"Better now than never!" said his host genially. "But I don't think I quite understand you."

"No." For a moment Barry said nothing more, and the other man looked at him a little oddly.

He himself was worth looking at, in spite of the shabbiness which betrayed either a bachelor habit of mind, or a lofty disdain for the trappings of life. A man of about forty-one, his face was a curious mixture of youth and age, of experience and of idealism. His big, bright eyes and curving mouth betokened enthusiasm, fire, a kindly philosophy; while the lines upon his forehead and the grey streaks in his abundant hair seemed to speak of deeper things. Life had indeed graven with its chisel lines and marks ineffaceable. It was the face of one who had suffered deeply, who had passed through more than one saddening experience. In repose one would have said the man was serious, grave to a fault; but when he smiled, it was the face of youth—ardent, eager, irresponsible—that the beholder saw before him.

It was a queer, baffling, contradictory face altogether. Only one thing about it was certain, and that was written so plainly thereon that even a child might read.

It was a face one could trust. Whatever might be the nature of the tragic experience which had whitened the crisp locks and drawn the heavy lines on the broad brow, there was something so gentle, so straightforward, so kindly about the whole man that none could doubt his sincerity, his trustworthiness. And side by side with the lines drawn by sorrow there were other lines betokening laughter, those fine lines at the corners of the eyes which are born from mirth, and even though they take away from youth's first unlined smoothness, give value and perspective to the countenance.

For the rest, he was fairly tall, though he stooped somewhat; and he walked always with a quick, impetuous step, until such times as memory, or some other quality, came to life, and gave a queer, dragging effect to his usually swift tread.

"Well?" It was the host who spoke, and Barry recalled his scattered thoughts with an effort and remembered the cause on which he was enlisted.

"Well, it's about Rose's wife that I want to speak to you." Barry looked searchingly at his friend, and reading in the bright eyes nothing of the cheap cynicism with which some men might have greeted the announcement, he went on quickly. "The fact is, she wants someone to give her a helping hand."

"Someone—apart from her husband?"

"Yes. You see, she's only a kid and a jolly pretty one. Looks like a schoolgirl——?"

"Stay a moment." Herrick laid down his pipe. "Is Mrs. Rose a little dark girl, with very bright eyes and a lot of black hair?"

"That's she. You've met her, then?"

"Well, not exactly. Fact is, I have seen a young woman answering to that description wandering on the towing-path early in the morning once or twice; and I was a little puzzled to know who she might be."

"Well, that's Mrs. Rose. Now the fact is"—Barry grew red suddenly as he realized that his interference was quite unauthorized—"I think she wants a friend, someone to look after her a bit."

"Why? Is she ... er ... what is she?"

"She is very young." Barry spoke deliberately now, having made up his mind to proceed. "And although she is a perfect little lady in her way"—thus unconsciously endorsing Kate's verdict—"she has never been used to the sort of life she will have to lead down here. To tell the truth—I know it's safe with you, Jim—she was our typist in the office before her marriage."

"I see. And Rose fell in love with her?"

"Y ... yes." Even to Herrick, Barry could not give away the secret of Owen's proposal. "Anyway, he married her, and brought her here; and to-day I was witness to a curious little scene in her house."

"I'm all attention, Barry."

"Well, Rose is away for the day, and Mrs. Rose invited a girl-cousin down for the afternoon; and to do honour to her, I imagine, she had provided a sumptuous tea, including shrimps and one of those wobbly white things that you get at lunch."

"I see. Well?"

"Well, we—Mrs. Anstey, Olive and I—chose to pay a call to-day; and when, after a little hesitation, Mrs. Rose asked us to have some tea, we were taken into the dining-room, where these festal delicacies were laid out."

"And then?"

"Well, it would have been all right—Mrs. Anstey is a dear, and Olive of course is a ripper—and we'd have had a very jolly little party, but unfortunately in the middle of it who should arrive but Lady Martin and that terrible daughter of hers."

"Lady Martin of soap fame?"

"The same. Well, you know what an utter snob the woman is. In two minutes she had Toni—Mrs. Rose—reduced to a jelly—simply by sneering at everything."

"Including the—shrimps?"

"Yes. You know shrimps are—well—a bit vulgar, aren't they?"

For a second there was silence. Then Herrick stretched out his hand for his pipe and spoke slowly in the intervals of filling the bowl.

"There was once, if my memory serves me rightly, an Apostle of the name of Peter who chose to consider some of the creatures made by his own Maker in the light of vulgarians; and a sheetful of specimens descended on Peter's head to warn him against the folly of finding any of God's creations common or unclean. Of course we've no proof that shrimps were included——"

"I say, Jim, don't rag!" Barry threw away his cigarette rather impatiently. "I'm in earnest—oh, I know it sounds beastly snobbish, but still, shrimps at tea——"

"Are unusual, though really, if you try them, first-rate." Herrick had filled his pipe, and now took up the match-box. "Seriously, Barry, I know what you mean. So long as we have false standards of gentility I suppose the sight of a shrimp in conjunction with the tea-pot will cause us to shrivel up. But I'll guarantee that neither Mrs. Anstey nor Miss Lynn turned a hair at the sight."

"Rather not! They ate them as if they really liked them—and if that wasn't a snub to the awful Martin woman—well, she went, anyway, driven away by our combined vulgarity, I suppose, and we had quite a decent time when she had gone."

"Well? If Lady Martin was driven from the field, and you were left the victors, what's the trouble?"

"The trouble is this. Lady Martin, being a spiteful woman, and knowing perfectly well that Mrs. Anstey meant to teach her a lesson, will lose no opportunity of spreading the story abroad; and in time it is certain to come to Rose's ears."

"Ah!" He spoke thoughtfully. "That is it, is it? And Mr. Rose will—er—resent the tale?"

"You see it's this way." Barry gave way to the impulse to confide in his friend, to whom all his boyish confidences had been given. "Rose is a real good sort, and wouldn't for the world let Toni suspect that he knows he's married beneath him, as the world calls it."

"The world? Ah!" There was a light scorn in the tone.

"Oh, I know—we both know it's all rot, that sort of thing. But still, as the world goes, one has to remember it; and somehow, although Rose is genuinely fond of his wife, I doubt whether his love would stand much—well, ridicule."

"Ah! And I suppose the child did make herself rather ridiculous in her attempts to welcome a cousin to whom she is doubtless attached."

"It isn't only that." Having once begun, Barry unburdened himself still further. "You know, although I admire Mrs. Rose immensely, and she's a ripping kid really, I'm not a bit sure that the marriage will be a success."

"Why not, Barry?"

"Well, they're unsuited to one another in heaps of ways. Toni is, as I say, a dear little girl, but she's only half-educated, and not in the least intellectual. Sharp in her way—the way of a quick-witted woman—shrewd, and no fool. But you know Rose is rather an exceptional fellow."

"So I have always understood."

"He's clever, you know—and deep, too. Not one of those fellows who are always showing off, but really brilliant; and it's rather a dangerous thing for a shallow woman to marry a man of that sort."

"It's often done, Barry," said the other man quietly.

"Oh, I know, but that doesn't make it any safer. Toni is an out-and-out good sort, as straight as a die, and a merry, light-hearted little thing into the bargain; but she's bound to turn out a disappointment to her husband all the same."

"I don't see why," said Herrick after a moment's pause. "Lots of clever men marry feather-headed women and manage to get along all right."

"Yes, but Owen's not that sort. He's a fellow who will want his wife to be a companion, a real comrade, able to go forward side by side with him, understand his aims, sympathize with his ideals and so on; and this girl can't do it."

"But why are you so sure she can't, my boy? Probably she is very different when alone with her husband. All women, as well as men, have two soul-sides, you know—'one to face the world with'—the other——"

"Oh, that's Browning's view, of course, but then he was an idealist!" Barry spoke rather impatiently. "No, Jim, there's not much hope of that. I've made a study of the girl—I don't mind telling you I did my best to prevent Rose marrying her—and I'm perfectly certain that as far as anything beyond the merest good-fellowship goes, Rose might just as well have married a Persian kitten."

"Yet she is fond of him—in her way?"

"Very, I should say; but even then there's an element of something which shouldn't exist between husband and wife. There is a sort of quite unconscious patronage on Rose's side which matches a pretty gratitude on hers; and I have a horrible fear that if ever he found her wanting—and showed her so—she would break her heart."

"Oh! Then you don't deny her a heart?"

"Good Lord, no! What I do deny her is—well, I don't quite know. Is it brain, or soul, or what?"

"You take an interest in this girl, Barry. Is it possible you are going to try to supply this deficiency of brain, or soul, or whatever it is?"

Barry laughed rather defiantly.

"Oh, I know you think I'm a fool for my pains! Yes, that's just what I do want to do. I want to wake the girl up, to make her use her intellect, fit herself to be Owen's companion. I hate to think of their marriage turning out a failure—Owen disappointed in her, feeling aggrieved, perhaps, at her inability to go forward with him, while she in her turn feels impatient with him for expecting her to be something she isn't—and that he ought never to have expected her to be!"

"Wait a moment, Barry." Herrick looked at him squarely. "Isn't there something behind all this? Didn't I hear a rumour that some woman had jilted Rose—thrown him over for a richer man, or something of the sort?"

"Well"—Barry bit his lip—"since you know so much—yes."

"And possibly this marriage was in the nature of a reprisal? Intended to show the jilting lady that—to put it plainly—there were still good fish in the sea?"

