31266	----	THE PLAYS OF J. M. BARRIE QUALITY STREET A COMEDY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS NEW YORK ::::::::: 1923 COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY J. M. BARRIE Printed in the United States of America _All rights reserved under the International Copyright Act. Performance forbidden and right of representation reserved. Application for the right of performing this play must be made to Charles Frohman, Inc., Empire Theatre, New York._ _THE WORKS OF J. M. BARRIE._ _NOVELS, STORIES, AND SKETCHES._ _Uniform Edition._ AULD LIGHT IDYLLS, BETTER DEAD. WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. A WINDOW IN THRUMS, AN EDINBURGH ELEVEN. THE LITTLE MINISTER. SENTIMENTAL TOMMY. MY LADY NICOTINE, MARGARET OGILVY. TOMMY AND GRIZEL. THE LITTLE WHITE BIRD. PETER AND WENDY. _Also_ HALF HOURS, DER TAG. ECHOES OF THE WAR. _PLAYS._ _Uniform Edition._ DEAR BRUTUS A KISS FOR CINDERELLA ALICE SIT-BY-THE-FIRE. WHAT EVERY WOMAN KNOWS. QUALITY STREET. THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON. ECHOES OF THE WAR. _Containing_: The Old Lady Shows Her Medals--The New Word--Barbara's Wedding--A Well-Remembered Voice. HALF HOURS. _Containing_: Pantaloon--The Twelve-Pound Look--Rosalind--The Will. _Others in Preparation._ _INDIVIDUAL EDITIONS._ PETER PAN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS. Illustrated by ARTHUR RACKHAM. PETER AND WENDY. Illustrated by F. D. BEDFORD. PETER PAN AND WENDY. Illustrated by MISS ATTWELL. TOMMY AND GRIZEL. Illustrated by BERNARD PARTRIDGE. MARGARET OGILVY. *** For particulars concerning _The Thistle Edition_ of the Works of J. M. BARRIE, sold only by subscription, send for circular. NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS ACT I THE BLUE AND WHITE ROOM _The scene is the blue and white room in the house of the Misses Susan and Phoebe Throssel in Quality Street; and in this little country town there is a satisfaction about living in Quality Street which even religion cannot give. Through the bowed window at the back we have a glimpse of the street. It is pleasantly broad and grass-grown, and is linked to the outer world by one demure shop, whose door rings a bell every time it opens and shuts. Thus by merely peeping, every one in Quality Street can know at once who has been buying a Whimsy cake, and usually why. This bell is the most familiar sound of Quality Street. Now and again ladies pass in their pattens, a maid perhaps protecting them with an umbrella, for flakes of snow are falling discreetly. Gentlemen in the street are an event; but, see, just as we raise the curtain, there goes the recruiting sergeant to remind us that we are in the period of the Napoleonic wars. If he were to look in at the window of the blue and white room all the ladies there assembled would draw themselves up; they know him for a rude fellow who smiles at the approach of maiden ladies and continues to smile after they have passed. However, he lowers his head to-day so that they shall not see him, his present design being converse with the Misses Throssel's maid._ _The room is one seldom profaned by the foot of man, and everything in it is white or blue. Miss Phoebe is not present, but here are Miss Susan, Miss Willoughby and her sister Miss Fanny, and Miss Henrietta Turnbull. Miss Susan and Miss Willoughby, alas, already wear caps; but all the four are dear ladies, so refined that we ought not to be discussing them without a more formal introduction. There seems no sufficient reason why we should choose Miss Phoebe as our heroine rather than any one of the others, except, perhaps, that we like her name best. But we gave her the name, so we must support our choice and say that she is slightly the nicest, unless, indeed, Miss Susan is nicer._ _Miss Fanny is reading aloud from a library book while the others sew or knit. They are making garments for our brave soldiers now far away fighting the Corsican Ogre._ MISS FANNY. '... And so the day passed and evening came, black, mysterious, and ghost-like. The wind moaned unceasingly like a shivering spirit, and the vegetation rustled uneasily as if something weird and terrifying were about to happen. Suddenly out of the darkness there emerged a _Man_. (_She says the last word tremulously but without looking up. The listeners knit more quickly._) The unhappy Camilla was standing lost in reverie when, without pausing to advertise her of his intentions, he took both her hands in his. (_By this time the knitting has stopped, and all are listening as if mesmerised._) Slowly he gathered her in his arms---- (MISS SUSAN _gives an excited little cry._) MISS FANNY. And rained hot, burning----' MISS WILLOUGHBY. Sister! MISS FANNY (_greedily_). 'On eyes, mouth----' MISS WILLOUGHBY (_sternly_). Stop. Miss Susan, I am indeed surprised you should bring such an amazing, indelicate tale from the library. MISS SUSAN (_with a slight shudder_). I deeply regret, Miss Willoughby---- (_Sees_ MISS FANNY _reading quickly to herself._) Oh, Fanny! If you please, my dear. (_Takes the book gently from her._) MISS WILLOUGHBY. I thank you. (_She knits severely._) MISS FANNY (_a little rebel_). Miss Susan is looking at the end. (MISS SUSAN _closes the book guiltily._) MISS SUSAN (_apologetically_). Forgive my partiality for romance, Mary. I fear 'tis the mark of an old maid. MISS WILLOUGHBY. Susan, that word! MISS SUSAN (_sweetly_). 'Tis what I am. And you also, Mary, my dear. MISS FANNY (_defending her sister_). Miss Susan, I protest. MISS WILLOUGHBY (_sternly truthful_). Nay, sister, 'tis true. We are known everywhere now, Susan, you and I, as the old maids of Quality Street. (_General discomfort._) MISS SUSAN. I am happy Phoebe will not be an old maid. MISS HENRIETTA (_wistfully_). Do you refer, Miss Susan, to V. B.? (MISS SUSAN _smiles happily to herself._) MISS SUSAN. Miss Phoebe of the ringlets as he has called her. MISS FANNY. Other females besides Miss Phoebe have ringlets. MISS SUSAN. But you and Miss Henrietta have to employ papers, my dear. (_Proudly_) Phoebe, never. MISS WILLOUGHBY (_in defence of_ FANNY). I do not approve of Miss Phoebe at all. MISS SUSAN (_flushing_). Mary, had Phoebe been dying you would have called her an angel, but that is ever the way. 