"And did she?"

"I could not speak to her; I lost all courage in that moment. She walked close by me."

"You mean to say you did not speak to her after writing that letter?"

"Call me a fool, an idiot, what you will; I could not do it. I can only compare my feeling to what Livingstone says he felt when he found himself face to face with a lion. He stood staring in the lion's eyes, unable to move."

"She must have thought your letter a practical joke. I wonder what she did think."

"I wrote explaining the unfortunate circumstances as well as I could, and telling her I would come the following night."

"Did you go?"

"Yes."

"Did you speak to her?"

"Yes."

"And she wouldn't speak?"

"She passed on with her maid, but I didn't lose hope until she married. It was always a sort of sad pleasure to go to the theatre to see her. I used to live at the Manor House for two or three months at a time, saving up my money so as to be able to make her some nice present. I wished her to remember me, although she would not speak to me. No one came to the Manor House; there was nothing to do except to read the paper and smoke my pipe. I was sick of my life, and I counted the days that would have to pass till I saw her again—only thirty more days, only nineteen days, only one more week—so I used to count, marking off each day in an almanac, until one day I read the announcement of her marriage; then I knew all hope was at an end. I went mad that night and rushed out of the house, and I should have drowned myself had I not fainted. When I came to, I was weak and delirious, and wandered along the beach, not knowing where I was going. Some fishermen brought me home. My sisters were at school at the time. I believe I was very near dying. I fainted three times one afternoon. I used to lie on the sofa and cry for hours. She married a stockbroker. I believe she didn't care for him at all. Then she died. She was buried in Kensal Green. Whenever I am in London I go and see her grave."

"This is awfully sad."

"Yes; it ruined my life. I never had any luck. Things always went wrong with me."

"I should like to see those letters."

"I haven't got copies. I didn't keep a letter-book in those days. Let's talk of something else. I have some news. I am going in for breeding race-horses."

"What do you mean?"

"What I say. I have calculated it all out, and I find I shall make from fifteen to twenty per cent, on my money."

"By breeding race-horses! And where are you going to breed them?"

"You know those stables on the Portslade Road where the veterinary surgeon used to live? I am going to take that place. The rent is three hundred pounds a year; there are fifty acres of pasture, and stabling for thirty horses. The dwelling-house is not a very aristocratic- looking place, but it will do for the present; when I begin to make money I shall go in for alterations. You can't do everything at once."

"You do astonish me. And where are you going to get the money to do all this? You will require at least twenty thousand pounds capital."

"More than that. You would not be able to work a place like that under twenty-five thousand pounds," Willy replied sententiously. "I have got about eight thousand left of my own, and I came in for a legacy of three thousand at the beginning of this year—an aunt of mine left me the money; and my father has agreed to let me have fourteen thousand on condition of my abandoning all further claim upon him. The bulk of his fortune will now be divided among my sisters. Berkins advised him to accept my offer."

"I should think so indeed; your father is worth ten thousand a year."

"No, nothing like that. His business has been going down for years past. Last year he lost heavily again; if it weren't for his investments he wouldn't be able to go on with it. The business is done for; I knew that long ago. My father and I could never agree about how the accounts should be kept. That head clerk of his is an awful duffer."

"Yes, but what are you going to do with the shop?"

"The shop was the origin of it all. If it hadn't been for the shop I dare say I never should have thought of the race-horses. My father and I could never work together. I offered to buy his surplus fruit and vegetables, and, without absolutely binding myself to deal with no one else, I had assured him of my chief custom. Naturally I expected something in return—I expected him to let me have peaches in April and strawberries in March. You cannot do this without using a good deal of heating power. I spoke to the gardener several times. Often when I went into the houses I found the pipes nearly cold. I got tired of this, and I paid a man out of my own pocket to keep the furnaces properly stoked, and—would you believe it?—my father actually raised objections—objected to my paying a man to look after his glass-houses as they should be looked after. He said he would not order in any more coke, that I'd have to get along with what there was in the garden; he said he wished the shop at the devil. I saw it was hopeless. You cannot help my father, and he won't help himself, so I threw the whole thing up."

"And when are you going to start the new scheme?"

"Immediately. One of my reasons for accepting fourteen thousand pounds down as a settlement in full was because I was beginning to fear that he might get wind of my marriage. From one or two things I have heard lately, I have reason to suspect that the secret is beginning to ooze out, and I thought it might be as well to take time by the forelock."

"And you told him? What did he say?"

"What people usually say when they criticise other people's lives without knowing anything of their temptations and sufferings. But I want to tell you about my scheme. I have bought Blue Mantle, the winner of the Czarewitch, and only beaten by a length for the Cambridgeshire, a three-year-old, with eight stone on his back; a most unlucky horse—if he had been in the Leger or Derby he would have won one or both. He broke down when he was four years old. By King Tom out of Merry Agnes, by Newminster out of Molly Bawn."

"I didn't know you knew so much about racing."

"I know more than you think. I don't let out all I know."

"And how much did you pay for Blue Mantle?"

"Dirt cheap. I can imagine myself two years hence, when my first batch of yearlings is put up for sale—500, 650, 800, 1000, knocked down for 1000 guineas, brown colt by Blue Mantle out of Wild Rose, bred by William Brookes, Esq."

"I don't think money will come in quite so fast as that."

"Perhaps not; but can't you let a fellow enjoy himself? I never knew any one like you for throwing cold water. I believe you are jealous."

"What nonsense!"

"Well, never mind. I shall be the deuce of a dog, see if I shan't. I always like to kill two birds with one stone if I can, and my business will bring me into connection with the very best in the land. Unfortunately! my people don't care about getting on; now I do. I like to know people who are better than myself—at all events, who are no worse. I shouldn't be surprised if I were dining at Goodwood and Arundel before long. When I go up to town I shall be calling on Lady This and Lady That, and later on I might get in somewhere in the Conservative interest."

"How long you may know a man, and then find you are mistaken in his character," thought Frank. "So vanity is at the bottom of all these efforts to make money."

"When are you coming to the Manor House?"

"Impossible. You know I can't go there so long as your father—"

"Come in one afternoon; he'll ask you to stay to dinner. He has forgotten all about it."

"I cannot come to the Manor House until my engagement to your sister is sanctioned by him."

"The way to get that is to come to the Manor House and talk him into it. For my part, I think, even from his point of view, that it would be better that he should recognise the engagement; nothing can be more damaging than these clandestine meetings."

"What can I do? I will not give her up."

"I never interfere. I have quite enough worries of my own. I must be getting home. It is very late. Good-bye."

The green was as bright as day in the moonlight and Frank watched Willy walking, his shoulders thrown back. He sighed; an undefinable, but haunting melancholy hung about Willy; he often impressed Frank as an old book—a book whose text is trite—which no one will read, and which yet continues to make its mute appeal; a something that has always missed its way, that can hardly be said to be an adequate thing to offer for any man's money, that will soon disappear somehow out of all sight and reckoning.



XV



A few days after he got a letter from Lizzie, saying she was alone and ill, and asking him to come and see her. He took the next train to Brighton. The land-lady's daughter, a girl of about twelve, opened the door to him.

"How is Miss Baker? Is she any better?"

"Please, sir, she is not at all well, she has cold shivers; and mother went away yesterday."

"And who looks after Miss Baker?"

"Please, sir, I do."

"You do! Is there no one else in the house?"

"No, sir."

"Is Miss Baker in bed?"

