She took him to the chosen spot and showed him the plant—a bunch of long narrow leaves rising from the brown earth, and in the midst of them a single stalk supporting a partly opened flower. In shape it was single, like the common wild blossom, only much bigger; but in colour, not blue as was expected, but streaked in irregular unblended stripes of pure yellow and pure blue. The marking was as hard and unshaded as that of the old-fashioned brown and yellow tulips which children call bulls'-eyes, and the effect, though bizarre, was not at all pretty. Julia did not think it so, and she did not expect any one else to either; but Joost, when he saw the streaky flower, gave a little inarticulate exclamation and, dropping on his knees on the path, lifted the bell reverently so that he might look into it.

"Ah!" he said softly; "ah, it is beautiful, wonderful!" He looked up, and Julia, seeing the rapt and humble admiration of his face, forgot that there was something ludicrous in the sight of a young man kneeling on a garden path reverently worshipping a striped flower. It was no abstract admiration of the beautiful, and no cultivated admiration for the new and strange; it was the love of a man for his work and appreciation of success in it, even if the success were another's; also, perhaps, in part, the expression of a deep-seated national feeling for flowers.

"Is it what you wished?" Julia asked gently, conscious that she was, as always, a long way off from Joost.

"I did not wish it," he said, "because I did not foresee it. No one could foresee that it would come, though it always might. It is a novelty, an accident of nature perhaps, but beautiful, wonderful!"

"Is it a real novelty?" Julia asked. "Just as much as your first blue daffodil was? Oh, I am glad! Then you have two now."

"I?" Joost said in surprise. "No, not I; this is yours, not mine; you have grown it."

"That's nothing," Julia returned easily; "you gave me the bulb; it is really your bulb; I only just put it into the ground, I have had nothing to do with the novelty."

But if she thought to dispose of the matter in that way she soon found she was mistaken; there were apparently laws governing bulb growing which were as inviolable as any governing hereditary titles. The man who bloomed the bulb was the man who had produced the novelty—if novelty it was; he could no more make over his rights to another than a duke could his coronet. In vain Julia protested that it was by the merest chance that Joost had hit on this particular sort to give her, that it was only an accident which had prevented him from blooming it himself. He said that did not matter at all, and when she failed to be convinced, added that possibly, had he kept the bulb, the result might not have proved the same; her soil and treatment were doubtless both different.

Julia laughed at the idea, saying she knew nothing about soil and treatment. But she made no impression on Joost and apparently did not alter the case; the laws of the bulb growers were not only like those of the "Medes and Persians which alter not," but also refused to be bent or evaded even by a Polkington.

"It is yours," Joost said, as he took a last look at the flower before he rose from his knees; "the great honour is yours, and I am glad of it."

There was something in his tone which reminded Julia of that talk they had had in the little enclosed place on the last day she was at the bulb farm. She hastily submitted so as to avoid the too personal. "What am I to do with the honour?" she asked. "I do not know, that is one reason why it is absurd for me to have it."

"You must name your flower," he told her; "and then you must exhibit it. Fortunately you are in time for the show in London."

"But I can't go to London," Julia said; "it is out of the question for me to leave home even if I could afford the fare, which I cannot."

Joost answered there was no need; he could arrange everything for her. "I can take the daffodil to London with me," he said. "It must be lifted—you have a flower pot, then it must be tied with care, and it will travel quite safely."

"But," Julia objected; "if it is exhibited with my name, and you say my name as the grower must appear, your father will hear of it and then he will know that you gave me a bulb—it cannot be exhibited. I do not care about a certificate of merit or whatever one gets."

"It must be exhibited," Joost said; "as to my father, he knows already, I have told him; that does not stand in the way."

To this Julia had nothing to say; perhaps in her heart she was a little ashamed because she had suspected him of the half honesty of only telling what was necessary when it was necessary, that she herself was likely to have practised in his case.

"Now you must call your flower a name," he said, "as I called mine Vrouw Van Heigen."

"I will call it after you," Julia said.

But Joost would not have that. "That will not do; the blue daffodil is already a Van Heigen; there cannot be another, it will make confusion."

"Well, I'll call it the honest man, then; that will be you."

Joost did not like that either; he thought it very unsuitable. "Why not name it after"—he began; he had meant to say "your father," but recalling that gentleman, he changed it to—"some one of whom you are fond."



Julia hesitated. "I like the honest man," she said; "but as you say it is not suitable, the blue daffodil is really the honest one, this is too mixed—I shall call it after Johnny; I am fond of him."

But Joost was romantic; it was only natural with the extreme and almost childish simplicity of his nature there should be some romance, and there was nothing to satisfy that sentiment in Mr. Gillat. "Johnny?" he said; "yes, but it is not very pretty; it does not suggest a beautiful flower. Why not call it after the heroine of some book or a friend or comrade? Perhaps"—Joost was only human—"he with whom you went walking on the Dunes."

"Him?" Julia said. "I never thought of that. He was a friend certainly, and a good comrade; he tried hard to get me out of that scrape; he would have stood by me if I had let him—the same as you did—you were both comrades to me then. I tell you what, shall I call it 'The Good Comrade?' Then it would be after you both and Johnny too; Johnny would certainly stand by me through thick and thin, share his last crust with me, or father, give me the whole of it. Yes, we will call the daffodil 'The Good Comrade,' and it shall have three godfathers."

With this Joost was satisfied, even though he had to share what honour there was with two others. Mr. Gillat, of course, when he was told, was much pleased; he even found he was now able to admire the wonderful flower, though before, he had agreed with Julia's opinion of it. To Captain Polkington not much was said about it.

"Johnny," Julia said, as they stood watching Joost pot the bulb, "you are not to tell father how valuable this is. He will find out quite soon enough; people are sure to bother me to sell it after it has been exhibited, and I am not going to."

"No," Johnny said; "of course not, naturally not."

So Captain Polkington had no idea why Joost carried away a carefully tied-up flower pot when he left the cottage that afternoon. He only thought the young man must have a most remarkable enthusiasm for flowers to so burden himself on a long walk.

* * * * *

And in due time the wonderful streaked daffodil, "Narcissus Triandrus Striatum, The Good Comrade," grown by Miss Snooks of White's Cottage, Halgrave, was exhibited at the Temple Show. And bulb growers, professional and amateur, waxed enthusiastic over it. And the general public who went to the show, admired it or not, as their taste and education allowed them. And among the general public who went, was a Miss Lillian Farham, a girl who, last September, had travelled north with carnations in her coat and Rawson-Clew in a corner of the railway carriage. Miss Farham was an enthusiastic gardener, and having means and leisure and a real taste for it, she had some notable successes in the garden of her beautiful home; and when she was in town she never missed an opportunity of attending a good show, seeing something new, and learning what she could. She was naturally much interested in the new streaked daffodil; so much so, that she spoke of it afterwards, not only to those people who shared her taste, but also to at least one who did not.

Rawson-Clew was back in London. He had not been back long, but already he had begun the preliminaries of a search for Mr. Gillat. He decided that it would be easier to find him than Julia, who might possibly have changed her name to oblige her family, and who certainly would be better able to hide herself, if she had a mind to, than Mr. Gillat. He had not as yet been able to devote many days to the search, and had got no further than preliminaries; still he could already see that it was not going to be easy and might possibly be long. He did not go to the show of spring flowers; he did not feel the least interest in it, but when by chance he met Lillian Farham she spoke of it to him and also of the new daffodil.

"It was grown at Halgrave, too," she said; "that is not so very far from your part of Norfolk, is it?"

"Fifteen or twenty miles," Rawson-Clew answered.

"Is it so much as that?" she said; "I thought it was nearer; of course, then, you can't tell me anything about the grower."

He could not; it is probable even if the place had been much nearer, he still could not, seeing that it was some years since he had been to "his part of Norfolk." However, he gave polite attention to Miss Farham, who went on to describe the wonderful flower of mixed yellow and blue.

"Blue?" Rawson-Clew's interest became more real; he had once heard of blue in connection with a daffodil. It was one evening on a long flat Dutch road—the evening he had tied Julia's shoe. She had spoken of it, she had begun to say, when he stopped the confession that he thought she would afterwards regret, that she could not take the blue daffodil.

"What is the name?" he asked; he meant of the grower in Norfolk, though he would have been puzzled to say why he asked.

Miss Farham, however, mistook his meaning and thought he was asking about the flower. "'The Good Comrade,'" she said, and fortunately she did not see his surprise. "Rather quaint, is it not?" she went on. "Easier to remember, too, than some obscure grand duchess, or the name of the grower or his wife after whom new flowers are usually called. The blue daffodil, you know, is called after one of the grower's relatives—Vrouw Van Heigen."