'Tis all jealousy to the bride and good wishes to the corpse. (_Her guests rise, hurt._) My love, I beg your pardon. MISS WILLOUGHBY. With your permission, Miss Susan, I shall put on my pattens. (MISS SUSAN _gives permission almost haughtily, and the ladies retire to the bedroom,_ MISS FANNY _remaining behind a moment to ask a question._) MISS FANNY. A bride? Miss Susan, do you mean that V. B. has declared? MISS SUSAN. Fanny, I expect it hourly. (MISS SUSAN, _left alone, is agitated by the terrible scene with_ MISS WILLOUGHBY.) (_Enter_ PHOEBE _in her bonnet, and we see at once that she really is the nicest. She is so flushed with delightful news that she almost forgets to take off her pattens before crossing the blue and white room._) MISS SUSAN. You seem strangely excited, Phoebe. PHOEBE. Susan, I have met a certain individual. MISS SUSAN. V. B.? (PHOEBE _nods several times, and her gleaming eyes tell_ MISS SUSAN _as much as if they were a romance from the library._) My dear, you are trembling. PHOEBE (_bravely_). No--oh no. MISS SUSAN. You put your hand to your heart. PHOEBE. Did I? MISS SUSAN (_in a whisper_). My love, has he offered? PHOEBE (_appalled_). Oh, Susan. (_Enter_ MISS WILLOUGHBY, _partly cloaked._) MISS WILLOUGHBY. How do you do, Miss Phoebe. (_Portentously_) Susan, I have no wish to alarm you, but I am of opinion that there is a man in the house. I suddenly felt it while putting on my pattens. MISS SUSAN. You mean--a follower--in the kitchen? (_She courageously rings the bell, but her voice falters._) I am just a little afraid of Patty. (_Enter_ PATTY, _a buxom young woman, who loves her mistresses and smiles at them, and knows how to terrorise them._) Patty, I hope we may not hurt your feelings, but-- PATTY (_sternly_). Are you implicating, ma'am, that I have a follower? MISS SUSAN. Oh no, Patty. PATTY. So be it. MISS SUSAN (_ashamed_). Patty, come back, (_Humbly_) I told a falsehood just now; I am ashamed of myself. PATTY (_severely_). As well you might be, ma'am. PHOEBE (_so roused that she would look heroic if she did not spoil the effect by wagging her finger at_ PATTY). How dare you. There is a man in the kitchen. To the door with him. PATTY. A glorious soldier to be so treated! PHOEBE. The door. PATTY. And if he refuses? (_They looked perplexed._) MISS SUSAN. Oh dear! PHOEBE. If he refuses send him here to me. (_Exit PATTY._) MISS SUSAN. Lion-hearted Phoebe. MISS WILLOUGHBY. A soldier? (_Nervously_) I wish it may not be that impertinent recruiting sergeant. I passed him in the street to-day. He closed one of his eyes at me and then quickly opened it. I knew what he meant. PHOEBE. He does not come. MISS SUSAN. I think I hear their voices in dispute. (_She is listening through the floor. They all stoop or go on their knees to listen, and when they are in this position the_ RECRUITING SERGEANT _enters unobserved. He chuckles aloud. In a moment_ PHOEBE _is alone with him._) SERGEANT (_with an Irish accent_). Your servant, ma'am. PHOEBE (_advancing sternly on him_). Sir-- (_She is perplexed, as he seems undismayed._) Sergeant-- (_She sees mud from his boots on the carpet._) Oh! oh! (_Brushes carpet._) Sergeant, I am wishful to scold you, but would you be so obliging as to stand on this paper while I do it? SERGEANT. With all the pleasure in life, ma'am. PHOEBE (_forgetting to be angry_). Sergeant, have you killed people? SERGEANT. Dozens, ma'am, dozens. PHOEBE. How terrible. Oh, sir, I pray every night that the Lord in His loving-kindness will root the enemy up. Is it true that the Corsican Ogre eats babies? SERGEANT. I have spoken with them as have seen him do it, ma'am. PHOEBE. The Man of Sin. Have you ever seen a vivandiere, sir? (_Wistfully_) I have sometimes wished there were vivandieres in the British Army. (_For a moment she sees herself as one._) Oh, Sergeant, a shudder goes through me when I see you in the streets enticing those poor young men. SERGEANT. If you were one of them, ma'am, and death or glory was the call, you would take the shilling, ma'am. PHOEBE. Oh, not for that. SERGEANT. For King and Country, ma'am? PHOEBE (_grandly_). Yes, yes, for that. SERGEANT (_candidly_). Not that it is all fighting. The sack of captured towns--the loot. PHOEBE (_proudly_). An English soldier never sacks nor loots. SERGEANT. No, ma'am. And then--the girls. PHOEBE. What girls? SERGEANT. In the towns that--that we don't sack. PHOEBE. How they must hate the haughty conqueror. SERGEANT. We are not so haughty as all that. PHOEBE (_sadly_). I think I understand. I am afraid, Sergeant, you do not tell those poor young men the noble things I thought you told them. SERGEANT. Ma'am, I must e'en tell them what they are wishful to hear. There ha' been five, ma'am, all this week, listening to me and then showing me their heels, but by a grand stroke of luck I have them at last. PHOEBE. Luck? (MISS SUSAN _opens door slightly and listens._) SERGEANT. The luck, ma'am, is that a gentleman of the town has enlisted. That gave them the push forward. (MISS SUSAN _is excited._) PHOEBE. A gentleman of this town enlisted? (_Eagerly_) Sergeant, who? SERGEANT. Nay, ma'am, I think it be a secret as yet. PHOEBE. But a gentleman! 'Tis the most amazing, exciting thing. Sergeant, be so obliging. SERGEANT. Nay, ma'am, I can't. MISS SUSAN (_at door, carried away by excitement_). But you must, you must! SERGEANT (_turning to the door_). You see, ma'am-- (_The door is hurriedly closed._) PHOEBE (_ashamed_). Sergeant, I have not been saying the things I meant to say to you. Will you please excuse my turning you out of the house somewhat violently. SERGEANT. I am used to it, ma'am. PHOEBE. I won't really hurt you. SERGEANT. Thank you kindly, ma'am. PHOEBE (_observing the bedroom door opening a little, and speaking in a loud voice_). I protest, sir; we shall permit no followers in this house. Should I discover you in my kitchen again I shall pitch you out--neck and crop. Begone, sir. (_The_ SERGEANT _retires affably. All the ladies except_ MISS HENRIETTA _come out, admiring_ PHOEBE. _The_ WILLOUGHBYS _are attired for their journey across the street._) MISS WILLOUGHBY. Miss Phoebe, we could not but admire you. (PHOEBE, _alas, knows that she is not admirable._) PHOEBE. But the gentleman recruit? MISS SUSAN. Perhaps they will know who he is at the woollen-drapers. MISS FANNY. Let us inquire. (_But before they go_ MISS WILLOUGHBY _has a duty to perform._) MISS WILLOUGHBY. I wish to apologise. Miss Phoebe, you are a dear, good girl. If I have made remarks about her ringlets, Susan, it was jealousy. (PHOEBE _and_ MISS SUSAN _wish to embrace her, but she is not in the mood for it._) Come, sister. MISS FANNY (_the dear woman that she is_). Phoebe, dear, I wish you very happy. (_PHOEBE presses her hand._) MISS HENRIETTA (_entering, and not to be outdone_). Miss Phoebe, I give you joy. (_The three ladies go, the two younger ones a little tearfully, and we see them pass the window._) PHOEBE (_pained_). Susan, you have been talking to them about V. B. MISS SUSAN. I could not help it. (_Eagerly_) Now, Phoebe, what is it you have to tell me? PHOEBE (_in a low voice_). Dear, I think it is too holy to speak of. MISS SUSAN. To your sister? PHOEBE. Susan, as you know, I was sitting with an unhappy woman whose husband has fallen in the war. When I came out of the cottage he was passing. MISS SUSAN. Yes? PHOEBE. He offered me his escort. At first he was very silent--as he has often been of late. MISS SUSAN. _We_ know why. PHOEBE. Please not to say that I know why. Suddenly he stopped and swung his cane. You know how gallantly he swings his cane. MISS SUSAN. Yes, indeed. PHOEBE. He said: 'I have something I am wishful to