"No, sir. She said she would get up a little while this afternoon, 'cause she said she thought you was coming."

"Go and tell her I am here."

"Please, sir, she said you was to go upstairs—the back room on the second floor, please."

"Come in."

"I am so sorry you are ill, Lizzie. What is the matter?"

"I don't know; I think I caught a severe chill. I stayed out very late on the beach."

"But why are you crying? Do tell me. Can I do anything?"

"No no. What does it matter whether I laugh or cry? Nothing matters now. I don't care what becomes of me."

"A pretty girl like you; nonsense! Some one rich and grand will fall in love with you, and give you everything you want."

"I don't want any one to fall in love with me; I am done for—don't care what becomes of me."

"Do tell me about it. Have you heard anything further about him? Do tell me; don't cry like that."

"No, no, leave me, leave me! I am so miserable. I don't know why I wrote to you. I hope I shall die."

"It is very lucky you did write to me, for you are clearly very ill. What is the matter?"

"I don't know; I can't get warm. This room is very cold—don't you think so?"

"Cold? No."

"I feel cold; my throat is very bad—perhaps I shall be better in the morning."

"You must see a doctor."

"Oh, no! I don't want to see a doctor."

"You must see a doctor."

"No, no, I beg of you. I only wrote to you because I was feeling so miserable."

Lizzie stood between him and the door, imploring him not to fetch a doctor, but to go away at once, and to tell no one she had written to him, or that he had been to see her. "Nothing matters now—I am ruined—I don't care what becomes of me." He marvelled; but soon all considerations were swept away in anxiety for her bodily health; and having extorted a promise from her that she would not leave the room until he came back, he rushed to the nearest chemist and hence to the doctor.

"I want you to come at once, if possible, and see a young lady who, I fear, is dangerously ill. She has not been in Brighton long. She is quite alone. She sent for me. I live at Southwick. I came out at once. I have known her a long time. I may say she is a great friend of mine. I found her very ill—I must say her condition seems to me alarming. I should like her to see a doctor at once. Can you come at once?"

"I am just finishing dinner. I will come in about ten minutes' time. What is the address?"

"20 Preston Street.—I hope he does not think there is anything wrong," thought Frank. "He look's as if he did," and with a view of removing suspicion, he said: "She is a young lady whom I have known for some years. We had lost sight of each other until we travelled down in the train together. I say this because I do not wish you to think there is anything wrong."

"My good sir, I should not allow myself to have any opinions on the matter. I am summoned to attend a patient, and I give the best advice in my power."

"Yes, but one can't help forming opinions—a beautiful young girl living alone in lodgings, and having apparently for sole protector a young man, are circumstances that might be easily misconstrued, and as I am engaged to be married, I think it right to tell you exactly how I stand in relation to this young woman."

The doctor bowed.

"Do you not think I did well in making this explanation?"

"It can do no harm; we medical men see so much that we take no notice of anything but our patient. But tell me something of this young lady's suffering. Can you describe the symptoms?"

"She has a racking headache—she is shivering all over—she sits by the fire and cannot get warm. It looks to me as if it were fever."

"Does she complain of her throat?"

"Yes; she cannot swallow."

"Probably an attack of quinsy."

"Is that dangerous?"

"No; but it is infectious."

"I don't mind about that—she is alone. I will see her through it."

"I will go round to Preston Street immediately I have finished dinner —in about ten minutes or a quarter of an hour."

When the doctor had seen Lizzie, he said to Frank, who accompanied him downstairs: "Just as I expected—quinsy. She will take from eight to ten days to get well. We have taken it in time, that's one good thing. The throat is very bad. She must have a linseed poultice, and she must use the gargle. Is there any one in the house who can attend to her?"

"I am afraid not; the landlady went away this morning, leaving no one in the house but that child. She will, I hope, be home to-morrow."

"In that case you had better have a nurse in; I will give you the address of one."

When Frank returned he found her lying on the bed weeping. As before, she refused to tell him the cause of her grief. She would make no other answer than that nothing mattered now, that she didn't care what became of her; and when he spoke of going to fetch a nurse, she waved her hands excitedly, declaring she would on no consideration stop in the house with a woman she didn't know. And, hardly able to decide what course he should take, he promised not to leave her; she clung about him, and he was forced to send the child (whose name he now found to be Emma) to the chemist for the linseed, and he wrote a note asking for explicit directions how it should be used. Then he had to persuade Lizzie to go to bed. She resisted him, and it was with great difficulty that he got her boots and stockings off; then she collected her strength, unbuttoned her dress, and took off her stays. Then she said: "Go out of the room for a moment."

He found his way into the kitchen, and guessing that hot water would be required, he lit a fire. But there was no muslin, and he had to send Emma for some. Lizzie smiled faintly when they entered—Frank with a basin, Emma with a kettle and a parcel of linen. Frank poured some rum into a glass, and beat an egg up with it.

"What is that?" she asked; and her voice was so faint and hoarse that he turned, quite startled.

"Something that will do your throat good and keep your strength up. Possibly you will not be able to eat much to-morrow." He held the tumbler to her lips, and at length succeeded in getting her to drink it. "Emma, is the kettle boiling?"

"Yes, sir."

"You had better go downstairs and get some coals, and if you can't find any nightlights you must go out and buy a box. Have you got any money over?"

"Yes, sir, sixpence."

"Now, Lizzie, let me put this on your throat. Throw your head well back. There, it isn't too hot?"

And all that night he sat by her bedside. Often she could not get her breath, and he had to lift her and prop her up with pillows; and four times he lit the candle, and, with tired eyes, mixed the meal and placed it on her throat. The firelight played upon the ceiling, the kettle sang softly, the sufferer moaned, the light brought the rumble of a cart, and they awoke from shallow sleeps that blurred but did not extinguish consciousness of the actual present. "You must not uncover yourself; you will catch cold. Let me pin this shawl about you." About eight o'clock Emma knocked at the door. Frank asked her to make him a cup of tea. The morning dragged along amid many anxieties, for he could see she was worse than she had been over night.

"The disease must take its course," said the doctor; "we shall be fortunate if by poulticing we can stop it; if we can't, it will come to a head in about eight or nine days' time, and then it will break. Did you see the nurse last night? Couldn't she come?"

"She," said Frank, pointing to the sufferer, "wouldn't allow me to send for her; she said she would not stay in the house with a strange woman. She was very excited; I fancy she has had some great mental trouble—a sweetheart, I suppose. I did not like to cross her. I thought I could nurse her; I did my best. Was the poultice all right?"

"Quite right. But you will have to sit up with her to-night. You will be very tired; you had better get in a nurse."

"I think I shall be able to manage. The landlady is expected home this evening or to-morrow morning. What had she better have to eat?"

"She won't be able to eat anything for some days. Try to get her to take an egg beat up in a wine-glass of rum."

Hourly she grew worse, and on the following day Frank stood by her bed momentarily fearing that she would suffocate; once her face blackened and he had to seize and lift her out of bed, and place her in a chair. When she seemed a little easier he called Emma, and they made the bed and cleaned up the room together. Then he ate a sausage and drank a glass of beer that had been brought from the public-house.

The first night had seemed long and weary, but now the hours passed quickly; he had forgotten all but the suffering woman, and in the interest of inducing her to swallow some beef-tea, in the pride of such successes another and then another day fled lightly. Nor did he feel tired as he had done, and now a nap in an arm-chair seemed all that he required. So the landlady came as an unwelcome interruption of an absorbing occupation. Haggard and unshaven, he returned to Southwick, where he found a note on his table from General Horlock, asking him to dinner that evening.