Rawson-Clew said "Yes," though he did not know it before. It struck him as interesting now; the Van Heigens had a blue daffodil then, and Julia went to them for some purpose besides earning a pittance as companion. She had not taken a blue daffodil; she said so; she also said at another time she had failed in the object of her coming and that failure and success would have been alike discreditable. Poor Julia! And now here was some one in Norfolk exhibiting a daffodil of mixed blue and yellow called, by a strange coincidence, "The Good Comrade." Of course, it was only a coincidence and yet, when reason is not helping as much as it ought, one is inclined to take notice of signs and coincidences.

"What is the name of the grower of this new flower?" Rawson-Clew asked.

Miss Farham told him.

"Snooks," he repeated thoughtfully; she imagined he was trying to remember if he had heard the name before. He was not; he was wondering if any one ever really started in life with such a name; if, rather, it did not sound more like the pseudonym of one who was indifferent to public credence, and possibly public opinion.

Rawson-Clew was not able to tell Miss Farham anything about the grower of the streaked daffodil; he was obliged to own that he had never heard of her before. But he made it his business to find out what he could in the shortest possible time; this he did not mention to Miss Farham. What he discovered did not amount to much, very little in fact, but such as it was, it was enough to bring him to Halgrave.



CHAPTER XVIII

BEHIND THE CHOPPING-BLOCK

Captain Polkington, Johnny and Julia were busy in the garden. It was a fine afternoon following after two or three wet days and the ground was in splendid condition for planting, also for sticking to clothes. The sandy road to Halgrave dried quickly, but the garden, of heavier soil, did not, as was testified by Julia's boots—she had bought a small pair of plough-boy's boots that spring and was wearing them now, very pleased with the investment. By and by the sound of a motor broke the silence; the Captain and Johnny left off work to listen; at least, Johnny did; the Captain was hardly in a position to leave off, seeing that he was off most of his time.

"It sounds like a motor-car," Johnny said, as if he had made a discovery.

"Then it must have lost its way," Julia answered, giving all her attention to her cabbage plants.

Johnny said "Yes." It certainly seemed likely enough; the ubiquitous motor-car went everywhere certainly; even, it was possible to imagine, to remote and uninteresting Halgrave. But along the ill-kept sandy road which led to White's Cottage and nowhere else, none had been yet, nor was it in the least likely that one would ever come except by accident.

The sounds drew nearer. "It certainly is coming this way," the Captain said; "I will go and explain the mistake to the people."

The Captain went to the gate; but he did not stop there, nor did he explain anything. His eyesight, never having been subjected to strain or over work, was good, and the car, owing to the loose nature of the road, was not coming very fast; he saw it had only one occupant, a man who seemed familiar to him. For a second the Captain stared, then he turned and went into the house in surprising haste. He had not the least idea what had brought this man here; indeed, when he came to think about it, he was sure it must have been some mistake about the road. But he had no desire to explain; he felt he was not the person to do so, seeing that the last (and first) time he had seen the man was in an unpleasant interview at Marbridge. He connected several painful things, humiliation, undeserved epithets, and so on, with that interview and with the face of Rawson-Clew. Accordingly, he went into the house and waited, and the car came nearer and stopped.

Johnny and Julia went on with their work; they imagined the Captain was talking to the strangers; they had no idea of his discreet withdrawal until Julia came round the corner of the house to fetch a trowel, and saw Rawson-Clew coming up the path.

Julia's first feeling was blank amazement, but being a Polkington, and being that before she took to the simple life and its honest ways, she allowed nothing more than polite surprise to appear.

"Why!" she said, "I had no idea you were anywhere near here."

"I had no idea that you were until recently," he returned.

She wondered how recently; if it was this minute when chance brought her for the trowel—very likely it was, and he was here by accident.

"Have you lost your way?" she inquired.

"Not to-day."

"Where were you trying to go?"

"White's Cottage."

"Oh!" she said. He did not look amused, but she felt as if he were, and clearly it was not accident that had brought him.

"How did you know I was here?" she asked. "There are not many people who could have told you. I have retired, you know."

He settled his eyeglass carefully in the way she remembered, and looked first at the cottage and then at her. "I observe the retirement," he said; "but the corduroy?"

"I am wearing out my old clothes first," she answered.

Just then Johnny's voice was heard. "Hadn't I better water the plants?" it asked. Next moment Mr. Gillat came in sight carrying a big water can. "Julia hadn't I better—" he began, then he saw the visitor.

"Ah, Mr. Gillat," Rawson-Clew said. "How are you? I am glad to see you again; last time I called at Berwick Street you were not there."

Johnny set down the water can. "Glad to see you," he said beaming; "very glad, very glad, indeed"—he would have been pleased to see Rawson-Clew anywhere if for no other reason than that he had shown an interest in Julia's welfare.

Meanwhile Captain Polkington sat in the kitchen listening for the sound of the departing motor. But it did not come; everything was still except for the ceaseless singing of larks, to which he was so used now that it had come almost to seem like silence. He began to grow uneasy; what if, after all, Rawson-Clew were not here by accident and mistake. What if he had come on some wretched and uncomfortable business? The Captain could not think of anything definite, but that, he felt, did not make it impossible. The man certainly had not gone, he must be staying talking to Julia. Well, Julia could talk to him, she was more fit to see the business through than her father was. There was some comfort in this thought, but it did not last long, for just then the silence was broken, there was a sound of steps, not going down the path to the gate, but coming towards the kitchen door! The Captain rose hastily—it was too bad of Julia, too bad! He was not fit for these shocks and efforts; he was not what he used to be; the terrible cold of the winter in this place had told on his rheumatism, on his heart. He crossed the room quickly. The door which shut in the staircase banged as that of the big kitchen was pushed open.

"You had better take your boots off here, Johnny," Julia said; "you have got lots of mud on them."

She took off her own as she spoke, slipping out of them without having much trouble with the laces. Rawson-Clew watched her, finding a somewhat absurd satisfaction in seeing her small arched feet free of the clumsy boots.

"Are not your stockings wet?" he said.

"No," she answered; "not a bit."

"Are you quite sure? I think they must be."

"No, they are not; are they, Johnny?" She stood on one foot and put the other into Mr. Gillat's hand.

Johnny felt it carefully, giving it the same consideration that a wise housekeeper gives to the airing of sheets, then he gave judgment in favour of Julia.

"I was right, you see," she said; "they are quite dry."

She looked up as she spoke, and met Rawson-Clew's eyes; there was something strange there, something new which brought the colour to her face. She went quickly into the other kitchen and began to get the tea.

Johnny came to help her, and the visitor offered his assistance, too. Julia at once sent the latter to the pump for water, which she did not want. When he came back she had recovered herself, had even abused herself roundly for imagining this new thing or misinterpreting it. There was no question of man and woman between her and Rawson-Clew; there never had been and never could be (although he had asked her to marry him). It was all just impersonal and friendly; it was absurd or worse to think for an instant that he had another feeling, had any feeling at all—any more than she. And again she abused herself, perhaps because it is not easy to be sure of feelings, either your own or other people's, even if you want to, and it certainly is not easy to always want what you ought. Moreover, there was a difference; it was impossible to overlook it, she felt in herself or him, or both. She had altered since they parted at the Van Heigens', perhaps grown to be a woman. After all she was a woman, with a great deal of the natural woman in her, too, he had said—and he was a man, a gentleman, first, perhaps, polished and finished, her senior, her superior—yet a man, possibly with his share of the natural man, the thing on which one cannot reckon. Just then the kettle boiled and she made the tea.

"Where is father?" she asked; and Mr. Gillat went to look for him.

"He is up-stairs," he said when he came back; "he does not feel well, he says, not the thing; he'll have tea up there; I'll take it."

Julia looked at Rawson-Clew and laughed. "He does not feel equal to facing you," she said.

"Yes, yes," Johnny added, "that's it; that's what he says—I mean"—suddenly realising what he was saying—"he does not feel equal to facing strangers."

"Mr. Rawson-Clew is not a stranger," Julia answered; she took a perverse delight in recalling the beginning of the acquaintance which she knew quite well was better ignored. "How odd," she said, turning to Rawson-Clew, "that father should have forgotten you, just as you told me you had forgotten him and all about the time when you saw him."

"I expect he regarded the matter as trivial and unimportant, just as I did," Rawson-Clew answered; "though if I told you I had forgotten all about it I made a mistake; I can hardly say that; I remember some details quite plainly; for instance, your position—you stood between your father and me—very much as you did between me and the Van Heigens."