tell you, Miss Phoebe; perhaps you can guess what it is.' MISS SUSAN. Go on! PHOEBE. To say I could guess, sister, would have been unladylike. I said: 'Please not to tell me in the public thoroughfare'; to which he instantly replied: 'Then I shall call and tell you this afternoon.' MISS SUSAN. Phoebe! (_They are interrupted by the entrance of_ PATTY _with tea. They see that she has brought three cups, and know that this is her impertinent way of implying that mistresses, as well as maids, may have a 'follower.' When she has gone they smile at the daring of the woman, and sit down to tea._) PHOEBE. Susan, to think that it has all happened in a single year. MISS SUSAN. Such a genteel competency as he can offer; such a desirable establishment. PHOEBE. I had no thought of that, dear. I was recalling our first meeting at Mrs. Fotheringay's quadrille party. MISS SUSAN. We had quite forgotten that our respected local physician was growing elderly. PHOEBE. Until he said: 'Allow me to present my new partner, Mr. Valentine Brown.' MISS SUSAN. Phoebe, do you remember how at the tea-table he facetiously passed the cake-basket with nothing in it! PHOEBE. He was so amusing from the first. I am thankful, Susan, that I too have a sense of humour. I am exceedingly funny at times; am I not, Susan? MISS SUSAN. Yes, indeed. But he sees humour in the most unexpected things. I say something so ordinary about loving, for instance, to have everything either blue or white in this room, and I know not why he laughs, but it makes me feel quite witty. PHOEBE (_a little anxiously_). I hope he sees nothing odd or quaint about us. MISS SUSAN. My dear, I am sure he cannot. PHOEBE. Susan, the picnics. MISS SUSAN. Phoebe, the day when he first drank tea in this house. PHOEBE. He invited himself. MISS SUSAN. He merely laughed when I said it would cause such talk. PHOEBE. He is absolutely fearless. Susan, he has smoked his pipe in this room. (_They are both a little scared._) MISS SUSAN. Smoking is indeed a dreadful habit. PHOEBE. But there is something so dashing about it. MISS SUSAN (_with melancholy_). And now I am to be left alone. PHOEBE. No. MISS SUSAN. My dear, I could not leave this room. My lovely blue and white room. It is my husband. PHOEBE (_who has become agitated_). Susan, you must make my house your home. I have something distressing to tell you. MISS SUSAN. You alarm me. PHOEBE. You know Mr. Brown advised us how to invest half of our money. MISS SUSAN. I know it gives us eight per cent., though why it should do so I cannot understand, but very obliging, I am sure. PHOEBE. Susan, all that money is lost; I had the letter several days ago. MISS SUSAN. Lost? PHOEBE. Something burst, dear, and then they absconded. MISS SUSAN. But Mr. Brown-- PHOEBE. I have not advertised him of it yet, for he will think it was his fault. But I shall tell him to-day. MISS SUSAN. Phoebe, how much have we left? PHOEBE. Only sixty pounds a year, so you see you must live with us, dearest. MISS SUSAN. But Mr. Brown--he---- PHOEBE (_grandly_). He is a man of means, and if he is not proud to have my Susan I shall say at once: 'Mr. Brown--the door.' (_She presses her cheek to_ MISS SUSAN'S.) MISS SUSAN (_softly_). Phoebe, I have a wedding gift for you. PHOEBE. Not yet? MISS SUSAN. It has been ready for a long time. I began it when you were not ten years old and I was a young woman. I meant it for myself, Phoebe. I had hoped that he--his name was William--but I think I must have been too unattractive, my love. PHOEBE. Sweetest--dearest---- MISS SUSAN. I always associate it with a sprigged poplin I was wearing that summer, with a breadth of coloured silk in it, being a naval officer; but something happened, a Miss Cicely Pemberton, and they are quite big boys now. So long ago, Phoebe--he was very tall, with brown hair--it was most foolish of me, but I was always so fond of sewing--with long straight legs and such a pleasant expression. PHOEBE. Susan, what was it? MISS SUSAN. It was a wedding-gown, my dear. Even plain women, Phoebe, we can't help it; when we are young we have romantic ideas just as if we were pretty. And so the wedding-gown was never used. Long before it was finished I knew he would not offer, but I finished it, and then I put it away. I have always hidden it from you, Phoebe, but of late I have brought it out again, and altered it. (_She goes to ottoman and unlocks it._) PHOEBE. Susan, I could not wear it. (MISS SUSAN _brings the wedding-gown._) Oh! how sweet, how beautiful! MISS SUSAN. You will wear it, my love, won't you? And the tears it was sewn with long ago will all turn into smiles on my Phoebe's wedding-day. (_They are tearfully happy when a knock is heard on the street door._) PHOEBE. That knock. MISS SUSAN. So dashing. PHOEBE. So imperious. (_She is suddenly panic-stricken._) Susan, I think he kissed me once. MISS SUSAN (_startled_). You _think_? PHOEBE. I know he did. That evening--a week ago, when he was squiring me home from the concert. It was raining, and my face was wet; he said that was why he did it. MISS SUSAN. Because your face was wet? PHOEBE. It does not seem a sufficient excuse now. MISS SUSAN (_appalled_). O Phoebe, before he had offered. PHOEBE (_in distress_). I fear me it was most unladylike. (VALENTINE BROWN _is shown in. He is a frank, genial young man of twenty-five who honestly admires the ladies, though he is amused by their quaintness. He is modestly aware that it is in the blue and white room alone that he is esteemed a wit._) BROWN. Miss Susan, how do you do, ma'am? Nay, Miss Phoebe, though we have met to-day already I insist on shaking hands with you again. MISS SUSAN. Always so dashing. (VALENTINE _laughs and the ladies exchange delighted smiles._) VALENTINE (_to_ MISS SUSAN). And my other friends, I hope I find them in health? The spinet, ma'am, seems quite herself to-day; I trust the ottoman passed a good night? MISS SUSAN (_beaming_). We are all quite well, sir. VALENTINE. May I sit on this chair, Miss Phoebe? I know Miss Susan likes me to break her chairs. MISS SUSAN. Indeed, sir, I do not. Phoebe, how strange that he should think so. PHOEBE (_instantly_). The remark was humorous, was it not? VALENTINE. How you see through me, Miss Phoebe. (_The sisters again exchange delighted smiles_. VALENTINE _is about to take a seat._) MISS SUSAN (_thinking aloud_). Oh dear, I feel sure he is going to roll the coverlet into a ball and then sit on it. (VALENTINE, _who has been on the point of doing so, abstains and sits guiltily._) VALENTINE. So I am dashing, Miss Susan? Am I dashing, Miss Phoebe? PHOEBE. A--little, I think. VALENTINE. Well, but I have something to tell you to-day which I really think is rather dashing. (MISS SUSAN _gathers her knitting, looks at_ PHOEBE, _and is preparing to go._) You are not going, ma'am, before you know what it is? MISS SUSAN. I--I--indeed--to be sure--I--I know, Mr. Brown. PHOEBE. Susan! MISS SUSAN. I mean I do not know. I mean I can guess--I