"I know the meaning of this: Maggie will be there—a reconciliation! Can I?" He turned his ear quickly from his conscience; he was frightened of the voice that would tell him that Maggie was nothing to him, never had been, never could be; that he had been born for Lizzie Baker, as the soldier is for the sword or the bullet that kills him; others had passed him, had been heard sharply, had gleamed dangerously in his eyes. They were but signs and omens meant for others, not for him, and they had passed. But this one had remained, though often lost, as that remains which is to be, and she was now no less for him than before, though now seemingly lost irrevocably to another; and in all the seeming of irrevocable loss was drawing nearer—not with the victory and destiny of old in her eyes, but with no less victory and destiny inherent in her. Though far from him, she had been for long a disintegrated influence, but what had been distant was now near, and all was yielding like a ship in the attraction of the fabulous loadstone mountain. That room!—the wash-hand-stand, the dirty panes of glass, the iron bed-there his fate had been sealed. That body which he had lifted out of bed still lay heavy in his arms. He still breathed the odour of the hair he had gathered from the pillow and striven to pin up; those eyes of limpid blue, pale as water where isles are sleeping, burned deep and livid in his soul; the touch and sight of that flesh, the sound of that voice, those tears, the solicitude and anxiety of those hours of night and day conspired against him, and his life was big with incipient overthrow.

Lizzie was with him at all times. He saw her eyes, then her teeth, and the perfume and touch of her hair was often about him; and yet he was hardly conscious that a revolution of feeling was in progress within him; and when the time came for him to go to Horlock's he went there avoiding all thoughts of Maggie, although he knew he would be called upon that night to take a decisive step. He saw little of her before dinner, and during dinner the General's allusions to the quarrels of lovers being the renewal of love vexed him, and he thought, "Confound it! If I want to make it up I will; but I am not going to be bullied into it." When the ladies left the room he found it difficult to pretend to the kind-hearted old soldier that he did not believe that Maggie would forgive him. "Forgive me for what? I have done nothing."

"To get on with women you must always admit you are in the wrong—ha, ha, ha!" laughed the General; "now I have it from my wife—women know everything—ha, ha, ha!" laughed the General. "Have another glass of sherry?"

"No, thanks; couldn't take any more."

"I took I won't tell you how many glasses before I proposed to my wife, and then I was afraid; enough to make me—a clever woman like Mrs. Horlock, I believe you wouldn't find a woman in England like Mrs. Horlock. Look round; all that's her work. Look at that white Arab— exactly like him. I won five hundred pounds with that horse; but I wouldn't be satisfied, and I ran him again the following day and lost it all and five hundred more with it. I had another horse. My wife is modelling him in wax; she will show it to you in the next room. Marvellous woman!"

Passing Maggie by who was sitting in the window, Frank inveigled Mrs. Horlock into an anatomical discussion. The General stretched out his feet, put on his spectacles, and took up the St James's. The conversation dropped, and, full of apprehension and expecting reconciliation, Frank went to Maggie and talked to her of the tennis parties he was going to, of the people he had seen—of indifferent things. The time was tense with the fate of their lives. Once she turned her head and sighed. Time slipped by, and still they talked of their friends—of things they knew perfectly. Maggie said: "I hope you are not angry; I hope we shall remain friends." Frank replied: "I hope so," and again the conversation paused. The General denounced Gladstone, and praised his wife's sculpture. Ten o'clock! Angel was lifted out of his basket. If Maggie had been Helen and Southwick Troy, he would not be kept waiting; the dogs had to be taken out; Willy came to fetch Maggie; hands were tendered, lips said good-bye, and, with a sense of parting, they parted.

Feeling adrift and strangely alone, he walked to his lodging. His future loomed up in his mind as vague and as illusive as the village that now glared through the mist, white and phantasmal. He did not regret—we can hardly regret the impossible. Then, falling back on a piece of prose, he said: "Where was the good? Mount Rorke would never have given his consent. Poor Lizzie; I hope she is better. I hope it has broken. She won't get any relief until it does."

And next day, towards evening, he went to Brighton. He found her shrinking over the fire, wrapped in a woollen shawl.

"How are you to-day? You look a little better. I did not expect to find you out of bed."

"I am better, thank you; it broke yesterday, and I feel relieved. You are very good. I think I should have died if it had not been for you. Think of that landlady leaving me in the way she did."

"What was the reason? Why did she rush off in that way?"

"She went to town to see her sister, and she says she was taken ill. She drinks."

"Does she? I hope she looked after you yesterday?"

"Oh, yes."

"As well as I did?"

"I don't know about that; you are a very good nurse. It was very good of you; no one else would have done it."

"What, not even he?"

"You were with me for four days, and you never even went to bed—never took your clothes off."

"Never even washed myself. By George! I was glad to get home and have a good wash. I was a sorry-looking object—haggard and unshaven."

"Where did you say you had been to?"

"Nobody asked me."

"Not Maggie?"

"No; I didn't tell you our engagement is broken off."

"No; you didn't say nothing about it."

"On account of you. She discovered that you had been to my studio, and she said I was keeping a woman in Brighton."

"Keeping a woman in Brighton—she thinks you are keeping me! I will write to her and tell her that it is not true. What right has she to say such things about me?"

"She doesn't say it about you. She says a woman."

"She means me."

"No, she doesn't; she doesn't know anything about you. Some one told her I went into Brighton every day by the four o'clock train, and she put two and two or rather two and three together, and said it was six."

"But I will write to her. I will not be the cause of any one's marriage being broken off."

"You need not trouble. I saw her last night, and I could have made it all right had I chosen—she was quite willing."

"You can't care for her!"

"I suppose not. I don't think I ever really loved her. I thought I did. I was mistaken."

"You are very changeable."

"No, I don't think I am—at least not so far as you are concerned. I was mistaken. I was in love with some one else—with you."

"With me?"

"Yes, with you. I was in love with you when we went to Reading, and never got over it. I thought I had, but when love is real we never get over it. I always loved you, and those four days I spent nursing you have brought it all out. I shall never love any one else. I know you don't care for me; you said once you couldn't care for me."

"I! I am too miserable to care for any one. I wish you had let me die; but that is ungrateful. You must excuse me, I am so miserable. Why speak of loving me? I can love no one. I don't care what becomes of me. I am ruined; nothing matters now."

"I wish you would confide in me; you can trust me. Has he forsaken you? Can you not make it up?"

"No, never now; I shall never see him again."

"Has anything happened lately, since you came to Brighton?"

Lizzie nodded.

"Don't cry like that; tell me about it."

"What's the use? Nothing matters now."

"Has he been here?"

Lizzie nodded, and Frank folded the shawl about her, and wiped her tears away with his pocket handkerchief. "Since you were ill?"

"No, before I was ill; he was down here watching me. He found out I had gone to your studio, and he said the most dreadful things—that he would break your head, and that I had never been true to him, and that I was not fit to be the wife of an honest man."

"But I will tell him that you came to my studio to sit for your portrait."

"No, you mustn't write; it would only make matters worse. No use; he says he will never see me again."

"Where can I see him? Has he gone back to London? I will follow him and tell him he is mistaken." "No, please don't, and please don't go to the 'Gaiety'; he is a violent-tempered man; something dreadful might occur. Please, promise me."

"Not go to the 'Gaiety'? He doesn't know me."

