'I thought he was doing his best to amuse everybody at dinner,' Nan said—though she did not raise her eyes. 'He told some very good stories.'

'Yes, to you,' Madge insisted. Then she added, 'You know I like it. I hope he will always be good friends with all the family: for you see, Nan, it will be lonely for me at Kingscourt for a while, and of course I should like to have somebody from Brighton always in the house. And I know he admires you very much. He's always talking about your character, and your disposition, and your temperament, as if he had been studying you like a doctor. I suppose I've got no character, or he would talk about that sometimes. I don't understand it—that talking about something inside you, as if it was something separate from yourself; and calling it all kinds of sentiments and virtues, as if it was clockwork you couldn't see. I don't see anything like that in you, Nan—except that you are very kind, you know—but not so different from other people—as he seems to think.'

'It doesn't much matter what he thinks, does it?' suggested Nan, gently.

'Oh no, of course not,' Madge said, promptly. 'He said I was a very good skater, considering the horrid condition of the ice. They have a large lake at Kingscourt.' Then after a pause, 'Nan, where did you learn all that about the lighthouses and the birds at night?'

'Oh, that? I really don't know. What about it?—it is of no consequence.'

'But it interests people.'

'It ought not to interest you, or Captain King either. You will have to think of very different things at Kingscourt.'

'When you and Mr. Jacomb come to Kings——'

'Madge,' said Nan, quickly, 'you must not say anything like that. I do not mean to marry Mr. Jacomb, if that is what you mean.'

'No? Honour bright?'

'I shall not marry Mr. Jacomb; and I am not likely to marry any one,' she said, calmly. 'There are other things one can give one's life to, I suppose. It would be strange if there were not.'

Madge thought for a second or two.

'Oh, Nan,' she said cheerfully, 'it would be so nice to have an old-maid sister at Kingscourt. She could do such a lot of things, and be so nice and helpful, without the fuss and pretension of a married woman. It would be really delightful to have you at Kingscourt!'

'I hope, dear, you will be happy at Kingscourt,' said Nan, in a somewhat lower voice.

'I shall never be quite happy until you come to stay there,' said Madge, with decision.

'You will have plenty of occupation,' said Nan, absently. 'I have been thinking if a war broke out I should like to go as one of the nurses; and of course that wants training beforehand. There must be an institution of some kind, I suppose. Now, good-night, dear.'

'Good-night, Mother Nan. But we are not going to let you go away into wars. You are coming to Kingscourt. I know Frank will insist on it. And it would just be the very place for you; you see you would be in nobody's way; and you always were so fond of giving help. Oh, Nan,' her sister suddenly said, 'what is the matter? You are crying! What is it, Nan?'

Nan rose quickly.

'Crying? No—no—never mind, Madge—I am tired rather—there—good-night.'

She got her sister out of the room only in time. Her overstrained calmness had at length given way. She threw herself on the bed, and burst into a passion of weeping; and thus she lay far into the night, stifling her sobs so that no one should hear.



CHAPTER XX.

THE SHADOW.

The process of disenchantment is one of the saddest and one of the commonest things in life; whether the cause of it be the golden youth who, apparently a very Bayard before marriage, after marriage gradually reveals himself to be hopelessly selfish, or develops a craving for brandy, or becomes merely brutal and ill-tempered; or whether it is the creature of all angelic gifts and graces who, after her marriage, destroys the romance of domestic life by her slatternly ways, or sinks into the condition of a confirmed sigher, or in time discovers to her husband that he has married a woman comprising in herself, to use the American phrase, nine distinct sorts of a born fool. These discoveries are common in life; but they generally follow marriage, which gives ample opportunities for study. Before marriage man and maid meet but at intervals; and then both are alike on their best behaviour. The slattern is no slattern now; she is always dainty and nice and neat; the golden youth is generous to a fault, and noble in all his ways; and if either or both should be somewhat foolish, or even downright stupid, the lack of wisdom is concealed by a tender smile or a soft touch of the hand. It is the dream-time of life; and it is not usual for one to awake until it is over.

But it was different with Frank King. The conditions in which he was placed were altogether peculiar. He had made two gigantic mistakes—the first in imagining that any two human beings could be alike: the second in imagining that, even if they were alike, he could transfer his affection from the one to the other—and he was now engaged in a hopeless and terrible struggle to convince himself that these were not mistakes. He would not see that Madge Beresford was very different from Nan. He was determined to find in her all he had hoped to find. He argued with himself that she was just like Nan, as Nan had been at her age. Madge was so kind, and good, and nice; of course it would all come right in the end.

At the same time, he never wished to be alone with Madge, as is the habit of lovers. Nor if he was suddenly interested in anything did he naturally turn to her, and call her attention. On the other hand, the little social circle did not seem complete when Nan, with her grave humour, and her quiet smile, and her gentle, kindly ways, was absent. When she came into the room, then satisfaction and rest were in the very air. If there was a brighter green on the sea, where a gleam of wintry sunshine struck the roughened waters, whose eyes but Nan's could see that properly? It was she whom he addressed on all occasions; perhaps unwittingly. It seemed so easy to talk to Nan. For the rest, he shut his eyes to other considerations. From the strange fascination and delight that house in Brunswick Terrace always had for him, he knew he must be in love with somebody there; and who could that be but Madge Beresford, seeing that he was engaged to her?

Unhappily for poor Madge, Frank King was now called home by the old people at Kingscourt; and for a time, at least, all correspondence between him and his betrothed would obviously have to be by letter. Madge was in great straits. A look, a smile, a touch of the fingers may make up for lack of ideas; but letter-writing peremptorily demands them, of some kind or another. As usual, Madge came to her elder sister.

'Oh, Nan, I do so hate letter-writing. I promised to write every morning. I don't know what in the world to say. It is such a nuisance.'

Nan was silent; of late she had tried to withdraw as much as possible from these confidences of her sister's; but not very successfully. Madge clung to her. Lady Beresford would not be bothered. Edith was busy with her own affairs. But Nan—old Mother Nan—who had nothing to think of but other people, might as well begin and play the old maid at once, and give counsel in these distressing affairs.

'I wish you would tell me what to say,' continued Madge, quite coolly.

'I? Oh, I cannot,' said Nan, almost shuddering, and turning away.

'But you know what interests him; for he's always talking to you,' persisted Madge, good-naturedly. 'Anybody but me would be jealous; but I'm not. The day before yesterday Mrs. —— went by; and I asked him to look at her hair, that every one is raving about; and he plainly told me your hair was the prettiest he had ever seen. Now, I don't call that polite. He might have said "except yours," if only for the look of the thing. But I don't mind—not a bit I'm very glad he likes you, Nan——'

'Madge! Madge!'

It was almost a cry wrung from the heart. But in an instant she had controlled herself again. She turned to her sister, and said with great apparent calmness,

'Surely, dear, you ought to know what to write. These are things that cannot be advised about. Letters of that kind are secret——'

'Oh, I don't care about that. I think it is stupid,' said Madge at once. 'There is no use having any pretence about it. And I don't know in the world what to write about. Look,—I have begun about the Kenyons' invitation, and asked him whether he'd mind my going. I like those little dances better than the big balls——'

She held out the letter she had begun. But Nan would not even look at it.

'It isn't usual, is it, Madge,' she said, hurriedly, 'for a girl who is engaged to go out to a dance by herself?'

'But we are all going!'

'You know what I mean. It is a compliment you should pay him not to go.'

'Well,' said Madge somewhat defiantly, 'I don't know about that. One does as one is done by. And I don't think he'd care if I went and danced the whole night through—even with Jack Hanbury.'

'Oh, how can you say such a thing!' said her sister, staring at her; for this was a new development altogether.

But Madge was not to be put down.

'Oh, I am not such a fool. I can see well enough. There isn't much romance about the whole affair; and that's the short and the long of it. Of course it's a very good arrangement for both of us, I believe; and that's what they say now-a-days—marriages are "arranged."'

'I don't know what you mean Madge! You never spoke like that before.'

'Perhaps I was afraid of frightening you; for you have high and mighty notions of things, dear Nan, for all your mouse-like ways. But don't I see very well that he is marrying to please his parents; and to settle down and be the good boy of the family? That's the meaning of the whole thing——'

'You don't mean to say, Madge,' said the elder sister, though she hesitated, and seemed to have to force herself to ask the question, 'You don't mean to say you think he does not—love you?'

At this Madge flushed up a little, and said—

'Oh, well, I suppose he does, in a kind of way, though he doesn't take much trouble about saying it. It isn't of much consequence; we shall have plenty of time afterwards. Mind, if only Jack Hanbury could get invited by the Kenyons, and I were to dance two or three times with him, and Frank get to hear of it, I suppose there would be a noble rampage: then he might speak out a little more.'