mean---- Phoebe, my love, explain. (_She goes out._) VALENTINE (_rather disappointed_). The explanation being, I suppose, that you both know, and I had flattered myself 'twas such a secret. Am I then to understand that you had foreseen it all, Miss Phoebe? PHOEBE. Nay, sir, you must not ask that. VALENTINE. I believe in any case 'twas you who first put it into my head. PHOEBE (_aghast_). Oh, I hope not. VALENTINE. Your demure eyes flashed so every time the war was mentioned; the little Quaker suddenly looked like a gallant boy in ringlets. (_A dread comes over_ PHOEBE, _but it is in her heart alone; it shows neither in face nor voice._) PHOEBE. Mr. Brown, what is it you have to tell us? VALENTINE. That I have enlisted, Miss Phoebe. Did you surmise it was something else? PHOEBE. You are going to the wars? Mr. Brown, is it a jest? VALENTINE. It would be a sorry jest, ma'am. I thought you knew. I concluded that the recruiting sergeant had talked. PHOEBE. The recruiting sergeant? I see. VALENTINE. These stirring times, Miss Phoebe--he is but half a man who stays at home. I have chafed for months. I want to see whether I have any courage, and as to be an army surgeon does not appeal to me, it was enlist or remain behind. To-day I found that there were five waverers. I asked them would they take the shilling if I took it, and they assented. Miss Phoebe, it is not one man I give to the King, but six. PHOEBE (_brightly_). I think you have done bravely. VALENTINE. We leave shortly for the Petersburgh barracks, and I go to London tomorrow; so this is good-bye. PHOEBE. I shall pray that you may be preserved in battle, Mr. Brown. VALENTINE. And you and Miss Susan will write to me when occasion offers? PHOEBE. If you wish it. VALENTINE (_smiling_). With all the stirring news of Quality Street. PHOEBE. It seems stirring to us; it must have been merely laughable to you, who came here from a great city. VALENTINE. Dear Quality Street--that thought me dashing! But I made friends in it, Miss Phoebe, of two very sweet ladies. PHOEBE (_timidly_). Mr. Brown, I wonder why you have been so kind to my sister and me? VALENTINE. The kindness was yours. If at first Miss Susan amused me-- (_Chuckling._) To see her on her knees decorating the little legs of the couch with frills as if it were a child! But it was her sterling qualities that impressed me presently. PHOEBE. And did--did I amuse you also? VALENTINE. Prodigiously, Miss Phoebe. Those other ladies, they were always scolding you, your youthfulness shocked them. I believe they thought you dashing. PHOEBE (_nervously_). I have sometimes feared that I was perhaps too dashing. VALENTINE (_laughing at this_). You delicious Miss Phoebe. You were too quiet. I felt sorry that one so sweet and young should live so grey a life. I wondered whether I could put any little pleasures into it. PHOEBE. The picnics? It was very good of you. VALENTINE. That was only how it began, for soon I knew that it was I who got the pleasures and you who gave them. You have been to me, Miss Phoebe, like a quiet, old-fashioned garden full of the flowers that Englishmen love best because they have known them longest: the daisy, that stands for innocence, and the hyacinth for constancy, and the modest violet and the rose. When I am far away, ma'am, I shall often think of Miss Phoebe's pretty soul, which is her garden, and shut my eyes and walk in it. (_She is smiling gallantly through her pain when_ MISS SUSAN _returns._) MISS SUSAN. Have you--is it--you seem so calm, Phoebe. PHOEBE (_pressing her sister's hand warningly and imploringly_). Susan, what Mr. Brown is so obliging as to inform us of is not what we expected--not that at all. My dear, he is the gentleman who has enlisted, and he came to tell us that and to say good-bye. MISS SUSAN. Going away? PHOEBE. Yes, dear. VALENTINE. Am I not the ideal recruit, ma'am: a man without a wife or a mother or a sweetheart? MISS SUSAN. No sweetheart? VALENTINE. Have you one for me, Miss Susan? PHOEBE (_hastily, lest her sister's face should betray the truth_). Susan, we shall have to tell him now. You dreadful man, you will laugh and say it is just like Quality Street. But indeed since I met you to-day and you told me you had something to communicate we have been puzzling what it could be, and we concluded that you were going to be married. VALENTINE. Ha! ha! ha! Was that it. PHOEBE. So like women, you know. We thought we perhaps knew her. (_Glancing at the wedding-gown._) We were even discussing what we should wear at the wedding. VALENTINE. Ha! ha! I shall often think of this. I wonder who would have me, Miss Susan. (_Rising._) But I must be off; and God bless you both. MISS SUSAN (_forlorn_). You are going! VALENTINE. No more mud on your carpet, Miss Susan; no more coverlets rolled into balls. A good riddance. Miss Phoebe, a last look at the garden. (_Taking her hand and looking into her face._) PHOEBE. We shall miss you very much, Mr. Brown. VALENTINE. There is one little matter. That investment I advised you to make, I am happy it has turned out so well. PHOEBE (_checking_ MISS SUSAN, _who is about to tell of the loss of the money_). It was good of you to take all that trouble, sir. Accept our grateful thanks. VALENTINE. Indeed I am glad that you are so comfortably left; I am your big brother. Good-bye again. (_Looks round._) This little blue and white room and its dear inmates, may they be unchanged when I come back. Good-bye. (_He goes_. MISS SUSAN _looks forlornly at_ PHOEBE, _who smiles pitifully._) PHOEBE. A misunderstanding; just a mistake. (_She shudders, lifts the wedding-gown and puts it back in the ottoman_. MISS SUSAN _sinks sobbing into a chair._) Don't, dear, don't--we can live it down. MISS SUSAN (_fiercely_). He is a fiend in human form. PHOEBE. Nay, you hurt me, sister. He is a brave gentleman. MISS SUSAN. The money; why did you not let me tell him? PHOEBE (_flushing_). So that he might offer to me out of pity, Susan? MISS SUSAN. Phoebe, how are we to live with the quartern loaf at one and tenpence? PHOEBE. Brother James---- MISS SUSAN. You know very well that brother James will do nothing for us. PHOEBE. I think, Susan, we could keep a little school--for genteel children only, of course. I would do most of the teaching. MISS SUSAN. You a schoolmistress--Phoebe of the ringlets; every one would laugh. PHOEBE. I shall hide the ringlets away in a cap like yours, Susan, and people will soon forget them. And I shall try to look staid and to grow old quickly. It will not be so hard to me as you think, dear. MISS SUSAN. There were other gentlemen who were attracted by you, Phoebe, and you turned from them. PHOEBE. I did not want them. MISS SUSAN. They will come again, and others. PHOEBE. No, dear; never speak of that to me any more. (_In woe._) I let him kiss me. MISS SUSAN. You could not prevent him. PHOEBE. Yes, I could. I know I could now. I wanted him to do it. Oh, never speak to me of others after that. Perhaps he