"Yes, he does."

"Have I seen him? Do tell me; you know you can trust me. I am your friend. Tell me—"

"You have seen him in the 'Gaiety,' in the grill-room—the waiter, number two, the good-looking tall man."

"Oh!"

"He wasn't always a waiter; his people are very superior. He has been unfortunate."

"And it was he you loved this long while?"

"I never cared for another man."

"I must write and tell him he is committing an act of injustice. I will make this matter right for you, Lizzie."

"Do you think you can?"

"I am sure of it."

He rang for the landlady, and asked for writing materials. She apologised for the penny bottle of ink, and spoke of getting a table from the next room, but he said he could write very well on the chimney-piece. "I suppose I had better begin, 'Sir'?"

"Don't people generally begin, 'Dear Sir'?"

"Not when they don't know the people they are writing to."

"But you do know him a little. He always said you were very haughty. You used to sit at his table."

"I think I had better begin the letter with 'Sir.'"

"Very well. You know best. He was always very jealous."



XVI



"SIR,—I hear from Miss Baker that you were in Brighton last week, and, drawing the inference from the fact that she came to my studio to sit for her portrait, you accuse her of very grievous impropriety. I beg to assure you that this is not so. At my urgent request, Miss Baker, whom I had better say I have known for some years, consented to give me a sitting. My intentions were purely artistic; hers were confined to a wish to oblige an old friend, and I deeply regret that they should have been misinterpreted, and I fear much unhappiness caused thereby."

"Do you think that will do?"

"Yes, it is a beautiful letter."

"Do you think so—do you really think so? Do you think I have said all?"

"You might say something—that I never even kissed you; and that you respected me too much."

"I will if you like, but don't you think that is implied?"

"Perhaps so; but you see he does not read many books. He hasn't time for much reading, and you put things in a difficult way. They sound beautiful, but I—"

"Show me."

"Well, this 'grievous impropriety.' I know what you mean, but I couldn't explain it."

"Shall I say 'serious impropriety'? but grievous is the right word. You say a grievous sin for a mortal sin. If we had done any wrong it would have been a grievous sin; but I'll change the word if you like."

"No, don't change it on my account; but I think he would understand an easier word better."

"A 'heinous impropriety'? No, that won't do. A 'serious impropriety.' That will do. Is there anything else you would like me to alter?"

"No, I don't think there is."

"You think this letter will convince him that there was nothing wrong?"

"I hope so; but he is a very suspicious man."

"I will post it when I go out." Then after a long silence: "Do you know what time it is? It must be getting late."

"It must be getting on for nine."

"Then I must say good-bye; but I forgot, I want to ask you—you must be hard up, and want some money—do you? If you do, I assure you I shall be only too glad."

"Well, I am rather hard up, for you know that this illness has prevented my doing anything; and I am afraid I have lost my place at the 'Tivoli.'"

"What do you intend to do?"

"I should like to go back to London. I shall see him there, and if the letter makes it right we may be married. I will write to you."

"You will?—Do. Here is five pounds. I have no more about me, but if anything should occur, you know where to write to."

"You are very good; I don't deserve it. I don't know why you take so much trouble about me. If he doesn't marry me I'll try to get another place; I shall go back to the firm."

"When do you intend to leave?"

"As soon as I am well enough, in a day or two; but you will not come here again."

"I had thought that I might."

"I know; but if he were to hear that you had been here, it would be worse than ever. You don't mind, do you? You aren't angry, are you?"

"No; good-bye, Lizzie. Write to me when you are married." Frank walked into the street. There was neither rage nor will in him. He was a sorrowing creature in a bitter world. The sea was cruelly blue in the coming night; the sky was also blue, only deeper, a red streak like a red bar of iron stretched across the embaying land, relieving into picturesque detail the outlines of coast-towns and villages. His eyes rested on and drew grief from this dim distance so illusive; and for jarring contrast, the pier hung with gaudy and gross decoration in the blue night, and a brass band replied to the waves.

Then the clouds lifted, and when he returned to Southwick the moon was shining and some boys pursued the resounding ball through the shadows. He undressed with an effort, and he lay down hoping never to rise again. Next morning he went to his studio full of resolve. His picture must be finished for one of the winter exhibitions. He did not take up his palette, nor did he sit at his piano for more than a few minutes; and when he met Willy he raged against Lizzie, jeered at her vulgarity, heaped ridicule upon her lover, the waiter; he spoke of writing a novel on the subject; he set out her character at length; and was alarmed when told that Maggie was ill. He must win her. She must be his wife. So he told Willy, so he assured himself that she would. He knew that Lizzie was nothing to him. She had left Brighton, thank God! He went to sleep, certain he had torn this page out of his life, and he awoke to find it still there; and day after day he continued to brood upon, and still unable to understand its meaning, he longed to turn it over and read, for there were other pages; but they were sealed, and he might only read this one page.

"I'm afraid that our old friend Brookes is having a hard time of it," said the General, taking the spectacles from his nose, and laying down the St James's, "they are all at him tooth and nail," and the General laughed gleefully. "You are the young man who has upset them. The young lady won't dress herself."

"My dear Reggie, you shouldn't talk like that. I do hate to hear scandal; you'll repent it," said Mrs. Horlock, and she adroitly smoothed the wax on the horse's quarters.

"I assure you, Mrs. Horlock, I never repeat what I hear; the guiding principle of my life is not to repeat conversations. Particularly in a village like Southwick, it is most essential that none of us should repeat conversations; I have always said that."

"Do tell me about Maggie; I hear she is very ill. What is the matter with her? What did you say—the young lady won't dress herself?"

"My dear Reggie, I will not stay here and listen to scandal. Not a word of it is true, Mr. Escott."

"What is not true, Mrs. Horlock?"

"What he told you about her walking about the house with her hair down."

"I don't think the General said anything about walking about the house with her hair down; he said some one wouldn't dress herself. I suppose he meant Maggie. I am sure I am sorry—I am most sorry—to hear she is ill, but it is unjust to assume that I had anything to do with her illness. We can speak freely among ourselves, you know. You know the circumstances; no one is more capable of understanding the case than you, for you are an artist. Maggie heard that I had had a model, that's what it amounts to, and she broke off the engagement; nothing could be more unjust, nothing could be more unwarranted."

"It could be brought on again, I know that," said Mrs. Horlock, and she turned the shoulders of her horse to the light.

"We will not go into that question, Mrs. Horlock. I confine myself to what has happened, and I say I was treated unjustly, most shamefully; and when I have been cast aside like an old hat, I hear indirectly that it can be made up again. I have borne quite enough, and will bear no more. Old Brookes came down to my studio with that cad Berkins, and forced his way in, and then forbade me the house because my dog bit Berkins's thigh. I couldn't help it. What did he attack me for? He didn't suppose a bull-dog would be still while his master was being knocked on the head."

"What should a common City man know about dogs? He wouldn't sign the petition when I asked him, to Sir Charles Warren, to cancel the regulations about muzzling."