"Yes—in a way it was."

"Ah! Now I understand. And you, having doubtless been forced into the position of an accessory before the fact, are anxious that as little harm as possible shall be done to either party?"

"Yes—but principally to the girl."

"Of course, seeing that she was probably unconscious of the reason behind the match. Well, it seems hard that she should have been used as a catspaw, doesn't it?"

"Oh, it wasn't as bad as that. Rose really liked the girl——"

"In spite of her want of—soul?"

"Yes. And I thought," said Barry eagerly, "that if you and I, and one or two more—Olive, for instance—could give her a helping hand now and then, show her how to make the best of herself and so on, things might turn out all right."

"Ah, Barry!" Herrick looked at him with a half-humorous, half-sad smile. "You're very young—and youth is always—or should be—courageous. Do you really think that I, or you, or even Miss Lynn, can alter by a fraction the destiny marked out for that pretty child across the river there?"

"Destiny—no, perhaps not," said Barry, taken aback by the big word. "But we might help her—help her to find herself, as the Ibsenites call it—realize her soul, and all the rest of it. The soul's there, all right, but somehow it seems to be hidden, undeveloped, or something of the sort."

For a second the older man said nothing, though his square white teeth clenched themselves on the stem of his pipe. Then, removing the latter, he said slowly:

"Do you remember what Browning says, Barry?

'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls And matter enough to save one's own!'

Well, don't you agree with him—and me—that one's own soul takes a vast deal of salvation?"

"Yes, of course—but still—I thought you would be ready to help...."

His accent of dejection touched the other man's heart.

"Come, don't look so disappointed. Of course I'll help, as much as I can! It ought to be an interesting task, anyway, helping a woman to find her soul. And if I can help her in any way, I will."

"Good! But how?" He wanted to clinch the matter.

"Well, I suppose the first thing to do is to make the lady's acquaintance. I know Rose, slightly, and a call will no doubt be considered neighbourly. And if I can do anything for the child, you may depend on me to do it."

"You're a brick, Jim!" In the midst of his relief Barry remembered the hour and rose hastily. "Well, I must be off, or the house will be shut up. Good-night, old chap. I'm no end obliged to you. I knew you would help, if anyone would."

He had turned towards the door when a thought struck him and he turned back rather awkwardly.

"I say, Jim"—he was looking down at the floor as he spoke—"I hadn't forgotten, but I didn't like to say much. How ... how is—she?"

"My wife, you mean?" Herrick's smile was bitter. "She is pretty well, I believe. They say her health has improved lately."

"I'm glad. And—forgive me if I'm tactless, Jim, but when do you expect her back?"

"When does she come out?" All the youth had died away from his face, leaving it desperately tired and sad. "Some time in the autumn, October, I believe. The time isn't really up quite so soon, but there's some remission for good conduct, I understand, which shortens the sentence."

"Have you seen her lately?"

"No. She refused to see me last time, and I shall not trouble her again."

"I see." Barry fidgeted from one foot to the other, then made a sudden grab at his friend's hand. "Well, good-bye, Jim. Ever so many thanks for promising to help the kid. You can do lots for her if you will, and I do want the marriage to be a success."

"You've come to a queer person to help you, Barry," said the other with a twisted smile. "My own marriage has been so wonderfully successful, hasn't it? But there, don't let's talk about it now. How are you going home? Motor? Ah, all right. Then Olga and I will come and see you safely off the premises."

He had regained his former kindly manner, and bade the boy good-night with all his accustomed heartiness; but as Barry turned for a last look and saw the stooping figure return through the gate, accompanied by the graceful Borzoi, a fury of rage gripped his generous young heart.

"Damn that woman—oh, damn her!" He said the words wildly to himself as he spun down the moonlit road between the fragrant hedges. "She's ruined his life, and will go on doing it as long as they live! October, he said. Well, there's time to give poor little Toni a helping hand before then!"

* * * * *

But in the quiet bungalow behind him Jim Herrick sat alone until the short summer night had given way to the glories of the dawn. And in his face, as he gazed before him, seeing, perhaps the troubled past, perhaps the darkened future, there was now no trace of youth, only a great and weary disillusionment.



CHAPTER XI

After all, Jim Herrick's introduction to Mrs. Rose came about in an unexpected fashion.

Although he had only seen her two or three times, Herrick felt a decided interest in Rose's young wife. From what Barry had told him he concluded that there were breakers ahead for the young couple; and since his own matrimonial misfortunes had made him very pitiful, he determined to try to hold out a helping hand to the girl should the occasion arise.

The occasion arose, indeed, almost before he expected it; but luckily Herrick was a man of action and grappled with the opportunity thus presented.

One sunny afternoon he was returning from a pull up the river in his skiff, when he saw a punt gliding towards him, the pole manipulated, rather unskilfully, it must be confessed, by the girl of whom his thoughts had been full; and he stayed in his mooring to watch her pass.

To Toni the guiding of a punt was so serious a matter that she had no eyes for anything else, and she never even saw the man in the boat. The river took rather a curve here, and Toni found it a little difficult to negotiate the bend. Becoming somewhat flurried, she directed her punt into the middle of the stream, where it hung for a moment as though undecided whether or no to swing round in the disconcerting manner peculiar to such craft; but Toni, becoming impatient, put fresh vigour into her task, and sent the punt triumphantly forward with a masterful push.

Her triumph was, however, short-lived. With the treacherous suddenness which invariably marks this catastrophe her pole snapped as she drove it downwards; the punt glided away immediately, and Toni, clinging desperately to the broken pole, went down with it into the river itself.

With an exclamation Herrick sculled his boat strongly to the spot where she had gone down, reaching it just as she came to the surface, gasping and spluttering, and with an expression of wild terror in her face.

He guessed that she could not swim, and called out to her reassuringly.

"You're all right—hang on to my boat, and I'll get you out!"

She heard him, even in the midst of her terror, and made a frantic grab at the side of the boat, only to miss by inches and go down again with an involuntary cry.

Hastily shipping his oars, Herrick bent over the boat, causing it to heel to one side rather dangerously; and when next Toni came to the surface he gripped her strongly by the shoulder, bidding her keep quite still, and then lifted her, by sheer force of muscle, into the boat, where she collapsed in a dripping little heap at his feet.

"That's all right!" He seized the oars and with a dozen vigorous strokes propelled the boat back to the landing-place, where he proceeded to tie her up, and then turned his attention to his passenger.

"Hard luck, Mrs. Rose," he said cheerily. "But there's no harm done, is there? Now you must come into the house and let me find you some dry things to put on. Don't delay—the punt will be rescued somewhere, I've no doubt, and you really must get out of those wet garments."

Shivering, dripping, and feeling more than half inclined to cry, Toni let him help her out of the boat; and seeing that she was really suffering from shock Herrick put his arm round her shoulders in fraternal fashion, and led her up the little sloping lawn on to the verandah of the bungalow.

Here Toni stopped in some embarrassment.

"I ... I don't think I can come in like this." In spite of the sun her teeth were chattering. "I—I shall spoil your carpets!"

"Oh, they're beyond spoiling," he assured her, with a laugh. "Don't worry about them! I think, though, you had better come into the kitchen, if you don't mind. There happens to be a fire there, and you can get warm."

She followed him obediently through the long window into the shabby sitting-room, which for all its shabbiness had an oddly harmonious effect; and from there he took her into the small, cosy kitchen, which was scrupulously tidy and spotlessly clean.

"Now"—he looked at her a little dubiously—"obviously, the thing to do is to get off those wet clothes, have a hot bath, and put on something dry. Well, if I bring my tub in here and fill it from the boiler, would you mind having it in the kitchen? You see, I don't want you to get cold."

"Oh, I don't think I need do that," said Toni, between laughing and crying. "If you lent me a mackintosh or a big coat I could get home quite well."

"What—as you are?" He smiled at her, but so kindly that she could not take offence. "Well, to begin with, your punt is miles away by now, and anyway you are much too wet to leave this house. Now"—he went briskly to the door—"I'm going to fetch my bath and I'll have it filled in a jiffy. You'll feel all right after a hot soak."

He went out, leaving Toni, very wet and uncomfortable, in the middle of the floor. In a minute he returned, dragging after him a good-sized bath, filled to the brim with towels of every description.

"Now, I'll put it here, in front of the fire." He worked as he spoke. "And if I fill these two big cans there'll be enough water. What a blessing Mrs. Swastika kept a good fire to-day."

"Mrs. Swastika?" In the midst of her discomfiture Toni thought the name odd.

"Oh, that's not her real name." He filled the cans vigorously. "She is really Swanson or Swanage or something like that—but I never know what it is, so I call her Swastika. She is rather like the individual in the 'Hunting of the Snark,' who 'answered to Hi or to any loud cry,' but it's handy having a name to call her by sometimes."

He broke off in his nonsense and disappeared abruptly, leaving Toni wondering whether she was intended to begin her ablutions or no. Luckily she decided to wait a moment, and was glad she had done so when her host returned, bearing in his arms some garments, which he put down on a chair rather apologetically.

"I'm really most awfully sorry, Mrs. Rose, but I've no feminine fripperies of any sort! But if you can possibly make these things do for a bit, I'll send a boy on a bicycle down to your place and tell them to put together some clothes for you."

