I say again you will do well to admit us, and so avoid a scandal on the green."

"You can come in if you like."

"Will you kindly chain up that dog of yours?"

"Well, this is coming it too strong; this is a little too 'steep.' If Mr. Brookes refuses to believe my word that his daughters are not here he may come in and look for them, and to facilitate his search I will tie up the dog—(the dog is tied up). But you, what brings you here? What the devil, I should like to know, brings you here, poking your nose into other people's business?"

"Mr. Brookes, will you answer him?"

"I must decline your offer to admit me unaccompanied by my son-in-law. We shall not stay long."

"All this seems to me very extraordinary, but since you wish it, Mr. Brookes, pray enter."

"Is that dog tied up quite securely?"

"Quite. I think you know Mr. Meason?"

"Mr. Meason knows very well that I do not wish to know him."

"If you only come here to insult my guest, the sooner you go out the better. Had I known that you intended to behave in this fashion I should have left you standing outside till morning. I'll not have—"

"Never mind, Escott; I'm off. Mr. Brookes and I are no longer on speaking terms, that's all! I'll see you later on."

"Don't go, pray."

"I think I must."

"I am surprised, Frank," said Mr. Brookes, when Meason was gone, "that you should seek your friends among the enemies of my family."

"We will not discuss that question now. I never heard of such conduct —you force your way into my studio, and apparently for no purpose but to insult my guest. You see your daughters are not here."

"I am by no means satisfied with that," said Berkins, opening a door. "I must see behind that piece of tapestry."

"No, you shall not. I have had just about enough of this. How dare you? God's truth—" and as Berkins seemed determined to continue his search, Frank caught him by the collar.

But Berkins was tall and strong, and showed no intention of allowing himself to be thrown out. His long legs were soon extended here and there; his body was sometimes bent back by Frank's weight, once he had succeeded in nearly throwing Frank over on the sofa. Mr. Brookes had fled to the door, which, in his excitement, he failed to open, and the struggle was continued until at last, maddened by a most tight and tempting aspect of Berkin's thigh, Triss broke his collar, and in a couple of bounds, reached and fixed his teeth deep in the flesh.

"Triss, you brute, leave go." But Triss clung to the long-desired thigh. "I'll twist his tail, it will make him leave go."

With a savage yelp of pain the dog turned on his master and was hauled instantly off Berkins's thigh.

"I need hardly say that so far as the dog is concerned, I regret, and I am truly sorry for what has occurred."

"Sir, do you not see what a state I am in; do not stand there making excuses, but lend me your handkerchief. I shall bleed to death if you don't."

"Shall I tie it up for you?"

"If those girls there would only fetch a doctor."

Mr. Brookes could not refrain from foolish laughter, and in a moment of wretched despair he declared that it would be all the same in a hundred years time—a remark which would not have failed to irritate Berkins if he had not fainted.



XIII



Next day Willy called at the studio, and Frank told him what had occurred.

"But I don't see why you shouldn't come to the Manor House," said Willy. "If you will only say something about the Measons, I think it can be made all right."

"No, I'm not going to turn against Meason; I have always found him a good fellow. I know nothing about his flirtation with Sally."

"No more do I; I think it has been exaggerated, but, as you know, I never interfere. I wish you would come in to dinner one night."

"Supposing I were to meet Berkins?"

Willy stroked his moustache.

"No, it is quite impossible that I could return to the Manor House. Your father behaved in a way—well, I will not say what I think of it."

"Berkins hasn't been to the City since. Grace was over here yesterday, she says he limps about the garden. He'll never forgive you; he says that you didn't call the dog off at once."

"That's a lie; and I said, 'So far as the incident with the dog is concerned, I am very sorry.'"

"I think that made him more angry than anything else; he thought you were laughing at him."

"I was not. It was most unfortunate. I shall not give Maggie up. I am writing to-morrow or next day to Mount Rorke."

All were agreed that things must come right sooner or later. Maggie fought for her lover, and emphatically asserted her engagement. She yielded on one point only—not to visit the studio; but she maintained her right in theory and in practice to go where she liked with him in train or in cart, to walk with him on the cliff, to lunch with him at Mutton's. They found pleasure in thus affirming their love, and it pleased them to see they were observed, and to hear that they were spoken about. Nevertheless the string that sung their happiness had slipped a little, and the note was now not quite so clear or true. Frank could not go to the Manor House; Maggie could not go to the studio. Whether Mount Rorke would consent to their marriage perplexed them as it had not done before.

The summer fades, the hills grow grey, and a salt wind blew up from the sea, blackening the trees, and the beauty of autumn was done. Frank thought of Ireland, and what personal intercession might achieve. She begged of him to go, and he promised to write to her every day.

"Every day, darling, or I shall be miserable."

"Every day."

"Arrived safe after a very rough passage. Every one was ill, I most of all."

She received a post-card:— "It was raining cats and dogs when I got out of the train. Mount Rorke sent a car to meet me; the result is that I am in bed with a bad cold. The house is full of company—people I have known, or known of, since I was a boy; we shall begin pheasant-shooting in a few days. When I am out of bed I shall write a long letter. Do you write to me; I shall be awfully disappointed if I do not get a letter to-morrow morning."

Extract from a letter:—

"Mount Rorke is considered to be a handsome place, but as I have known it from childhood, as my earliest memories are of it, I cannot see it with the eyes of a professed scenery hunter. I have loved it always, but I do not think I ever loved it more than now, for now I think that one day I shall give it to you. Should that day come—and it will come—what happiness it will be to walk with you under the old trees, made lovelier by your presence, to pass down the glades to the river, watching your shadow on the grass and your image in the stream. We will roam together through the old castle, and I will show you the little bed I used to sleep in, the school-room where I learned my lessons. When I entered the old room I saw in imagination—and oh, how clearly!—the face of my governess; and how easily I see her in the corridor she used to walk down to get to her room.

"Poor, dear, old thing, I wonder what has become of her!

"I saw again the pictures that stirred my childish fancy, and whose meaning I once vainly strove to decipher.