"And then they set a report going that I had set the dog on, and if I hadn't set it on, that I hadn't called him off. As if I could! You know what a bull-dog is, Mrs. Horlock? Is a highly-bred dog likely to let go when he has fixed his teeth in the fleshy part of a thigh? The Brookes are old friends of mine, and I wouldn't say a word against them for the world; but of course it is as obvious to you as it is to me that they are not quite the thing. I mean—you know—I would not think of comparing them with the Southdown Road; but there is a little something. City people are not the Peerage; there's no use saying they are. Mount Rorke was upset; but I would not give in, and I think I should have won his consent in the long run. After all I have borne for her sake I think I might expect better treatment than to be thrown over, as I have said, like an old hat; and I don't mind telling you that I do not intend to be made a fool of in this matter; I shall turn a very deaf ear to stories of a broken heart and failing health. I shall not cease to think of Maggie. I loved her once very deeply, and I should have loved her always if—But tell me, General. You know I will not repeat anything."

"I advise you to say no more, Reggie. I will not be mixed up in any scandal. I shall leave the room. Sally is dining here to-night; she is only too anxious to talk of her sister. If Mr. Escott will stay and take pot-luck with us, he will no doubt hear everything there is to hear in the course of the evening."

"What have we got for dinner, Ethel? I know we have got a leg of mutton, and there is some curry."

"Your dinners are always excellent, Mrs. Horlock. I shall be delighted to stay. Here is Sally. Oh, how do you do, Sally? We were talking of you."

"I'm afraid every one is talking of me, now," she whispered, and the big girl passed over to Mrs. Horlock and kissed her. "How is it that no one has seen anything of you lately?" she said, taking the seat next him. "What have you been doing?"

"Nothing in particular. But I want to ask you about Maggie. I hear she is very ill."

Perceiving that his tone did not bespeak a loving mood, Sally's face brightened, and she became at once voluble and confidential.

"Oh, we have been having no end of a time at home. Father has been speaking of selling the place and leaving Southwick."

"Speaking of selling the place and leaving Southwick! And where does he think of going to live, and what is the reason of this?"

"Oh, the reason! I suppose he would say I was the reason; and where heis going to live, that is not settled yet—probably one of the big London hotels. He says everybody is laughing at him, and that when he meets the young men at the station he can see them laughing at him over their newspapers, for, according to father, they have all flirted with us. Maggie has been saying all kinds of things against me, and I am afraid that the Southdown Road people have been writing him anonymous letters again. Some one—I don't know who it is—I wish I did—has been telling him the most shocking things about Jimmy Meason and me; things in which I assure you there is not a word of truth. You know yourself that we have hardly spoken for nearly two years; last year, it is true, we made it up a bit in your studio, but it didn't last long. I don't think I saw him twice afterwards, and never alone— and now to have everything that happened two years ago raked up and thrown in my face! I don't say I haven't—I don't know what you'd call it, I suppose you'd call it spooning. I admit I infinitely preferred walking about the garden with a young man to sitting in the drawing- room and doing woolwork. I was a silly little fool then, but I do think it hard that all this should be raked up now. I don't know what will happen. Maggie pretends to be frightened at me; 'tis only her nonsense to set father against me. She won't dress herself, and she walks about with her hair down her back, wringing her hands."

"But what does she say? This is very bewildering. I don't understand— I am quite lost."

"The fact is that Maggie doesn't know what she is saying, so I suppose I oughtn't to blame her. She is a little off her head, that's the truth of it; but you mustn't say I said so, it will get me into worse trouble than I am already in. She was like that once before, and had to be put in the charge of a lady who was in the habit of dealing with excitable people. I don't mean lunatics, don't run away with that notion. I don't know what would happen if it got about that I was putting that about. Maggie is very excitable, and she has been exciting herself a great deal lately—you were the principal cause. She did all she could to get you to make it up when you met her here at dinner—the dinner was given for that—but you said nothing about it, and she came home in an awful state, accusing every one of combining to ruin her. She said I was jealous of her, that I was wild with fear that she would one day be Lady Mount Rorke. She said father had done everything to break off her marriage, because he did not like parting with his money. She had set her heart on being married, and it was a terrible disappointment. She has been disappointed two or three times. Father doesn't know what to do. Her thoughts seem to run on that one subject. She walks about the garden saying the most extraordinary things."

"But tell me about the illness."

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

"Oh, do!"

"I don't know how to say it. She used to say she longed to become a mother."

"Longed to become a mother? Well, that is the last thing—"

"You know what I mean."

"But tell me about the illness."

"I should call it more than being a little excited, but of course she isn't mad. She has, however, the most curious notions. She is always a little too imaginative at the best of times; at least, I find her so, but now her delusions are really too absurd, and, as I have said, the worst of it is that her thoughts run on that one thing; it really is most unfortunate. Poor father."

"But what are her delusions?"

"Well, I scarcely know how to tell you."

"Try; anything can be told. It depends how it is told."

"She thinks that the coachman has spread it all over Southwick—how shall I say it? I don't know that I ought to tell you. Well, that she has gone wrong with you and Berkins. I thought I should die of laughing—the idea of Berkins was too funny for words."

"But your father doesn't believe it?"

"Of course not."

"He doesn't suspect me, I hope?"

"No; I am sure he doesn't. He knows Maggie doesn't know what she is saying. But he was dreadfully put out about Berkins; he is frightened out of his wits lest he should hear of it. But for goodness' sake don't mention that I said anything to you about it; I am in trouble enough as it is. Father says he can stand it no longer. I am very much afraid that he will leave Southwick. It depends on what Aunt Mary says. He has sent for her; she will be here to-morrow."

These family councils were held in the billiard-room, and when Aunt Mary and Aunt Hester had had their tea they came along the passage, Aunt Mary of course in front, Aunt Hester timid and freckled and with her usual air of tracts. Uncle James stood with his back to the fire waiting for them. Willy caught at his hair, but an expression of resignation overspread his face, he packed his diary and accounts in brown paper and lit a pipe.

"Now, James, let us hear about these new troubles. Something must be done, that is clear."

"Yes, something must be done, Mary, and I can think of nothing for it but to leave this place. It is no longer a place for me to live in. The Southdown Road has proved too strong for me, it has conquered me."

"Don't speak like that, James. We must try to bear our burdens, if not for our own sakes, for the sake of Him who died for us. He bore a very heavy cross for us."

"There's no use in talking to me like that, Hester, you only provoke me. You forget what a cross two daughters are, and the Southdown Road has become intolerable. It is more than any man can bear; I will bear it no longer. I have borne it long enough, and am determined to get rid of it. I am afraid there's nothing for it but to sell the place and go and live in London."

Aunt Hester cast her eyes into her satchel, afraid even to think that her brother had intentionally misinterpreted her words; but Aunt Mary laughed at the idea of the slonk-hill, as a latter-day Golgotha, with poor Uncle James staggering beneath the weight of the Southdown Road, young men and all, upon him. It was very irreverent. He burst into tears, Hester moved to leave the room, but was restrained by her sister.

"My position is a most unfortunate one; since the death of poor Julia I have had no one to turn to, there has been no restraining influence in this house. Here am I working all day long in the City for those girls, and when I come home in the evening I find my house full of people I don't know. I assure you, Mary, I don't know any of the people who come to my house. I am consulted in nothing. It is not fair—I say it is not fair; and at my death those girls will have thirty thousand pounds a-piece."

"I knew you had the money, James, I knew you had," exclaimed Aunt Mary, and even Aunt Hester could not help casting a look of admiration on her weeping brother.

"I say it is not fair; a man of my money should have a comfortable home to return to. Even the Southdown Road people have that; but no consideration is shown to me. My dinner is put back so that Sally may continue her flirtation with Meason in the slonk. Did any one ever hear of such a thing? A man's dinner put back so that—that—that—"

"Yes, we know all about the dinner being put back; that was three years ago."