"Oh, will you?" Toni was beginning to find her soaked garments rather unpleasantly chilly. "I live at Greenriver—oh, you know?—and if you tell the housekeeper to send me everything, she'll know what I want."

"Very well." He had been busying himself with a little saucepan over the fire as she spoke, and now he handed her a glass containing some mulled wine.

"I'll dispatch a lad at once—in the meantime please drink this—it's quite harmless, I assure you!"

As she took the glass he hurried to the door, and went out, pulling it carefully to after him.

"Pull down the blind and lock the door," he commanded her through the keyhole. "The back door is locked already, so you are quite safe."

As soon as he was gone, and her privacy assured, Toni lost no time in doing as he bade her; and it certainly was a relief to slip out of her clinging garments and plunge into the hot water waiting for her. She did not waste time, remembering his commands; but when it came to a question of re-dressing, and she examined the clothes he had brought, Toni gave way and burst into a fit of irrepressible laughter.

He had apologized for the lack of feminine garments, but Toni had not been prepared for the substitute he had given her. There, beneath the heavy dressing-gown, was a pair of silk pyjamas immaculately got up and folded; and at the sight of their purple and white glories Toni laughed and laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks.

At first she determined that nothing in the world would persuade her to don the resplendent pyjamas. Then a glance at her own soaked and now steaming clothing gave her courage; and giggling softly to herself she got into the silken garments, which by dint of much turning up of hems and shortening of sleeves were given some semblance of a fit. Next came the dressing-gown, an eminently masculine affair of brown camel's hair, with red collar and cuffs, and when she had tied the girdle round her waist, and, scorning the evening socks which lay ready, had slipped her bare feet into a pair of capacious slippers, Toni was so overcome by her own bizarre appearance that once more she burst out laughing gaily.

A knock at the door made her stop short, and she called out in a rather quavery voice:

"Yes? Who's there?"

"Only I—Herrick," came the answer. "When you're ready will you come into the other room? The sun's blazing in, but I can easily light a fire if you feel chilly."

Toni cast a doubtful look at herself in this queer garb, and then determined, very sensibly, that it was no good being prudish and silly. After all, the dressing-gown wrapped her up completely; and at any rate her own clothes would presently arrive to deliver her from this rather absurd situation.

"I'm coming in a minute," she called out gaily. "I'm just going to let my hair down—it's rather wet, but it will dry in the sun."

She pulled out her hair-pins recklessly, and the black waves tumbled wetly on to her shoulders. A few minutes' vigorous drying before the fire met with success, and presently Toni found courage to unlock the door and sally forth into the little hall.

Mr. Herrick was waiting for her by the sitting-room door, and he bit his lip quickly at sight of the funny little figure emerging from the kitchen.

He spoke quite gravely, however, and Toni, who had glanced at him rather sharply, felt reassured.

"That's right. Now, come and sit down, will you? See, if you take this chair, you're in the sun, and it will warm you. You're sure you're not cold?"

"Oh, no, I'm quite warm," Toni assured him. "It's only my hair that's wet, and it won't take long to dry."

While her eyes wandered casually round the room, Herrick took the opportunity of observing his guest more closely; and his scrutiny pleased him oddly.

In spite of her ludicrous garb Toni looked quaintly attractive. Her youth triumphed, as youth always will, over minor drawbacks, and now that she was warm and dry the colour was coming back to her lips and her complexion recovering its creamy tone. Even her hair curled bewitchingly when damp; and Herrick owned that Barry's description of her as a "pretty kid" had not been wrong.

As for Toni, she was much interested in this sunny, shabby room. The carpet might be old, beyond spoiling, as its owner described it, but it was a feast of soft, harmonious colours all the same, and although faded, its very dimness of hue was a charm. The curtains which hung at the long windows were of a queer, Persian-looking fabric; and on the mantelpiece were a dozen little bits of pottery of a greeny-blue tint which harmonized excellently with the grey-papered walls.

Books there were in plenty, on shelves and tables, even on two of the chairs; and as she looked about her Toni caught sight of the last number of the Bridge lying on the low divan as though thrown there by a reader disturbed in his reading.

Herrick's eyes had followed the direction of hers.

"You recognize your husband's review? You've seen it, of course, this last number?"

"Yes." She had seen it, though it is to be feared that she had paid it scant attention.

"It's better than ever this month." He sat down and took up the paper. "There's a little poem—'Pan-Shapes'—which simply delighted me. Did it take your fancy, I wonder?"

"I ... I don't think I have read it," she said, wishing suddenly that she had not been forced to make the admission.

"No? Well it has not been out long." He was turning the pages as he spoke. "There's something else here—another special article on Mysticism by Father Garland, which is oddly fascinating. Of course such a subject, treated by one of the greatest mystics who ever lived, was bound to be of the highest interest; but I never expected anything quite so arresting, so satisfying, when I began to read."

He paused, evidently waiting for her to speak; but Toni sat tongue-tied, miserably conscious that in her mind no answering enthusiasm could be born, since she had neither read nor wished to read a single word of the article in question.

A hint of her mental discomfort probably reached the man on the sofa by some telepathic means, for he suddenly tossed away the review and spoke in a lighter tone.

"How long have you been punting, Mrs. Rose?"

"Oh, a very short time," she said rather apologetically. "My husband has given me some lessons since we came down here. He doesn't know I sometimes go out alone," she added ingenuously. "I don't go very often, because I know I'm not much good. But to-day I saw some people coming to call and I ran out of the house and jumped into the punt so that I could escape."

Herrick smiled.

"What—are you like me? Do you avoid your fellow-creatures on principle?"

She looked a little puzzled.

"Oh no, I don't avoid people when I know them. But I've had such heaps of callers, and it's such a waste of time making conversation over tea when one wants to be out in the sunshine."

"In fact you prefer nature to human nature?"

"I suppose I do." She frowned rather thoughtfully. "At least I would always rather be out of the house than in it. And it's so lovely by the river in the summer. I go for walks before breakfast with my dog, and the world is so beautiful in the early morning before the mists have all vanished in the sun."

"Ah! That reminds me!" Herrick rose. "You haven't seen my dog! I'll go and bring her in; she's lying in the shade at the back at present."

He went out, returning in a moment with the stately Olga, who had been, as he suggested, sleeping in the shade. He kept his hand on her silver collar as she advanced, fearing that Toni's queer mixture of garments might upset her canine mind; but Olga apparently took her master's friends on trust, and presently strolled over to Toni and laid one long paw tentatively upon her knee.

Toni, delighted, stroked the beautiful creature affectionately, and Herrick said to himself cheerfully:

"Come, she's got one thing in her favour anyway! If she can't appreciate good literature she understands dogs—and after all they are worth more as humanizers of the race, than any amount of books."

"She's lovely, Mr. Herrick!" Toni lifted delighted eyes. "What do you call her? Something nice, I hope."

"Her name is Olga," he returned. "Not very original for a Russian dog, I confess, but she was already christened when she came to me. You like her?"

"I think she's a darling, and Olga is quite a nice name. A friend of mine at school had a dog like her, and we used to take her into Kensington Gardens for a run on Saturday afternoons. Her name was Pearl. It's a pretty name for a white wolfhound, isn't it? They're like pearls, somehow, so smooth and shining."

She was stroking the dog's satiny head as she spoke, and did not notice the change in the man's face; but when he remained silent she looked up as though to see why he did not respond.

"Oh, Mr. Herrick, what's the matter?" Toni was frightened by his pallor.

"Nothing—nothing!" He shook off his mental disturbance with a strong effort. "I ... I sometimes have a sort of pain—in my heart—but it's gone, quite gone, now."

Toni was not altogether satisfied with the explanation and asked herself remorsefully what she had said to vex him; but she could not think of anything which would be likely to give offence to her host, and decided, finally, that he had spoken truthfully.

She could not know how intimately the tragedy of Herrick's life was bound up with the thought of a string of shining pearls; and her very unconsciousness served to show the man she had spoken in all innocence.

"Your husband must be very busy with this review in hand," he said presently, remembering Barry's entreaty to him to examine the situation for himself. "Does he work at home or has he to spend much time in town?"

"Oh, he does both," she said, relieved by his return to his former manner. "He is in town to-day, but he has been at home a good deal lately."

"I see. It must be rather dull for you when he is shut up writing," he went on tentatively. "Writers and men of letters generally like to be left to themselves pretty much."

"Oh, I don't think my husband does," said Toni blithely. "I often go in and sit with him while he works, and if I promise to go to bed early he sometimes brings his papers into the drawing-room at night."

Herrick felt a sudden spasm of amusement, mingled with a distinct impulse of sympathy for the unfortunate writer.

"Oh! I should have thought it would be too disturbing to work in the room with anyone else—even one's wife," he added with a smile.

"Why should it be?" Toni opened eyes of amazement. "I sit quite still—I hardly ever speak—and Jock and I—my dog—play little games together ever so quietly."

"You don't help him in his work?"

"No." She shook her head. "I'm not clever enough for that. I do typing for him sometimes, but even then I'm not really much use."

"You are not an expert, perhaps?"

"Oh, I can use the typewriter all right—I've had heaps of practice. But when it comes to revising things, sort of making up an article out of rough notes, I'm no good. To begin with I can never understand what the things are about, and I always get quotations hopelessly mixed."

"I see." In spite of himself Herrick laughed. "You are not a great reader, then?"