"I came to live here when I was four, immediately after my father's death. I can just remember coming here. I remember Mount Rorke taking me up in his arms and kissing me. I will not say there is no place like home—I do not believe that; but certainly no place seems so real. Every spot of ground has its own particular recollections. Every bend of the avenue evokes some incident of childish life (in Ireland we call any road leading to a house an avenue, even if it is absolutely bare of trees; we also speak of rooks as crows, and these two provincialisms jarred on my ear after my long stay in Sussex). Mount Rorke is covered with trees—great woods of beech and fir—and at the end of every vista you see a piece of blue mountain. A river passes behind the castle, winding through the park; there are bridges, and swans float about the sedges, and there are deer in the glades. The garden,—I do not know if you would like the garden; it is old- fashioned—full of old-fashioned flowers—convolvuluses, Michaelmas daisies, marigolds; hedges clipped into all sorts of strange and close shapes. There is a beautiful avenue behind the garden (an avenue in the English sense of the word) where you may pace to and fro and feel an exquisite sense of solitude; for when the castle had passed out of the hands of Irish princes—that is to say, brigands—it was turned into a monastery, and I often think, as I look on the mossy trees—the progeny of those under whose leafage the monks told their beads—that all happened that I might throw my arm about you some beautiful day, and whisper, 'My wife, this is yours.'"

"How beautifully he writes," said Sally reflectively.

"You never had a lover who wrote to you like that. Do you remember how Jimmy used to write?"

"I don't know how he wrote to you, but his letters to me, I will say that, were quite as nice as anything Frank could write. You needn't toss your head, you are not Lady Mount Rorke yet."

Sally refused to hear, but presently, seeing a cloud on her sister's face, and thinking the letter contained some piece of unpleasantness, she relented, and pressed her to continue.

"The house is full of people—people whom I have known all my life— and they make a great deal of me. I have to tell them about Italy, and they ask me absurd questions about Michael Angelo or Titian, Leonardo or Watteau.... The house party is a large one, and we have people to dinner every day; and in the evening the drawing-room, with its grim oak and escutcheons and rich modern furniture, is a pretty sight indeed. There is a lady here whom I knew in London, Lady Seveley; and I have had suspicions that Mount Rorke would like me to marry her. But she has the reputation of being rather fast, so perhaps the old gentleman is allowing his thoughts to wander where they should not. I hope not for his sake, for I hear she is devoted to a young Irishman, a Mr. Fletcher, a journalist in London. I met them at Reading once in most suspicious circumstances. He is the son of a large grazier, one of my uncle's tenants, and she is, I suppose, so infatuated that she could not resist the temptation of calling on his family. She was careful not to speak of her intentions to anybody, but waited until she got a favourable opportunity and slipped off to pay her visit. The Fletchers live about half a mile from the castle. I was riding that way, and met her coming out of their house. I got off my horse and walked back together. I hope Mount Rorke will not hear of her ladyship's escapade; he would be very angry, for the Fletchers are people who would be asked to have something to eat in the housekeeper's room if they called at the Castle. In London one knows everybody, but in the country we are more conservative."

"I hope she won't cut you out," said Sally. "It would be a sell for you if she did. Go on."

"No, I shan't, you are too insulting."

"Who began it? You told me that I didn't get such nice letters as you. Pray go on."

"I do not know if you would think her handsome. I don't. She is, however, an excellent musician; we play duets together every evening, to Mount Rorke's intense delight. You know my dialogue between a lady and a gentleman? She has written it down for me and corrected a few mistakes; I think I shall publish it. Darling, I love you better than any one in the world; you are all the world to me; try to love me a little—you will never find any one to love you as I do."

"Well, you can't find anything peculiarly disagreeable to say about that, I think."

Extract from another letter:—

"All the visitors have gone; Mount Rorke and I are quite alone. He is kindness itself, and does not bother me about his memoirs; but from what I hear that book will make one of the biggest sensations ever made in the literary world. I want him to publish it now, but he only smiles and shakes his head. He says: 'What is the use of setting the world talking about you when you are alive; as long as I am alive I can see those I want to see, and be with them far more personally than I could by placing in their hands three volumes in 8vo; the 8vos are only useful when you have passed into darkness, and are not yet reconciled to dying quite out of the minds of men. I do not desire to be remembered by those who will live three hundred years hence, but I confess that I should like to modulate the pace of forgetfulness according to my fancy, and be remembered, let us say, for the next sixty or seventy years. I find no fault with death but its abruptness, and that I hope to be able to correct. The vulgar and most usual plan is children, but children are no anodyne to oblivion, whereas a good book in a certain measure is.'

"These are almost the words Mount Rorke used, and I quote them as exactly as possible, so that you may see what kind of man he is. We pulled our chairs round to the fire and had a real good talk. I know no better company than Mount Rorke. He has seen everything, read everything, and known everybody worth knowing; he is a mine of information, and, what is far better, he is a complete man of the world; and long contact with the world has left him a little cynical, otherwise he is perfect. I told him the story about Berkins, and he laughed; I never saw him laugh so before; and when I told him that I had told Berkins, as he was tying up his leg, that so far as the incident with the dog was concerned, I regretted deeply what had occurred, he could not contain himself. He rang the bell, and we had old Triss up. He asked a great deal about you; I leave you to imagine what I said. How did he expect me to describe my darling? I told him of your subtle, fascinating ways, of your picturesque attitudes, and your exquisite little black eyes. 'I think I see her,' he said; 'little eyes that light up are infinitely more interesting than those big, limpid, silly eyes that everybody admires.' I am now doing a water-colour sketch from the photograph—the one in which you stand with your hands behind your back and your head on one side—for him. I am getting on with it pretty well. Ah! if only I had you here for an hour (I should like to have you here for ever, of course; but now I am speaking artistically, not humanly), I think I could get it really like you; there are one or two things that the photo does not give me. I shall send the sketch to Dublin to be framed; it will be a nice present for Mount Rorke.

"My darling, you must not be anxious; all will come right in time— have a little patience. He is already much more reconciled to the match than he was when I arrived, and if your father will refrain from speaking too much about that hateful question, I am sure that all difficulties can be surmounted."

She wrote to him three or four times a week, and on beautiful hand- made paper, delicately scented.