saw I wanted it and did it to please me. But I meant--indeed I did--that I gave it to him with all my love. Sister, I could bear all the rest; but I have been unladylike. (_The curtain falls, and we do not see the sisters again for ten years._) _End of Act I._ ACT II THE SCHOOL _Ten years later. It is the blue and white room still, but many of Miss Susan's beautiful things have gone, some of them never to return; others are stored upstairs. Their place is taken by grim scholastic furniture: forms, a desk, a globe, a blackboard, heartless maps. It is here that Miss Phoebe keeps school. Miss Susan teaches in the room opening off it, once the spare bedroom, where there is a smaller blackboard (for easier sums) but no globe, as Miss Susan is easily alarmed. Here are the younger pupils unless they have grown defiant, when they are promoted to the blue and white room to be under Miss Phoebe's braver rule. They really frighten Miss Phoebe also, but she does not let her sister know this._ _It is noon on a day in August, and through the window we can see that Quality Street is decorated with flags. We also hear at times martial music from another street. Miss Phoebe is giving a dancing lesson to half a dozen pupils, and is doing her very best; now she is at the spinet while they dance, and again she is showing them the new step. We know it is Miss Phoebe because some of her pretty airs and graces still cling to her in a forlorn way, but she is much changed. Her curls are out of sight under a cap, her manner is prim, the light has gone from her eyes and buoyancy from her figure; she looks not ten years older but twenty, and not an easy twenty. When the children are not looking at her we know that she has the headache._ PHOEBE (_who is sometimes at the spinet and sometimes dancing_). Toes out. So. Chest out. Georgy. Point your toes, Miss Beveridge--so. So--keep in line; and young ladies, remember your toes. (GEORGY _in his desire to please has protruded the wrong part of his person. She writes a C on his chest with chalk._) C stands for chest, Georgy. This is S. (MISS SUSAN _darts out of the other room. She is less worn than_ MISS PHOEBE.) MISS SUSAN (_whispering so that the pupils may not hear_). Phoebe, how many are fourteen and seventeen? PHOEBE (_almost instantly_). Thirty-one. MISS SUSAN. I thank you. (_She darts off._) PHOEBE. That will do, ladies and gentlemen. You may go. (_They bow or curtsy, and retire to_ MISS SUSAN'S _room, with the exception of_ ARTHUR WELLESLEY TOMSON, _who is standing in disgrace in a corner with the cap of shame on his head, and_ ISABELLA, _a forbidding-looking, learned little girl_. ISABELLA _holds up her hand for permission to speak._) ISABELLA. Please, ma'am, father wishes me to acquire algebra. PHOEBE (_with a sinking_). Algebra! It--it is not a very ladylike study, Isabella. ISABELLA. Father says, will you or won't you? PHOEBE. And you are thin. It will make you thinner, my dear. ISABELLA. Father says I am thin but wiry. PHOEBE. Yes, you are. (_With feeling._) You are very wiry, Isabella. ISABELLA. Father says, either I acquire algebra or I go to Miss Prothero's establishment. PHOEBE. Very well, I--I will do my best. You may go. (ISABELLA _goes and_ PHOEBE _sits wearily._) ARTHUR (_fingering his cap_). Please, ma'am, may I take it off now? PHOEBE. Certainly not. Unhappy boy---- (ARTHUR _grins._) Come here. Are you ashamed of yourself? ARTHUR (_blithely_). No, ma'am. PHOEBE (_in a terrible voice_). Arthur Wellesley Tomson, fetch me the implement. (ARTHUR _goes briskly for the cane, and she hits the desk with it._) Arthur, surely that terrifies you? ARTHUR. No, ma'am. PHOEBE. Arthur, why did you fight with that street boy? ARTHUR. 'Cos he said that when you caned you did not draw blood. PHOEBE. But I don't, do I? ARTHUR. No, ma'am. PHOEBE. Then why fight him? (_Remembering how strange boys are._) Was it for the honour of the school? ARTHUR. Yes, ma'am. PHOEBE. Say you are sorry, Arthur, and I won't punish you. (_He bursts into tears._) ARTHUR. You promised to cane me, and now you are not going to do it. PHOEBE (_incredulous_). Do you wish to be caned? ARTHUR (_holding out his hand eagerly_). If you please, Miss Phoebe. PHOEBE. Unnatural boy. (_She canes him in a very unprofessional manner._) Poor dear boy. (_She kisses the hand._) ARTHUR (_gloomily_). Oh, ma'am, you will never be able to cane if you hold it like that. You should hold it like this, Miss Phoebe, and give it a wriggle like that. (_She is too soft-hearted to follow his instructions._) PHOEBE (_almost in tears_). Go away. ARTHUR (_remembering that women are strange_). Don't cry, ma'am; I love you, Miss Phoebe. (_She seats him on her knee, and he thinks of a way to please her._) If any boy says you can't cane I will blood him, Miss Phoebe. (PHOEBE _shudders, and_ MISS SUSAN _again darts in. She signs to_ PHOEBE _to send_ ARTHUR _away._) MISS SUSAN (_as soon as_ ARTHUR _has gone_). Phoebe, if a herring and a half cost three ha'pence, how many for elevenpence? PHOEBE (_instantly_). Eleven. MISS SUSAN. William Smith says it is fifteen; and he is such a big boy, do you think I ought to contradict him? May I say there are differences of opinion about it? No one can be really sure, Phoebe. PHOEBE. It is eleven. I once worked it out with real herrings. (_Stoutly._) Susan, we must never let the big boys know that we are afraid of them. To awe them, stamp with the foot, speak in a ferocious voice, and look them unflinchingly in the face. (_Then she pales._) Oh, Susan, Isabella's father insists on her acquiring algebra. MISS SUSAN. What is algebra exactly; is it those three cornered things? PHOEBE. It is _x_ minus _y_ equals _z_ plus _y_ and things like that. And all the time you are saying they are equal, you feel in your heart, why should they be. (_The music of the band swells here, and both ladies put their hands to their ears._) It is the band for to-night's ball. We must not grudge their rejoicings, Susan. It is not every year that there is a Waterloo to celebrate. MISS SUSAN. I was not thinking of that. I was thinking that he is to be at the ball to-night; and we have not seen him for ten years. PHOEBE (_calmly_). Yes, ten years. We shall be glad to welcome our old friend back, Susan. I am going in to your room now to take the Latin class. (_A soldier with a girl passes--a yokel follows angrily._) MISS SUSAN. Oh, that weary Latin, I wish I had the whipping of the man who invented it. (_She returns to her room, and the sound of the music dies away_. MISS PHOEBE, _who is not a very accomplished classical scholar, is taking a final peep at the declensions when_ MISS SUSAN _reappears excitedly._) PHOEBE. What is it? MISS SUSAN (_tragically_). William Smith! Phoebe, I tried to look ferocious, indeed I did, but he saw I was afraid, and before the whole school he put out his tongue at me. PHOEBE. Susan! (_She is lion-hearted; she remembers_ ARTHUR'S _instructions, and practises with the cane._) MISS