"No—I hate books," she replied frankly. "Somehow it seems a waste of time to read when you can be doing nicer things. Besides, my husband doesn't like to see me reading what he calls trash, and I simply can't get through the things he gives me!"

"Well, after all life's the most interesting book of all—when one's young," he said indulgently. "But I'm afraid you'll wish you'd developed a taste for reading when you get like me, middle-aged and dull."

"But you aren't dull——" she was beginning eagerly, when a loud knock at the back door of the bungalow interrupted her sentence, and she broke off hastily.

"That'll be my messenger back," said Herrick, rising. "With garments for you, I suppose. I'll go and see."

He went out, returning presently with a neatly-strapped suit-case which he held up with a smile.

"Your maids have packed you a change of raiment," he said, "and have, moreover, sent a car for you to return in. I gather from the boy that two of your people squabbled as to which of them should have the privilege of bringing your things to you, but in the middle of the discussion the chauffeur, thinking, no doubt, that you were still wearing your wet garments, got impatient and started off without either of them!"

Toni had risen, and now stood hesitating a little with her hand on the suit-case.

"You'll like to change at once, I daresay." He spoke in a business-like tone. "Will you come into my little guest-chamber? There's a glass there, and you'll be able to dress comfortably."

She assented, and he took her into yet another of the rooms in his tiny domain, a small, bare little place which had a rather pathetically unused look about it.

Here she made a rapid toilet, finding everything she required with the exception of a hat, which had evidently been forgotten. A brush and comb had been tucked into a corner, however, and she thankfully brushed her hair and made it into two thick plaits, which for want of hair-pins she was forced to leave hanging over her shoulders.

When she sallied forth once more she found Herrick waiting for her with a tiny tea-tray.

"You must have a cup of tea before you go." He poured it out as he spoke. "And a biscuit—one of Mrs. Swastika's specialities. She's an excellent cook, and proud of her cakes, so do try one—to please me—and her!"

Toni drank the tea gratefully and found both it and the little cakes delicious. The next thing to do was to collect her soaked clothes, and in spite of Herrick's protests that Mrs. Swastika would see to their safe return she crammed them ruthlessly into the suit-case before going out to the waiting motor.

As she shook hands with Herrick, after thanking him very prettily for his kindness, Toni ventured a shy invitation.

"Will you come to see us at Greenriver, Mr. Herrick? I'm sure my husband will wish to thank you for fishing me out of the river."

"Thanks," he said quietly. "I will certainly come. It will give me great pleasure to meet Mr. Rose."

He tucked her into the car, shook hands again, and then stood bare-headed in the sunshine watching the motor spin round the white and dusty road.

At the bend Toni turned and waved her hand to him gaily, and he responded with a smile, which faded as the car vanished from sight.

Somehow his meeting with the girl had saddened him oddly. There was something rather pathetic about Toni at this moment of her existence, though it would have been hard to say exactly wherein the pathos lay. In spite of himself Herrick was haunted by the little picture she had drawn of her life with Owen Rose. He could fancy the two sitting together at night in the lamp-lit drawing-room, the man writing, or trying to write, as though alone, the young wife sitting silently by doing nothing, or playing quiet little games with her dog to relieve the monotony of an evening uncheered by any interesting book or engrossing study.

A worker himself, Herrick knew very well the deadening influence exerted by an unoccupied companion during working hours; and the fact that Toni did not care for books, and confessed to non-comprehension of her husband's work, struck Herrick as unfortunate, to say the least.

To this man, forced by circumstance into a more or less secluded state of life, Toni's lack of social experience weighed very lightly. She had not, perhaps, the manner or style of the girls one met in Mayfair or Belgravia, but she was simple and natural and unaffected; and Herrick found himself hoping that Mr. Rose knew how to value the traits of simplicity and straightforwardness at their true worth.

Then it was possible that the marriage might be a success in spite of the evident disparity of tastes between the two; but remembering Barry's gloomy forebodings, Herrick was bound to admit that the prospect of happiness seemed rather doubtful.

At present, however, he could do nothing; and with a resolve to call at Greenriver at the first available opportunity he went back into his little bungalow, which seemed strangely lonely as the twilight fell over the river-banks.



CHAPTER XII

As the summer glided by, in a succession of golden, cloudless days, Owen began to ask himself, rather drearily, whether his marriage was going to turn out a success or an irretrievable failure.

When once the novelty of Toni's companionship had worn off, when he had grown used to her pretty, childish ways, accustomed to the sense of youth and light-hearted joy which she diffused about the old house, he began to find, to his dismay, that these were not all the attributes a man looked for in the woman he had made his wife.

He had never expected to find Toni clever in an intellectual sense; but neither had he deemed her quite so shallow as she was proving herself to be. She seemed absolutely incapable of making any mental effort; the world of art and literature was a closed book to her, and, what was still more disappointing, she cared nothing for any of the social or political questions of the day, and took absolutely no interest in the contemporary life of the world about her.

Reading she disliked. Music appealed to her, for Toni was emotional, with the quick, facile emotionalism of the South; but she was no musician herself, and the grand piano in the drawing-room was silent through these sunshiny days. She had rather a talent for housekeeping, and in a smaller establishment would doubtless have been a success; but at Greenriver there was little for her to do, and she knew quite well that the housekeeper resented any interference with her particular province. Toni's household duties, therefore, were confined to the arrangement of the flowers and the care of her husband's desk—a labour of love which she performed with so much good will that Owen felt it would be churlish to find fault with any inconvenience arising therefrom.

Owen often wondered how his wife managed to fill the days which must be so terribly empty. He himself was working harder than usual, since beside the review he was contributing articles, by invitation, to several well-known journals; and he often worked till late into the night; but Toni had no work, no hobbies, nothing with which to fill the long, sunny hours.

She did not complain. Indeed, she seemed happy enough in her idleness; and by this time she knew a good many people in the neighbourhood, though she had not made many friends.

At the Vicarage she was not looked upon with much favour, owing to an unfortunate conversation with the Vicar's wife, when in response to various leading questions Toni had shown a lamentable ignorance of the great gulf which yawns between Church and Chapel—a quite conceivable ignorance on the part of the London tradesman's niece, who had attended Chapel with her aunt and uncle on Sunday evenings as cheerfully as she joined in the more attractive service in the Church which the genteel Fanny generally patronized on Sunday mornings.

When, further, Toni innocently admitted that, although baptized into the Church of England, she had usually attended the Roman Catholic Church and Sunday School during her Italian childhood, the wife of the Vicar was appalled; and ever afterwards she spoke of Mrs. Rose as unsound in her views, a condemnation which in the somewhat old-fashioned neighbourhood carried full weight.

Lady Martin also strongly disapproved of the young mistress of Greenriver, though probably only she herself and her spinster daughter could have adduced any reason for their dislike of Toni and all her works.

The story of the shrimps had long since amused Lady Martin's large circle of acquaintances; and although no one had ventured to breathe a word before either Owen Rose or his wife, it was hardly surprising that Toni came to be considered rather amusingly unsophisticated; so that the slightest gaucherie into which the unconscious Toni was betrayed during those first weeks of her introduction into the society of the district was eagerly noted and joyfully magnified in a dozen drawing-rooms.

There was the laughable story of the Roses' late arrival at an important dinner-party, and Mrs. Rose's ingenuous explanation to her rather irascible host that she had torn her frock at the last moment while playing with her dog, and had been obliged to change it for another—and this to an elderly man who "liked dogs in their proper place," by which statement one may measure the depth of his liking very accurately.

There was the occasion on which Mrs. Rose, being pressed by a mischievous fellow-guest, had accepted a cigarette under the impression the other ladies were about to do likewise—an impression quickly dispelled by the stony glare of her hostess and the ominous whispers of the other women.

The hostess, indeed, had uttered one short, biting comment which had reduced Toni, already overwhelmed by the magnitude of her offence, almost to tears; but though it is only fair to say that her tempter apologized most handsomely, and was her firm friend and defender ever afterwards, the description of Mrs. Rose as a half-foreign and wholly-Bohemian young woman, of cigarette-smoking tendencies, was duly retailed at several dinner-tables during the following weeks.

At first Toni took her social failures very much to heart; but Owen, who was no snob, reassured her valiantly; and since Toni was only too anxious to be comforted she did her best to dismiss these unpleasant experiences from her mind.

Presently, indeed, she found two congenial spirits. The doctor's pretty old house, known locally as Cherry Orchard, harboured two lively and athletic young women who were only too pleased to be friends with the merry and vivacious Toni. They were honest, unintellectual girls, enthusiastic over all sports and excelling in most; and they took Toni to their sporting hearts and promised to introduce her to the local tennis and golf clubs without loss of time.

On her part, Toni felt at ease with them immediately, and when once she had learned to distinguish between Molly and Cynthia—a distinction made the more difficult owing to their peculiar habit of addressing each other as Toby—she thoroughly enjoyed their companionship.

In the matter of tennis, Toni, who had only played occasionally at a third-rate suburban club, was at first no match for them; but the two Tobies, who were the essence of good nature, coached her so well and so vigorously that before long she was a capital player; and when once Toni realized that Owen wished her to be as hospitable as she could possibly desire to be, she rejoiced in giving little impromptu tea-parties on the lawn, under the shade of one of the noble elms which were a feature of Greenriver.

Sometimes she took the girls motoring; and between tennis, golf, river picnics and motor excursions, the days simply flew for Toni; so that at last even Owen began to realize that he need not pity her, since she was living a life which exactly suited her.