Extract from a letter:—

"We went up to town yesterday by the ten o'clock train West Brighton; and so that we might have more money to spend, we went third class. Father doesn't like us going third class, but I don't think it matters if you get in with nice people. We were very jolly. The Shaws went with us. They are very nice girls. They had to leave us at Victoria, and I and my cousin, Agnes Keating, went shopping together. We met the Harrisons at Russell & Allen's. We saw there some lovely dresses—I wish you had been with us, for I have confidence in your taste, and when I choose a thing myself I am never sure that I like it. The assistant was so polite; she told me to ask for Miss —-; she said she would like to fit me. Sally was coming up with us, but she changed her mind and remained at home, I was very glad, for she is wretchedly cross, and not looking at all well. You would not admire her in the least; she is growing very yellow. But I don't mean to be ill-natured, so we'll let Sally bide, as we say in Sussex. After Russell & Allen's we went to Blanchard's, and had a nice lunch. Grace was in town; she chaperoned us, and paid for everything; it was very kind of her. Then we went to the theatre, and saw a play which we did not care about much. There was a very stupid 'tart' in it. I do like 'gadding,' don't I? But, oh, my darling Frank, gadding is not really gadding without you. How I miss you, how we all miss you, but I especially. The Keatings came over to tea to-day, and they asked about you. Blanche wants you to write something in her album, and she admired immensely the drawing you gave me. She is very artistic in her tastes; I think you would like her.

"But I have a bit of news that I think will amuse you. You remember Mrs. Horlock's old dog—not the blind Angel; he's old too. But I mean the real old dog,—the one twenty years old, that once belonged to a butcher. He never smelt very sweet, as you know, but latterly he was unbearable, and the General resolved on a silent and secret destruction. He purchased in Brighton a bottle of chloroform. It was the dead of the night and pitch dark. However, he reached the end of the passage in safety; but suddenly he uttered a fearful shriek and dropped the chloroform. He thought he had seen a ghost; but it was only Mrs. Horlock, who was going her rounds, letting down the mouse- traps and supplying the little creatures with food. The General blurted out various excuses. He said that he had come to relieve the cock parrot's tooth-ache—that he feared the Circassian goat was suffering from spinal complaint and the squirrels from neuralgia. But his protestations proved unavailing, and now he eats his meals in silence. And to make matters worse, the old dog did die a few days after—the General says from old age, but Mrs. Horlock avows that his death resulted from fright. 'He was a sweet, cunning old thing, and no doubt knew all about that plan to destroy him.' I think this would make an excellent subject for a comic sketch; I wish you would do one —the General dropping the bottle; Mrs. Horlock, surrounded by closed mouse-traps and crumbs, sternly upbraiding him.

"I see lots of Emily Pierce. Every Sunday I have tea with her, and sometimes lunch; but she doesn't come here. I am afraid I couldn't get on at all without her; we do everything together, and we hit it off so well.

"Sally has been staying in Kent. I do not know what's up, but she seems to see everything couleur de rose; everything in Kent is better in her estimation than anywhere else. The men dance so much better for one thing. I am glad she is so happy, and I wish she would get married and stay there. Father says he has a cough that tears him to pieces, but I haven't heard it yet."

The elementary notion of a woman in love is to surround, to envelop the man she loves, with her individuality, and to draw him from all other influences. And the woman in love strives to accomplish this by ceaseless reiteration of herself or himself seen through herself. So Maggie with her nervous, highly-strung, febrile temperament could not refrain from constantly striking the lyre of love. Her hands were for ever on the chords. Letters and notes of all kinds; impetuous messages asking him when he would return; letters apologising for her selfishness—he had better remain with Mount Rorke until his consent had been obtained; resolutions and irresolutions, ardours, lassitudes, forgetfulness followed fast in strange and incomprehensible contradiction. And Frank was asked daily to perform some small task. There was always something; and Frank undertook all he was asked to do, for he loved to be as much as possible in that circle of life in which his sweetheart lived, and to feel her presence about him.

Extract from a letter:—

"Mount Rorke and I had a long and serious talk about you last night. He is against the marriage, but then he is against marriage in general. He said with his quiet, cynical laugh, 'I daresay she is a pretty girl—I can read the truth through your romantic descriptions. I am convinced that she is very charming. But are you quite sure that you will never meet another equally charming girl? Remember the world is a very big place, and the stock of women is large; are you sure that you will be able to enjoy the charm which now rules and enchants you for thirty, forty years without wearying of it? These are the questions you have to consider, which marriage entails.' I need hardly tell you what answer I made, and how I tried to convince him that your charms are those that a man capable of appreciating them could not weary of. Indeed I think I made him rather a neat answer—I said there are books in one volume, in two volumes, in three volumes, and there are books that you can take down and read at any time. He laughed; it rather tickled his fancy. And he said, 'Quite true, there are some books and some women that one never tires of—that is to say, that some people never tire of. I haven't been so fortunate or unfortunate, but that by the way. I admit such cases may occur. I will go further— I will admit that a man's life may be made or marred by his taking to himself a wife; and if Miss Brookes were a really nice girl—if she were the one girl in a million, and if I were sure that your passion for each other has its root in deeper and more lasting sympathies than those of the skin (these were his exact words)—believe me, my dear Frank, I should not think of opposing the marriage. I shall be in London during the season, and no doubt an occasion will arise, of which I promise you to avail myself, of making this model young lady's acquaintance. I will tell you what I think of her; she won't deceive me, let her try how she will. There is only one thing I bar—one thing must not be, one thing I will not tolerate—a bad marriage.' I lost my temper for a moment, but Mount Rorke did not lose his, and I soon came round. It is annoying to be spoken to in that way; but I remembered that he had not seen you, and I consoled myself by thinking of how great his conversion will be when he does. My only fear is that he'll want to marry you himself. So, you see, my own darling, my uncle is on the 'give,' and we shall win soon and easily. The only real obstacle is your father's pig-headedness on all matters in which money enters. I think with terror of his meeting with Mount Rorke. If he speaks to Mount Rorke as he spoke to me, my uncle will take up his hat and wish him good-morning. Do you exert all your influence. Do leave no stone unturned. All depends upon you."