'Have you been dreaming Madge?' said Nan, again staring at her sister. 'What has put such monstrous things into your head? Mr. Hanbury—at the Kenyons'—and you would dance with him!'

'Well, why not?' said Madge, with a frown; for this difficulty about the letter-writing had clearly operated on her temper and made her impatient. 'All the world isn't supposed to know about the Vice-Chancellor's warning. Why shouldn't he be invited by the Kenyons? And why should he know that I am going? And why, if we both happen to be there, shouldn't we dance together? Human beings are human beings, in spite of Vice-Chancellors. They can't lock up a man for dancing with you? At all events, they can't lock me up, even if Jack is there.'

'Madge, put these things out of your head. You won't go to the Kenyons', for Captain King would not like it——'

'I don't think he'd take the trouble to object,' Madge interjected.

'And Mr. Hanbury won't be there; and there will be no dancing, and no quarrel. If you wish to write to Captain King about what will interest him, write about what interests yourself. That he is sure to be interested in——'

'Well, but that is exactly what I can't write to him about. I know what I am interested in well enough. Edith has just told me Mr. Roberts has been pressing her to fix a time for their marriage. She thinks the end of April; so that they could be back in London for the latter end of the season. Now I think that would do very well for us too—and it is always nice for two sisters to get married on the same day—only Frank has never asked me a word about it, and how am I to write to him about it? So you see, wise Mother Nan, I can't write to him about what interests me.'

Nan had started somewhat when she heard this proposal; it seemed strange to her.

'April?' she said. 'You've known Captain King a very short time, Madge. You were not thinking of getting married in April next?'

'Perhaps I'd better wait until I'm asked,' said Madge, with a laugh, as she turned to go away. 'Well, if you won't tell me what to write about, I must go and get this bothered letter done somehow. I do believe the best way will be to write about you; that will interest him anyway.'

Frank King remained away for a few weeks, and during this time the first symptoms appeared of the coming spring. The days began to lengthen, there were crocuses in the gardens, there were reports of primroses and sweet violets in the woods about Horsham; in London Parliament was sitting, and in Brighton well-known faces were recognisable amongst the promenaders on the Saturday afternoons. Then Mr. Roberts, as Edith's accepted suitor, received many invitations to the house in Brunswick Terrace; and in return was most indefatigable in arranging riding-parties, driving-parties, walking-parties, with in each case a good hotel for luncheon as his objective point. Madge joined in these diversions with great good-will; and made them the excuse for the shortness of the letters addressed to Kingscourt. Nan went also; she was glad to get into the country on any pretence; and she seemed merry enough. When Mr. Roberts drove along the King's Road with these three comely damsels under his escort, he was a proud man; and he may have comforted himself with the question, that as beer sometimes led to a baronetcy, why shouldn't soda-water?

Strangely enough, Nan had entirely ceased making inquiries about sisterhoods and institutions for the training of nurses. She seemed quite reconciled to the situation of things as they were. She did not cease her long absences from the house; but every one knew that on these occasions she was off on one of her solitary wanderings; and she came home in the evening apparently more contented than ever. She had even brought herself to speak of Madge's married life, which at first she would not do.

'You see,' she said to her sister on one occasion, 'if you and Edith get married on the same day, I must remain and take care of mamma; she must not be left quite alone.'

'Oh, as for that,' said Madge, 'Mrs. Arthurs does better than the whole of us; and I'm not going to have you made a prisoner of. I'm going to have a room at Kingscourt called "Nan's room," and it shall have no other name as long as I am there. Then we shall have a proper house in London by and by; and of course you'll come up for the season, and see all the gaieties. I think we ought to have one of the red houses just by Prince's; that would be handy for everything; and you might come up, Nan, and help me to buy things for it. And you shall have a room there too, you shall; and you may decorate it and furnish it just as you like. I know quite well what you would like—the room small; the woodwork all bluey-white; plenty of Venetian embroidery flung about; all the fire-place brass; some of those green Persian plates over the mantelpiece; about thirteen thousand Chinese fans arranged like fireworks on the walls; a fearful quantity of books and a low easy-chair; red candles; and in the middle of the whole thing a nasty, dirty, little beggar-girl to feed and pet——'

'I think, Madge,' her sister said, gravely, 'that you should not set your heart on a town-house at all. Remember, old Mr. King is giving his son Kingscourt at a great sacrifice. As I understand it, it will be a long time before the family estate is what it has been; and you would be very ungrateful if you were extravagant——'

'Oh, I don't see that,' said Madge. 'They are conferring no favour on me. I don't see why I should economise. I am marrying for fun, not for love.'

She blurted out this inadvertently—to Nan's amazement and horror—but instantly retracted it, with the blood rushing to her temples.

'Of course I don't mean that, Nan—how could I have been so stupid! I don't mean that—exactly. What I mean is that it doesn't seem to me as if it was supposed to be a very fearfully romantic match, and all that kind of thing. It's a very good arrangement; but it isn't I who ought to be expected to make sacrifices——'

'But surely your husband's interests will be yours!' exclaimed Nan.

'Oh yes, certainly,' her sister said, somewhat indifferently. 'No doubt that's true, in a way. Quite true, in a kind of way. Still, there are limits; and I should not like to be buried alive for ever in the country.'

Then she sighed.

'Poor Jack!' she said.

She went to the window.

'When I marry, I know at least one who will be sorry. I can fancy him walking up and down there—looking at the house as he used to do; and, oh! so grateful if only you went to the window for a moment. He will see it in the papers, I suppose.'

She turned to her sister, and said, triumphantly—

'Well, the Vice-Chancellor was done that time!'

'What time?'

'Valentine's morning. You can send flowers without any kind of writing to be traced. Do you think I don't know who sent me the flowers?'

'At all events, you should not be proud of it. You should be sorry. It is a very great pity——'

'Yes, that's what I think,' said Madge. 'How can I help pitying him? It wouldn't be natural not to pity him, Vice-chancellor or no Vice-chancellor. I hate that man.'

'I say it is a great pity that Mr. Hanbury does not accept his dismissal as inevitable; and as for you, Madge, you ought not even to think of him. Captain King sent you that beautiful card-case on Valentine's morning; that is what you should remember.'

'Captain King could send me a white elephant if he chose,' said Madge, spitefully. 'There's no danger to him in anything he does. It's different with poor Jack.'

'Madge,' said her sister, seriously, 'do you know that you are talking as if you looked forward to this marriage with regret?'

'Oh no, I don't—I'm not such a fool,' said Madge, plainly. 'I know it's stupid to think about Jack Hanbury; but still, one has got a little feeling.'

Then she laughed.

'I will tell you another secret, Nan. If he daren't write to me he can send me things. He sent me a book—a novel—and I know he meant me to think the hero himself. For he was disappointed in love, too, and wrote beautifully about his sufferings, and at last the poor fellow blew his brains out.'

'Well, Mr. Hanbury couldn't do that, at all events—for reasons,' Nan said.

'Now that is a very bad joke,' said Madge, in a sudden outburst of temper; 'an old, stupid, bad joke, that has been made a hundred times. I'm ashamed of you, Nan. They say you have a great sense of humour; that's when you say things they can't understand; and they pretend to have a great sense of humour too. But where's the humour in that?'

'But Madge, dear,' said Nan, gently, 'I didn't mean to say anything against Mr. Hanbury——'

'In any case, there is one in this house who does not despise Mr. Hanbury for being poor,' said Madge, hotly. 'It isn't his fault that his papa and mamma haven't given him money and sent him out into the world to buy a wife!'

And therewith she quickly went to the door and opened it, and went out and shut it again with something very closely resembling a slam.



CHAPTER XXI.

DANGER AHEAD.

Nan waited the return of Frank King with the deepest anxiety. She would see nothing in these wild words of Madge's but an ebullition of temper. She could not bring herself to believe that her own sister—a girl with everything around her she could desire in the world—would deliberately enter upon one of those hateful marriages of convenience. It was true, Nan had to confess to herself, that Madge was not very impressionable. There was no great depth in her nature. Then she was a trifle vain, and liked admiration; and she was evidently pleased to have a handsome and certainly eligible suitor. But no—it was impossible that she had really meant what she said. When Captain King came back, then the true state of affairs would be seen. Madge was not going to marry for money or position—or even out of spite.

And when Frank King did come back, matters looked very well at first. Madge received him in a very nice, friendly fashion, and was pleased by certain messages from the old folks at Kingscourt. Nan's fears began to fade away. Nothing more was heard of Jack Hanbury. So far as Madge was concerned everything seemed right.

But Nan, who was very anxious, and on that account unusually sensitive, seemed to detect something strange in Frank King's manner. He had nothing of the gay audacity of an accepted suitor. When he paid Madge any little attention, it appeared almost an effort. He was preoccupied and thoughtful; sometimes, after regarding Madge in silence, he would apparently wake up to the consciousness that he ought to be more attentive to her; but there did not seem to be much joyousness in their relationship. When these two happened to be together—during the morning stroll down the pier, or on the way home from church, or seated at a concert—they did not seem to have many things to speak about Frank King grew more and more grave; and Nan saw it, and wondered, and quite failed to guess at the reason.