Once he realized this, his pity was directed towards himself.

This was not the sort of married life he had contemplated; and although he was too just to blame his wife for her lack of sympathy with his aims and ideals, he began to wish that Toni would sometimes lay aside her frivolity and exchange her light and ceaseless chatter about trifling matters for a slightly more profitable style of conversation.

Owen had called upon James Herrick at his bungalow, the Hope House, to thank him for rescuing Toni; and the other man had duly returned his call; but although Owen gave Herrick a very cordial general invitation to Greenriver the two men had not much in common save a mutual love of good books.

Owen thought Herrick peculiar, eccentric in his ways. It seemed odd for a man to live alone as he lived, doing his own work except for the occasional aid of a woman whom he called Mrs. Swastika. If he had had any particular work or hobby which necessitated solitude Owen could have understood it; but Herrick seemed to spend his days as idly, as aimlessly, as Toni herself.

He went on the river a good deal, took long walks with his dog, but beyond that he seemed to do nothing but lounge in a chair on the lawn, shabbily clad, with a pipe between his lips and a book, generally unopened, on his knee. His political views seemed to Owen to be as vague as were Toni's; and he had an irritating habit of setting aside any recognized standard of perfection as though the world's seal of approval meant less than nothing.

He would demolish a given institution in a few lazy words, but he never attempted to set up another in its place. He seemed content to put his finger on the weak spot in any system without troubling to point out a remedy; and to Owen, whose eager mind was ever ready to remedy abuses, this attitude of half-pitying, half-amused toleration was vaguely irritating.

Herrick seemed to view life, indeed, with a kind of large detachment, as though from the height of some soaring pinnacle one might watch, with only half-awakened interest, the doings of the dwellers on the plain; and Owen, who liked to be in the midst of things, to add his quota to the world's doings, found in this attitude of mind a pose, a half-insolent pretence at superiority, which was galling.

Without saying a disparaging word Herrick appeared to belittle the efforts made by Owen and his fellows to enlighten the world; and since everyone knows that the criticism of a non-worker is a hundred times more irritating than that of a co-operator, Owen may be excused for finding Herrick uncongenial.

And yet by nature Herrick was a kindly, cheery soul enough, who had been fired in his youth by an excessive love for humanity—for all the humanities. But shortly after his marriage he had faced a tremendous crash; and though, when the first shock was over, he had pulled himself together, and gathered up, as best he might, the fragments of his life, he had lost for ever that eager, humane, half-Quixotic spirit which had made his young manhood pass like a joyous race.

* * * * *

As time went on Owen got into the habit of spending most of his days in town, where he found it easier to work than at home. He begged Toni to tell him honestly whether she found herself lonely in his absence, but Toni assured him truthfully that she was perfectly happy sitting in her beautiful old garden or taking lunch and tea on the river, either alone, or in the company of her friends, Molly and Cynthia Peach. Punting alone was forbidden, but seeing Toni's disappointment, her husband had purchased for her a stout little dinghy in which she was perfectly safe, and this same craft was a source of delight to its owner.

At first Owen had asked Toni to come up to town with him, to do some shopping or go to a matinee, but London in summer was no novelty to Toni, and she infinitely preferred to stay at Willowhurst and amuse herself in her own way.

One night it chanced that Owen arrived home much earlier than usual. The weather had broken a day or two previously, and the air was heavy with thunder. Consequently Owen's head ached furiously, with one of the neuralgic headaches which since his accident he had good cause to dread; and the fact that he had an important piece of work to finish without loss of time fretted his nerves to racking-point.

London was particularly hot and malodorous to-day; and it was with a sigh of relief that Owen steered his car away from the stuffy streets towards the green and fragrant valley of the Thames. There was a coppery glow in the sky which presaged a storm, and puffs of hot air blew gustily into his face; but it would be fresher at Willowhurst, and if the storm should break there would be a delightful hour or two afterwards, when the earth, cooled by the rain, would send up its incense of sweet odours into the summer darkness, and the evening breeze would bring refreshment to weary, throbbing brows.

True, the work must be done, if human endurance could do it; and with a sigh of relief Owen remembered that Toni would be disengaged and able to help him in some way, if only by typing the manuscript when he had brought it to a close. There was also a little research work to be done, one or two quotations to be verified, a few short extracts to be made—work which came well within the scope of Toni's powers; and he knew that she would be only too pleased to give him what help she could.

But he had reckoned without his host. On leaving home in the morning he had told his wife he would probably be late in returning, and had apologized for leaving her so long alone. So far from feeling aggrieved at his absence, however, Toni seized the opportunity of inviting Mollie and Cynthia over for tennis; and the girls accepted blithely, bringing over with them a young cousin, just through Sandhurst, who was an adept at the game.

Toni welcomed the boy happily; and the four young people played tennis vigorously, with an interval for tea, until the elder Toby began regretfully to talk of going home.

There were already rumblings of thunder, and the sky behind the big cedar trees looked strangely lurid; and Toni, who hated a storm, was loth to let them go.

An idea striking her, she begged them all to stay and have a late supper with her; after which Mr. Cooper and Mollie, being musical, might give the others an impromptu concert—a plan to which, after a little decent hesitation, the trio assented gaily.

Toni, pleased that she was not to be left alone to face the storm, took them indoors to get tidy, and then danced off to the kitchen to interview the cook.

Mrs. Blades, lighting the Ten Little Ladies earlier than usual on account of the gloom, was inclined to look askance at the invasion; but Martha and Maggie—the latter filling the place of Kate, enjoying her "evening off"—fell into the plan with alacrity; and while the former brought out the cold chickens and the galantine intended for the morrow's lunch, Maggie bustled round the oval table laying extra places and making such preparations as commended themselves to her ever-fertile mind.

Owing to the stormy dusk it was necessary to light the candles on the supper-table, where bowls of great crimson roses made pools of colour on the white cloth; and very attractive the table looked to the four hungry people who presently sat down to eat and chatter.

There was plenty of gay laughter over the meal. Jokes were bandied hither and thither, shocking puns were made and greeted with shrieks of mirth, and if the conversation was eminently frivolous, at least it was good-humoured, hearty, wholesome frivolity.

Yet when Owen reached home in his car and entered the hall with rather a weary step, the somewhat noisy merriment which greeted him brought a frown to his forehead.

He questioned Andrews as to what was going on, and the young butler informed him, with a complacency which Owen in his present mood found irritating, that Mrs. Rose was entertaining the two Misses Peach and a gentleman to supper.

"Oh!" Owen paused in his walk towards the dining-room door. "In that case, I think I will just have a whisky and soda in the library—and a few sandwiches."

"Very good, sir," the man was beginning, when there was a peal of laughter from behind the closed door; and the next moment, Toni came flying out of the room, holding aloft a large bunch of grapes, while Mr. Cooper pursued her hotly, making grabs at the fruit as he did so.

Unable to stop herself, Toni cannoned violently into her husband, and the unfortunate youth from Sandhurst, brought to an unexpected halt, found himself face to face with an unknown man whose expression was not exactly inviting.

"Owen, is it you? How you startled me!" Toni lifted two sparkling eyes to her husband's face. "When did you come? You said you wouldn't be home till after ten!"

"I've just arrived," he said, striving hard to keep any hint of annoyance out of his tone. "You were making such a noise you didn't hear the car! Well, Toni, won't you introduce me to your friend?"

On being presented, Mr. Cooper, held out his hand rather awkwardly.

"I'm afraid we were making an awful din," he said, apologetically. "We got ragging over the dessert and Mrs. Rose stole my grapes——?"

"Oh, you fibber!" Toni was not going to stand that. "They were mine, and you took them off my plate when I wasn't looking!"

"I'm afraid they aren't much good to anyone now," said Owen with a smile. "They are pretty well squashed, Toni, and I fancy your frock's got the worst of the encounter!"

"Well, it's only my tennis-frock," said Toni, her first involuntary qualms driven away by the friendly sound in Owen's voice. "We'll go back and finish now. You'll come, Owen? I'll tell Maggie to bring back the food."

"No, don't bother." He spoke quietly. "I'll go and brush off some of the London dust while you and your friends finish your supper. I'll have a bite later on. Don't worry about me." He turned to the boy. "I'm afraid we're in for a storm. I felt a few drops as I came up the drive."

Somewhat reluctantly, Toni left her husband and returned to the dining-room, where the Tobies anxiously awaited her coming. They had practically finished their meal, and a few moments later rose from the table and went into the drawing-room, where Toni presently excused herself and went in search of her husband.

She found him in the library, where Andrew had just brought him a slender repast; and even the unobservant Toni was struck by the look of fatigue which brooded over his face as he sat poring over some closely-written sheets.

"Owen, I'm sure you ought not to do that now. Do leave it till to-morrow and come and listen to some music in the drawing-room instead."

She laid one small hand on the sheets as though to wrest them from his grasp; but he lifted her fingers aside with a rather weary gesture.

"No, dear, I can't leave this." His voice was flat and toneless. "I've promised to send it off the first thing to-morrow morning, and there's a lot to be done yet."

"But I'm sure you're ill! Have you got neuralgia again?"

"A little—oh, it's nothing, only the thunder in the air. You might tell Andrews to bring me some phenacetin, will you, dear? And now, my child, run away to your guests—they'll think it queer if you leave them alone much longer."

Toni turned obediently to the door, but she was not yet easy in her mind.