Extract from another letter:—

"I am weary of this place, and I long to see you. My longing is such that I can resist it no longer. Besides, nothing would be gained by remaining here. Mount Rorke will not say more than he has said. In a few days—think of that—I shall be with you. With what eagerness I look forward. How gladly I shall see the train leave the dreary bogs and the blue mountains of the West and pass into the pasture lands of Meath; how gladly I shall hail the brown, slobber-faced city of Dublin; with what delight I shall step on board the packet—I shall not think of sea sickness—and watch the line of the low coast disappear, then the Welsh mountains and castles, looking so like an illustrated history of England. I must spend two days in London, alas! I must order some new clothes. Victoria Station, with all its doors and cab stands, and book-stalls, the Sussex scenery, the woodlands, the Downs, the plunging through tunnels, and then you. Darling, I cannot believe that such happiness is in store for me."

All happened as he had anticipated. At Victoria the usual difficulties had arisen about the dog. Triss was growling, the guard was cringing, and, with reference to no stoppage before we come to Redhill, the necessity of a muzzle was being argued.

"I am certain it is she," and he followed with his eyes the tall, swinging figure in the black cloth dress. Then he saw the clear plump profile, so white, of Lizzie Baker.

"Here, give me the chain, I'll tie the dog up."

"But the muzzle, sir."

A muzzle was procured, and Frank ran to the third class carriage where he had seen Lizzie enter.

"Lizzie! Lizzie!"

"Oh, Mr. Escott, who would have thought of seeing you! It is such a time—"

"Yes, isn't it; how long? But are you going to Brighton?"

"Yes."

"So am I; but—let me get you a first-class ticket. Guard, have I time to change my ticket?"

"No, sir, the train is going to start; get in." "Do you get out, Lizzie; I'll pay the difference at Brighton."

"No time for changing now, sir; are you getting into this carriage?"

He could not forego the pleasure of being with Lizzie. An old woman with a provision basket on her lap drew her skirts aside and made way for him; there were three dirtily dressed girls—probably shop girls; they sat whispering together, a little troubled by the publicity; there were two youths, shabbily dressed, their worn boots and trousers covered with London mud. He was surprised, and he did not for a moment understand or realise his company. Frank had never been in a third- class carriage before.

"I'm afraid you won't be comfortable here."

"Oh, yes, I shall; I'd just as soon travel in one class as another— much sooner when it means being with you."

"None of your nonsense; I see you haven't changed. Well, who'd have thought it? Just fancy meeting you, and after all this time."

"How long is it? It must be nearly two years. I haven't seen you sincethat day we went up the river."

"Yes, you have."

"No; where did I see you since?"

"At the bar; I didn't leave the 'Gaiety' for several days after."

"No more you did; I remember now. But why did you leave without letting me know where you were going?"

"I didn't know I was leaving till the morning, and I left in the afternoon. A lot of us were changed suddenly. The firm couldn't get enough young ladies to do the work at the Exhibition."

"But you didn't leave an address."

"Yes, I did."

"No, you didn't; I asked the manager, and he told me you had left no address. They didn't know where you had gone."

"Did he say so? You mean Mr. Fairlie, I suppose—now I come to think of it, it is the rule of the firm not to give information about the young ladies. I am sorry."

"Are you?"

"I am, really. We had a very pleasant day up the river—Reading; you took me to Reading."

"Yes; but you would never come again."

"Wouldn't I? I suppose I couldn't find time—I did enjoy myself. What a lovely day it was."

"Yes; and do you remember how like a beautiful smile the river lay? And do you remember the bulrushes? I rowed you in among the rushes; you wet the sleeve of your dress plunging your arm in. I remember it, that white plump arm."

"Get along with you."

"I wanted to make a sketch of you leaning over the boatside with your lapful of water-lilies; I wish I had."

"I wish you had, too; you wrote a little poem instead. It was very pretty, but I should have liked the picture better. You gave me the poem next day when you came in to lunch. You had lunch at the bar, and I was so cross with you because you said I hadn't wiped the glass. It was all done to annoy me because I had been talking to that tall, rather stout young man, with the dark moustache, whom you were so jealous of. Don't you remember?"

"Yes, I remember; and I believe it was that fellow who prevented you from coming out with me again."

"No, it wasn't; but don't speak so loud, all these people are listening to you."

Frank met the round stare of the girls; and, turning from the dormant curiosity of the old woman, he said—

"Do you remember the locks, how frightened you were; you had never been through a lock before; and the beautiful old red brick house showing upon the lofty woods; and coming back in the calm of the evening, passing the different boats, the one where the girls lay back in the arms of the young men, the flapping sail, and the dreamy influences of the woods where we climbed and looked into space over the railing?"

"At the green-table—don't you remember?"

"Yes, I remember every hour of that day; we had lunch at the 'Roebuck.'"

"You haven't spoken of the lady we saw there. Lady Something—I forget what you said her name was; you said she had been making up to you."

"I dined with her one night, and we went to the theatre."

"You may do that without it being said that you are making up to a gentleman."

"Of course; I should never think of saying you made up to me."

"I should hope not, indeed."

"I should never think of accusing you of having made up to me; you have always treated me very badly."

Lizzie did not answer. He looked at her, puzzled and perplexed, and he hoped that neither the girls nor the old lady had understood.

"I am sorry; I really didn't mean to offend you. All I meant to say was that the lady we saw at the 'Roebuck' had been rather civil to me; had—well I don't know how to put it—shown an inclination to flirt with me—will that suit you?—and that I had not availed myself of my chances because I was in love with you."

Encouraged by a sunny smile, Frank continued: "You wouldn't listen to me; you were very cruel."

"I am sure I didn't mean to be cruel; I went out on the river with you, and we had a very pleasant day. You didn't say then I was cruel."

"No, you were very nice that day; it was the happiest day of my life. I was in love with you; I shall never care for any one as I cared for you."

"I don't believe you."

"I swear it is true. When you left the 'Gaiety' I searched London for you. If you had only cared for me we might have been very happy. As sure as a fellow loves a woman, so sure is she to like some other chap. Tell me, why did you go away and leave no address?"