The fact was that he had now discovered what terrible mistake he had made. He could blind himself no longer. Madge was not Nan; nor anything approaching to Nan; they were as different as day and night. Face to face with this discovery, he asked himself what he ought to do. Clearly, if he had made a mistake, it was his first duty that no one else should suffer by it. Because he was disappointed in not finding in Madge certain qualities and characteristics he had expected to find, he was not going to withdraw from an engagement he had voluntarily entered into. It was not Madge's fault. If the prospect of this marriage pleased her, he was bound to fulfil his promise. After all, Madge had her own qualities. Might they not wear as well through the rough work of the world, even if they had not for him the fascination he had hoped for? In any case, the disappointment should be his, not hers. She should not suffer any slight. And then he would make another desperate resolve to be very affectionate and attentive to her; resolves which usually ended in his carrying to her some little present of flowers, or something like that, having presented which, he would turn and talk to Nan.

'I say, Beresford,' he suddenly observed, one night at dinner, 'I have an invitation to go salmon-fishing in Ireland. Will you come?'

'Well, but——' Madge interposed with an injured air, as if she ought to have been consulted first.

'I should like it tremendously!' said Mr. Tom, with a rush.

'I am told the scenery in the neighbourhood is very fine,' continued Captain King; 'at all events we are sure to think so half a dozen years hence. That is one of the grand points about one's memory; you forget all the trivial details and discomforts, and only remember the best.'

He quite naturally turned to Nan.

'I am sure, Miss Nan,' he said, 'you have quite a series of beautiful little pictures in your mind about that Splugen excursion. Don't you remember the drive along the Via Mala, in the shut-up carriage—the darkness outside—and the swish of the rain——'

'Well,' said Madge, somewhat spitefully, 'considering you were in a closed carriage and driving through darkness, I don't see much of a beautiful picture to remember!'

He did not seem to heed. It was Nan he was addressing; and there was a pleased light in her eyes. Reminiscences are to some people very delightful things.

'And you recollect the crowded saloon in the Splugen inn, and the snug little corner we got near the stove, and the little table. That's where you discovered the use of stupid people at dinner-parties——'

'What's that?' Mr. Tom demanded to know.

'It's a secret,' Captain King answered, with a laugh. 'And I think you were rather down-hearted next morning—until we began to get up through the clouds. That is a picture to remember at all events—a Christmas picture in summer time. Do you remember how green the pines looked above the snow? And how blue the sky was when the mist got driven over? And how business-like you looked in your ulster—buttoned up to the chin for resolute Alpine work. I fancy I can hear now the very chirp of your boots on the wet snow—it was very silent away up there.'

'I know,' said Nan, somewhat shamefacedly, 'that when I saw "Ristoratore" stuck up on the house near the top, I thought it was a place for restoring people found in the snow, until I heard the driver call out "Du, hole Schnapps."'

'Wasn't that a wild whirl down the other side!' he continued, delightedly. 'But you should have come into the Customs-house with me when I went to declare my cigars. You see it wouldn't do for me, who might one day get a coastguard appointment, to try on any smuggling. But I did remonstrate. I said I had already paid at Paris and at Basel; and that it was hard to have to pay three import dues on my cigars. Well, they were very civil. They said they couldn't help it. "Why not buy your cigars in the country where you smoke them?" asked an old gentleman in spectacles. "Because, Monsieur," I answered him, with the usual cheek of the English, "I prefer to smoke cigars made of tobacco." But he was quite polite. After charging me eighteen francs, he bowed me out, and said "a rivederla;" to which I responded "Oh no, thank you;" and then I found you and your sisters all laughing at me, as if I had been before a police-magistrate to be admonished.'

'You don't forget all the disagreeable details, then?' said Nan, with a smile.

But the smile vanished from her face when he began to talk about Bellagio. He did so without any covert intention. It was always a joy to him to think or talk about the time that he and the three sisters spent together far away there in the south. And it was only about the Serenata and the procession of illuminated boats that he was thinking at this moment.

'I suppose they will sooner or later have all our ships and steamers lit with the electric light; and everything will be ghastly white and ghastly black. But do you remember how soft and beautiful the masses of yellow stars were when the boats came along the lake in the darkness? It was indeed a lovely night. And I think we had the best of it—sitting there in the garden. I know I for one didn't miss the music a bit. And then it was still more lovely when the moon rose; and you could see the water, and the mountains on the other side, and even the houses by the shore. I remember there was a bush somewhere near us that scented all the air——'

Madge had been regarding her sister closely.

'It must have been a magical night,' she said quickly, 'for Nan's face has got quite white just thinking of it.'

He started. A quick glance at the girl beside him showed him that she was indeed pale; her eyes cast down; her hand trembling. Instantly he said, in a confused hurry,—

'You see, Miss Anne, there was some delay about the concert. One steamer did really come back to Bellagio. We had our serenade all the same—that is to say, any who were awake. You see, they did not intend to swindle you——'

'Oh, no! oh, no!' said Nan; and then, conscious that Madge was still regarding her, she added with a desperate effort at composure,—

'We heard some pretty music on the water at Venice. Edith picked up some of the airs. She will play them to you after dinner.'

That same night, as usual, Madge came into Nan's room, just before going off.

'Nan,' she said, looking straight at her, 'what was it upset you about Frank's reminding you of Bellagio?'

'Bellagio?' repeated Nan, with an effort to appear unconscious, but with her eyes turned away.

'Yes; you know very well.'

'I know that I was thinking of something quite different from anything that Captain King was saying,' Nan said, at length. 'And—and it is of no consequence to you, Madge, believe me.'

Madge regarded her suspiciously for a second, and then said, with an air of triumph,

'At all events, he isn't going to Ireland.'

'Oh, indeed,' Nan answered, gently. 'Well I'm glad; I suppose you prefer his not going?'

'It nearly came to a quarrel, I know,' said Madge, frankly. 'I thought it just a bit too cool. At all events, he ought to pretend to care a little for me.'

'Oh, Madge, how can you say such things? Care for you—and he has asked you to be his wife? Could he care for you more than that?'

'He has never even thanked me for not going to the Kenyons' ball,' said Madge, who appeared to imagine that Nan was responsible for everything Captain King did or did not do.

'Surely he would take it for granted you would not go!' remonstrated the elder sister.

'But he takes everything for granted. And he scarcely ever thinks it worth while to speak to me. And I know it will be a regular bore when we go to Kingscourt, with the old people still there, and me not mistress at all; and what am I to do?'

She poured out this string of wild complaints rapidly and angrily.

'Good-night, Madge,' said Nan; 'I am rather tired to-night.'

'Good-night. But I can tell you if he hadn't given up Ireland, there would have been a row.'

It was altogether a strange condition of affairs; and next day it was apparently made worse. There had been a stiffish gale blowing all night from the south; and in the morning, though the sky was cloudless, there was a heavy sea running, so that from the windows they saw white masses of foam springing into the air—hurled back by the sea-wall at the end of Medina Terrace. When Captain King came along Mr. Tom at once proposed they should all of them take a stroll as far as the Terrace; for now the tide was full up and the foam was springing into the blue sky to a most unusual height. And, indeed, when they arrived they found a pretty big crowd collected; a good many of whom had obviously been caught unawares by the shifting and swirling masses of spray. It was a curious sight. First the great wave came rolling on with but little beyond an ominous hissing noise; then there was a heavy shock that made the earth tremble, and at the same moment a roar as of thunder; then into the clear sky rose a huge wall of gray, illuminated by the sunlight, and showing clearly and blackly the big stones and smaller shingle that had been caught and whirled up in the seething mass. Occasionally a plank of drift timber was similarly whirled up—some thirty or forty feet; disappearing altogether again as it fell crashing into the roar of the retreating wave. It was a spectacle, moreover, that changed every few seconds, as the heavy volumes of the sea hit the breakwater at different angles. The air was thick with the salt spray; and hot with the sunlight—even on this March morning.

Then it became time for Mr. Tom and Captain Frank to go and witness a challenge game of rackets that had been much talked of; and the girls walked back with them as far as Brunswick Terrace, Madge being with Frank King.

'Why is it one never sees Mr. Jacomb now?' he asked of his companion.

'I saw him only the other day,' she said evasively.

'But he does not come to the house, does he?'

'N—no,' said Madge.

'Has he left Brighton?'

'Oh no,' answered Madge, and she drew his attention to a brig that was making up Channel under very scant sail indeed.

'I daresay he has a good deal of work to do,' said Frank King absently. 'When are they going to be married?'

Madge saw that the revelation could be put off no longer.