"Why," Mr. Brookes asked himself, "had he invited his sisters to his help?" He was only adding bitterness to his bitter cup. "You have no sympathy, Mary," he went on; "you cannot understand the difficulties of my position—these two girls are for ever quarrelling and fighting; sometimes they are not even on speaking terms, but I think I prefer their sullen looks to their violence. Sally threatened to knock her sister down if she interfered with her young men."

"What, again?"

"Oh, I don't know if she has threatened to beat her lately. I don't remember when was the last time. Their various rows are all jumbled up in my head. All I know is that Maggie says she cannot live in the house with Sally. Maggie is very ill, she is in a very excited state, as she was once before, when I would not consent to her marriage with —I have forgotten his name, but it doesn't matter. Now she won't dress herself, and she walks about the house with her hair hanging down. I know there is nothing for it but to send her away under the charge of some lady who has had experience in such matters. She can't remain here. She has the strangest delusions. Among other things, she fancies the coachman has spread it all over Southwick that she has gone wrong with Berkins and that fellow Escott. Just fancy if Berkins—a ten thousand a year man—should hear of it! I don't know what he would say. He would peg into me; he is at times very hard indeed upon me. I don't say he is not a first-rate man of business, I know he has made several excellent investments; but for all that I do not and cannot think him competent to advise me on all my affairs, and that's what he is always doing. He talks of putting down that Southdown Road. I should like to see how he would set about doing it."

"James, Maggie must go away; she is very highly organised, very sensitive, and if she were to remain here, Sally might have a real effect on her mind. It is clear the sisters don't get on together; have you had medical advice? I told you before that you should have medical advice about those girls; I told you to spare no expense, but to go to a first-rate London physician and take his opinion. I said before, and I say it again, that no girls in good health could carry on as dear Sally, and I will include dear Maggie; for although she does not defy you to the same extent, there is no doubt that she is too fast, too fond of young men; her thoughts run too much in that way, and now she is ill, of course she has delusions. You ought to have medical advice."

"Mary, dear, the body is not everything; to cure the flesh you must first cure the soul. I believe our dear nieces rarely, if ever, attend church, rarely, if ever, remember that this life is not eternal and that there is a hereafter."

The conversation came to a pause. Presently Aunt Mary asked Willy, who sat resigned to his fate, calm and solemn as a Buddha, his hands clasped over his rotund stomach, if he thought that Maggie's state was one to cause immediate anxiety, to which he replied: "My sisters think of nothing but pleasure. The trouble girls are in a house is more than any one would believe. Here I am, I can do nothing; every night it is the same thing, over and over again." And the lean man lapsed into contemplation.

"But to come to the point, James, I want to hear about Sally. You said in your letter that a great deal had come to light, and that you now find that her conduct has been worse than you had ever imagined it, even in your moments of deepest dejection. Now, I want to hear about all this. What has she done? Let's have it in plain English. What has she done?"

"To put it plainly, Mary," said Mr. Brookes, wiping his tears away, and turning his back upon his Goodall, "I don't know what she hasn't done—everything. She is at the present moment the talk of Southwick. The doctor here has seen her in the field at the back here with Meason at nine o'clock at night."

"Why did you allow her to leave the house at that hour? No young girl— "

"She always takes her dogs out in the evening; I cannot prevent her doing that. It appears, too, that she has had Meason up in her bedroom."

"O James, you do not mean to say that my dear niece had a man in her bedroom!"

"Hester, dear, you have lived in a rectory and know nothing of the world. She says it isn't a bedroom. She pushes the bed away in the daytime, and covers it up to make it look like a couch. Besides, she keeps birds in her room, and Flossy had her puppies there. I am not excusing her conduct, pray do not think that, I am only telling you what she says."

"This is very serious. Are you quite sure? Perhaps she only meant to show the young man her birds or puppies. Her spirit must be broken, I can clearly see that."

"I allow them, as you know, one hundred pounds a year apiece. Maggie keeps none, but Sally always keeps accurate accounts of what she spends. I asked to see those accounts, for I had heard she had been giving her money to Meason, and she refused to let me see them. There is a sum of twenty pounds for which she can give no explanation. Then it is well known she gave a set of diamond studs to that fellow, and that he pledged them for five pounds in Brighton. He boasted he had done so, and said he intended to get plenty of money out of me before he had done with me. After that I ask you, how can I live in this place? When I go to the station in the morning I see these young fellows laughing at me over the tops of their newspapers. When I come home of an evening after a hard day's work, I find that my dinner—"

"Her spirit must be broken," said Aunt Mary, drawing her shawl about her, and crossing her hands. "Her spirit must be broken; she cannot be allowed to remain here to drive dear Maggie into a lunatic asylum. I am with you in that, James, but I cannot think you did well to let Frank Escott slip through your fingers. Had you not talked so much about money your daughter might have been Lady Mount Rorke."

"Talked too much about my money? Who would talk about it, I should like to know, if I didn't? I made it all myself. What do I care for that lot—a stuck-up lot, pooh, pooh! twist them all round my finger. I am not going to give my daughter to a man who cannot make a settlement upon her."

Seeing he was not to be moved in anything that concerned his pocket, Aunt Mary returned to the consideration of what was to be done with Sally. "From what you tell me it is clear that Sally must not remain in Southwick a day longer than can be helped. I will take her with me to Woburn; and I think she had better go abroad as soon as we can hear of some one in whose charge we can place her. But it must not be a sea voyage—there is nothing more dangerous than to be on board a ship for a young girl who is at all inclined to be fast. All are thrown so much together. The cabins open out one into the other, and there is always a looking for something—a handkerchief, a bunch of keys, a lot of stooping and playing, twiddling of moustaches," said Aunt Mary, with a peal of laughter.

"Mary, dear, we should not speak lightly of wickedness."

"It was so that all the mischief was done when Emily Evans was sent out to the Cape—it was all done on board a ship. You remember the Evanses, James?—you ought to, you used to flirt pretty desperately with Lucy, the younger sister." And then Aunt Mary rattled off into interminable tales concerning the attachment contracted on board a ship in particular, its unfortunate consequences, how it brought about a divorce later on by sowing the seeds of passion (Aunt Mary always pronounced the word "passion" in her narratives with strong emphasis), in the young girl's heart; and at various stages of her discourse she introduced fragments of the family history of the Evanses; she followed the wanderings of the different sisters from Homburg to Paris, from Paris to Scotland, from Scotland to the Punjab, explaining their different temperaments by heredity, which led her back into the obscure and remote times of grandfathers and grandmothers, and, having finally lost herself, she said: "What was I talking about? You have been listening to me, James, what was I talking about?"

Till the end of a week the discussion was continued. Aunt Mary tried hard to reconcile all parties to their different lots, and, as is usual in such cases, without attaining any result. And yet Aunt Mary went with her sister to see Frank in his studio. Willy accompanied them, and when they left he complained bitterly of how his time was wasted. "Regularly every evening, just as I am sitting down to work, I hear them coming along the passage. First of all they go to get their grog—squeak, squeak, pop. I know it all so well. Then they come in with their tumblers, and they sit down on the sofa, and they begin.—I don't know what is to be done with dear Sally, unless we can send her abroad in the care of some relation. How is dear Maggie to-day? I hope I shall be able to induce her to put on her frock to-morrow, and come for a drive with me in the carriage. What a trouble young girls are in the house, to be sure. Then father begins to groan, and pulls out his handkerchief; he is quite alone, he has no one he can depend upon, then he laughs, 'Well, well, I suppose it will be all the same a hundred years hence.' So it goes on night after night. Here am I starting a big business, and I haven't a room to work in. Just as I am adding up a long column of figures, perhaps when I am within three of the top, Aunt Mary asks me a question, and it has to be gone over again. It is most provoking, there's no denying that it is most provoking." Frank agreed that nothing could be more provoking than to be interrupted when you were within three of the top of a long column of figures. On the following day he heard that the aunts had left, taking Sally with them. They had promised their brother to find a lady who would take dear Maggie under her care—one who would soon wean her from dressing-gowns and delusions, and restore her to staid remarks and stays; and hopes were entertained that the Manor House would not have to be sold after all.