"I did leave an address."

"Well, we won't discuss that. Why didn't you write to me? You knew my address. It's no use saying you didn't."

"Well, I suppose I was in love with some one else."

"Were you? You always denied it. Ah! so you were in love with some one else? I knew it—I knew it was that thick-set fellow with the black moustache. I wonder how you could like him—the amount of whisky and water he used to drink."

"Yes, usen't he? I have served him with as many as six whiskies in an afternoon—Irish, he always drank Irish."

"How could you like a man who drank?"

"But it wasn't he—I assure you; I give you my word of honour. It really wasn't. I'd tell you if it was."

"Well, who was it, then? It couldn't be the old man with the beard and white teeth?"

"No."

"Was it that great tall fellow, clean shaven?"

"No, it wasn't; you'll never guess; There's no use trying. However, it is all over now."

"Why? Did he treat you badly? Whose fault was it?"

"His. And the chances I threw away. He behaved like a beast. I had to give up keeping company with him."

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. He changed very much towards me lately; he went messing about after other girls, and we had words, and I left."

"You will make it up. Perhaps you are mistaken."

"Mistaken—no; I found their letters in his pocket."

"There are always rows between sweethearts; and then they kiss and make it up, and love each other the more."

"No, I shall not see him again. We were going to be married; no, it is all over. It was a little hard at first, but I am all right now."

"I am sorry. Do you think there is no chance of making it up?"

"I should have thought that you would be glad; men are so selfish they never think of any one but themselves."

"How do you mean? Why should I be glad that your marriage was broken off?"

"You said just now that you liked me very much, I thought—"

"So I do like you very much. Once I was in love with you—that day when we walked up the steep woods together."

"And you don't care for me any longer?"

"I don't say that; but I am engaged to be married."

"Oh!"

"Had you not snubbed me so I might have been married to you."

"Who are you going to be married to—to the lady we saw that day?"

"Oh, no, not to her."

"I don't believe you. You mean to say you haven't been to see her since."

"I assure you—-"

"You mean to say you haven't seen her?"

"I don't say that. I've just come from Ireland. I've been staying with my uncle. She spent a week with us; that's all I have seen of her. I am going now to see the young lady whom I am engaged to."

"And when will you be married?"

"I don't know; there are a great many difficulties in the way. Perhaps I shall never marry her."

"Nonsense. I know better. You think it will take me in. I'll never be taken in again, not if I know it."

"I don't want to take you in."

"I don't know so much about that. Is she very pretty? I suppose you are very much in love with her?"

"Yes, I love her very much. Dark, not like you a bit—just the opposite."

"And you met her since you saw me?"

"No."

"Ah, I thought as much, and yet you told me the day we went up the river together that you never had and couldn't care for any one elsebut me. Men are all alike—they never tell the truth."

"Wait a minute; wait a minute. I knew her long before I knew you; I have known her since I was a boy, but that doesn't mean that I have been in love with her since I was a boy. I never thought of her until you threw me over, until long after; it was last summer I fell in love with her."

Lizzie's eyes were full upon him, and it seemed to them that each could see and taste the essence of the other's thought.

"What have you been doing ever since? You have told me nothing about yourself."

"Well, after trying vainly to find you—having searched, as I thought, all Speirs and Pond's establishments in London, I tried to resign myself to my fate. I assure you, I was dreadfully cut up—could do nothing. My life was a burden to me. You have been in love, and you know what an ache it is; it used to catch me about the heart. There was no hope; you were gone—gone as if the earth had swallowed you. I got sick of going to the 'Gaiety' and asking those girls if they knew anything about you; so to cure myself I went to France, and I worked hard at my painting. In such circumstances there is only one thing— work."

"You are right."

"Yes; nothing does you any good but work. I worked in the atelier— that's the French for studio—all the morning, and in the afternoon I painted from the nude in a public studio. I had such a nice studio— such a jolly little place. I was up every morning at eight o'clock, my model arrived at nine, and I worked without stopping (barring the ten or twelve minutes' rest at the end of every hour) till twelve. Then I went to the cafe to have breakfast—how I used to enjoy those breakfasts—fried eggs all swimming in butter, a cutlet, after, nice bread and butter, then cock your legs up, drink your coffee, and smoke your cigarette till one."

"Did you like the French cafe better than the 'Gaiety'?"

"It is impossible to compare them. I made a great deal of progress. I began one picture of a woman in a hammock, a recollection of you. You remember when we passed under those cedar branches, close to the 'Roebuck,' we saw a hammock hung by the water's edge, and I said I would like to see you in it, and stand by and rock you. I had intended to send it to the Academy, but I never could finish it, the French model was not what I wanted—I wanted you; and I was obliged to leave France, and I could get no one in Southwick. Once a fellow changes his model he is done for; he never can find his idea again." "Where's Southwick?"

"A village outside Brighton, three or four miles, not more. I have a studio there; you must come and see it."

"You must paint me. But what would your lady love say if she found me in your studio? She'd have me out of it pretty quick. Tell me about her; I want to hear how you fell in love."

"It happened in the most curious, quite providential way. I have told you that I knew them since I was a boy. Maggie has often sat on my knee."

"Maggie is her name, then?"

"Yes, don't you like the name? I do. Her brother was a school-fellow of mine. We were at Eton together, and one time when Mount Rorke was away travelling they asked me to spend my holidays at Southwick. That's how I got to know them. One day Maggie and Sally were at my studio; Sally has a sweetheart—"

The sentence was cut short by a sudden roar. The train had entered a tunnel, and the speakers made pause, seeing each other vaguely in the dim light, and when they emerged into the cold April twilight Frank told the story of Triss and Berkins, Mr. Brookes struggling with the door, and the girls rushing screaming from their hiding-place; and Frank's imitation of Berkin's pomposity amused Lizzie, and she laughed till she cried. He continued till the joke was worn bare; then, fearing he had been talking too much of himself, he said: "Now, I have been very candid with you, tell me about yourself."