'Oh, but they are not going to be married. Nan isn't going to be married at all.'

He stared at her, as if he had scarcely heard her aright; and then he said slowly—

'Nan isn't going to be married? Why have you never told me before?'

'Oh, it is a private family matter,' said Madge, petulantly. 'It is not to be talked about. Besides, how could I know it would interest you?'

He remained perfectly silent and thoughtful. They walked along. Madge began to think she had been too ungracious.

'I suppose she tried to bring herself to it for a time,' she said, more gently. 'She has wonderful ideas, Nan has; and I suppose she thought she could do a deal of good as a clergyman's wife. For my part, I don't see what she could do more than she does at present. It's just what she's fit for. Poor people don't resent her going into their houses as they would if it was you or I. She manages it somehow. That's how she gets to know all about out-of-the-way sort of things; she's practical; and people think it strange that a young lady like her should know the ways and habits of common people; and that's why she interests them when she talks. There's nothing wonderful in it. Anybody can find out what the profit is on selling oranges, if you like to go and talk to a hideous old wretch who is smelling of gin. But I don't say anything against Nan. It's her way. It's what she was intended for by Providence, I do believe. But she was sold that time she wanted to get up a little committee to send a constant supply of books and magazines to the lighthouses—circulating you know. She wrote to Sir George about it; and found the Admiralty did that already.'

There was a strange, hopeless, tired look on this man's face. He did not seem to hear her. He appeared to know nothing of what was going on around him.

When they reached the door of the house, he said,—

'Good-bye!'

'Good-bye?' she repeated, inquiringly. 'I thought we were all going to see the Exhibition of Paintings this afternoon.'

'I think I must go up to London for a few days,' he said, with some hesitation. 'There—is some business——'

She said no more; but turned and went indoors without a word. He bade good-bye to Edith and to Nan—not looking into Nan's face at all. Then he left with the brother, and Mr. Tom was silent, for his friend King seemed much disturbed about something, and he did not wish to worry him.

As for Madge, she chose to work herself into a pretty passion, though she said nothing. That she should have been boasting of her triumph in inducing, or forcing, him to give up that visit to Ireland only to find him going off to London without warning or explanation, was altogether insufferable. She was gloomy and morose all the afternoon; would not go to see the pictures; refused to come in and speak to certain callers; and at dinner made a little show of sarcasm that did not hurt anybody very much.

The evening brought her a letter. Thus it ran:—

'Dear Madge—I thought you looked angry when you went indoors this morning. Don't quarrel about such a trifle as my going to London. I shall be back in two or three days; and hope to bring with me the big photograph of Kingscourt, if they have got any copies printed yet.

'Your FRANK.'

'From whom is your letter, Madge?' Lady Beresford said, incidentally.

'From Frank, mamma,' said the young lady, as she quietly and determinedly walked across the room and—thrust it into the fire!

That same night Miss Madge also wrote a note; but the odd thing was that the writing of both note and address was in a disguised hand. And when, some little time thereafter, the others were in the billiard-room, it was Madge herself who slipped out from the house and went and dropped that missive into the nearest pillar letter-box.



CHAPTER XXII.

A CATASTROPHE.

However, Madge's ill-temper was never of long duration; and at this particular time, instead of sinking farther into sulks over the absence of her lover, she grew day by day more joyous and generous and affectionate. The change was most marked; and Nan, who was her sister's chief confidant, could not make it out at all. Her gaiety became almost hysterical; and her kindness to everybody in the house ran to extravagance. She bought trinkets for the servants. She presented Mr. Tom with a boot-jack mounted in silver; and he was pleased to say that it was the first sensible present he had ever known a girl make. But it was towards Nan that she was most particularly affectionate and caressing.

'You know I'm not clever, Nan,' she said, in a burst of confidence, 'and I haven't got clockworks in my brain, and I daresay I'm not interesting—to everybody. But I know girls who are stupider than I am who are made plenty of. And of course, if you don't have any romance when you're young, when are you likely to get it after?'

'But I don't know what you mean, Madge!' Nan exclaimed.

Nor did Madge explain at the moment. She continued—

'I believe it was you, Nan, who told me of the young lady who remarked, "What's the use of temptation if you don't yield to it?"'

'That was only a joke,' said Nan, with her demure smile.

'Oh, I think there's sense in it,' said the practical Madge. 'It doesn't do to be too wise when you're young.'

'It so seldom happens, Madge!' said her sister.

'There you are again, old Mother Hubbard, with your preaching! But I'm not going to quarrel with you this time. I want your advice. I want you to tell me what little thing I should buy for Frank, just to be friends all round, don't you know?'

'Friends? Yes, I hope so!' said Nan, with a grave smile. 'But how can I tell you, Madge? I don't know, as you ought to know, what Captain King has in the way of cigar-cases or such things——'

'But call him Frank, Nan! Do, to please me. And I know he would like it.'

'Some time I may,' said Nan evasively. 'Afterwards, perhaps.'

'When you come to Kingscourt,' said Madge, with a curious kind of laugh.

Nan was silent, and turned away; she never seemed to wish to speak of Kingscourt or her going there.

Frank King's stay in London was prolonged for some reason or other; at length he announced his intention of returning to Brighton on a particular Thursday. On the Tuesday night Nan and Madge arranged that they would get fresh flowers the next day for the decoration of the rooms.

'And this is what I will do for you, Madge, as it is a special occasion,' remarked Miss Anne, with grave patronage. 'If you will get up early tomorrow, I will take you to a place, not more than four miles off, where you will find any quantity of hart's-tongue fern. It is a deep ditch, I suppose a quarter of a mile long, and the banks are covered. Of course I don't want any one to know, for it is so near Brighton it would be harried for the shops; but I will show you the place, as you will soon be going away now; and we can take a basket.'

'But how did you find it out, Nan?'

'Some one showed it to me.'

'The singing-woman, I suppose?'

'Yes. Think of that. I believe she could get twopence a root; and she might fill a cart there. But she won't touch one.'

'No,' said Edith, with a superior smile. 'She leaves that for young ladies who could very well afford to go to a florist's.'

'What I shall take won't hurt,' said Nan, meekly.

So, next morning, Nan got up about eight; dressed, and was ready to start. That is to say, she never arranged her programme for the day with the slightest respect to meals. So long as she could get an apple and a piece of bread to put in her pocket she felt provided against everything. However, she thought she would go along to Madge's room, and see if that young lady had ideas about breakfast.

Madge's room was empty; and Nan thought it strange she should have gone downstairs without knocking at her door in passing. But when Nan also went below she found that Madge had left the house before any one was up. She could not understand it at all.

Mr. Tom came down.

'Oh,' said he, indifferently, 'she wants to be mighty clever and find out those ferns for herself.'

'But I did not tell her where they were. I only said they were on the road to ——' said Nan, naming the place: the writer has reasons of his own for not being more explicit.

'All the cleverer if she can find out. The cheek of the young party is pyramidal,' said Mr. Tom, as he rang for breakfast.

But at lunch, also, Madge had not turned up.

'It is very extraordinary,' said Lady Beresford, though she was too languid to be deeply concerned.

'Oh no, it isn't, mother,' said Mr. Tom. 'It's all Nan's fault. Nan has infected her. The Baby, you'll see, has taken to tramping about the country with gipsies; and prowling about farmers' kitchens; and catching leverets, and stuff. We lives on the simple fruits of the earth, my dears; we eats of the root, and we drinks of the spring; but that doesn't prevent us having a whacking appetite somewhere about seven forty-five. Edith, my love, pass me the cayenne-pepper.'

'Boys shouldn't use cayenne-pepper,' said Nan.

'And babies should speak only when they're spoken to,' he observed. 'Mother, dear, I have arrived at the opinion that Madge has run away with young Hanbury. I am certain of it. The young gentleman is fool enough for anything——'

'You always were spiteful against Mr. Hanbury,' said Edith, 'because his feet are smaller than yours.'

'My love,' retorted Mr. Tom, with imperturbable good-nature, 'his feet may be small. It is in his stupidity that he is really great. Jack Hanbury can only be described in the words of the American poet: he is a commodious ass.'

Now this conjecture of Mr. Tom's about the cause of Madge's disappearance was only a piece of gay facetiousness. It never did really occur to him that any one—that any creature with a head capable of being broken—would have the wild audacity to run away with one of his sisters, while he, Mr. Tom Beresford, was to the fore. But that afternoon post brought Nan a letter. She was amazed to see by the handwriting that it was from Madge; she was still more alarmed when she read these words, scrawled with a trembling hand, and in pencil:

'Dearest, dearest Nan, don't be angry. By the time you get this Jack and I will be married. It is all for the best, dear Nan; and you will pacify them; and it is no use following us; for we shall be in France until it is all smoothed down. Not a single bridesmaid—we daren't—but what wouldn't I do for Jack's sake? It is time I did something to make up for all he has suffered—he was looking so ill—in another month he would have died. He worships me. You never saw anything like it. Jack has just come back; so good-bye; from your loving, loving sister, MARGARET HANBURY.—Do you know who that is, Nan?'