SUSAN (_frightened_). Phoebe, he is much too big. Let it pass. PHOEBE. If I let it pass I am a stumbling-block in the way of true education. MISS SUSAN. Sister. PHOEBE (_grandly_). Susan, stand aside. (_Giving the cane_ ARTHUR'S _most telling flick, she marches into the other room. Then, while_ MISS SUSAN _is listening nervously_, CAPTAIN VALENTINE BROWN _is ushered in by_ PATTY. _He is bronzed and soldierly. He wears the whiskers of the period, and is in uniform. He has lost his left hand, but this is not at first noticeable._) PATTY. Miss Susan, 'tis Captain Brown! MISS SUSAN. Captain Brown! VALENTINE (_greeting her warmly_). Reports himself at home again. MISS SUSAN (_gratified_). You call this home? VALENTINE. When the other men talked of their homes, Miss Susan, I thought of this room. (_Looking about him._) Maps--desks--heigho! But still it is the same dear room. I have often dreamt, Miss Susan, that I came back to it in muddy shoes. (_Seeing her alarm._) I have not, you know! Miss Susan, I rejoice to find no change in you; and Miss Phoebe--Miss Phoebe of the ringlets--I hope there be as little change in her? MISS SUSAN (_painfully_). Phoebe of the ringlets! Ah, Captain Brown, you need not expect to see her. VALENTINE. She is not here? I vow it spoils all my home-coming. (_At this moment the door of the other room is filing open and_ PHOEBE _rushes out, followed by_ WILLIAM SMITH _who is brandishing the cane_. VALENTINE _takes in the situation, and without looking at_ PHOEBE _seizes_ WILLIAM _by the collar and marches him out of the school._) MISS SUSAN. Phoebe, did you see who it is? PHOEBE. I saw. (_In a sudden tremor._) Susan, I have lost all my looks. (_The pupils are crowding in from_ MISS SUSAN'S _room and she orders them back and goes with them_. VALENTINE _returns, and speaks as he enters, not recognising_ PHOEBE, _whose back is to him._) VALENTINE. A young reprobate, madam, but I have deposited him on the causeway. I fear-- (_He stops, puzzled because the lady has covered her face with her hands._) PHOEBE. Captain Brown. VALENTINE. Miss Phoebe, it is you? (_He goes to her, but he cannot help showing that her appearance is a shock to him._) PHOEBE (_without bitterness_). Yes, I have changed very much, I have not worn well, Captain Brown. VALENTINE (_awkwardly_). We--we are both older, Miss Phoebe. (_He holds out his hand warmly, with affected high spirits._) PHOEBE (_smiling reproachfully_). It was both hands when you went away. (_He has to show that his left hand is gone; she is overcome._) I did not know. (_She presses the empty sleeve in remorse._) You never mentioned it in your letters. VALENTINE (_now grown rather stern_). Miss Phoebe, what did you omit from your letters that you had such young blackguards as that to terrify you? PHOEBE. He is the only one. Most of them are dear children; and this is the last day of the term. VALENTINE. Ah, ma'am, if only you had invested all your money as you laid out part by my advice. What a monstrous pity you did not. PHOEBE. We never thought of it. VALENTINE. You look so tired. PHOEBE. I have the headache to-day. VALENTINE. You did not use to have the headache. Curse those dear children. PHOEBE (_bravely_). Nay, do not distress yourself about me. Tell me of yourself. We are so proud of the way in which you won your commission. Will you leave the army now? VALENTINE. Yes; and I have some intention of pursuing again the old life in Quality Street. (_He is not a man who has reflected much. He has come back thinking that all the adventures have been his, and that the old life in Quality Street has waited, as in a sleep, to be resumed on the day of his return._) I came here in such high spirits, Miss Phoebe. PHOEBE (_with a wry smile_). The change in me depresses you. VALENTINE. I was in hopes that you and Miss Susan would be going to the ball. I had brought cards for you with me to make sure. (_She is pleased and means to accept. He sighs, and she understands that he thinks her too old._) PHOEBE. But now you see that my dancing days are done. VALENTINE (_uncomfortably_). Ah, no. PHOEBE (_taking care he shall not see that he has hurt her_). But you will find many charming partners. Some of them have been my pupils. There was even a pupil of mine who fought at Waterloo. VALENTINE. Young Blades; I have heard him on it. (_She puts her hand wearily to her head_). Miss Phoebe--what a dull grey world it is! (_She turns away to hide her emotion, and_ MISS SUSAN _comes in._) MISS SUSAN. Phoebe, I have said that you will not take the Latin class to-day, and I am dismissing them. VALENTINE. Latin? PHOEBE (_rather defiantly_). I am proud to teach it. (_Breaking down._) Susan--his arm--have you seen? (MISS SUSAN _also is overcome, but recovers as the children crowd in._) MISS SUSAN. Hats off, gentlemen salute, ladies curtsy--to the brave Captain Brown. (CAPTAIN BROWN _salutes them awkwardly, and they cheer him, to his great discomfort, as they pass out._) VALENTINE (_when they have gone_). A terrible ordeal, ma'am. (_The old friends look at each other, and there is a silence_. VALENTINE _feels that all the fine tales and merry jests he has brought back for the ladies have turned into dead things. He wants to go away and think._) PHOEBE. I wish you very happy at the ball. VALENTINE (_sighing_). Miss Susan, cannot we turn all these maps and horrors out till the vacation is over? MISS SUSAN. Indeed, sir, we always do. By to-morrow this will be my dear blue and white room again, and that my sweet spare bedroom. PHOEBE. For five weeks! VALENTINE (_making vain belief_). And then--the--the dashing Mr. Brown will drop in as of old, and, behold, Miss Susan on her knees once more putting tucks into my little friend the ottoman, and Miss Phoebe---Miss Phoebe---- PHOEBE. Phoebe of the ringlets! (_She goes out quietly._) VALENTINE (_miserably_). Miss Susan, what a shame it is. MISS SUSAN (_hotly_). Yes, it is a shame. VALENTINE (_suddenly become more of a man_). The brave Captain Brown! Good God, ma'am, how much more brave are the ladies who keep a school. (PATTY _shows in two visitors,_ MISS CHARLOTTE PARRATT _and_ ENSIGN BLADES. CHARLOTTE _is a pretty minx who we are glad to say does not reside in Quality Street, and_ BLADES _is a callow youth, inviting admiration._) CHARLOTTE (_as they salute_). But I did not know you had company, Miss Susan. MISS SUSAN. 