"There is nothing to tell; I think I have told you all." Then she said, slipping, as she spoke, into minute confidences: "When I left the 'Gaiety' I went for a few days to the Exhibition, but he wanted to leave London, so I applied to the firm to remove me to Liverpool (not Liverpool Street; the girl—I suppose it was Miss Clarke, for I wrote to her—made a mistake, or you misunderstood her). We remained in Liverpool a year, and then we came back to London, and I went to the 'Criterion,' but I couldn't stop there long; he was so awfully jealous of me; he used to catechise me every evening—who had I spoken to? How long I had spoken to this man? Once I slapped a man's face in fun because he squeezed my hand when I handed him the change across the counter. There was such a row about it. I don't know how he heard of it. I think he must have got some one to watch me. I often suspected the porter—the bigger one of the two; but you don't know the 'Criterion.' You used to go to the 'Gaiety.'"

"Perhaps he saw you himself. I suppose he used to come to the bar?"

"No, not unless—no, not very often. He banged me about."

"Banged you about, the brute! Good heavens! How could you like a man who would strike a woman? Who was he? Was he a gentleman—I mean, was he supposed to be a gentleman? Of course he wasn't really a gentleman, or he wouldn't have struck you."

"He was in a passion, he was very sorry for it afterwards. Then I left the firm and went to live in lodgings; he allowed me so much a week."

"He was a man of some means?"

"No, but it didn't cost him much, he knew the people. We were going to be married, but he got ill, and we thought we had better wait; and I went to the 'Gaiety' again. I was a fool, of course, to think so much about him, for I had plenty of chances. One man who used to lunch there three times a week wanted me to marry him, and take me right away. I think he was in the printing business—a man who was making good money; but I could not give Harry up."

"Harry is his name, then?"

"Yes; but it all began over again. It was just the same at the 'Gaiety' as it was at the 'Criterion.' He would never leave me alone, but kept on accusing me of flirting with the gentlemen that came to the bar. Now, you know as well as I do what the bar is. You must be polite to the gentlemen you serve. There are certain gentlemen who always come to me, and don't care to be served by any one else, and if I didn't speak to them they wouldn't come to the bar. The manager is very sharp, and would be sure to mention it."

"Whom do you mean? That fellow with the yellow moustache that walks about with his frock-coat all open—a sort of apotheosis of sherry and bitters?"

"That's what you called him once before. You see I remember. He is very fond of sherry and bitters. But I was saying that Harry would keep on interfering with me, pulling me over the coals. We had such dreadful rows. He accused me of having gone with gentlemen to their rooms—a thing I never did. I could stand it no longer, and we agreed to part."

"How long is that ago?"

"About three weeks. I could stand it no longer, I couldn't remain at the 'Gaiety,' so I resolved to leave."

"Why couldn't you remain at the 'Gaiety,' the manager didn't know anything about it?"

"No, he knew nothing about it, it wouldn't have mattered if he had, but after a break up like that you can't remain among people you know —you want to get right away; there's nothing like a change. Besides I mightn't get such a good chance again; I had the offer of a very good place in Brighton, and I took it—a new restaurant, they open to- morrow. I get thirty pounds a year and my food."

"And lodging?"

"No, they are very short of accommodation, and I have taken a room in one of the streets close by—Preston Street. Do you know it?"

"Perfectly, off the Western Road."

"The lady who has the house knew my poor mother—a very nice woman— will let me have a bedroom for five shillings a week, and I shall be allowed to use her sitting-room when I want it, which, of course, won't be very often, for I shall be at business all day."

The train rolled along the platform; Frank asked the porter when there would be a train for Southwick, and was told he would have half an hour to wait.

"I shall have time to drive you to Preston Street."

"Oh, no, please don't! She will be waiting for you—you will miss your train."



XIV



About four in the afternoon he left off painting, and went to Brighton for a couple of hours. The little journey broke up the day, he bought the evening papers, and it was pleasant to glance from the news to those who passed, and to look upon the sunny and hazy sea. He liked to go to Mutton's, and regretted Lizzie was not there, instead of behind a bar serving whisky and beer. But he went to the bar. It was a German establishment, decorated with the mythological art of Munich, and enlivened with a discordant band. The different rooms were fitted with bars of various importance. Lizzie was engaged at the largest—that nearest the entrance. At half-past five this bar was thronged with all classes. Beer and whisky were drunk hurriedly, with a look of trains on the face. The quietest time was from half-past three to half-past four, during these hours the dining-room was alone in the presence of the awful goddesses and a couple of drowsy waiters. Most of the girls were out, some two or three read faded novels in the sloppy twilight; a group of four or five men who had lingered from half-hour to half- hour turned their backs, and talked among themselves; sometimes a couple would condescendingly address Lizzie, and tease her with rude remarks; or else Frank found her having a little private chat with an old gentleman, a youth, or, may be, the waiter.

Lizzie had her bar manners and her town manners, and she slipped on the former as she would an article of clothing when she lifted the slab and passed behind. They consisted principally of cordial smiles, personal observations, and a look of vacancy which she assumed when the conversation became coarse. From behind the bar she spoke authoritatively, she was secure, it was different—it was behind the bar; and she spoke with a cheek and a raciness that at other times were quite foreign to her. "I will not sleep with you to-night if you don't behave yourself," so Frank once heard her answer a swaggering young man. She spoke out loud, evidently regarding her words merely in the light of gentle repartee. What she heard and said in the bar remained not a moment on her mind, she appeared to accept it all as part of the business of the place, and when Frank was annoyed she only laughed.

"Men will talk improper—what does it matter? One doesn't pay attention to their nonsense, and it is only in the bar. Never mind all that, tell me what you have been doing. You didn't come into Brighton yesterday, I suppose?"

"No, I had to go to the Manor House."

"And how is she—the only one? Are you as much in love with her as ever?"

"I suppose I am; I have begun a portrait of her."

"What, another! You never finish anything. I shan't have that when I come and sit for you. I shall make you finish my portrait."

"Ah, yes; when you come and sit. But, joking apart, when will you come? I should so like to show you my studio. It really looks very nice now. When will you come?"

"I have no time."

"Why not come next Sunday; it is your Sunday off."

"What would Maggie say if she found me there? She'd have my eyes out."