Nan, not a little frightened, took the letter to her brother, and gave it him without a word. But Mr. Tom's rage was at once prompt and voluble. That she should have disgraced the family—for, of course, the whole thing would be in the papers! That she should have cheated and jilted his most particular friend! But as for this fellow Hanbury——

'I said it all along. I told you what would come of it! I knew that fellow was haunting her like a shadow. Well, we'll see how a shadow likes being locked up on bread and water. Oh, it's no use your protesting, Nan; I will let the law take its course. We'll see how he likes that. "Stone walls do not a prison make"—that's what love-sick fellows say; don't they? Wait a bit. Mr. Jack Hanbury will find that stone walls make a very good imitation of a prison, at all events——'

'But, Tom—dear Tom,' Nan pleaded, 'it is no use making matters worse. Let us try to make them better. If Madge is married, it can't be helped now. We must make the best of it——'

He paid no attention to her; he was still staring at the ill-written letter.

'That's all gammon about their going to France. He hasn't money for travelling. She spent all hers in nick-nacks—to propitiate people, the sneak! They're in London.'

He looked at his watch.

'I can just catch the 5.45 express. Nan, you go and tell the others; they needn't squawk about it all over Brighton.'

'What are you going to do, Tom?' said his sister, breathlessly.

'Find out where they are first. Then Colonel Fitzgerald and Mr. Mason must take it up. Then Mr. Jack Hanbury will suddenly find himself inside Millbank prison.'

She caught him by the hand.

'Tom, is it wise?' she pleaded again. 'They are married. What is the use of revenge? You don't want to make your own sister miserable?——'

'She has brought it on herself,' he said, roughly.

'Then that is what I am to think of you,' she said, regarding him, 'that some day I may hear you talk in that way about me?'

He never could resist the appeal of Nan's clear, faithful eyes.

'You wouldn't be such a fool,' he said. 'And they won't touch Madge. It's only that fellow they'll go for—the mean hound, to marry a girl for her money.'

'How do you know it was for her money, Tom?' Nan pleaded. 'I am certain they were fond of each other——'

'I don't want to miss my train,' said he. 'You go and tell the maternal I'm off to London. I suppose you don't know the address of Hanbury's father?'

'No, I don't.'

'Well, I'm off. Ta, ta!'

So the irate Mr. Tom departed. But in the comparative silence of the Pullman car the fury of his rage began to abate; and it dawned upon him that, after all, Nan's counsel might have something in it. No doubt these two young fools—as he mentally termed them—were married by this time. He still clung to the idea that Jack Hanbury deserved punishment—a horsewhipping or something of the kind; but Madge was Madge. She was silly; and she had 'got into a hole;' still, she was Madge. She might be let off with a serious lecture on her folly and on her disregard of what she owed to the other members of the family. Only, the first thing was to find out their whereabouts.

On arriving in London he drove to his club, and after some little searching discovered that Mr. Gregory Hanbury's address was Adelphi Terrace, whither he at once repaired. Mr. Hanbury was at dinner. He sent up his card nevertheless, and asked to be allowed to see Mr. Hanbury on particular business. The answer was a request that he would step upstairs into the dining-room.

He found that occupied by two gentlemen who were dining together at the upper end of a large table. One came forward to meet him. He took it for granted this was Mr. Hanbury—a slight, short man, with black hair and eyes, and a very stiff white cravat.

'Mr. Beresford,' said he, 'I can guess what has brought you here. Let me introduce you to my brother—Major Hanbury. It is an unfortunate business.'

The other gentleman—also slight and short, but with a sun-browned, dried-up face, and big gray moustache—bowed and resumed his seat.

'You know, then, that your son has run away with my sister,' said Mr. Tom, somewhat hotly—though he had determined to keep his temper. 'Perhaps you know also where they are?'

'No farther,' said the black-haired gentleman, with perfect calmness, 'than that I believe them to be in London. It is only about a couple of hours since I heard of the whole affair. I immediately sent for my brother. It is a most distressing business altogether. Of course you are chiefly concerned for your sister; but my son is in a far more serious position.'

'Yes, I should think so!' exclaimed Mr. Tom. 'I should think he was! But you don't know where they are?'

'No; I only know they are in London. I received a letter from my son this afternoon, asking me to intercede for him with the Court of Chancery; and it is from this letter that I learn how serious his position is—more serious than he seems to imagine. He appears to think that now the marriage has taken place, the Vice-Chancellor will condone everything——'

'He won't: I will take good care that he shan't!' Mr. Tom said.

'My dear sir, I am sorry to say that my son is in a very awkward situation, even although no personal vindictiveness be shown towards him. Your sister is not of age, I believe?'

'Of course not. She's just turned eighteen.'

'Ah. Then you see, Jack had to declare that she was of age. And he appears to have stated that he had resided three weeks in the parish, whereat he only came up from Brighton yesterday morning. And, again, marrying in the direct teeth of an order of the Court—I am afraid, sir, that he is in a bad enough predicament without any personal vengeance being shown him.'

This seemed to strike Mr. Tom.

'I don't hit a man when he's down. I will let the law take its course. I shan't interfere.'

'Don't you think, sir,' said this man with the calm black eyes and the quiet manner, 'that it might be wiser, in the interests of your sister, if you were to help us to arrange some amicable settlement which we could put before the Court? I believe the guardians of the young lady were very much misinformed about my son's character and his intentions with regard to her. I am certain that it was not her fortune that attracted him, or that could have led him into the perilous position he now occupies. Now, if we could go before the Vice-Chancellor, and say, "The marriage is not so unsuitable, after all. The young man comes of a highly respectable family. His relations (that is, my brother and myself, sir) are willing to place a substantial sum at his disposal for investment in a sound business—indeed there is a brewery at Southampton that my brother has just been speaking of——"'

'A brewery!' exclaimed Mr. Tom; but he instantly recollected that beer was as good as soda-water from a social point of view.

'And if we could say to the Vice-Chancellor that the friends of the young lady were willing to condone his offence—always providing, of course, and naturally, that your sister's fortune should be strictly settled upon herself—then, perhaps, he might be let off with a humble apology to the Court; and the young people be left to their own happiness. My dear sir, we lawyers see so much of the inevitable hardship of human life that when a chance occurs of friendly compromise——'

'That's all very well,' blurted out Mr. Tom. 'But I call it very mean and shabby of him to inveigle my sister away like that. She was engaged to be married to an old friend of mine; a much better fellow, I'll be bound! I call it very shabby.'

'My dear sir,' said the lawyer, placidly, 'I do not seek for a moment to excuse my son's conduct, except to remind you that at a certain period of life romance counts for something. I believe many young ladies are like the young lady in the play—I really forget what her name was—who was disappointed to find that she was not to be run away with. However, that is a different matter. I put it to you whether it would not be better for every one concerned if we were to try to arrive at an amicable arrangement, and give the young people a fair start in life.'

'Of course I can't answer for all our side,' said Mr. Tom, promptly. 'You'd better come with me to-morrow, and we'll talk it over with Colonel Fitzgerald and Mr. Mason. I don't bear malice. I think what you say is fair and right—if the settlement is strict. And if it came to be a question of interceding, there's an old friend of ours, Sir George Stratherne, who, I know, knows the Vice-chancellor very intimately——'

'My dear sir!' the lawyer protested, with either real or affected horror, 'do not breathe such a thing!—do not think of such a thing. The duty of the Vice-chancellor to his wards is of the extremest kind; his decisions are beyond suspicion; what we have got to say we must say in open court.'

'But if they were to lock your son up in prison,' said Mr. Tom, with a gentle smile, 'that couldn't prevent Sir George taking my sister to call on the Vice-Chancellor some afternoon at his own house. And Madge is rather pretty. And she might cry.'

'Will you take a glass of wine, Mr. Beresford?' said the lawyer, effusively; for he saw that he had quite won over Mr. Tom to his side.

'No, thank you,' said the latter, rising; 'I must apologise for interrupting your dinner. I'll look up Colonel Fitzgerald and Mason to-morrow morning; and bring them along here most likely; that will be the simplest way. I suppose you are likely to know sooner than any one where these two fugitives have got to?'

'I think so. I have sent an advertisement to the morning papers. I shall certainly counsel my son to surrender at once and throw himself on the mercy of the Court. My dear sir, I am exceedingly obliged to you for your kindness, your very great kindness in calling.'

'Oh, don't mention it,' said Mr. Tom, going to the door. And then he added, ruefully, 'Now I've got to go and hunt up my friend; and tell him that my own sister has jilted him. You've no idea what a treat that will be!'