'Tis Captain Brown--Miss Charlotte Parratt. CHARLOTTE (_gushing_). The heroic Brown? VALENTINE. Alas, no, ma'am, the other one. CHARLOTTE. Miss Susan, do you see who accompanies me? MISS SUSAN. I cannot quite recall---- BLADES. A few years ago, ma'am, there sat in this room a scrubby, inky little boy--I was that boy. MISS SUSAN. Can it be our old pupil--Ensign Blades? (_She thinks him very fine, and he bows, well pleased._) BLADES. Once a little boy and now your most obedient, ma'am. MISS SUSAN. You have come to recall old memories? BLADES. Not precisely; I--Charlotte, explain. CHARLOTTE. Ensign Blades wishes me to say that it must seem highly romantic to you to have had a pupil who has fought at Waterloo. MISS SUSAN. Not exactly romantic. I trust, sir, that when you speak of having been our pupil you are also so obliging as to mention that it was during our first year. Otherwise it makes us seem so elderly. (_He bows again, in what he believes to be a quizzical manner._) CHARLOTTE. Ensign Blades would be pleased to hear, Miss Susan, what you think of him as a whole. MISS SUSAN. Indeed, sir, I think you are monstrous fine. (_Innocently._) It quite awes me to remember that we used to whip him. VALENTINE (_delighted_). Whipped him, Miss Susan! (_In solemn burlesque of_ CHARLOTTE.) Ensign Blades wishes to indicate that it was more than Buonaparte could do. We shall meet again, bright boy. (_He makes his adieux and goes._) BLADES. Do you think he was quizzing me? MISS SUSAN (_simply_). I cannot think so. BLADES. He said 'bright boy,' ma'am. MISS SUSAN. I am sure, sir, he did not mean it. (PHOEBE _returns._) PHOEBE. Charlotte, I am happy to see you. You look delicious, my dear--so young and fresh. CHARLOTTE. La! Do you think so, Miss Phoebe? BLADES. Miss Phoebe, your obedient. PHOEBE. It is Ensign Blades! But how kind of you, sir, to revisit the old school. Please to sit down. CHARLOTTE. Ensign Blades has a favour to ask of you, Miss Phoebe. BLADES. I learn, ma'am, that Captain Brown has obtained a card for you for the ball, and I am here to solicit for the honour of standing up with you. (_For the moment_ PHOEBE _is flattered. Here, she believes, is some one who does not think her too old for the dance. Then she perceives a meaning smile pass between_ CHARLOTTE _and the_ ENSIGN.) PHOEBE (_paling_). Is it that you desire to make sport of me? BLADES (_honestly distressed_). Oh no, ma'am, I vow--but I--I am such a quiz, ma'am. MISS SUSAN. Sister! PHOEBE. I am sorry, sir, to have to deprive you of some entertainment, but I am not going to the ball. MISS SUSAN (_haughtily_). Ensign Blades, I bid you my adieux. BLADES (_ashamed_). If I have hurt Miss Phoebe's feelings I beg to apologise. MISS SUSAN. _If_ you have hurt them. Oh, sir, how is it possible for any one to be as silly as you seem to be. BLADES (_who cannot find the answer_). Charlotte--explain. (_But_ CHARLOTTE _considers that their visit has not been sufficiently esteemed and departs with a cold curtsy, taking him with her._) (MISS SUSAN _turns sympathetically to_ PHOEBE, _but_ PHOEBE, _fighting with her pain, sits down at the spinet and plays at first excitedly a gay tune, then slowly, then comes to a stop with her head bowed. Soon she jumps up courageously, brushes away her distress, gets an algebra book from the desk and sits down to study it_. MISS SUSAN _is at the window, where ladies and gentlemen are now seen passing in ball attire._) MISS SUSAN. What book is it, Phoebe? PHOEBE. It is an algebra. MISS SUSAN. They are going by to the ball. (_In anger._) My Phoebe should be going to the ball, too. PHOEBE. You jest, Susan. (MISS SUSAN _watches her read_. PHOEBE _has to wipe away a tear; soon she rises and gives way to the emotion she has been suppressing ever since the entrance of_ VALENTINE.) Susan, I hate him. Oh, Susan, I could hate him if it were not for his poor hand. MISS SUSAN. My dear. PHOEBE. He thought I was old, because I am weary, and he should not have forgotten. I am only thirty. Susan, why does thirty seem so much more than twenty-nine? (_As if_ VALENTINE _were present._) Oh, sir, how dare you look so pityingly at me? Because I have had to work so hard,--is it a crime when a woman works? Because I have tried to be courageous--have I been courageous, Susan? MISS SUSAN. God knows you have. PHOEBE. But it has given me the headache, it has tired my eyes. Alas, Miss Phoebe, all your charm has gone, for you have the headache, and your eyes are tired. He is dancing with Charlotte Parratt now, Susan. 'I vow, Miss Charlotte, you are selfish and silly, but you are sweet eighteen.' 'Oh la, Captain Brown, what a quiz you are.' That delights him, Susan; see how he waggles his silly head. MISS SUSAN. Charlotte Parratt is a goose. PHOEBE. 'Tis what gentlemen prefer. If there were a sufficient number of geese to go round, Susan, no woman of sense would ever get a husband. 'Charming Miss Charlotte, you are like a garden; Miss Phoebe was like a garden once, but 'tis a faded garden now.' MISS SUSAN. If to be ladylike---- PHOEBE. Susan, I am tired of being ladylike. I am a young woman still, and to be ladylike is not enough. I wish to be bright and thoughtless and merry. It is every woman's birthright to be petted and admired; I wish to be petted and admired. Was I born to be confined within these four walls? Are they the world, Susan, or is there anything beyond them? I want to know. My eyes are tired because for ten years they have seen nothing but maps and desks. Ten years! Ten years ago I went to bed a young girl and I woke with this cap on my head. It is not fair. This is not me, Susan, this is some other person, I want to be myself. MISS SUSAN. Phoebe, Phoebe, you who have always been so patient! PHOEBE. Oh no, not always. If you only knew how I have rebelled at times, you would turn from me in horror. Susan, I have a picture of myself as I used to be; I sometimes look at it. I sometimes kiss it, and say, 'Poor girl, they have all forgotten you. But I remember.' MISS SUSAN. I cannot recall it. PHOEBE. I keep it locked away in my room. Would you like to see it? I shall bring it down. My room! Oh, Susan, it is there that the Phoebe you think so patient has the hardest fight with herself, for there I have seemed to hear and see the Phoebe of whom this (_looking at herself_) is but an image in a distorted glass. I have heard her singing as if she thought she was still a girl. I have heard her weeping; perhaps it was only I who was weeping; but she seemed to cry to me, 'Let me out of this prison, give me back the years you have taken from me. Oh, where are my pretty curls?' she cried. 'Where is my youth, my youth.' (_She goes out, leaving_ MISS SUSAN _woeful. Presently_ SUSAN _takes up the algebra book and reads._) MISS SUSAN. 'A stroke B multiplied by B stroke C equal AB stroke a little 2; stroke AC add BC. "Poor Phoebe!" Multiply by C stroke A and we get-- Poor Phoebe! C a B stroke a little 2 stroke AC little 2 add BC. "Oh, I cannot believe it!" Stroke a little 2 again, add AB little 2 add a little 2C stroke a BC.' ... (PATTY _comes in with the lamp._) PATTY. Hurting your poor eyes reading without a lamp. Think shame, Miss Susan. MISS SUSAN (_with spirit_). Patty, I will not be dictated to. (PATTY _looks out at window._) Draw the curtains at once. I cannot allow you to stand gazing at the foolish creatures who crowd to a ball. PATTY (_closing curtains_). I am not gazing at them, ma'am; I am gazing at my sweetheart. MISS SUSAN. Your sweetheart? (_Softly._) I did not know you had one. PATTY. Nor have I, ma'am, as yet. But I looks out, and thinks I to myself, at any moment he may turn the corner. I ha' been looking out at windows waiting for him to oblige by turning the corner this fifteen years. MISS SUSAN. Fifteen years, and still you are hopeful? PATTY. There is not a more hopeful woman in all the king's dominions. MISS SUSAN. You who are so much older than Miss Phoebe. PATTY. Yes, ma'am, I ha' the advantage of her by ten years. MISS SUSAN. It would be idle to pretend that you are specially comely. PATTY. That may be, but my face is my own, and the more I see it in the glass the more it pleases me. I never look at it but I say to myself, 'Who is to be the lucky man?' MISS SUSAN. 