"I did not!" Julia said hotly, pouring the tea all over the edge of the cup; "I didn't stand between you and the Van Heigens. I mean—"

"Allow me!" Rawson-Clew moved the cup so that she poured the tea into it and not the saucer.

"Dear, dear!" Johnny said; he had not the least idea what they were talking about, but he fancied that one or both must be annoyed, perhaps by the upsetting of the tea; he could think of nothing else. "Such a mess," he said; "and such a waste. Is the cup ready? Shall I take it up-stairs?"

"No, thank you," Julia said; "I will take it."

Rawson-Clew did not seem to mind, and Julia, after she had lingered a little with her father, decided to come down again. If she stayed away she knew perfectly well that Johnny would do nothing but talk about her; moreover it was absurd to be put out because Rawson-Clew could answer better than Mr. Gillat; that was one of the reasons for which she had liked him.

Captain Polkington sipped his tea and ate his bread and butter peacefully. Julia had told him Mr. Rawson-Clew would not be staying long; she had not exactly said why he was come, it seemed rather as if she did not know; but apparently nothing unpleasant had happened so far and he would be going soon, directly after tea no doubt. So the Captain sat contentedly and listened for the sound of going, but he did not hear it; they were a very long time over tea, he thought.

They were; two of them were purposely spinning it out, the third was only a happy chorus. Julia was in no hurry to face the questions about the explosive which she feared must come when Johnny's restraining presence was removed. She knew, as soon as she was sure Rawson-Clew's coming was design and not accident, that he must have suspected her; he had come to talk about it and he would do so as soon as he got the chance, so she put it off. And he was quite willing to wait too; he was enjoying the present moment with a curious light-hearted enjoyment much younger than his years. And he was enjoying the future moment, too, in anticipation, albeit he was a little shy of it—he did not quite know how he was to close with the garrison in the citadel even though he might have taken all the outposts.

But at last tea was done and the table cleared and all the things taken to the outer kitchen to be washed. Julia decreed that she and Johnny were to do that, then unthinkingly she sent her assistant for a tea-cloth. Rawson-Clew was standing by the doorway when Johnny passed; he followed him out.

"Mr. Gillat, your plants want watering," he said, quietly but decisively.

"They do, they do," Johnny agreed; "I will have to do them by and by."

"Do them now, it is getting late."

"It is," Mr. Gillat admitted; "we were late with tea, but there's the drying of the cups."

"I will do that."

Johnny hesitated; Julia's wish was his law, still there seemed no harm in the exchange; anyhow, without quite knowing how it happened, he soon afterwards found himself in the garden among the water cans.

Rawson-Clew went back to the outer kitchen. Julia looked round as she heard his step, and seeing that he was alone, recognised the manoeuvre and the arrival of the inevitable hour.

"Well," she said, coming to the point in a business-like way now that it was unavoidable; "what is it you want?"

"I want to know several things," he said, shutting the door. "Principally why you called your daffodil 'The Good Comrade?'"

"The daffodil!" she repeated in frank amazement; she was completely surprised, and for once she did not attempt to hide it.

"Yes," Rawson-Clew said; "why did you call it 'The Good Comrade?'"

Julia began to recover herself and also her natural caution. This was not the question she expected, but the rogue in her made her wary even of the seemingly simple and safe. "I called it after three friends," she said, "who were good comrades to me—you, Johnny and Joost Van Heigen. Why do you ask?"

"Because I wondered if it was a case of telepathy; I also named something 'The Good Comrade.'"

"You?" she said. "What did you name? Was it a dog?"

"No, a bottle—small, wide-necked, stopper fastened with a piece of torn handkerchief, about two-thirds full of a white powder!"

Julia had begun washing the cups; she did her best to betray no sign, and really she did it very well; her eyelids flickered a little and her breath came rather quickly, nothing more.

"Why did you name it?" she asked. "It is rather odd to do so, isn't it?"

"I named it after the person who gave it to me."

Julia's breath came a little quicker; she forgot to remark that the same reason had helped her in naming her flower; she was busy asking herself if he meant her by the good comrade.

"Perhaps I did not exactly name my bottle," he went on to say, "but it stood for the person to me. It was a sort of physical manifestation—rather a grotesque one, perhaps—of a spiritual presence which had not really left me since a certain sunny morning last year."

"That is very interesting," Julia managed to say; her native caution had not misled her; the innocently beginning talk had taken a devious way to the expected end.

"It was interesting," Rawson-Clew said, "but not quite satisfying, at least not to the natural man. He is not content with a manifestation any more than with a spiritual presence; he wants a corporal fact."

Julia looked up; the talk was taking an unforseen turn that she did not quite follow, so she looked up. And then she read something in his face that set her heart beating, that made her afraid, less perhaps of him than of herself, and the thrill that ran like fire through her body.

"I don't quite understand," she said, and dropped a cup.

It was meant to fall on the flagged floor and break; it would create a diversion, and picking up the pieces would give her time to get used to the suffocating heart-beats. She had enough of the Polkington self-mastery left to think of the manoeuvre and its advisability, but not enough to carry it out properly; the cup fell on the doubled-up tea-cloth that lay at her feet and was not broken at all. Nevertheless the incident and her own contempt for her failure steadied her a little.

Rawson-Clew picked up the cup. "Do you not understand," he said. "It is quite simple; I have put it to you before, too—not in the same words, but it comes to the same—the plain terms used then were—will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

Julia's heart seemed to stop for a second, then it went on heavily as before, but she only asked, "Did you not get my letter, the one I wrote in Holland about that?"

"The one when you told me of your arrangements? By the way you did not mention that you were going to Van de Greutz's for the explosive, yes, I got that, but it was scarcely an answer."

"I explained that it meant 'no.'"

"In a postscript; you cannot answer a proposal of marriage in a postscript."

There really does not seem sufficient ground to justify this statement, still she did not combat it. "Can't I?" she said. "Then I will answer it now—no. It was good of you to offer, generous and honourable, but, of course, I should not accept. I mean, I could not even if there had been any need, and, as you see, there was not a particle of need then, still less now."

"No need, no," he answered, and there was a new note in his voice; "it is not a case of necessity or anything of the sort. Put all that nonsense of justice and honour and gratitude out of the question, you know that it does not come in. I own it did weigh somewhat then, but now—now I want the good comrade; I don't deserve her, or a tithe of what she has done for me, but I can't do without her—herself, the corporal fact—don't you know that?"

"No," Julia said; somehow it was all she could say.

"You don't know it? Then I'll tell you." But he did not for she prevented him.

"Please don't," she said. "You cannot really want me because you do not really know me. Oh, no, you do not!"

"I think I do; I know enough to begin with; the rest of the ignorance you can remedy at your leisure."

"My leisure is now," she said; "I will tell you several things, I will tell you how I got the explosive. I went as a cook and stole like a thief—you could have got it as easily as I if you would have stooped as readily as I did. You admire that? Perhaps so, now, but you would not if you had seen it being done. That is the sort of thing I do, and I will tell you the sort of thing I like. The day I came home from Holland I did what I liked—as soon as I reached London I went to Johnny Gillat, my dear old friend, who I love better than any one else in the world, and we had a supper of steak and onions in a back bedroom, and we enjoyed it—you see what my tastes are? Afterwards I heard how father had taken to drink and mother had got into debt—you see what a nice family we are?"

But here Rawson-Clew stopped her. "I knew something like this before," he said; "the details are nothing; I do not see what it has to do with the matter."

"It ought to have a lot," she answered. "But even if you do know it and a good deal more and realise it too, which is a different thing, there is still the other side. I don't know you, I don't even know your name."

Then he remembered that he must have signed that offer of marriage, as he signed all letters, and so left himself merely "H. F. Rawson-Clew" to her.

"You see," she was saying, "it is a mistake for people who don't know each other very well to marry, they would always be getting unpleasant surprises afterwards. Besides, it would be so uncomfortable; it must be pretty bad to live at close quarters with some one you were—who you didn't know very well, with whom you minded about things."

She had touched on something that did matter now, that might matter very much indeed; Rawson-Clew realised it, and realised with a start of pain, that there might be a great gulf between him and the good comrade after all. Her quick intuitions and perceptions had bridged it over and led him to forget that he was a man of years and experience while she was a girl, a young, shy, half-wild thing, veiled, and fearing to draw the veil for his experienced eyes.

"Tell me," he said, facing her and looking very grave and old, "is that how you feel about me?"