CHAPTER XXIII.

AT LAST.

He found Frank King in the little room in Cleveland Row, alone, sitting before the fire, a shut book on the small table beside him.

'I've got bad news for you, King,' he said, bluntly. 'I wish it hadn't been my sister. But you know what women are. It's better to have nothing at all to do with them.'

'But what is it?' Frank King said, with some alarm on his face.

'Madge has bolted.'

'Madge has bolted?' the other repeated, staring at Mr. Tom in a bewildered sort of way.

'Yes. Gone and married that fellow Hanbury. This morning. I'm very sorry I have to come to you with a story like that about my own sister.'

Mr. Tom was very much surprised to find his friend jump up from the chair and seize him by the arm.

'Do you know this, Beresford,' he said, in great excitement, 'you have taken a millstone from my neck. I have been sitting wondering whether I shouldn't cut my throat at once, or make off for Australia——'

'Oh, come, I say!' interposed Mr. Tom, with a quick flush.

'Oh, you needn't think I have anything to say against your sister,' exclaimed his friend—on whose face there was a sudden and quite radiant gladness. 'You don't understand it at all, Beresford. It will take some explanation. But I assure you you could not have brought me pleasanter news; and yet I have not a word to say against your sister. I know that is a privilege you reserve for yourself; and quite right too.'

It was manifestly clear that Captain King was not shamming satisfaction; not for many a day had his face looked so bright.

'Well, I'm glad you take it that way,' said Mr. Tom. 'I thought you would be cut up. Most fellows are; though they pretend not to be. I really do believe you're rather glad that Madge has given you the slip.'

'Sit down, Beresford, and I will tell you all about it. I proposed to your sister Anne years ago.'

'To Nan? Why wasn't I told?'

'These things are not generally preached from the house-tops. She refused me point-blank; and I knew she was a girl who knew her own mind. Then I rejoined my ship; and remained mostly abroad for a long time. I fancied it would all blow over; but it didn't; I was harder hit than I thought; and then, you know, sailors are driven to think of bygone things. Well, you remember when I came home—when I met you in the street. I thought I should like to have just another glimpse of Nan—of Miss Anne, I mean—before she married the parson. Do you remember my going into the drawing-room? Madge was there—the perfect image of Nan! Indeed; I thought at first she was Nan herself. And wasn't it natural I should imagine the two sisters must be alike in disposition too? And then, as it was hopeless about Nan, I fancied—I imagined—well, the truth is, I made a most confounded mistake, Beresford; and the only thing I have been thinking of, day and night, of late, was what was the proper and manly thing to do—whether to tell Madge frankly—or whether to say nothing, with the hope that after marriage it would all come right. And now you needn't wonder at my being precious glad she has herself settled the affair; and there is not a human being in the world more heartily wishes her lifelong happiness than I do. And I wish to goodness I knew some way of letting her know that too.'

Tom stretched out his legs—his hands were in his pockets—and said, contemplatively,—

'So you thought Madge was the same as Nan. I could have told you different, if you had asked me. You thought you could find another girl like Nan. If you want to try, you'll have to step out. By the time you've found her, the Wandering Jew 'll be a fool compared to you. Girls like Nan don't grow on every blackberry bush.'

'I know that,' said Frank King, with a sigh.

Then Mr. Tom looked at his watch.

'I'm very hungry,' said he. 'Have you dined?'

'No, I have not. I was going to walk along to the club when you came in.'

'Come with me to the Waterloo. You see, something must be done about these two ninnies. He must get something to do; and set to work. The Baby has never been accustomed to live up a tree. She must have a proper house.'

Frank King got his coat and hat; and they both went out. He was thinking of his own affairs mostly—and of this singular sense of relief that seemed to permeate him; Mr. Tom, on the other hand, was discussing the various aspects of the elopement, more particularly with regard to the Court of Chancery. During dinner the two friends arrived at the conclusion that people generally would look upon the affair as a harmless, or even humorous, escapade; and that the Court, seeing that the thing was done, would allow the young people to go their way, with a suitable admonition.

This was not quite what happened, however. To begin with, there was a clamour of contention and advice among guardians and friends; there were anonymous appeals to the runaways in agony-columns; there were futile attempts made to pacify the Court of Chancery. All the Beresfords came up to town, except Nan, who remained to look after the Brighton house. The chief difficulty of the moment was to discover the whereabouts of Mr. John Hanbury. That gentleman was coy; and wanted to find out something of what was likely to happen to him if he emerged from his hiding-place. At last it was conveyed to him that he was only making matters worse; then he wrote from certain furnished apartments in a house on the south-west side of Regent's Park; finally, there was a series of business interviews, and it was arranged that on a particular day he should attend the Court and hear the decision of the Vice-Chancellor.

On that fateful morning, poor Madge, her pretty eyes all bedimmed with tears, and her lips tremulous, was with her sisters and mother in the rooms in Bruton Street; the gentlemen only attended the Court. Jack Hanbury was looking exceedingly nervous and pale. And indeed, when the case came on, and the Vice-chancellor began to make certain observations, even Mr. Tom, whose care for the future of his sister had now quite overcome all his scorn for that fellow Hanbury, grew somewhat alarmed. The Court did not all appear inclined to take the free-and-easy view of the matter that had been anticipated. The Vice-Chancellor's sentences, one after the other, seemed to become more and more severe, as he described the gross conduct and contempt of which this young man had been guilty. He deplored the condition of the law in England, which allowed persons to get married on the strength of false statements. He wound up his lecture, which had a conciseness and pertinence about it not often found in lectures, by the brief announcement that he should forthwith make an order committing Mr. John Hanbury to Holloway Prison.

There was an ominous silence for a brief second or so. Then the Court was addressed by Mr. Rupert—who was Mary Beresford's husband, and a fairly well-known Q.C.—who made a very humble and touching little appeal. He said he represented the relatives of the young lady; he was himself a near relative; and they were all inclined to beg his Lordship to take a merciful view of the case. They did not think the young man, though he had acted most improperly, was inspired by mercenary motives. He was now in Court; and was anxious to make the most profound apology. If his Lordship——

But at this moment his Lordship, by the slightest of gestures, seemed to intimate that Mr. Rupert was only wasting time; and the end of it was that Mr. Jack Hanbury, after having heard a little more lecturing on the heinousness of his conduct, found himself under the charge of the tipstaff of the Court, with Holloway prison as his destination. It was not to be considered as a humorous escapade after all.

'Madge will have a fit,' said Mr. Tom, when they were outside again. 'Some one must go and tell her. I shan't.'

'I knew he must be committed,' said Mr. Rupert to the young man's father. 'There was no help for that; his contempt of Court was too heinous. Now the proper thing to do is to let him have a little dose of prison—the authority of the Court must be vindicated, naturally; and then we must have a definite scheme for the establishment of the young man in business before we beg the Court to reconsider the matter. I mean, you must name a sum; and it must be ready. And then there must be an understanding that Miss Beresford—I mean Mrs. Hanbury's—small fortune shall be settled on herself.'

'My advice,' remarked Mr. Tom, 'is that Madge should go herself and see the Vice-Chancellor. She might do the pathetic business—a wife and not a widow, or whatever the poetry of the thing is. I think it's deuced hard lines to lock up a fellow for merely humbugging an old parson up in Kentish Town. Why shouldn't people get married when they want to? Fancy having to live three weeks in Kentish Town! I wouldn't live three weeks in Kentish Town to marry a Duchess.'

'I am afraid,' said Mr. Rupert, drily, 'that the Vice-chancellor is too familiar with the sight of pretty damsels in distress. I think, Mr. Hanbury, if you can produce a deed of partnership with your friends in Southampton, that would be more likely to influence the Court. On our side we agree. And of course there must be a humble apology from the young man himself. We had better wait a week, or a fortnight, and then renew the application. I will go myself and tell the young lady what has happened.'

Madge did not go into a fit at all; but what she did do was to decline positively to remain in Bruton Street. No; back she would go to the rooms that her dear Jack had taken for her. They might come to see her there if they liked; but that was her home; it was her place as a wife to remain in the home that her husband had chosen for her. Madge did not cry as much as had been expected; she was angry and indignant, and she said hard things about the condition of the law in England; and she had a vague belief that her brother Tom was a renegade and traitor and coward because he did not challenge the Vice-Chancellor to a duel on Calais sands.