"Owen, are you sure there is nothing I can do?"

"Nothing, thank you, dear. I believe the storm is passing after all."

He spoke the truth, for with a few more mutterings the thunder died away in the distance; and though the promised coolness did not come, both Owen and Toni were relieved by the lightening atmosphere—Toni because she was an arrant coward where thunderstorms were concerned; Owen because he felt that the clash of the elements would render the neuralgic pains in his head almost unbearable.

For long after Toni, relieved, had gone back to her visitors he sat doing nothing, lacking the energy to attack his task. Now and then he heard a few notes on the piano, and once he opened the door to listen to the elder Miss Peach's rendering of a song he knew, for Mollie Peach had a sweet, limpid soprano voice which no amount of chatter and noisy laughter could destroy.

When, however, the young man from Sandhurst started to shout a comic song, Owen shut the door hastily and wished the boy at Jericho.

He began to think the visitors would never go. At first he had hoped that their departure would set Toni free to help him after all; but when the clock in the hall chimed the half hour after ten, and still the music and laughter continued, he knew it was useless to expect any aid to-night.

At eleven the party broke up. The bicycles were brought round, and the four went gaily out of the front door to light lamps and see to suspiciously slack tyres.

Owen had charged Toni with polite messages to the two girls; and they, being somewhat in awe of a real live writer, were not sorry to avoid a meeting with their host; but Toni seemed so loth to part with them that she detained them all on the steps, chattering eagerly while the stars winked down out of the clearing sky and the owls hooted in melancholy fashion from the tops of the tall trees behind the house.

Finally the last farewells were said, the last appointments made; and Toni, yawning, turned to Andrews and bade him lock up safely.

She was still yawning when she came into the library a moment later; and in the lamplight Owen caught a glimpse of her little red mouth gaping behind her hand as she came up to the table.

"How sleepy I am!" Indeed her eyes were bright, like those of a sleepy child. "Aren't you coming, Owen? It's ever so late."

"Why didn't you pack your friends off a little earlier then?"

"Oh, I didn't want them to go." She yawned childishly once more. "Owen"—suddenly a thought struck her—"you're not cross, are you? You didn't mind me having them here? You know, I thought it was going to be a storm——"

"Of course I didn't mind," he said, disarmed by her sudden appeal. "It was my fault for turning up unexpectedly. But now, Toni, supposing you run away to bed? I really must finish this work, and it's getting late."

She agreed, docilely, and kissing him lightly, ran away to bed as she was commanded, falling asleep as soon as she was safely there.

But Owen sat late in the library—sat, indeed, till the short summer night began to recede with stealthy, sliding footsteps before the victorious onrush of the dawn; and in those quiet, lamp-lit hours he asked himself despairingly why he had been in such haste to marry.

One consolation lay in the fact that Toni herself had not the slightest idea that her marriage was anything but a success. She did not know that her idleness, her incessant chatter about trivial things, her constant interruptions, her unauthorized intrusions into the privacy of his working hours, worried him almost beyond measure.

Bubbling over with youth and joy, she had no eyes for the look of strain, of weariness on another's face; and to her it seemed quite right that her husband should write and study while she danced through the summer hours as she would.

He liked his work, she supposed; and in Toni's world it was the usual thing for the men to work to support their wives. But that the wives had equal duties, that it was theirs to share the burdens of the men's spiritual and mental labour, she had, as yet, no idea.

"At least," said Owen wearily to himself, as he rose stiffly from his chair and moved to the oriel window to watch the marvel of the dawn, "at least I have made her happy; and as for me, it's my own mistake, and I must bear the consequences!"

With which philosophical reflection he extinguished the lamp and went slowly upstairs to bed.



CHAPTER XIII

In after days Toni always looked back to the afternoon of the Vicarage Bazaar as the occasion on which her eyes were opened ruthlessly to the cruelty of life.

The day began auspiciously enough. It was August now, a hot, languorous August, when the river lay veiled in a mist of heat, and the air, even in the early morning, was a sea of liquid gold. There were wonderful, magical nights, too, nights of mellow moonlight and sweet, mysterious perfumes, nights when a breath of clean, fragrance from distant bean-fields mingled with the richer, heavier scent of roses and Madonna lilies.

To Toni the summer had been one long time of enchantment. From the moment when she opened her eyes in the dawn, and ran to the window to see the hills shimmering in the heat, and the river sparkling with the peculiar silvery sheen of early morning, to the moment when she took her last stroll in the garden at night, and saw the stars come out in the darkening sky, while the white owls hooted mournfully in the tall trees, all, to Toni, was happiness and joy.

There is no doubt that people who are not introspective lead the happiest lives. Toni, not being given to wasting her time in reflection or self-analysis, remained happily unconscious of the fact that her life during that splendid summer was a very idle one. Like a good many other girls, she considered that a strenuous game on the tennis-court or a stiff pull up the river entitled her to as much subsequent leisure as she desired; and she enjoyed the slight fatigue consequent on these exertions with a virtuous sense of having really done some work which entitled her to a holiday.

She did not see very much of her husband; and sometimes she felt, with a slight pang of remorse, that before their marriage she had really taken more interest in his work than she found time to do nowadays. Not that he ever seemed to expect anything from her in that way. Once or twice, in the earlier days of their married life, he had been led into discussing various features of the review with her, and she had really tried hard to listen intelligently, and understand what he was talking about; but somehow he seemed to guess that the subjects did not interest her; and for the last few weeks he had confined his conversations with her to the little trivial happenings of every day.

He didn't mind, she supposed. He must get plenty of the old Bridge at the office; and anyway it was far more of a change for him, when he came home, to talk of other things, even though they were in one sense less important.

She herself was perfectly happy; and had she been asked, she would certainly have said that Owen was in a state of equal bliss. Moreover, seeing that he had chosen her out of a world of women to be his wife, she never stopped to ask herself whether or no she came up to his standard of wifely perfection.

And considering her peculiarly blind and unquestioning attitude of mind on the subject of her relation to her husband, the awakening which presently came was doubly painful.

The occasion, as has been stated, was that of the Vicarage Bazaar, an annual function held in the Vicarage gardens in the middle of August; and since Mrs. Madgwick, the Vicar's wife, had from motives of parochial diplomacy established some sort of intimacy with the young mistress of Greenriver, she had pressed Toni into her service as the great day came round.

With Molly and Cynthia Peach, Toni was to assist at the flower-stall, which was always, so the Tobies assured her, certain of patronage; and by ten o'clock on the morning of the day, Toni was at the Vicarage, laden with masses of blossoms sent from Greenriver as a contribution to the stall.

From that moment until the hour of lunch, to which she was detained almost by force, Toni worked like a veritable busy bee, running errands, doing odd jobs, and, in the intervals, arranging the flowers on the stall, until hands and feet were both weary.

Having finished the hurried and uncomfortable meal, consisting chiefly of tinned tongue and a rather out-of-date cream cheese, Toni was allowed to run home to change her dress; and at half-past two precisely she was back, robed in the daintiest, filmiest white lawn gown, to take her place with the other stallholders, in readiness for the opening ceremony, performed, much to the delight of the entire Madgwick family, by a real duchess.

The Duchess had little to say and said it very badly; but she was duly applauded and presented with a bouquet by a small white-robed child, stiff with starch and self-consciousness; after which her Grace descended thankfully from the little platform erected for her speech, and fulfilled the second and easier half of her duty by making the round of the stalls and spending a strictly equal amount at each one.

By now Toni had a good many acquaintances in the neighbourhood, and was pleased to see Mrs. Anstey smiling at her as she inquired the price of a magnificent bunch of sweet-peas which had come from the gardens of Greenriver.

Toni told her the price, and she forthwith bought the flowers, greatly to Toni's pleasure, for she loved her sweet-peas and had hoped, rather childishly, that someone nice would buy them.

As she was handing over the change, Toni summoned up courage to ask after Miss Lynn, and Mrs. Anstey smiled.

"She is very well, thanks, and coming here, I hope, in a week or two. She and Mr. Raymond are to be married at Christmas, as I daresay you have heard."

"Yes, my husband told me so." Suddenly Toni blushed, remembering the occasion of Miss Lynn's visit to her; and at the same moment, as though evoked by some mysterious method of thought, the robust and gaily-dressed form of Lady Martin suddenly materialized before her eyes.

Her ladyship was engaged in cheapening a bunch of yellow roses, while Cynthia Peach was endeavouring, without much success, to point out that their fresh beauty and scent were well worth the original price.

"I'll take them if you knock off sixpence," Lady Martin was declaring rather aggressively; and Miss Peach glanced helplessly at her sister.

"What shall I do, Toby?" she murmured anxiously. "Of course they're cheap already, but still I suppose they won't last——"

"Oh, nonsense, Toby," whispered Mollie vigorously. "If she doesn't buy them heaps of people will." Aloud she said firmly—"I'm afraid we can't take less, Lady Martin. The Duchess bought two bunches of the same roses, and she didn't think them dear."

Lady Martin paused, inherent meanness struggling with a snobbish desire to emulate the Duchess; and finally she gave in with a bad grace.

As she took the roses her eyes fell on Toni, at that moment intent on her conversation with Mrs. Anstey; and her ladyship's ill-humour was not lessened by noticing the friendly glances which passed between them.

She bore down upon them accordingly with outstretched hand.