She fidgeted the tea-cloth with her foot, but being a Polkington, she was able to answer something. "We belong to different lots of people," she said, examining the shape the thing had taken on the floor; "I have got my life here, working in my garden and so on; and you have got yours a long way off among greater things."

"You have not answered me," he said. "Tell me—am I the man you described?"

He turned her so that she could look at him, the thing she dared not do. His touch was light, almost momentary, but it was too much, it thrilled through her wildly, irresistibly, and she drew back fearing to do anything else.

"Don't!" she said, and her voice was sharp with the anger of pain.

He stepped back a pace. "Thank you," he said; "I am answered."

Captain Polkington had been dozing; there really was nothing else to do; but suddenly he was aroused; there was a sound below; the motor moving at last. Yes, it was going, really going; he went to the window and, taking care not to be seen, watched the car go down the sandy road. After that he went down-stairs, and finding Johnny, who had finished his watering, persuaded him to come for a stroll on the heath. They took a basket to bring home anything they might find, and shouted news of their intention to Julia, who did not answer, then set out.

Now, in the present state of their development, motors are not things on which a man can always rely. More especially is this the case when any one like Mr. Gillat has had anything to do with them. The obliging Johnny, had arranged the inside of Rawson-Clew's car, covering up what he thought might be hurt by the sun and blowing sand while it stood at the roadside, and taking into the house when he went in to tea, anything that could be stolen if—as was quite out of the question—one came that way with a mind to steal. Johnny had brought back most of the things and replaced them before Rawson-Clew started, but not quite all. When the car had got a little distance down the road it, with a perversity worthy of a reasonable being, developed a need for the forgotten item. Rawson-Clew searched for it, could not find it, discovered that he could not get on without it, and, thinking if not saying something not very complimentary about Mr. Gillat, walked back to the cottage.

He supposed he would find Johnny in the garden, but he did not; he and the Captain were some way out on the heath now, and, fortunately for the latter's peace, neither saw any one approach the cottage. Rawson-Clew looked round the garden and finding no one decided, rather reluctantly, that he must go to the house. He did not want to meet Julia again; he thought it rather unlikely that she should still be in the kitchen, but there was a chance of it, so he approached with a view to reconnoitering before presenting himself. The outer kitchen, which partook rather of the nature of a wash-house, had a large unglazed window; when he drew near to this he heard a noise from within. It sounded like some one sobbing, not quiet sobs, but slow deep spasmodic ones like the last remains of a tempest of tears which has not spent itself but only been imperfectly suppressed by sheer will. Rawson-Clew paused though possibly he had no business to do so.

"Oh, why," one wailed from within, "why is not father dead? If he were dead—if only he had been dead!"

The unglazed window was large and rather high up, but Rawson-Clew was a man of fair height; he was also usually considered an honourable one, but when he heard the voice, saying something which was plainly only meant for the hearing of Omnipotence, he did not go away. He put his hands on the flintwork of the window-sill and in a moment found himself in the twilight of the unceiled kitchen.

Julia was crouching in a corner, her elbows on the old chopping-block, her face hidden on her tightly-clenched hands, while she struggled angrily with the shaking sobs. For a moment she struggled, then mastered herself somehow and looked up, perhaps because she meant to rise and set about her work. She had been crying hard and tears do not improve the average face, certainly they did not hers; and she had been trying hard to stop, cramming a screwed-up handkerchief into her eyes and that did not improve matters either. One would have said her face could have expressed nothing but the extremity of unbecoming woe, yet when she caught sight of Rawson-Clew standing just under the window it changed extraordinarily and to anger.

"Go away!" she said; "go away! Do you hear?"

Rawson-Clew did not go away; he came nearer and Julia drew further into the corner, ensconsing herself behind the chopping-block, and looking about as inviting of approach as a trapped rat.

"Julia," he said.

"Go away!" was her only answer.

"Why did you send me away?"

"Because I wanted you gone."

"Because Captain Polkington is not dead? Is that it?"

"You are a dishonourable eavesdropper! No, it wasn't that."

He sat down on the chopping-block barricading her corner so that she could not get out without stepping over him. "Do you know it strikes me that you are not strictly honest either, at least not strictly truthful just now."

Julia tugged at her skirt; the chopping-block was on the hem and he on it so that she could not get free. "Will you please go," she said, with a catch in her breath. That is the worst of these half-suppressed, unspent storms of tears, they have such a tendency to return and break out again inconveniently.

"If it were not for Captain Polkington would you have sent me away?" he asked.

"Y—e—s," she answered, fighting with her tears. "Oh, go! Please, please go!"

She crumpled herself into a small miserable heap and he leaned over the block and drew her into his arms.

For a moment she struggled, burrowing her head into his coat; there was a good deal of burrowing and not much struggling. "No, you wouldn't," he said to her hair, "you would have married me."

"I might have said I would, but I shouldn't really have done it," she contended without looking up. "I shouldn't when it came to the point. You had better let me go, I am spoiling your coat, my face is all wet—and I don't know where my handkerchief is."

"Take mine, you will find it somewhere. Tell me, why would you not have married me when it came to the point? Because your courage failed you?"

No answer; then, "I can't find that handkerchief."

"You have not tried. Are you afraid to try? Are you afraid of me? Is that why you would not have married me—you would have been afraid to live at close quarters with me? Do you still think you don't know me well enough?"

"I don't know your name."

The answer was ridiculous, but he knew how the ridiculous touched even tragedies for Julia.

"Hubert Farquhar Rawson-Clew," he said solemnly. "Now—"

But whatever was to have followed was prevented, for at that moment she looked up, and for some reason, suddenly decided things had gone far enough, and so freed herself.

"I don't think it matters much what I should have done," she said, "or why, either. Father is not dead; you ought to know better than to talk about such a thing; it is bad taste."

"Does that matter in the simple life? I thought when you retired you were going to dispense with falsity and pretences, and say and do honestly what you honestly thought, when it did not hurt other people's feelings."

"So I do," she answered; "that is why, when I thought I was alone just now, I asked out loud how it was that father was still alive. Since then I have seen."

"What have you seen?"

"That it is to prevent me from making a great muddle of things. If he had been dead I dare say I should have married you—I may as well confess it since you know—and we both should have repented it ever afterwards. As it is, if I were free to-morrow, I would know better than to do it."

He did not seem much troubled by the last statement. "We should have had to talk things over," he said.

"No, talking wouldn't have been any good," she answered; "there is a great distance between us."

He looked down at the space of red tiles that separated them. "That is rather remediable," he observed.

"Do you think I am not in earnest?" she said. "I am. There is a real barrier; besides all these things I have mentioned there is something else that cuts me off. I have a debt to pay you and until it is paid, if I were your own cousin, I could not stand on the same platform."

"A debt?" he repeated the word in surprise. His young cousin's loan to Captain Polkington had slipped his memory, and even if it had not, its connection with the present would not have occurred to him. Julia had been there, it is true, when the affair was talked of eighteen months ago, and he himself had unofficially paid the money to end the matter, but he never dreamed of connecting either her or himself with it now. Still less would he have dreamed that she considered herself bound to pay him what her father had borrowed from another.

"What debt?" he asked, thinking the word must be hyperbolical, and meant to stand for something quite different, though he could not imagine what.

"You have forgotten?" she said. "I thought you had; that only shows the distance more plainly; you have one standard for yourself and another for me."

"Tell me what it is and let us see if we cannot compound it."

But she shook her head. "It can't be compounded," she said; "you will know when I pay it."

"And when will that be?"

"Ten years, twenty perhaps, I don't know. I thought once or twice before I could pay it—with the blue daffodil once, and once when I first got the cottage and things—I thought, to be sure, I could do it; it seemed a Heaven-sent way. But"—with a little glint of self-derision—"Heaven knows better than to send those sort of easy ways to the Polkingtons; they are ill-conditioned beasts who only behave when they are properly laden by fate, and not often then. Now you know all about it, so won't you say good-bye and go?"

"I don't know about it and, what is more, I don't care. I am not going to let this unknown trifle, this scruple—"

Just then there came the sound of voices outside; Mr. Gillat and Captain Polkington unwarily coming back before the coast was clear.

"Yes," Johnny was saying, "he came to see me in town, you know—or rather you, but you were out—"

"He came to see me? He"—there was no mistaking the consternation in the Captain's tone, nor his meaning either.

Julia and Rawson-Clew looked at one another; both had forgotten the Captain's existence for a moment; now they were reminded, and though the reminder seemed incongruous it was perhaps opportune.

"There is father," Julia said.