"If she did find it out she'd know you came to sit; but as a matter of fact she'd know nothing about it. You come and lunch with me about twelve—they're all in church about that time."

"And you never go to church, you wicked boy. I don't know that I dare trust myself with you."

A scruple jarred the even strain of his desire to paint Lizzie's portrait, but his scruple vanished in one of her sweet sunny smiles, and he gave her all information about the train she would have to take to reach Southwick by twelve o'clock.

He ordered some delicacies in the way of potted meats, and there was a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice when she arrived.

"Do you keep your champagne in ice? We never do in the bar. When the gentlemen want it they have a piece to put in their wine."

"I wish you'd try to forget your gentlemen when you come here."

Lizzie began to cry, and it was hard to console her; she said that Frank had spoilt her lunch for her.

"It is because you are so much superior to the men I see you speaking to. How can I help feeling annoyed that you should be serving drinks?"

"But I've got to get my living. You don't suppose I serve in a bar because I like it?"

"No, of course not; but don't let us talk any more about it. You're going to sit to me, and I want to do as pretty a portrait of you as I can. All that beautiful brown hair, and that hat! Let me take it from your head!" Frank had bought this hat for her and had handed it to her over the counter, thereby bringing censure upon her from the manager. "Let's forget what I said. The hat suits you. There, now against the light, just a three-quarter face."

At the end of half an hour he said she was a very good sitter and this pleased her, and she tried to keep the pose till the clock struck, but at the end of fifty minutes she said: "I must get up," and she came round to see what he was doing.

"Now you mustn't criticise it," he said. "It's only a beginning. You've forgiven me my remarks about the bar?"

"Don't remind me of it again."

But he could not get it out of his head that he had annoyed her, and was unable to apply himself to his painting; perhaps for this reason his drawing went wrong, and his colour became muddy, and the thought struck him that if Maggie were to find this portrait about the studio she would certainly ask him whose portrait it was,

"I can't paint to-day," he said, getting up from his easel.

"And why can't you paint?" The question seemed to him at first a stupid one, and then she showed a perception that surprised him. "Are you afraid the young lady you're engaged to might come and catch me sitting to you?"

The fear that this might happen had been floating in the back of his mind for the last half hour; he had kept Lizzie too long in the studio, and it was not improbable that the girls might knock at his door at any moment, and if they did it would be impossible for him not to answer. Triss would bark.

"Well," she said, "I won't keep you any longer."

"No, I assure you," he said aloud, and within himself, "I'd give a sovereign if I could get her to the station without being seen."

And he thought he had done so as he returned half an hour afterwards across the green. Maggie was waiting for him. "Come to ask me to dine at the Manor House," he thought; but she told him that she knew all about his visitor, and, despite all Frank's efforts to pacify her she grew more violent, more excited until at last she told him she didn't want to see him any more, that he was to go away, that she gave him his liberty.

"What an excitable girl she is! I'll go there this evening and try to coax her out of her anger. I must try to explain to her that a painter must have models. If we were married we shouldn't have more than a thousand a year to live on at the outside—that is to say, if Mount Rorke and Brookes come to terms, which is not very likely, they might make up a thousand a year between them, that would not be enough for two, and I should have to work; and I couldn't work without a model. The thing is absurd! She'll have to learn that a model is absolutely necessary; we were bound to have a row over that model question, so it might as well come off now as later on, and we shall understand each other better when this has blown over. There is nothing, and never has been anything, between me and Lizzie—my conscience is clear on that score. How pretty she looked to-day—that pale brown hair, so soft and so full of colour. To-day was an unlucky day; I began by being unfortunate with my painting; I never made a worse drawing in my life, and the worst of it was that I did not see that my drawing was wrong until I had begun to paint."

A remembrance of Maggie's gracefulness came dazzling and straining his imagination, and in sharp revulsion of desire he assailed Lizzie with angry and contemptuous memory. She was always in low company—was never happy out of it; it was part of her. How this man liked six dashes of bitters in his sherry, and the other would not drink whisky except in a thin glass.

As he was leaving the studio he received a letter from Maggie, and when he thought of the circumstances in which it was written, he grew genuinely alarmed, for there was no forgetting the seriousness of the letter, and she stated her reasons for the step she was taking without undue emphasis. In its severity and quiet determination the letter did not seem like her, and he suspected forgery, sisterly advice, paternal influence—a family conspiracy. There was but one thing to do. He looked through the various furniture for his hat; and with his head full of citations from the lives of artists illustrative of their conduct, he went to her. But Maggie would not see him.

"Miss Brookes," the servant said, "is in her room and cannot see you, sir."

"She will never be mine, she will never be mine," he muttered as he passed into the town. "But why do I think she'll never be mine?" And looking at the grey sea with only a trace of the sunset left in the grey sky he asked himself if the thought that had crossed his mind were a conviction, a fore-telling or merely a passing fancy created by the difficulty of the moment. He asked himself if he had heard himself saying, "She'll never be mine" and mistaken his own voice for the voice of Fate. Over the shingle bank the sea faded, a thin illusion, dim and promiseful of peace, and as the darkness and the sea filled Frank's soul he, the lightest and most life-loving of men, was filled for once with a sense of failure of life, and as his sorrowing thoughts drifted on he remembered that he had stood with her in hearing of the rising tide, and all his pleading and passion came back to him.

"What are you doing here?"

It was Willy.

"I don't know. Maggie has broken off her engagement; she will never speak to me again, she hopes we may never meet."

"I don't understand. When did she break off her engagement?"

Frank told his story, and they walked across the green towards the studio.

"Oh, you don't care. I don't believe you are listening to me."

"I am listening. You never think any one understands what is said to them if they do not instantly jump and call the stars to witness."

"I suppose I am like that—excitable—the difference between the Celt and the Saxon; and yet I don't know, your sisters are quite as excitable as I am."

"They take after their mother; I am more like my father."

"It wouldn't be a bad character for a play—a man who never would believe what you said, unless you threw up your arms and called on the stars."

"He can't be very bad if he can think about plays," thought Willy.