"Dear Mrs. Anstey, it is ages since we met!" Her piercing tones, likened by the Tobies to those of a macaw, strove in vain for suavity. "So good of you to come to this affair—such a distance for you, too!"

"Oh, I always try to come when I am at home," said Mrs. Anstey gently. "I like to support Mr. Madgwick's parish, though I'm afraid I don't spend a great deal of money! Really the flowers and the home-made cakes are the only things that tempt me."

"And surely you have plenty of flowers at home!" Lady Martin glanced with a disparaging little laugh at the stall before her. "I don't know where these came from, but they look sadly wilted already."

"I'm afraid I can't agree with you there," said Mrs. Anstey, with a little smile. "I think the flowers are charming, especially those sent by Mrs. Rose's kindness from Greenriver."

She indicated Toni with a friendly little gesture, and Lady Martin condescended, unwillingly, to acknowledge the girl's greeting. To tell the truth, Lady Martin had no desire to better her acquaintance with Toni. She had long ago intended the owner of Greenriver for her son-in-law; and to find this little nobody, with her provincial ways and her foreign-looking eyes, acting as chatelaine of the beautiful old house in her daughter's place had an irritating effect.

To make matters worse, several people had known of her matrimonial designs; and since the disappointment of one's friends is frequently a source of mirth, she had been annoyed by several tactless allusions, made presumably in jest, to her daughter's disappointment.

So it was that she disliked Rose's wife with the hearty aversion of a spiteful and jealous woman; and the fact that she herself came of the people made her specially quick to suspect bourgeois blood in others.

She took a delight, now, in snubbing Toni; and presently made a point of asking after her cousin Miss Mibbs.

"She's very well, thank you," replied Toni, wondering a little at this unusual condescension. "But her name isn't Mibbs, it's Gibbs."

"Really?" Lady Martin drawled the word out insolently, as though to indicate that the name of the young woman in question did not interest her. "She is not here to-day, I suppose?"

"No," said Toni, absent-mindedly, "she was not able to get off to-day."

"Get off?" Lady Martin pounced on the strange form of the admission. "She is ... er ... full of social engagements?"

Afterwards Toni thought it was the scent of the flowers which had made her feel hazy just then. Although she had an intuition that her interlocutor meant to be inquisitive, she had not the sense to turn the subject with a vague assent; and after a second's hesitation replied rather foolishly that her cousin's engagements were not in society.

"Indeed? But it is holiday time—surely Miss Gibbs is not teaching now?"

Mrs. Anstey, feeling to the full the insolence of this cross-examination, attempted to come to the rescue; but Lady Martin stood waiting so obviously for an answer that Toni felt constrained to reply.

"No, Lady Martin. My cousin is not a governess."

"No?" Lady Martin, who had the lust for cruelty inherent in all mean natures, pressed the point ruthlessly. "Then—I hardly see ... in the summer one does not work unless one is a private secretary or something of that sort; and I am sure your cousin"—with a pointed smile—"did not look in the very least like a private secretary!"

Suddenly Toni lost her head and her temper together.

"My cousin is no one's secretary, Lady Martin. She is in a shop—Brown and Evans, drapers, of Brixton; and she is not here to-day because Thursday is the early-closing day for the shops, and this is only Tuesday!"

There was a short silence. Even Lady Martin felt uncomfortable, for though she had literally goaded the girl into speech she did not enjoy the spectacle of Toni's flashing eyes and scarlet cheeks, nor the expression of mingled contempt and compassion on Mrs. Anstey's face—the contempt, as she very well knew, being intended for her, the compassion for Toni.

The moment she had spoken Toni knew what she had done; that besides losing her temper and behaving in an ill-bred way she had given a handle to her enemies; and the tears were perilously near her eyes, though pride forbade her to let them fall.

It was Cynthia Peach who came to the rescue.

"How awfully jolly for your cousin," she said plaintively. "I've always longed to go into a shop! The girls have such a good time—and they meet heaps of young men! Not like us poor things who hardly ever see one!"

Her evident sincerity relieved the situation. Her sister might murmur "Oh, Toby!" under her breath, and Lady Martin might sneer, but Mrs. Anstey patted the speaker's arm with a very kindly smile.

"Poor little Cynthia! I shall have to scour the neighbourhood for young men and give a party," she said. "I'd no idea you were so forlorn!"

"Well, there aren't many, really," conceded the elder Toby. "And I know what Cynthia means! That's why she was so pleased to come and sell flowers!"

"And you are all neglecting your duties shamefully, my dears!" Mrs. Anstey moved aside to allow a batch of customers to approach the stall. "I mustn't stay here chattering. You will come and have tea with me, won't you, Mrs. Rose?" She turned to Toni, who was now as white as one of her own lilies. "I will look for you at five in the tent—you will be able to get off by then!"

She smiled kindly at the girl as she moved away. Lady Martin had already gone, feeling, no doubt, that the weight of public opinion was against her; and as a rush of business just then overwhelmed the flower-sellers, Toni had no time to dwell upon the recent little scene.

But Mrs. Anstey looked for Toni in vain when five o'clock came. As a matter of fact Toni had felt, desperately, that she could not face the crowded tea-tent, where doubtless she would again meet her enemy, Lady Martin; and she wanted no tea; she only wanted to be alone for a few moments, away from prying eyes, unkind tongues, that she might regain the equilibrium so cruelly upset.

With this end in view she slipped away when the two sisters came back from their hurried tea; and followed a little path which she knew would bring her out at a quiet corner of the grounds, where a rickety old summer-house might afford her the temporary shelter she sought.

There was no one there; and although the entrance to the little hut was almost choked up with weeds and tall, rank flowers, she crept inside, and then, sinking on to the seat in the dimmest, darkest corner, gave herself up to the fit of depression which had been stealing on her ever since her own rash avowal to Lady Martin.

Suddenly she sat upright. Even here, it seemed, she was not to be free from interruption. She heard voices approaching, as though others were seeking her hiding-place; and pushing aside one of the rotting wooden shutters she peeped cautiously out.

Fate was against her to-day. In the two persons who were drawing near, evidently with the intention of seating themselves upon the bench outside the hut, she recognized Lady Martin and Mrs. Madgwick; and instantly Toni felt a quick foreboding of evil.

Something seemed to tell her that it was she whom they were discussing so earnestly as they walked; and Toni shrank back into the gloom, totally incapable of facing them in her tear-stained and generally dishevelled condition.

She breathed a prayer that they would not attempt to enter the summer-house—a prayer which was answered, for the two ladies seated themselves on the bench outside, which was first wiped scrupulously clean by a large and substantial handkerchief wielded by the Vicar's wife.

Her escape thus cut off, Toni had no choice but to remain silently within. She supposed, forlornly, that she ought to make her presence known; but she felt it almost impossible to stir; and the first words she heard kept her chained to her seat.

"A sad pity," Mrs. Madgwick was remarking in her unctuous voice. "I always felt there was something just a little—well, what shall I call it?—second-rate about the girl. Mr. Rose being a gentleman in every sense of the word makes the whole thing so much worse."

"It does." Lady Martin's thin lips tightened. "I too knew from the first that the young woman was not a lady—why, on the occasion of my welcoming call I found her entertaining this very cousin to a repast of tea and shrimps—or was it periwinkles? Something vulgar, anyway, and I am nearly sure I saw a plate of watercresses as well."

"Dear me," said the vicar's wife acidly. "What class does the girl spring from? I always thought it was only servants or shop-girls who ate things of that sort—with vinegar—for tea!"

"Well, we have Mrs. Rose's own word for it that her cousin is assistant in a shop." Lady Martin laughed disagreeably. "I have no doubt Mrs. Rose was employed in the same manner before her marriage. It is really remarkable what matches these pert shop girls make nowadays. Men seem to prefer them to our daughters, though it is hard to understand."

"Hard? Impossible!" The Vicar's wife, thinking of her own plain and middle-aged daughters, spoke snappily. "As you say, no doubt Mrs. Rose was some little shop-assistant——"

"Ah, no! I remember now!" Lady Martin spoke mysteriously, and Mrs. Madgwick looked up sharply. "Mrs. Rose was not in a shop. It was not there that Mr. Rose met her. As a matter of fact she was his typist."

"His typist! Ah!" Toni, listening breathlessly, could not fathom the significance of the lady's tone.

"Of course he would never have married her if he had not been so sore about Miss Rees." Lady Martin spoke fluently. "I had the whole story of that affair from a friend of my daughter's who was intimately acquainted with Miss Rees."

"But—who is—or was—Miss Rees?" The speaker little knew how Toni blessed her for putting the question.

"The girl he should have married—the Earl of Paulton's niece." Lady Martin paused a moment to brush away an inquisitive gnat. "It was quite a romantic affair, at first. Mr. Rose was devoted, positively devoted to her, and she is really a charming girl, handsome, accomplished, in every way a contrast to the poor little creature he has married."

"But why, if he were so devoted——"

"Didn't he marry her? Well, it seems he had a motor smash, knocked himself up and had to go away for a time; and whether, as I have been told, she was glad of the excuse to break her promise, or whether there was some other reason, I don't know, but anyhow she threw him over and married Lord Saxonby without telling her first fiance a word about it."

"And he took it to heart?" Mrs. Madgwick felt exhilarated by this authentic peep into the lives of the great ones of the earth. "Of course it must be galling to be thrown over for another man—though when it is a Lord——"

"Well, a Lord's no worse than another man," said Lady Martin rather ambiguously. "But they say there was a terrible scene—Mr. Rose reproaching the girl and threatening to kill Lord Saxonby, and making all sorts of wild threats. My daughter's friend had a maid who had been with Lady Saxonby, and she told her all this."