But many days had not sped when an event occurred that precipitated the five acres into the jaws of the builders. Meason had sailed for Melbourne, and his sister, thinking that some of Sally's letters might be of use to Mr. Brookes, offered to surrender them upon the receipt of a cheque for one hundred pounds—a very modest sum, she urged, considering the character of the letters, most of which concerned artfully laid plans to meet in the train going or coming from London. Mr. Brookes called on the shade of dear Julia, but he was not a man to be blackmailed—he had made all his money himself, and on that point was immovable. He prepared to leave Southwick. He looked fondly on his glass-houses, and despairingly on his Friths, Goodalls, and Bouguereaus, and he wondered if they would look as well in the new rooms as in the old, and what sum they would realise if he were to include them in the auction; for an auction was necessary. Mr. Brookes did not thus decide to abandon his acres without many a sob, nor is it certain that the final step would have been taken if the gentle builder had not gilded his insidious hand, and if certain rumours were not about that the villas in the Southdown Road were not letting, and that Southwick would never be anything but what it was, a dirty little village—half suburb, half village.



XVII



Frank was grieved and troubled at the sad accounts that came to him of Maggie's health; he was perplexed, too, for he knew himself to be the cause, and he longed to relieve and to cure her. It seemed to him that he would give his life to go to her, and comfort her with love, and yet he was impotent to make the least effort to attain the end he desired. He lay in the sad and cruel memory of Lizzie, his mind filled with ignoble visions of her life with the waiter, or with delicate fancies of her beauty amid the summer of the Thames. He mused on her gracious figure and face, illuminated by reflections from the water, set off by the bulrushes and floating blossoms which she so eagerly coveted, and varied by the movements of the waist and shoulders, the round white arm, the trailing scarf, and all the wistful charm of the slumbering evening. He thought of the country light, the sound and smell of cows, of the sparrows in the vine, the cottage looking so cosy amid the foliage, the bit of garden full of old-fashioned flowers, tall lilies, convolvuluses, and marigolds, and the sitting- room full of things belonging to her—her flowers, her books, her music, and he thought of this until his life was sick with desire, and there grew a burning pain about his heart.

A man's struggles in the web of a vile love are as pitiful as those of a fly in the meshes of the spider; he crawls to the edge, but only to ensnare himself more completely; he takes pleasure in ridiculing her, but whether he praises or blames, she remains mistress of his life; all threads are equally fatal, and each that should have served to bear him out of the trap only goes to bind him faster. A man in love suggests the spider's web, and when he is seeking to escape from a woman that will degrade his life, the cruelty which is added completes and perfects the comparison. A man's love for a common woman is as a fire in his vitals; sometimes it seems quenched, sometimes it is torn out by angry hands, but always some spark remains; it contrives to unite about its victim, and in the end has its way. It is a cancerous disease, but it cannot be cut out like a cancer. It is more deadly; it is inexplicable. All good things, wealth and honour, are forfeited for it; long years of toil, trouble, privation of all kinds, are willingly accepted; on one side all the sweetness of the world, on the other nothing of worth, often vice, meanness, ill-temper, all that go to make life a madness and a terror; twenty, thirty, forty, perhaps fifty years lie a head of him and her, but the years and their burdens are not for his eyes any more than the flowers he elects to disdain. Love is blind, but sometimes there is no love. How then shall we explain this inexplicable mystery; wonderful riddle that none shall explain and that every generation propounds?

Frank lingered in Southwick, for he had promised Willy to stay with him when he went to live at the stables on the Portslade Road. Summer was nearly over, hunting would soon commence, and he could keep a couple of hunters—Willy had calculated it out—for two and twenty shillings a week. He had ceased to paint, and when he went to the studio it was to play the piano or the violin. None knew of Lizzie, and all knew of Maggie. It was thought a little strange that he would not forgive her, but the obscurity of the story of this point and the delight felt in her misfortune helped to intensify and idealise Frank in the popular mind, and when he played Gounod in the still evenings the young ladies would steal from the villas and wander sentimentally through the shadows about the green. He got up late in the morning, he lingered over breakfast, and until it was time to go to Brighton he lay on the sofa watching the cricketers and the children playing, shaping resolutions, and striving with himself and deceiving himself. A dozen times, a hundred times, he had concluded he must see Maggie; he had decided he would write to Lord Mount Rorke, that he would go to Mr. Brookes and settle the matter off-hand. But, somehow, he did nothing. His mind was absorbed in a novel, which he narrated when Willy came to see him. It concerned the accident that led a man not to marry the woman he loved, and was in the main an incoherent version of his own life at Southwick.

"I don't think I told you," said Willy, "that they are removing the furniture to-day."

"You don't say so—to-day? And where is your father?"

"He is in London, at the 'Metropole.'"

The young men walked on slowly in silence, and when they came to the lodge gate, standing wide open, and saw the curtainless windows and the flowerless greenhouses, Willy said: "It is very sad to see all the things you have known since you were a child sold by auction."

"Oh, yes, it is. Look at the swards. Do they not look sad already? Those beautiful elms, under whose shade we have sat, will be cut down, and stucco work and glass porticoes take their places. Oh, it is very sad."

"My father never had any feeling, he never cared for the place. Had I been in his place I should have invested my money in land and gone in for the county families."

"How old was I when I came down to see you for the first time— fourteen, I think? How well I remember everything. It was there, look, through that glade, that I saw your sisters coming to meet me, they were then only ten or eleven years old. I can see them in my mind's eye, quite distinctly, walking towards me, Grace leading the way, and now she is a mother; and they were all so dark. I remember thinking I had never seen girls so dark, they were like foreigners. And do you remember how your father scolded Sally for carrying me round the garden on her back, and she used to wake me up in the mornings by rolling croquet balls along the floor into my room. Oh, what good, dear days those were, and to think they are dead and gone, and that the house is going to be pulled down; and the garden—oh! the moonlights in that garden, where I walked with the girls, with scarves round their shoulders, through the dreamy light and shade. We have sung songs, and talked of all manner of things. You don't feel as I feel."

"Yes I do, my dear fellow, I think I feel a great deal more, only I don't talk so much about it."

"I know it is infinitely sad. This dear old wall! There is Maggie's window: how often have I looked up to that window for her winsome face, and I shall never look again."

"You are as bad as my father. Cheer up; I suppose it will be all the same a hundred years hence."

"No, no, it won't be the same. Why should all I feel and love be forgotten. I suppose it will be all the same. There goes Berkins. I hate that man."

"So do I."

"If time takes away pleasant things it takes unpleasant things too, and those who live a hundred years hence will not be troubled with that fool. True, there will be other Berkinses, and there will be other gardens, and other girls, but that doesn't make it the least less sad to see this garden pass into bricks and mortar."