And he nodded. One cannot make love to a man's daughter almost in his presence, when the proviso of his death is an essential to any satisfaction. Rawson-Clew went to the door. "Good-bye," he said, "for the present."

"Good-bye for always," she answered.

She spoke quite calmly, in much the same tone when, on the morning after the excursion to the Dunes, she had bid him good-bye and tried to face the consequences alone. She had had so many tumbles with fate that it seemed she knew how to take them now with an indifferent face. At least, nearly always, not quite—the wood block still lay before the corner in which she had crouched the marks on his coat where her tears had fallen were hardly dry. There was passion and to spare behind the indifferent face, passion that for once at least had broken through the self-mastery.

He held out his hand and she put hers into it. "Good-bye," he repeated; "good-bye for the present, brave little comrade."



CHAPTER XIX

CAPTAIN POLKINGTON

Captain Polkington was watching a pan of jam. It was the middle of the day and warm; too warm to be at work out of doors, as Johnny was, at least so the Captain thought. He also thought it too warm to watch jam in the back kitchen and that occupation, though it was the cooler of the two, had the further disadvantage of being beneath his dignity. The dignity was suffering a good deal; was it right, he asked himself, that he, the man of the house, should have the menial task of watching jam while Julia talked business with some one in the parlour? He did not know what business this person had come on; he had seen him arrive a few minutes back, had even heard his name—Mr. Alexander Cross—but that was all he knew about him; Julia had taken him into the parlour and shut the door. Naturally her father felt it and was annoyed.

There was a door leading into the parlour from the front kitchen. It was fast closed but the Captain, leaving the jam to attend to itself, went and looked at it. While he was standing there he heard three words spoken on the other side by the visitor; they were—"your new daffodil."

So that was the business this man had come on! He was trying to buy Julia's ugly streaked flower. The Captain's weak mouth set straight; he felt very strongly about the daffodil and his daughter's refusal to sell it. He knew she might have done so; she had had a good many letters about it since it was exhibited in London. She said little about the offers they contained, but he knew she refused them all; he had taxed her with it and argued the question to no purpose. Now, to-day, it seemed there was a man so anxious to buy the thing that he had actually come to see her; and she, of course, would refuse again. The Captain sat down in the easy-chair; he was overcome by the thought of Julia's contrary stupidity.

The chair was near the door, but he would have scouted the idea that he was listening; he was a man of honour, and why should he wish to hear Julia refuse good money? Also it was impossible to hear all that was said unless the speakers were close to the door. Apparently they must have been near for no sooner had he sat down than he heard the man say, "Haven't I had the pleasure of seeing you somewhere before, Miss Snooks? Your face seems familiar though I can't exactly locate it."

"We met at Marbridge," Julia answered; "at a dance, a year and a half ago."

"At Marbridge? Oh, of course! Funny I shouldn't have remembered when I heard your name the other day!"

Captain Polkington did not think it at all funny; he did not know who Mr. Cross might be, nobody important he judged by his voice and manner—hostesses at Marbridge often had to import extra nondescript men for their dances. But whoever he was, if he had been there once he might go there again and carry with him the tale of Julia's doings and home and other things detrimental to the Polkington pride. The Captain listened to hear one of the two in the other room refer to the change of name which had prevented an earlier recognition. But neither did; she saw no reason for it, and he had forgotten her original name if he ever knew it.

"I remember all about you now," he was saying; "you danced with me several times and asked me about the Van Heigens' blue daffodil"—he paused as if a new idea had occurred to him. "You were not in the line then, I suppose?" he asked.

"No, I knew nothing about flower growing or selling," she answered. "What you told me of the value of the blue daffodil was a revelation to me."

He laughed a little. "But one you'll try to profit by," he said.

The Captain moved in his chair. He could have groaned aloud at the words, which represented precisely what Julia would not do. Unfortunately his movement had much the same effect as his groan would have done, some one on the other side of the door moved too, and in the opposite direction. It must have been Julia, her father was sure of it; it was like her to do it; she must have gone almost to the window; he could not make out what was said. The man was no doubt trying to buy the bulb; a stray word here and there indicated that, but it was impossible to hear what offer was made. It was equally impossible to hear what Julia said; her father only caught the inflection of her voice, but he was sure she was refusing.

In disgust and anger he rose and, having pulled the jam to the side of the fire, went into the garden. There he took the hoe and started irritably to work on a bed near the front door; it was some relief to his feelings to scratch the ground since he could not scratch anything else.

In a little while Cross came out. "Well, if you won't, you won't," he was saying as Julia opened the door. "I think you are making a mistake; in fact, if you weren't a lady I should say you were acting rather like a fool; but, of course, you must please yourself. If you think better of it you can always write to me. Just name the price, a reasonable price, that's all you need do. We understand one another, and we can do business without any fuss—you have my address?"

He gave her a card as he spoke, although she assured him she should not want it; then he took his leave.

She watched him go, tearing up the card when he had set off down the road. Captain Polkington watched her.

"What did he want?" he asked, remembering that he was not supposed to know.

"The bulb," she answered.

"And you would not sell it?"

"No."

She had come from the doorstep now to pull up some weeds he had overlooked.

"I can't understand you, Julia," he said resting on his hoe, and speaking as much in sorrow as in anger. "You seem to have so little sense of honour—women so seldom have—but I should have thought that you would have had a lesson on the necessity, the obligation of paying debts. When you come to think of the efforts we are making to pay those debts, how I am straining every nerve, giving almost the whole of my income, doing without everything but the barest necessaries, without some things that are necessaries in my state of health, what your mother is doing, how she has given up her home, her husband, to live almost on charity in her son-in-law's house. When you think of all that, I say, and of what your sisters have done, it does seem strange that you should grudge this bulb, simply and solely because it was given you by some people for whom you care nothing."

Julia agreed; she never saw the purpose of contradicting when conviction was out of the question. "It does seem strange," she said; "but there is one comfort, the worst of the debts will be cleared off by the end of the year. Uncle William knows that and has arranged for it in his own mind; I really think it would be almost a pity to disturb the business plans of any one so exact."

"Are we," the Captain returned scornfully, "to pinch and save to the end of the year? Am I to do without the few comforts that might make life tolerable? Am I to work like a farm labourer and live like one till then, because you choose to keep this bulb?"

Julia thought it was very probable things would go on as they were for some time, but she did not say so; she only said, "I am sorry you find it so trying."

"Trying!" her father said, and stopped, as if he found the word and most others very inadequate. "After all, it does not much matter," he remarked in a tone of gloomy resignation. "I shan't be here, in any one's way, much longer; there is not the least chance that I shall live till the end of the year, and when I am gone you can do what you please, what you must, with your bulb. I own I should like to see you a little more comfortable and better off now. I hate to have you doing servant's work and going shabby as you have to. I should like you to be decently dressed, taking your proper place in society, but if you think it right to go on as you are and to keep your bulb, of course I have nothing to say."

It was as well he had nothing, for Julia remembered the jam and went indoors, so he would have had no one to say it to. She went into the back kitchen, thinking, but not of the jam. Once again the temptation to sell the daffodil beset her; not to Cross, he was the last man to whom she would have sold it, but to some collector who would care for it as the Van Heigens would. She could easily find such a one with or without assistance from Cross; little harm would be done to the Van Heigens by it; indeed Joost had expected her to do no less, and if she did it she could pay—not the debts her father had mentioned—but the one he had not. She had thought this all out before, seen the arguments on both sides, and arrived at her conclusion; but there are some things that are not content with this treatment once, nor even twice, but demand it a good many more times than that. So she thought it out again and came again to the old conclusion. Joost had given her the bulb because he loved her; he had made no conditions because he believed in her; he had even professed himself content that she should sell it because, in his humbleness and generosity, he wanted only that she should get what ease she could. He was content to make what was to him a great sacrifice for no other reason than that she should have a little more money on mere caprice, the very nature of which he did not know. And so she could not do it, that was the end of the whole matter. She could not take the gift of the man who loved her to pay a debt to the man she loved.