"Ah, then of course it's true." Mrs. Madgwick, having a mind which delighted in gossip, did not quarrel with the source of information. "But I don't yet see why Mr. Rose married this girl. Surely there must have been plenty of ladies he could have had."

"Ah, but they all knew he'd been jilted," said Lady Martin wisely. "Besides they say he had sworn to marry the first woman who would have him, to get even with Miss Rees, you know, and I haven't a shadow of doubt this girl threw herself at his head."

"Very likely," agreed the Vicar's wife charitably. "Girls of that class are so pushing. But as a wife for Mr. Rose and the mistress of Greenriver she is eminently unsuitable."

"Dreadfully so," sighed Lady Martin. "I feel so sorry for the poor man tied to a common, empty-headed little thing like that. They tell me she is an absolute fool—and really in these days of evening classes and polytechnics there is no excuse for such lamentable ignorance as she displays. I hear that when they go out to dinner she sits as dumb as a fish—or else commits such shocking solecisms that her poor husband blushes for her."

"Really? I have had very little conversation with her," said the other woman judicially. "And beyond noting her deplorable unsoundness on religious matters I have had few opportunities of probing her mind."

"Her mind? She hasn't one," snapped Lady Martin. "She is one of those mindless, soulless women who are simply parasites, clinging to men for what they can get—a home, money, position—and give nothing in return because they have nothing to give."

"It is indeed sad for Mr. Rose," said Mrs. Madgwick compassionately. "So dreadfully boring for a clever man to be hampered with a silly wife—and one with such unpresentable relations, too. What was her cousin like? Quite—quite, I suppose."

"Oh, quite," agreed Lady Martin. "A red-faced, blowsy young woman with a large bust and a pinched-in waist. Just the sort of girl you'd expect to find in a draper's shop in Brixton. But now, I really feel quite rested. Suppose we return to the Bazaar? I have one or two little purchases to make, and possibly by now the things will be reduced in price."

The Vicar's wife rose with alacrity, and the two ladies moved away, discussing the probable financial result of the Bazaar, and Toni was left alone with her new knowledge.



CHAPTER XIV

At half-past five on that same afternoon Jim Herrick and his dog were strolling across the meadows leading from the river to the village of Willowhurst.

The sky, which had been brilliantly blue all day, was beginning to be overcast, causing the energetic helpers at the Vicarage Bazaar to throw anxious glances towards the gathering clouds, and Herrick, who was a fair weather-prophet, foresaw a storm before sunset.

As he threw his leg over the stile leading into the last meadow, he paused suddenly.

Approaching him was Owen Rose's wife; and something in her mode of progress struck him as peculiar. She was coming along at a sort of fast walk, breaking now and then into a few running steps, stumbling occasionally and even stopping dead for a second before resuming her hurrying advance.

Her eyes were downcast; and she was quite close to him before she realized his presence. When she did look up he saw that she was crying, openly, sobbingly, as a child cries, the tears running in little channels over her cheeks and dropping unheeded where they would.

Even when she saw that she was not alone, Toni could not check those treacherous tears; and something told Herrick that she was craving for sympathy, that here was no sophisticated woman of the world, to whom the encounter would spell annoyance, but a forlorn and solitary child crying out its heart over some real or fancied tribulation, to whom a kindly word, a friendly greeting would bring only comfort.

He jumped off the stile and approached her, hat in hand.

"Mrs. Rose? You're in trouble over something? Will you tell me what's wrong—perhaps I can help you somehow?"

To his relief he saw that his impression had been correct. She turned to him desperately, like a child seeking consolation.

"Mr. Herrick"—she sobbed out the words—"I'm so miserable—I don't know what to do!"

"Come, that's bad!" He spoke kindly. "Well, suppose you rest here a moment and dry your eyes?"

She fumbled blindly in the front of her gown and then gave up the search with a childish wail.

"I've not got a handkerchief—I've lost it somewhere!"

"Never mind, I have one." He drew out a large silk square as yet unfolded, and pressed it into her hand. "There, use that—and then we'll have a talk."

She dried her eyes obediently, though fresh tears threatened to make her obedience futile; and then, still clinging to his handkerchief, she leaned against the stile and tried to regain her self-control.

"Well?" His tone, with its gentle sympathy, was balm to poor Toni's sore heart. "Come, little lady, what's the trouble? Let's see if we can't find a way out of it together."

She turned her eyes on him as he spoke, and he was almost startled at what he read there; for surely there was a hint of almost womanly suffering in their usually childish depths; and he knew intuitively that this was not the thoughtless, light-hearted girl he had previously known as Toni Rose.

"Mr. Herrick"—she spoke in a low voice, which in spite of all her efforts shook a little—"just now at the Vicarage Bazaar I heard Lady Martin and Mrs. Madgwick talking about me; and they said such terrible things that I think my heart will break!"

"Oh, come, Mrs. Rose!" His tone had, as he intended, a bracing effect. "Hearts don't break so easily as that! Whatever those two chatterers may have said, you must not let it affect you so seriously."

"They said I was common—and ill-bred—and ignorant." The words startled her hearer, though she spoke them with a kind of dreary quietness which was not without pathos. "They said Owen only married me because some girl—an earl's niece—had thrown him over and he wanted to get his own back—they said he was ashamed of me, that he blushed for me when we went out to dinner, and everyone pitied him for having such a common, empty-headed wife."

"My dear Mrs. Rose——" For a moment Herrick's wits deserted him beneath this recapitulation; and before he could hit on the right words, Toni had begun again.

"They said it was a pity for a clever man to be tied to an ignorant wife, that I bored him to death; and Lady Martin said I was a parasite, clinging to him for money and food, and that I had spoilt his life and ruined his career——"

"Oh, that is nonsense!" Herrick shook off the mental paralysis which had held him tongue-tied, and spoke vigorously. "No man's life was ever spoilt by the possession of a pretty, loving wife—like you."

"Ah, but you don't understand." She spoke drearily. "I have been a fool, I suppose. I was so happy myself that I never thought of Owen. I mean I just went on loving him—thinking he loved me. I didn't bother about his work and his career—it never struck me I should be doing Owen harm by my ignorance. I knew I wasn't clever enough to help him, but I thought that didn't matter so long as we were happy...."

"But you were happy?"

"I was." A big tear rolled forlornly down her cheek. "It was so lovely here—like a beautiful dream—the summer and the river and the roses ... every day was better than the last and I thought it would always be like that ... I had never dreamed I could be so happy ... it was just like a fairy-tale, I used to think sometimes I was like an enchanted princess, living in a wonderful castle—with my prince...." Her voice sank to a whisper, and she gazed out over the flower-strewn meadows with a wide-eyed glance which saw nothing.

Herrick's big heart, which in spite of his life's tragedy held still an infinite compassion for all weak and helpless things, was wrung with pity for this poor little creature, whose eyes had been opened so cruelly to the fact that life was not all an enchanted fairyland; and when he spoke his deep voice was very gentle.

"See here, little lady, you mustn't take all this to heart. These women were talking, you must remember, without any intimate knowledge of your affairs; and we all know that gossip is eminently uncharitable. Besides, loyalty to your husband should make you believe in him and his love."

"I do." She stopped abruptly, then went on again more impetuously. "But the worst of it is, I believe it is true, what they said. I am ignorant and silly. I hate going out to parties; I never feel at ease, I make foolish mistakes. Owen has been very kind, he has only laughed, but it must have been horrid for him to have such a foolish wife. At home, too ... it's quite true I haven't helped him. I've been out all day enjoying myself, and not bothering about his work. I did at first, and I made such stupid blunders that he used to have to do it all over again."

"Well, that's nothing." He spoke lightly. "After all, you are not a literary expert like your husband, and you can't be expected to do his work."

"No." She caught her white teeth fiercely in her lip. "But lots of women could have helped him. This one they spoke of—they said she was clever, accomplished, just the sort of wife for a man like Owen—not a stupid little dummy like me. And"—she paused, and every tinge of colour faded out of her face—"they said I was common—not a lady. Mr. Herrick, am I common? Am I—not a lady?"

With her eyes on his face, eyes full of a desperate hurt, Herrick felt a wild, impotent desire to strangle the two mischief-makers who had changed this girl's joy into bitterness, had turned a child's enchanted castle into a structure of pasteboard; but when he spoke his tone was admirably light.

"My dear child, now you are talking absolute nonsense. Common? Well, to me commonness consists in common behaviour, mean tempers, a nasty, spiteful attitude of mind, a discontent with one's surroundings, a petty jealousy of others—oh, I hate a common mind as much as anyone in the world—but to use the word in connection with you is merely an abuse of language and not to be treated seriously."

She was half perplexed, half comforted.

"But a lady, Mr. Herrick? Am I or am I not—a lady?"

"Well," he said slowly, "that again depends on the use of the word. Mrs. Swastika, my excellent charwoman, is referred to by her friends as 'the lady who looks after that queer man in the bungalow'; and when my usual milkman was taken ill the other day, my modest pint of milk was brought by a pig-tailed girl who announced, 'I'm the young lady as takes round Mr. Piggott's milk when he's sick!' So that you see the term 'lady' is capable of wide interpretation."