Two footmen approached Mr. Berkins, and with all solemnity helped him to take off his overcoat. He said a few words to Willy, and was soon loudly ordering the workmen who were taking the Goodalls and the Friths from the walls.

"Take care, there! Hi, you! get on the ladder and take hold of this end of the picture. There, that's better! That's the way to do it!"

"That's what he said when he shot my bird," Willy whispered; and they tried to laugh as they went upstairs. But their footsteps sounded hollow, and the wardrobes, where they had so often put their clothes, stood wide open, desolately empty. They looked out of the windows, and heard the voices of the work-people.

"How very sad it is," said Frank; then, after a long silence: "How beautiful a scene like this would be in a book—a young girl leaving her home, straying through the different rooms musing on the different pieces of furniture, all of which recall the past. I think I shall write it. I wish you would tell me what you feel; I mean, I wish you would tell me what impresses itself most on your mind, and, as it were, epitomises the whole. You have known all this since you were a child. You have played in these passages; some spot, some piece of furniture, your toys—I suppose they are gone long ago; but something must stand out and assert itself amid conflicting thoughts. Do tell me."

Willy stroked his moustache. "Of course it is very sad, but it is difficult to put one's feelings into words. I should have to think about it; I don't think I could say off-hand."

At that moment there came a great crash.

"What the devil is that?" cried Frank.

"I hope they haven't broken the statue of Flora," said Willy, and a look of alarm overspread his face. Frank felt that if such were the case he should feel no great sorrow. They ran down the echoing stairs. The workmen had got drunk in the cellars and in removing the statue they had let it fall, and it strewed the floor—an arm here, a fragment of drapery there.

"I knew what would happen. I told Mr. Brookes so. All my statues are in marble."

"Come away, I can't listen to that cad. I wouldn't have had Flora broken for a hundred pounds. When I was a child I used to stand and look at her. I never could make out how she was made, and I always wanted to look inside. If you'd like to know what I feel most sorry for, it is Flora. She has stood amid the flowers in the bow window as long as I can remember."

They followed the high road by Windmill Inn, where they struck across the Downs, and when they reached the first crest they could see the paddocks and enclosures situated along the road in the valley, and the private house so trim and middle-class. "Splendid paddocks and first- rate stabling. The house is not much. When I am making fifteen per cent. on my money I shall go in for a little architecture. If I had a glass I could show you Blue Mantle's stable. Do you see two horses in the paddock, right away on the left, in the far corner—Apple Blossom and Astarte? Apple Blossom is by See-saw out of Melody, by Stockwell out of Fairy Queen. Is that good enough for you? Astarte is by Blue Gown out of Merry Maid, by Beadsman out of Aurora. What do you say to that?"

"I see you have been looking up the Stud Book."

"Business, sir, business. And if I were to go in for owning a racer or two, just look and see what a magnificent training ground; miles upon miles of downland. Did you ever see a handsomer view? You must paint me some landscapes for my dining-room."



XVIII



"The pain is always here—just over the heart. You know what I mean? Suddenly, when I am thinking of other things, the sound of her voice and the sight of her face comes upon me, and then a dead, weary ache. I know I cannot have her, perhaps if I did I shouldn't be wholly glad; but glad or sorry, good fortune or ill, I cannot forget her. My life will not be complete. You have felt all this."

"Never mind how I felt, you know I don't like talking about it. I am sorry for you. We all have our troubles, I've had nothing else; I often think that if I were to die to-morrow it would be a happy release."

"If I had never seen her, or if I had married Maggie; if your father had not put obstacles in the way; if he had not raised the wretched money question, which you know as well as I do was dragged in quite unnecessarily, I should not be suffering now. For, once married, I should think of no one but my wife. I am sure I should make a good husband. I know I could make a woman happy; she'll never find a husband better than she'd have found in me, I don't believe if they were to be made that you could make a better husband than I should be —I feel it."

"I have always said that my father brings all his troubles on himself. He never went in for the country people; he never would have people at the Manor House. You can't shut up young girls as if they were in a convent, and if they don't get the right people they'll have the wrong people. My father thinks of nothing but his money, and he can't understand that he might go for an equivalent. How could he have expected it to have turned in your case but as it did? Lord Mount Rorke was not going to come over to Southwick to haggle over pounds, shillings, and pence with him—not likely. My sisters might have married very well if he had gone the right way to work, and he would have been saved a deal of worry and bother. I always say that my father brings all his troubles on himself."

"So far as I was concerned he certainly acted very stupidly. Ah, if I had married Maggie last summer, how different my life would be now."

"But you couldn't have really loved her; if you had you would never—"

"Yes, I did love her."

"I heard from my father to-day. Maggie is better. This is, of course, a very delicate question, but we have been friends so long—would you like me to see if—if this matter could be arranged? I don't like, as you know, to meddle in other people's affairs, I have quite enough to do to look after my own; but if you would like—You, of course, do not think of marrying Lizzie Baker?"

"Of course not."

"Then you would like me to speak to my father? Are you willing? Would you like to marry Maggie?"

"Yes, of course I should."

"I don't say so because she is my sister, but I think it is the best thing you could do."

They had traversed the paddock, and were close to the stables. Picking a few carrots out of a heap, they opened the door of Blue Mantle's box. The horse came towards them, his large eyes glancing, his beautiful crest arched. His coat shone like satin, his legs were as fine as steel, and with exquisite relish he drew the carrots from their hands.

The perspective of the hills was prolonged upon fading tints, and in the pale blueness the mares feeding in the paddocks grew strangely solitary and distinct; the trees about the coast towns were blended in shadow, and out of the first stars fell a quiet peace.

Their dinner awaited them—a little dinner, simple and humble. After dinner, when the lamp was brought in, Willy nursed the missus with affection and sincerity. Cissy sat on Frank's knee, and he told her stories and stroked her hair. This household retired at eleven. At ten every morning Willy was busy with his letters, his cheques, his accounts, and in the afternoon the young men walked about the fields talking of possible successes of the forthcoming breeding season, and so the days went. But the secret forces were busy about Frank's life. There were mines and counter-mines. Every fort of prejudice, every citadel of reason rested now upon foundations that quaked, and would fall at the first shock. Doom was about him. As the silence rustles in the deadly hush of the storm that brings winter upon the forest, he waited unconscious as a leaf in the imminence of the autumn moment; and in such a stillness, awaiting a change of soul, he received a letter from Lizzie. It dropped from his hand, and such desire to go as comes on swallow and cuckoo came on him; he struggled for a moment, and was sucked down in his passion.

The little village—a summary of English life and custom, a symbol of the Saxon, the church steeple pointing through the elm trees, the villas with their various embellishment in the line of glass porticos and privet hedges, the General, Mrs. Horlick, Messrs Brookes and Berkins—how complete it seemed, how individual and how synthetical— his eyes filled with tears of unpremeditated grief. The leaves were falling, the hills were shrouded in wreaths of floating mist. Some trees had been cut down and scaffolding had been reared about the Manor House, some of the walls had already fallen revealing the wall paper, the pattern of which he could almost distinguish. He was going to the woman he loved, but he was leaving his youth behind, and those whom he had known as children, as girls, as women; he remembered all the gossip, all the quarrels, all the to-do about nothing; and now, looking on the beautiful garden where he had played and passioned in all varying moments of grief and glee, he re-lived the past; and leaning out of the carriage window he gazed fondly, and cried out: "Alas, those were Spring Days."

THE END