She went to fetch jam pots, without calling herself to order for the last admission. It was the one luxury she had at that time; daily and nightly she could admit to herself that she loved him and he loved her. Not exactly passionately—they were not passionate people, she told herself—but in an odd companionable equal sort of way which was the best in the world. Nothing would ever come of it, even in the remote future when her father was dead and the debt paid. By that time both of them would have grown old and set in their far separate ways, and even if he ever heard that she was free he would have become wiser and changed his mind. So there was no end to this thing, no awakening and disillusioning, none of the disappointment and dreariness which is likely to attend the translating of a dream into work-a-day life. For that reason it should have been possible to be content, even with the thing which stood between her and realisation—sometimes it almost was, at least she persuaded herself so. At others there were things harder to control; brief moments when crushing down all opposition and obliterating other thoughts, came the memory of how she had crouched behind the chopping-block, how hidden her tears in his coat. There was no reason or common-sense in that, no friendship or good-fellowship in the clasp of his arms; it was the natural man and the natural woman, and absence could not change it, nor time take it away; it had been, it might be again, it obeyed no law and answered to no argument in the world. It was something which made her ashamed and afraid and yet glad with a rare incommunical gladness that was pointed with pain.

Just then the jam boiled over, and she had to leave her pots to run and save it.

It is a great thing to have your mind under fair control; the Polkington training, wherein the advisable and advantageous were compelled to rank high even in matter of emotion, is not without use in bringing this about. But it is also a great thing, almost, perhaps, a more important one for some people, to have plenty to do even if it is only making jam.

While Julia made her jam Captain Polkington hoed; at least he did for a little while, then he gradually ceased and stood leaning upon his hoe, lost in unhappy thought. At last he moved, and, gathering the withering weeds that lay beside the path, carried them to an old basket which he had left beside the garden wall. With the weeds he picked up the torn fragments of card which Julia had dropped beside the doorstep; he let them fall into the basket with the other rubbish, but when he saw them gleaming white among the green they arrested his attention. For a moment he looked at them, then he carefully picked them out; he had some thought of appealing to Julia once more, or telling her that he had saved the man's address for her and she had one last chance. He sat down on the wall; would it be any good to appeal? he asked himself despondently. Would anything be any good? Was not everything a failure? No one regarded him; Cross, the man whose card he held, had not even glanced in his direction when he went down the path. A miserable bargain-driving tradesman had passed him and paid no more attention to him than if he had been a gardener! Gillat, his own friend, did not regard him, thought nothing of his comforts; he was all for Julia; thought of nothing and no one else. As for Julia herself, she had not the slightest regard for him, no consideration, not even filial respect and obedience.

He looked gloomily before him for a little, then his eye fell on the white fragments he held, the address of the man who was anxious to buy the daffodil which Julia in her obstinate folly and selfish unreasonableness, would not sell. If it only were sold! He thought over all the good things that could then be done; they were the same as those excellent reasons that he had himself given a little while back. Some people might have said they were rather diverse and not all mutually inclusive, but no such idea troubled him; he was sure all could easily have been done if the daffodil were sold. He felt that he could have done it all quite well, he did not stop to think how—if he had had the handling of the money he could have been a benefactor to his whole family, especially Julia. It was hard that he should be prevented, bitterly hard; it had so often happened in his life that he had been prevented from doing what was good and useful by want of means and opportunity or the stupid obstinacy of other people. He grew more and more depressed as he sat on the wall thinking of these things and wondering if there were many men so useless, so unfortunate and misunderstood as he.

This depression lasted all that day and on into the next; indeed, for some time longer. It lifted a little once in the course of a week, but not much, and soon settled down again, making the Captain very miserable, disinclined for work, and decidedly bad company. Johnny thought he was not well, but Julia fancied his trouble had something to do with annoyance and the daffodil. He did not confide in either of them, maintaining a proud and gloomy silence and nursing his grievance so that it grew. For days he cherished his sense of injury and wrong, until it became large and took a good hold upon him. Then, all at once, for no reason that one can give, a change came, and his mind, as if smitten by a gust of wind, began to veer about, to stir and lighten. Why, he suddenly asked himself, was it that Julia would not sell the bulb? Because—the answer was so absurdly simple he wondered it had not occurred to him before—because it was the Van Heigens' present, and one cannot sell presents. He perfectly understood the scruple, honoured it even; but he also saw quite plainly that, though it prevented her from selling the daffodil, it did not stand in the way of its being sold. She could not, of course, authorise the sale, any more than she could conduct it; but that was no reason why she should not be very pleased to have it sold. Indeed, not only was this a probability, practically a certainty, but more than likely she had had some such idea in her mind when she spoke of the matter to her father—in all likelihood she was wondering now why he had not taken the hint.

Thus Captain Polkington reasoned, seeing light at last in the dimness of the depression which had possessed him. Quite how much he really believed, or even if he were capable of real reasonable belief at this stage of his career, it is not easy to say. It is possible he may have thought he was right for the time being; his conscience was capable of remarkable gymnastic feats at times. It is also possible that he, like some others of the human race, was not really able to think at all. Anyhow the depression that weighed upon him lifted, and he remembered with satisfaction that he had kept the torn fragments of Cross' card.

In the early part of the summer the hyacinths, tulips, and finer narcissus had been taken out of the ground and put to dry. Julia hoped by this means to get more and better flowers from them next year than is the case when they are left in the earth. They took some time to dry and were not really ready till the summer was far advanced; but that did not matter to her, however it may have inconvenienced her father; she was too busy to attend to them earlier. By the middle of August they were ready, and she set to cleaning them in her spare time with Johnny to help her. He was proud and pleased to do so, and did not in the least mind the extreme irritation of the skin which befalls those who rub off the old loose husks. A place was prepared for the bulbs in one of the sheds, the wide shelf cleared and partitions made in it by Mr. Gillat, who also spent some time in writing labels for each of the divisions. Julia told him this was unnecessary as she knew by the shape which were hyacinths and which tulips; still he did it. Captain Polkington did not offer any assistance; he merely looked on with indifferent interest; the matter did not seem to concern him.

But one day, towards the end of the month, but before the bulbs were all done, Julia went into the town.

Captain Polkington saw her start; then he wandered to the shed where Johnny was at work. For a little he stood watching, then he walked leisurely round the place looking at this and that.

"You will never be able to tell which is which of these things," he remarked at last.

Johnny looked at his somewhat conspicuous labels. "I've named them, don't you see 'Tulips?'"

"But you don't say what sort of tulips, which are red and which yellow. Nor what sort of narcissus, which are daffodils and which the bunchy things."

"No," Mr. Gillat admitted; "no, they got mixed in the digging up; I forgot, and put them all in the barrow together; that's how it happened."

"What? The whole lot?" the Captain inquired. "The streaked daffodil and all? What did Julia say?"

"She said it did not matter," Johnny told him; "they'll be all the more surprise to us when they come up next year."

"She didn't mind, not even about the streaked daffodil?"

"Oh, that was not there," Mr. Gillat said, serenely unconscious that the fate of that bulb was the only interest. "We have got that by itself."

He showed a little piece of shelf penned off from the rest and carefully covered with wire netting for fear of rats. Three different shaped bulbs were there in a row.

"That's it," Johnny said, pointing to one of the three. "And that end one is the red tulip with the black middle; it is supposed to be very good; and that other is the double blue hyacinth from down by the gate; we are going to try it in a pot in the house next year and have it bloom early."

Captain Polkington nodded, but did not show much interest. "Did you put these here, or did she?" he asked.

"She did," Johnny answered. "She cleans them much better than I do, and we knew they were choice ones, the best one of each kind, so she cleaned them; but I made the wire cover."

The Captain did not praise the ingenuity of this contrivance, which he did not admire at all, and soon afterwards he sauntered back to the house. He was dozing in the easy-chair in the front kitchen when Johnny came in to change his coat before setting out to meet Julia. He did not seem to have moved much when Mr. Gillat came down-stairs ready to start.

"What?" he roused himself to say when Johnny announced his destination. "Oh, all right, you need not have waked me to tell me that, it really is of no importance to me if you like to walk in the blazing sun." He settled himself afresh in the chair, muttering something about the heat, and Johnny went out, quietly closing the door after him.

It was an hour later when Julia and the faithful Johnny came back, the latter decidedly hot although he was carrying one of the lightest of the parcels. Captain Polkington was still in his chair; he woke up as they entered.

"Why," he said, "I must have dropped asleep!" He rose and went to take Julia's parcels. "Let me put these away for you," he said solicitiously; "it is a great deal too hot for you to be walking in the sun and carrying all these things."

"Thank you," Julia answered; "that's all right. Perhaps you would not mind getting the tea, though; if you would do that I should be glad."

He did mind, but he set about it, and it was perhaps well for him that he did, as otherwise he might have paid a suspicious number of fidgety attentions to Julia. As it was, doing the menial work which he always considered beneath his dignity, while Johnny sat still and rested, restored him to his usual manner.