"Tell me, Willy, you won't offend me; tell me exactly what you think, did I do anything wrong? I swear to you there is nothing between me and Lizzie—I believe she is over head and ears in love with some fellow who has treated her very badly. She never would tell me who he was. In fact, she told me she had left London so that she might get over it. There would be no use my humbugging you, and I swear there is not, and never was, anything between me and Lizzie Baker. I never expected to see her again. It is very strange how people meet. I have told you all about it. When I go to Brighton I must go somewhere to get a drink, and I really don't see there is any harm in going to the 'Tivoli'; it didn't occur to me to think I should avoid the place merely because she was serving there. I have often been there, I don't deny it. Do you see there is any harm in my going there?"

"I don't like giving an opinion unless I am fully acquainted with the facts; but it seems to me that you might have gone to the 'Tivoli' to have a drink without asking her to your studio."

"Stay a bit, we'll speak of that presently. I am now telling you how I see Lizzie when I go to Brighton. I often go to Brighton by the four o'clock train, I often go to the 'Tivoli,' and when she is not talking to some one else I talk to her about things in general; but I swear I have never been out with her, that I never saw her except in the bar, and yet Maggie accuses me of keeping a woman in Brighton, and won't hear what I have to say in my defence. This is what she says: 'I have it on unquestionable authority that you have been keeping this woman since you returned from Ireland, perhaps before, and that you go in by the four o'clock train almost daily to see her.' Now I ask you if it is fair to make such accusations—such utterly false and baseless accusations—and then to refuse to hear what a fellow has to say in his defence? By Jove! if I caught the fellow who has been telling lies about me, I'd let him have it. Some of those Southdown Road people have been writing to her, that's about the long and short of it.

"As for having asked her to come to the studio, I assure you my intentions were quite innocent. Perhaps you won't understand what I mean; you don't care for painting, but very often an artist has a longing to paint a certain face, and the desire completely masters him. Well, I had a longing of this kind to paint Lizzie; hers is just the kind of head that suits me—she offered to give me a sitting, Idid not see much harm in accepting, and as I could not paint her in the bar-room, I asked her to the studio. But as for making out there was anything wrong—I assure you she is not that sort of girl. If we were married (I mean Maggie and I) I would have to have models; we'll have to come to an understanding on that point. Now what I want you to do is to explain to Maggie that there is nothing wrong between me and Lizzie, you can tell her there is nothing—I swear there is nothing; and then you had better explain that an artist must have models to work from."

"Don't ask me. I wish you wouldn't ask me. I make a rule never to interfere in my sisters' affairs. I did once, you remember, and I thought I should never hear the end of it."

"I think you might do this for me."

"Don't ask me. I wish you wouldn't, my dear fellow. I am an exceedingly nervous chap, and I have had nothing but bad luck all my life."

"You think of nothing but yourself. You certainly are the most selfish fellow I ever met. You take no interest in any affairs but your own."

Willy made no answer. He sat stroking his moustache softly with slow crumpled hand. After a long silence, he said: "Tell me, Frank, are you really in love with my sister, or is it only imagination? I know people often think they are in love when their fancy is only a little excited. Very little will pass for being in love, but the real thing is very different from such fancies."

"I assure you I never loved any one like Maggie. Yes, I am sure I love her."

"You may be in love, I don't say you aren't; but I am sure there's no more common mistake than to fancy one's self in love because one's imagination is a bit excited. When you do fall in love, you find out your mistake."

"You think no one was ever in love but yourself. Do you remember when you took me to see her, when we heard her sing 'Love was false as he was fair, and I loved him far too well'?"

Frank knew no more of the story than that: Willy had loved this actress vainly. On occasions Willy had alluded to her, but he had never shown signs of wishing to confide.

"Yes, I remember. How I loved that woman, and what a wreck it has made of my life. I daresay you often think me dull; I can quite understand your thinking me narrow-minded, selfish, and incapable of taking interest in other people's affairs: losing her took the soul out of my life. Now nothing really amuses me—now nothing really interests me. I often think if I were to die, it would be a happy release."

"You never told me anything about it before; wouldn't she marry you?"

"I never knew her. I fell in love with her the first time I saw her, and my love swallowed up everything else. Then I wasn't wrapped up in account-books, although I was always a precise and methodical sort of chap; I was young enough then, now I am an older man than my father. Some fellows have all the luck; everything succeeds with them, every one loves them, men and women, they get all they ask for and more, others get nothing. No matter what I tried to do, something went wrong and I was baulked. I set my heart on that girl, she was the one thing I wanted. I saw her play the same piece fifty times. I knew my passion was hopeless, but I couldn't resist it. Had I known her I might have won her, but there were no means; I never saw her but once off the stage, and that was but a moment. I often sent her presents, sometimes jewellery, sometimes fans or flowers, anything and everything I thought she would like. I sent her a beautiful locket; I paid fifty pounds for it."

"Did she accept your presents?"

"I sent them anonymously."

"Why did you not try to make her acquaintance?"

"I knew nobody in the theatrical world. I was not good at making acquaintances. You might have done it. I am a timid man."

"Did you make no attempt? You might have written."

"At last I did write."

"What did you write?"

"I tried to tell her the exact truth. I told her that I had refrained from writing to her for three years. That I quite understood the folly and the presumption of the effort; but I felt now, as drowning men that clutch at straws, that I must make my condition known to her. I told her I loved her truly and honourably, that my position and fortune would have entitled me to aspire to her hand if fate had been kind enough to allow me to know her. It was a very difficult letter to write, and I just tried to make myself clear. I told her I knew no one in the theatrical world, and that waiting and hoping for some chanceto bring us together would only result in misery long drawn out; that I had some faint hope that this letter might lead her to consider that there might be an exception to the rule that a young lady should not stop to speak to a young man she didn't know. I remember I said 'when men are in deadly earnest, truth seems to shine between the lines they write. I know I am in earnest, and may say that all I hold dear and precious in life is set in the hope that this letter may not appear to you in the light of one of those foolish and wicked letters which I believe men often write to actresses, and of which I suppose you have been the recipient.' Then I said that I would be at the stage door on the following night, and that I hoped she would allow me to speak a few words to her."