Nevertheless, in her enforced widowhood, Madge found time to write the enclosed letter—nay, she went first of all to the trouble of walking down Baker Street until she came to a shop where she could get very pretty and nicely scented notepaper for the purpose:—

'DEAR FRANK—Tom brought me yesterday your very manly and generous letter, and I must write and thank you for your kind wishes for my happiness. It's dreadful to think that persons should be shut up in prison, when everybody is agreed it is needless—merely to satisfy a form. You are very kind in what you say; you were always kind to me—kinder than I deserved. But I didn't think you would mind very much my running away; for I am sure you care far more for Nan than you ever cared for me; and now Edith declares that Nan has been in love with you all the time. I hear you have been doing everything in your power towards getting poor Jack out of prison; and so I thought I would do you a good turn also. You might take this letter to Nan, and ask her if every word in it isn't true—unless you think you've had enough of our family already. Dear Frank, I am so glad you forgive me; and when I get out of my present deep distress I hope you will come and see us and be like old friends.—Yours sincerely, MADGE HANBURY.'

At this present moment Captain King, as they still call him (for all these things happened not so long ago), considers this letter the most valuable he ever received. Not any message from home announcing to the schoolboy that a hamper would speedily arrive; not any communication from the Admiralty after he had arrived at man's estate; nay, not any one of Nan's numerous love-letters—witty, and tender, and clever, as these were—had for him anything like the gigantic importance of this letter. It is needless to say that, very shortly after the receipt of it, and without saying a word to anybody, he slipped down to Brighton, and got a room at the Norfolk.

It was so strange to think that Nan was a little way along there; and that there was still a chance that that same Nan—the wonder of the world with whose going away from him the world had got quite altered somehow—might still be his! It bewildered him as yet. To think of Nan at Kingscourt!—her presence filling the house with sunlight; charming everybody with her quiet, humorous ways, and her self-possession, and her sweetness, and the faithfulness of her frank, clear eyes! And all his thinking came back to the one point. This was now Nan herself he had a chance of winning; not any imaginary Nan; not any substitute; not any vision to be wavering this way and that; but the very Nan herself. And if it was true—if the real Nan, after all, was to go hand-in-hand through life with him—where, of all the places in the world, should they first go to together? To that far-away inn at Splugen, surely! Now it would be his own Nan who would sit at the small table, and laugh with her shining, clear eyes. She would walk with him up the steep Pass; the sunlight on her pink cheeks; he would hear the chirp of her boots on the wet snow.

Amid all this wild whirl of hope and doubt and delightful assurance, it was hard to have to wait for an opportunity of speaking to Nan alone. He would not go to the house, lest there should be visitors, or some one staying there; he would rather catch Nan on one of her pilgrimages in the country or along the downs, with solitude and silence to aid him in his prayer. But that chance seemed far off. He watched for Nan incessantly; and his sharp sailor's eyes followed her keenly, while he kept at a considerable distance. But Nan seemed to be very busy at this time. Again and again he was tempted to speak to her as she came out of this or that shop, or when he saw her carrying an armful of toys into some small back street. But he was afraid. There was so much to win; so much to lose. He guessed that sooner or later the vagrant blood in Nan would drive her to seek the solitariness of the high cliffs over the sea.

It turned out differently, however. One squally and stormy morning he saw her leave the house, her ulster buttoned up, her hat well down over her brows. He let her pass the hotel, and slipped out afterwards. By and by she turned up into the town, and finally entered a stationer's shop, where there was a public library. No doubt she had merely come to order some books, he said to himself, downheartedly, and would go straight back again.

However, on coming out, he noticed her glance up at the driven sky, where the clouds were breaking here and there. Then she went down East Street towards the sea. Then she passed the Aquarium by the lower road. This he could not understand at all, as she generally kept to the cliffs.

He soon discovered her intention. There was a heavy sea rolling in; and she had always had a great delight in watching the big waves come swinging past the head of the Chain Pier. That, indeed, turned out to be her destination. When he had seen the slight, girlish-looking figure well away out there, he also went on the Pier, and followed.

It is needless to say that there was not a human being out there at the end. Tags and rags of flying clouds were sending showers of rain spinning across; between them great bursts of sunlight flooded the sea; and the vast green masses of water shone as they broke on the wooden piles and thundered on below. When he reached the head of the Pier, he found that Nan, who fancied herself entirely alone, was resting her two elbows on the bar, and so holding on her hat, as she looked down on the mighty volumes of water that broke and rushed roaring below.

He touched her on the shoulder; she jumped up with a start, and turned, growing a little pale as she confronted him. He, also, had an apprehensive look in his eyes—perhaps it was that that frightened her.

'Nothing has happened to Madge?' she said, quickly.

'No. But come over there to the shelter. I wish to show you a letter she has written.'

A few steps brought them to a sudden silence; it was like stepping from the outer air into a diving-bell.

'Nan, I want you to read this letter, and tell me if it is true.'

He gave it her; she read it; then slowly, very slowly, the one hand holding the letter dropped, and she stood there silent, her eyes downcast.

'Nan, I have loved you since the very first night I ever saw you. I tried to make believe that Madge was you; Madge herself has saved us from what might have happened through that desperate mistake. And you, Nan—you are free now—there is no one in the way—is it true what Edith says?'

'It isn't quite true,' said Nan, in a very low voice; and her fingers were making sad work with Madge's letter. 'I mean—if she means—what you can say—since the very first night that we met. But I think at least—it is true—since'—and here Nan looked up at him with her faithful eyes, and in them there was something that was neither laughing nor crying, but was strangely near to both—'since—since ever we parted at Como!'



CHAPTER XXIV.

'BRING HOME THE BRIDE SO FAIR!'

'Poor Jack!' that was all Madge's cry. She did not care what arrangement was being got up by the parents and guardians interested. She did not want her fortune settled on herself. To her it did not matter whether the brewery was in Southampton or in Jerusalem. All her piteous appeal was that her dear Jack should be got out of prison; and the opinion that she had formed of the gross tyranny, and cruelty, and obstinacy of English law was of a character that dare not be set forth here.

'What is the use of it?' she would say. 'What good can it do except to keep people miserable?'

'My dear child,' the sighing and sorely-troubled mother would answer, 'the Vice-Chancellor has admitted that it can do no good. But the authority of the Court must be vindicated——'

'It is nothing but a mean and contemptible revenge?' exclaimed Madge.

However, Mr. Tom took a much more cool and business-like view of the matter.

'When he is let out,' he remarked, 'I hope the Vice-chancellor will make the other side pay the costs of all these applications and proceedings. I don't see why we should pay, simply because Jack Hanbury went and made an ass of himself.'

'I beg you to remember that you are speaking of my husband?' said Madge, with a sudden fierceness.

'Oh, well, but didn't he?' Mr. Tom said. 'What was the use of bolting like that, when he knew he must be laid by the heels? Why didn't he go to his father and uncle to begin with, and get them to make this arrangement they have now, and then have gone to the chief clerk and showed him that there was no objection anywhere——'

'It was because you were all against him,' said poor Madge, beginning to cry. 'Everybody—everybody. And now he may be shut up there for a whole year—or two years——'

'Oh, but he isn't so badly off,' said Mr. Tom, soothingly. 'You can see they treat him very well. By Jingo, if it was the treadmill, now—that would exercise his toes for him. I tried it once in York Castle; and I can tell you when you find this thing pawing at you over your head it's like an elephant having a game with you. Never mind, Madge. Don't cry. Look here; I'll bet you five sovereigns to one that they let him out on the next application—that's for Thursday. Are you on?'

'Do you mean it?' she said, looking up.

'I do.'

It was wonderful how quickly the light came into her face.

'Then there is a chance?' she said. 'I can't believe the others; for they are only trying to comfort me. But if you would bet on it, Tom—then there's really a chance.'

'Bet's off. You should have snapped at it, Madge. Never mind, you'll have your dear Jack: that'll do instead.'

That afternoon Mary Beresford, now Mrs. Rupert, called, and Mr. Tom, with much dignity of manner, came into the room holding an open letter in his hand,

'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said, 'and friends assembled, I have a piece of news for you. Mr. Francis Holford King, late Commander in Her Majesty's Navy, has just contracted a—what d'ye call it?—kind of engagement with Miss Anne Beresford of that ilk. It strikes me this is what is termed consolation-stakes——'

'There you are quite wrong,' said Madge, promptly and cheerfully. 'He meant to make me the consolation-stakes: for it was Nan that he wanted to marry all the way through.'

'Well, I shall be glad to see you all married,' said Tom. 'I've had enough bother with you.'

'You look quite worn out,' his eldest sister remarked.

'At least,' he said, sitting down in an easy-chair and stretching out his legs, 'at least I have gained some wisdom. I see the puzzlement you girls are in who haven't got to earn your own living. You don't know what on earth to do with yourselves. You read Ruskin, and think you should be earnest; but you don't know what to be earnest about. Then you take to improving your mind; and cram your head full of earth-currents, and equinoxes, and eclipses of the moon. But what does it all come to? You can't do anything with it. Even if you could come and tell me that a lime-burner in Jupiter has thrown his wig into the fire, and so altered the spectrum, what's that to me? Then you have a go at philanthropy—that's more practical; Sunday-school teaching, mending children's clothes, doing for other people what they ought to do for themselves, and generally cultivating pauperism. Then, lo and behold! in the middle of all this there comes by a good-looking young fellow; and phew! all your grand ideas are off like smoke; and it's all "Dear Jack!" and "Dear Alfred!" and "I'll go to the ends of the earth with my sodger laddie!" Oh, I know what life is. I see you girls begin with all your fine ideas, and reading up, and earnestness——'

'I suppose, then, there is no such thing as the formation of character,' said his eldest sister, calmly.