But the Captain, though he was safely past the initial difficulty, did not find the working out of his scheme altogether easy. He had the bulb, it is true, and he was safe from detection for there was still under the wire cover a smooth yellow-brown narcissus root very like the first one; but he had got to get rid of it. It was not very easy to get a letter to the post here without remark from Mr. Gillat. That, in the circumstances, would be undesirable for it was likely to arouse Julia's suspicions, and if they were roused she might think it her duty to interfere—even though, of course, she did wish the bulb sold. Her father recognised that and, determining not to give her the opportunity, got his letter written betimes and waited for a chance to give it to the postman unobserved. In writing he had been faced by one very great difficulty, he had not the least idea how much to ask. Cross had said "name a reasonable price," and he must name one, or else it would appear that he were writing on his own behalf not Julia's; but he did not know what was reasonable and he had no chance of finding out. A new orchid, he had vaguely heard, was sometimes worth a hundred pounds; but it was impossible any one should pay so much for a daffodil, an ordinary garden flower. Julia, whatever her motive, would not have refused to sell it if it would have fetched so much; he could not conceive of a Polkington, especially a poor one, turning her back on a hundred pounds. For hours he thought about this and at last decided to ask twenty pounds. It seemed more to him now than it would have done a year ago, by reason of the small sums he had handled lately; but it was a good deal less than his golden dreams had painted the bulb to be worth in the time when it seemed unattainable, and he was paying debts and providing for Julia out of the proceeds of the imaginary sale. Still, he finally decided to ask it and wrote to that effect, and after some waiting for the opportunity got the letter posted.

After that there followed an unpleasant time or suspense, made the more unpleasant by the fact that he had to look out for the postman as he did not want the return letter to fall into Julia's hands. At last, after a longer time than he expected, the reply came safely to hand. This was it—

"SIR,

"I am obliged to decline your offer of the streaked daffodil bulb, the price you name being absurd. To tell the plain truth, I would rather not do business with you in the matter; I prefer to deal with principals, else in these cases there is little guarantee of good faith.

"Yours faithfully,

"ALEXANDER CROSS."

"P. S.—If you should fail to dispose of your bulb elsewhere and it would be a convenience to you, I will give you a five pound note for it, that is, if you can guarantee it genuine. It is not, under the circumstances, worth more to me.

"A. C."

So the Captain read and then re-read; anger, mortification and disappointment preventing him from grasping the full meaning at first. Five pounds, only five pounds! No wonder Julia would not sell her bulb; no wonder she preferred to keep a present that would only fetch five pounds! What was such a trifle? The Captain glared at the letter as he asked himself the question proudly. His pride was badly wounded. Cross had not set him right in his mistaken idea of the daffodil's value too politely; at least he thought not. Why should he, this tradesman, say he preferred to deal with principals? Did he imagine that a gentleman would attempt to sell him a spurious bulb? The Captain's honour was not of that sort and he felt outraged. He felt outraged, too, almost insulted, at being told that the price was absurd. The absurd thing was that he should be expected to know anything about trade or trade prices. "The man can have no idea of my position," he thought.

But there he was not quite correct; it was precisely because he had a suspicion of the position that Cross had written thus. No one with any right to it would offer the true bulb for twenty pounds; either, so he argued, it was stolen or not genuine; which, he did not know, the odds were about even. After making a few inquiries at Marbridge into Captain Polkington's history he came to the conclusion that the chance in favour of the true bulb was worth five pounds to him. Accordingly he offered it, indifferent as to the result, but rather anticipating its acceptance.

It was accepted. The Captain was mortified and disappointed, but five pounds is five pounds. It even seems a good deal more when your income is very small and the part of it which you handle yourself so much smaller as to amount to nothing worth mentioning. It was September now, and already the mornings and evenings were cold, foretaste of the winter which was coming, which would hold the exposed land in its grip for months. Five pounds would buy things which would make the winter more tolerable; small comforts and luxuries meant a great deal to real poverty in cold weather and feeble health. Of course to Johnny and Julia too; they were all going to benefit. Captain Polkington packed the bulb in a small box and posted it when he went to Halgrave to have his hair cut.

By return he received a five pound note—a convenient handy form of money, easy to send, easy to change. Halgrave might not perhaps be able to give change for it without inconvenience, but Julia could get it changed next time she went into town. That would not be just yet, but a note will keep; it would perhaps be better to keep it for the present. The Captain folded it in his pocket-book and kept it.



CHAPTER XX

THE BENEFACTOR

It was not till October that Captain Polkington was able to change the five pound note. This was really Julia's fault, she went so seldom into the town; he had once or twice suggested her doing so when she said they wanted this or that, but she never took the hint, and the note was still in his pocket-book. At last, however, the opportunity came.

A keeper's wife with whom Julia had got acquainted had promised her a pair of lop-eared rabbits if she could come and fetch them. She was not very anxious to have them, but Mr. Gillat was; he said they would be very profitable. Julia doubted this; but, since he wanted them, she said they would have them, and accordingly, one morning, they started together with a basket for the rabbits. They started directly after breakfast for they had to go a long way across the heath and could not at the best be back before two o'clock. Captain Polkington watched them go, standing at the cottage door until their figures were small on the great expanse of heather. Then he went in and, sitting down, wrote a hasty note to Julia; it was to the effect that he had been obliged to go into town, but would be back by dark or soon after. It read as quite a casual communication, as if he were in the habit of going into town frequently and had much business to transact. The Captain was rather satisfied with it; he felt he was doing the straightforward thing in telling Julia, his whole proceedings were open and above board. When he came back he should tell her all about the money, how it had been raised and how spent. She should have had the spending of it herself if only she had gone to town when he suggested it; as it was, he must do it; it was absurd to wait any longer; the weather was already cold; he must go, and bring her some pleasant surprise when he came back.

Satisfied with these reflections and feeling already the glow of beneficence, he dressed himself and set out for Halgrave. He had to walk to the village and there take the carrier's cart which went into town twice a week; he reflected, while he waited for the vehicle, how fortunate it was that Julia and Johnny had chosen to go for the rabbits to-day, one of the days when the carrier went to town. There were a good many bundles going by the cart, and two other passengers who were inclined to be too familiar until somewhat haughtily shown their proper place. The Captain was a little annoyed by this; and annoyed, also, to find that the carrier was not in the habit of starting on the return journey till rather late, later than the note would lead Julia to expect her father. But as the carrier was not one to change his habits for anybody, that could not be helped and Captain Polkington made the best of it. Julia was not likely to be anxious about him, he was sure; and since he was going to tell her all about his doings, it might as well be late as early. By this time he had quite got rid of any qualms—if he ever had them—about the method of getting and the intention of spending the note. He had almost forgotten that it had not always been his, and was quite sure that he was doing the right thing—for others as well as himself—in the difficult circumstances which seemed to beset him more than the common run of men. Cheered by these thoughts he endured the discomforts of the journey with moderate patience; he almost felt that he was suffering them in a good cause, for the sake of Johnny and Julia.

The town was large and the centre of a large district, not at all like the retired gentility of Marbridge, very much bigger and busier. Captain Polkington, who had lived quietly so long, felt rather lost and bewildered at first in the bustling intricate streets; there were so many people, especially among the shops, they were always getting in his way. He only made one purchase before lunch; he would have plenty of time in the afternoon, he thought, and would be better able to decide what to buy when he had seen things and had a meal. The purchase made before lunch was at the wine merchants, it was whisky.

He lunched at the best hotel; that and the whisky made a rather bigger hole in the five pound note than one would have expected. Still, as he told himself the whisky really was a vital matter with winter coming on, a necessity, not a luxury, for all of them—Johnny would be better for a little—he used to like a glass in the old days; and Julia would certainly be the better for it, working as she did in the cold. It was a medicine for them all, not himself alone. The lunch was the only personal extravagance and really, seeing what he was doing for the others, there was no need for him to grudge that to himself.

So he lunched and then the trouble began. He was not clear quite how it happened; at least, owing to the confusion there always was in his mind between facts as they were, as he wished them to be, and as they appeared in retrospect—he was never able to explain it thoroughly. There were other men lunching at the same time; he still had the Polkington faculty for making friends and acquaintances; he still, too, had the appearance and manner of a gentleman, if of somewhat reduced circumstances. He apparently made acquaintances; exactly how many and what sort is not certain, the account was very confused here. There was a whisky and soda in it, two whiskies and sodas, or even three; a cigar, a game of billiards—perhaps there was more than one game, or some other game besides billiards. At all events there must have been something more, for the Captain afterwards declared he was ruined in less than an hour, fleeced, cheated of his little all! It is quite possible that he was nothing of the kind, and that the acquaintances were perfectly honest and honourable men. They would not know he could not afford to lose, a true Polkington always set out to hide the reality of his poverty. And he was not likely to win, he seldom did, no matter at what he played or with whom; he was constitutionally unlucky—or incapable, which is a truer name for the same thing—it had always been so, even as far back as the old times in India. That day he lost at something, that at least was clear; then there was more whisky and soda and more losses, and perhaps more whisky again; and so on until late in the afternoon, he found himself standing, miserable and bewildered, in the main street of the town. Some one had brought him there, a good-natured young fellow who thought, not that he had spent all he ought, but that he had drunk all he should.

"Not used to it, you know," he had said with good-humoured apology; "been rusticating out of the way so long. Better come out and get a breath of air, it'll pull you together."

And he persuaded him out, walked some way down the street with him and then, seeing that he seemed all right, left him and went to attend to his own business.

For a little the Captain stood where he was, the depression, begotten of whisky and his losses, growing upon him in the old overwhelming way. No one took any notice of him; passers by jostled against him, for the pavement was rather narrow, but no one paid any attention to him. The bustle bewildered his weak head, and the noise and movement of the traffic in the roadway irritated him unreasonably. A youth ran into him and he exploded angrily with sudden weak unrestrained fury. Thereat the boy laughed, and, when he shouted and stamped his foot, ran away saying something impudent. The Captain turned to run after him shaking his stick; but he was stiff and rheumatic and weak on his legs, too, just now. It was no use to try and run. Of course it was no use, nothing was any use now, he was a miserable failure, he could not even run after a boy; he must bear every one's taunts; he could almost have wept in self-pity. Then he became aware that several passers by were looking at him curiously, arrested by the noise he had made. Annoyed and ashamed he turned his back on them and pretended to be examining the goods in a shop window near.

It was a large draper's, rather a cheap one; the better shops were higher up the street. In this one the things were all priced and labelled plainly; the Captain at first did not notice this one way or the other; he simply looked in to cover his confusion. But after a little he became aware of what he looked at, and it recalled to his mind the fact that he was going to buy something for Julia. He did not quite know what, he had had large ideas at one time; they had had to be diminished once because five pounds will not do as much as twenty; they had to be diminished again because he had been fleeced of so much of the five pounds. A wave of anger shook him as he thought of that, but he suppressed it; he felt that he must not give way, so he looked steadily at the window. There were furs displayed there, muffs and collarettes of skunk and other animals, even the humble rabbit artistically treated to meet the insatiable female appetite for sable at all prices. The Captain decided on the best collarette displayed and turned towards the shop door feeling a little better in the glow of benevolence that returned to him as he thought of how much he was going to spend for Julia. Just as he was going in he caught sight of a girl selling violets in the street. She was a good-looking impudent girl, and catching his eye she pressed her wares on him glibly; he hesitated, smiled—here was one who treated him as a man, who considered it worth while. He looked defiantly at the passers by—he was a man, not an object for curiosity or kindly contempt. He returned the girl's glance with an ogle and, stepping as jauntily as he could to the edge of the pavement, took a bunch of flowers with some suitable pleasantry. Half-way through his remark he stopped dead; he had felt in his pocket for a penny and found nothing. Quickly, feverishly, almost desperately, he felt in the other pocket; there were three coins there; by the size he could tell that one at least was a penny; he took it out and gave it to the girl; he had not the courage to put down the flowers and go without them. Then he turned away. A narrow passage ran down between the draper's and the next house; fewer people went that way and in the window there, common and less expensive goods were displayed. The Captain went down the foot-way and examined the two remaining coins. They were a shilling and a penny.

People passed and repassed along the main road; carts and carriages rumbled over the uneven stones; no one heeded the shabby hopeless figure by the side window. They were lighting up in the draper's though outside there was still daylight; the gas jets were considered to make the place look more attractive. They shone warmly on the furs and silk scarves in the front window, making them look rich and luxurious. Two girls stopped to look in; then, their means being more suitable to the goods there, they came to examine the side window. They were two servants out for the afternoon; they wore winter coats open over summer dresses and hats that might be called autumnal, seeing that they were an ingenious blending of the best that was left from the headgear of both seasons.

"I shall get one of them woolly neck things, I shall," one said; "they're quite as nice as fur and not so dear."

The other could not agree. "Don't care about them myself," she said; "I must say I like a bit of sable."

"Can't get it under two and eleven," her companion rejoined; "and those things are only a shilling three. Look at that pink one there; it looks quite as good as feathers any day. I'm not so gone on sable myself; you can't have it pink, and pink's my colour."

They moved on to another window; they, no more than the passers by, noticed the old man who stood just at their elbow. When they had gone he looked drearily in where they had looked. There were the woolly things they had spoken of, short woven strips of loopy wool, to be tied about the neck by the two-inch ribbons that dangled from the ends. "Ostrich wool boas in all colours, price, one shilling and three farthings," they were ticketed. He read the ticket mechanically. He still held his two coins; he held them mechanically; had he thought about it he would scarcely have troubled to do so, they were so cruelly, so mockingly inadequate. He read the ticket again; it obtruded itself upon him as trivial things do at unexpected times. But now its meaning began to be impressed upon his brain—"one shilling and three farthings"—that, then, was the interpretation of the servant girl's "shilling three." He had a shilling and a penny—a shilling and three farthings. He could buy one of those ostrich wool boas—he would buy it—that pink one for Julia.

The Halgrave carrier made it a rule to receive his passengers' fares at the beginning of the expedition; if they were coming back as well as going with him they paid for the double journey at the outset in the morning. Captain Polkington had so paid, and it was that fact, coupled with the early arrival at the stables of his one purchase, which induced the carrier to wait nearly half-an-hour for him. The cart was packed, everything was ready, and the good man and the only other passenger he was taking back were growing impatient, when the Captain, carrying a small crushed paper parcel, appeared. He had lost his way to the stables and had wandered hopelessly in his efforts to find it. The carrier was rather short-tempered about it, and the other passenger said something to the effect that "They didn't oughter let him out alone!" The Captain payed no attention but climbed into the back of the cart and sat down near his whisky. The other passenger got up beside the driver, and in a few minutes they were lumbering down the crooked streets. Soon they were out of the town and jogging quietly along the quiet lanes; the driver leaned forward to get a light from his passenger's pipe; his face for a moment showed ruddy in the glow of the one lamp, then it sunk into gloom again. Captain Polkington did not notice; he did not notice the voices in intermittent talk, or the fume of their tobacco that hung on the moist air and mingled with the scent of the drooping violets in his coat. He knew nothing and was aware of nothing except that he was the most miserable, the most unfortunate of men. Throughout the whole interminable journey he dwelt on that one thing as he sat by his whisky in the dark, clutching tightly the soft paper parcel and finding his only fragment of comfort in it. He had after all bought something; poor, disappointed, fleeced as he was, he had spent his last money in buying a present for his daughter.



CHAPTER XXI

THE GOING OF THE GOOD COMRADE

The cottage was very quiet. Although it was not late, both Captain Polkington and Johnny had gone to bed, the one to suit himself, the other to oblige Julia; she was in the kitchen now, as completely alone as she could wish. And certainly she did wish it; by the hard light in her eyes and the grim look about her mouth it was clear she was in no mood for company. She had got at the truth that evening, or most of it; the whole affair, with the exception of one point only, was quite plain to her; not by her father's wish or intention, but plain none the less. Subterfuge was an art the Polkingtons understood so well that it was exceedingly difficult to deceive them; Julia was the most difficult of them all to deceive, and the Captain was least clever at subterfuge; it was not wonderful, therefore, that she knew nearly all there was to know. Her heart was bitter within her, but against herself as well as against her father—after all he had but done what she had once thought to do. She had stayed her hand because the one who owned the daffodil was a child to her. Her father had had no such reason for staying his; the one who owned this daffodil was as cunning as he. He had done what he had, badly of course he could not do otherwise—a foredained failure such as he—bungled it hopelessly; but the idea was the same—a bad travesty of a bad idea, badly worked out. For a moment her mind glanced aside from the main issue in disgust and contempt for the method. It was sin without genius, a puerile theft without adequate return, a miserable fall, and for such a purpose! To expect to find the streaked daffodil unguarded in an outhouse! To sell it for five pounds and think to spend the money on creature comforts! It is hard to say which of the three was the worst. The really good have little idea how such fool's knavery looks to the shadily clever; it brings home to them the wrongness of wrong, disgusting them with it and with themselves, as no preaching in the world can.