'The formation of character!' exclaimed Mr. Tom. 'Out of books? Why, the only one among you who has any character worth mentioning is Nan. Do you think she got it out of books? No, she didn't. She got it—she got it——'

Here Mr. Tom paused for a second; but only to make a wilder dash.

'——out of the sunlight! There's a grand poetical idea for you. Nan has been more in the open than any of you; and the sunlight has filled her brain, and her mind, and her disposition altogether——'

'I presume that also accounts for the redness of her hair?' said Mrs. Rupert.

Tom rose to his feet. There was an air of resignation on his face as he left the room. He said, half to himself,

'Well, Nature was right in making me a man. I couldn't have mustered up half enough spite to make a passable woman.'

Now, the end of the Madge and Jack episode was in this wise. On the second application the Vice-Chancellor flatly refused to release the young man from prison. His gross offence had not yet been purged. It was quite true, his Lordship admitted, that the young lady and the guardians and relatives on both sides were also sharing in this punishment; and it was unfortunate. Moreover, arrangements had now been made which seemed to render the marriage a perfectly eligible one, if only it had been properly brought about. Nevertheless the Court could not overlook the young man's conduct; in prison he was; and in prison he must remain.

More tears on the part of Madge. More advice from Mr. Tom that she should go and plead with the Vice-Chancellor herself; he was sure her pretty, weeping eyes would soften the flintiest heart. Correspondence addressed by Captain Frank King to Admiral Sir George Stratherne, K.C.B., containing suggestions not in consonance with the lofty integrity of British courts of law.

Then, at last, the Vice-chancellor relented. Mr. Hanbury had given an undertaking to execute any settlement the Court might think fit with regard to the young lady's property. Then he must pay all costs of the proceedings, likewise the guardians' costs. This being so, his Lordship was disposed to take a merciful view of the case; and would make an order discharging the young man from prison.

'Oh, Jack,' poor Madge exclaimed, when he was restored to her, 'shall I ever forget what you have suffered for my sake?'

Jack looked rather foolish among all these people; but at last he plucked up courage, and went and made a straightforward apology to Lady Beresford; and said he hoped this piece of folly would soon be forgotten; and that Madge would be happy after all. The sisters were disposed to pet him. Tom tolerated him a little. Then there was a general bustle; for they were all (including Frank King) going down again to Brighton; and they made a large party.

How clear the air and the sunlight were after the close atmosphere of London! The shining sea—the fresh breeze blowing in—the busy brightness and cheerfulness of the King's Road—it all seemed new and delightful again! And of course amidst the general clamour and commotion of getting into the house, who was to take much notice of Nan, or watch her self-conscious shyness, or regard the manner in which she received Frank King after his absence? You see, Nan was always wanted to do things, or fetch things, or send for things. 'She's a house-keeperish kind of young party,' Tom used to say of her, when he had coolly sent her to look out his shooting-boots.

The spring-time was come; not only was the sunshine clearer, and the wind from the sea softer and fresher, but human nature, also, grew conscious of vague anticipations and an indefinable delight, Flowers from the sheltered valleys behind the downs began to appear in the streets. The year was opening; soon the colours of the summer would shining over the land.

'Nan-nie,' said Frank King to her who was most occasions now his only and dear companion, they were walking along one of the country ways, 'don't you think June is a good month to get married in?'

'Frank dear,' she said, 'I haven't had much experience.'

'Now, look here, Nan,' he said—the others were a long way ahead, and he could scold her as he liked. 'You may have some strong points—wisdom, perhaps—and a capacity for extracting money out of people for lifeboats—and a knack of boxing the ears of small boys whom you find shying stones at sparrows—I say you may have your strong points; but flippancy isn't one of them. And this is a very serious matter.'

'I know it is,' said Nan, demurely. 'And far more serious than you imagine. For, do you know, Frank, that the moment I get married I shall cease to be responsible for the direction of my own life altogether. You alone will be responsible. Whatever you say I should do, I will do; what you say I must think, or believe, or try for, that will be my guide. Don't you know that I have been trying all my life to get rid of the responsibility of deciding for myself? I nearly ended—like such a lot of people!—in "going over to the Church." Oh, Frank,' she said, 'I think if it hadn't been for you I should have married a clergyman, and been good.'

She laughed a little, soft, low laugh; and continued:

'No, I think that never could have happened. But I should have done something—gone into one of those visiting sisterhoods, or got trained as a nurse—you don't know what a good hospital nurse you spoiled in me. However, now that is not my business. Undine got a soul when she married; I give up mine. I shall efface myself. It's you who have to tell me what to think, and believe, and try to do.'

'Very well,' said he. 'I shall begin by advising you to give up cultivating the acquaintance of tinkers and gipsies; and first of all to resolve not to speak again to Singing Sal.'

'Oh, but that's foolish—that is unnecessary!' she said, with a stare; and he burst out laughing.

'Here we are at the outset!' he said. 'But don't you think, Nan-nie, you might let things go on as they are? You haven't done so badly after all. Do you know that people don't altogether detest you? Some of them would even say that you made the world a little brighter and pleasanter for those around you; and that is always something.'

'But it's so little,' said Nan. 'And—and I had thought of—of I don't know what, I believe—in that Cathedral at Lucerne—and now I am going to do just like everybody else. It's rather sneaky.'

'What is?' he asked. 'To be a good woman?'

'Oh, you are not philosophical,' she said. 'And me—me too. My brain, what there was of it, is clean gone; my heart has got complete mastery. It is really ludicrous that my highest ambition, and my highest delight, should be to be able to say "I love you," and to go on saying it any number of times. But then, dear Frank, when all this nonsense is over between us, then we will set to work and try and do some good. There must be something for us to do in the world.'

'Oh yes, no doubt,' he said, 'and do you know when I think this nonsense will be over between you and me, Nan?—when you and I are lying dead together in Kingscourt churchyard.'

She touched his hand with her hand—for a moment.

'And perhaps not even then, Frank.'

* * * * * *

Well, it was a double wedding, after all; and Mr. Roberts was determined that it should be memorable in Brighton, if music, and flowers, and public charities would serve. Then Mr. and Mrs. Jack Hanbury were to come along from Southampton; and Mr. Jacomb had, in the most frank and manly fashion, himself asked permission to assist at the marriage ceremony. There were, of course, many presents; two of which were especially grateful to Nan. The first was a dragon-fly in rubies and diamonds, the box enclosing which was wrapped round by a sheet of note-paper really belonging to Her Majesty, and hailing from Whitehall. These were the words scrawled on the sheet of paper:—

'This is for the wedding of the BEAUTIFUL WRETCH, who has now completed the list of her atrocities by jilting her oldest sweetheart.—G. S.'

The second present that was particularly prized by Nan carries us on to the wedding-day. It was one of the clearest of clear June days; a fresh southerly wind tempering the heat; there was scarcely a cloud in the blue. How these rumours get about it is impossible to say; but a good many people seemed to have discovered that there was to be a double wedding; and there was an unusual crowd about the entrance to the church and along both sides of the roofed portico. Among these people was one who attracted a little mild polite curiosity. She was a country-looking, fresh-complexioned young woman, who was smartly dressed and trim as to ribbons and such things; and she held in her hand a basket of fairly good size and of fancy wicker-work. And this basket, those nearest her could see, held nothing else than a mass of wild roses, all with the thorns carefully removed from the stems, and set in a bed of moss and sweetbrier leaves. It was such a bouquet, surely, as had never been presented to a bride before—if, indeed, it was, intended for the bride.

That was soon to be seen. The great organ was still pealing out Mendelssohn's 'Wedding March' (Mr. Tom had offered to give 10 pounds to the poor-box of the choir if the choristers would play instead the Swedish 'Bring home the bride so fair!')—(forgetting that there were two brides, and that Edith was dark) when the first of the bridal procession came along, Edith and her husband and her bridesmaids. Then came Nan. As she was passing, the fresh-coloured wench timidly stepped forward and offered her the basket of wild roses. Nan stopped; glanced at her, and recognised her; and then, to the wonder of the crowd, they saw the young bride take the basket with her trembling white-gloved fingers, while the other hand was boldly put forward to shake hands with the country lass. Singing Sal was greatly taken aback; but she took Nan's hand for the briefest second, and managed to say something quite incoherent about 'long life and happiness, Miss—I beg your pardon, Miss—Ma'am;' and then the gleaming procession passed on.