'Tis wonderful. PATTY. This will be a great year for females, ma'am. Think how many of the men that marched away strutting to the wars have come back limping. Who is to take off their wooden legs of an evening, Miss Susan? You, ma'am, or me? MISS SUSAN. Patty! PATTY (_doggedly_). Or Miss Phoebe? (_With feeling._) The pretty thing that she was, Miss Susan. MISS SUSAN. Do you remember, Patty? I think there is no other person who remembers unless it be the Misses Willoughby and Miss Henrietta. PATTY (_eagerly_). Give her a chance, ma'am, and take her to the balls. There be three of them this week, and the last ball will be the best, for 'tis to be at the barracks, and you will need a carriage to take you there, and there will be the packing of you into it by gallant squires and the unpacking of you out, and other devilries. MISS SUSAN. Patty! PATTY. If Miss Phoebe were to dress young again and put candles in her eyes that used to be so bright, and coax back her curls-- (PHOEBE _returns, and a great change has come over her. She is young and pretty again. She is wearing the wedding-gown of_ ACT I., _her ringlets are glorious, her figure youthful, her face flushed and animated_. PATTY _is the first to see her, and is astonished_. PHOEBE _signs to her to go._) PHOEBE (_when_ PATTY _has gone_). Susan. (MISS SUSAN _sees and is speechless._) Susan, this is the picture of my old self that I keep locked away in my room, and sometimes take out of its box to look at. This is the girl who kisses herself in the glass and sings and dances with glee until I put her away frightened lest you should hear her. MISS SUSAN. How marvellous! Oh, Phoebe. PHOEBE. Perhaps I should not do it, but it is so easy. I have but to put on the old wedding-gown and tumble my curls out of the cap. (_Passionately._) Sister, am I as changed as he says I am? MISS SUSAN. You almost frighten me. (_The band is heard._) PHOEBE. The music is calling to us. Susan, I will celebrate Waterloo in a little ball of my own. See, my curls have begun to dance, they are so anxious to dance. One dance, Susan, to Phoebe of the ringlets, and then I will put her away in her box and never look at her again. Ma'am, may I have the honour? Nay, then I shall dance alone. (_She dances._) Oh, Susan, I almost wish I were a goose. (_Presently_ PATTY _returns. She gazes at_ MISS PHOEBE _dancing._) PATTY. Miss Phoebe! PHOEBE (_still dancing_). Not Miss Phoebe, Patty. I am not myself to-night, I am--let me see, I am my niece. PATTY (_in a whisper to_ SUSAN). But Miss Susan, 'tis Captain Brown. MISS SUSAN. Oh, stop, Phoebe, stop! PATTY. Nay, let him see her! (MISS SUSAN _hurries scandalised into the other room as_ VALENTINE _enters._) VALENTINE. I ventured to come back because---- (PHOEBE _turns to him--he stops abruptly, bewildered._) I beg your pardon, madam, I thought it was Miss Susan or Miss Phoebe. (_His mistake surprises her, but she is in a wild mood and curtsies, then turns away and smiles. He stares as if half-convinced._) PATTY (_with an inspiration_). 'Tis my mistresses' niece, sir; she is on a visit here. (_He is deceived. He bows gallantly, then remembers the object of his visit. He produces a bottle of medicine._) VALENTINE. Patty, I obtained this at the apothecary's for Miss Phoebe's headache. It should be taken at once. PATTY. Miss Phoebe is lying down, sir. VALENTINE. Is she asleep? PATTY (_demurely_). No, sir, I think she be wide awake. VALENTINE. It may soothe her. PHOEBE. Patty, take it to Aunt Phoebe at once. (_PATTY goes out sedately with the medicine._) VALENTINE (_after a little awkwardness, which_ PHOEBE _enjoys_). Perhaps I may venture to present myself, Miss--Miss----? PHOEBE. Miss--Livvy, sir. VALENTINE. I am Captain Brown, Miss Livvy, an old friend of both your aunts. PHOEBE (_curtsying_). I have heard them speak of a dashing Mr. Brown. But I think it cannot be the same. VALENTINE (_a little chagrined_). Why not, ma'am? PHOEBE. I ask your pardon, sir. VALENTINE, I was sure you must be related. Indeed, for a moment the likeness--even the voice---- PHOEBE (_pouting_). La, sir, you mean I am like Aunt Phoebe. Every one says so--and indeed 'tis no compliment. VALENTINE. 'Twould have been a compliment once. You must be a daughter of the excellent Mr. James Throssel who used to reside at Great Buckland. PHOEBE. He is still there. VALENTINE. A tedious twenty miles from here, as I remember. PHOEBE. La! I have found the journey a monstrous quick one, sir. (_The band is again heard. She runs to the window to peep between the curtains, and his eyes follow her admiringly._) VALENTINE (_eagerly_). Miss Livvy, you go to the ball? PHOEBE. Alas, sir, I have no card. VALENTINE. I have two cards for your aunts. As Miss Phoebe has the headache, your Aunt Susan must take you to the ball. PHOEBE. Oh, oh! (_Her feet move to the music._) Sir, I cannot control my feet. VALENTINE. They are already at the ball, ma'am; you must follow them. PHOEBE (_with all the pent-up mischief of ten years_). Oh, sir, do you think some pretty gentleman might be partial to me at the ball? VALENTINE. If that is your wish---- PHOEBE. I should love, sir, to inspire frenzy in the breast of the male. (_With sudden collapse._) I dare not go--I dare not. VALENTINE. Miss Livvy, I vow---- (_He turns eagerly to_ MISS SUSAN, _who enters._) I have ventured, Miss Susan, to introduce myself to your charming niece. (MISS SUSAN _would like to run away again, but the wicked_ MISS PHOEBE _is determined to have her help._) PHOEBE. Aunt Susan, do not be angry with your Livvy--your Livvy, Aunt Susan. This gentleman says he is the dashing Mr. Brown, he has cards for us for the ball, Auntie. Of course we cannot go--we dare not go. Oh, Auntie, hasten into your bombazine. MISS SUSAN (_staggered_). Phoebe---- PHOEBE. Aunt Phoebe wants me to go. If I say she does you know she does! MISS SUSAN. But my dear, my dear. PHOEBE. Oh, Auntie, why do you talk so much. Come, come. VALENTINE. I shall see to it, Miss Susan, that your niece has a charming ball. PHOEBE. He means he will find me sweet partners. VALENTINE. Nay, ma'am, I mean _I_ shall be your partner. PHOEBE (_who is not an angel_). Aunt Susan, he still dances! VALENTINE. _Still_, ma'am? PHOEBE. Oh, sir, you are indeed dashing. Nay, sir, please not to scowl, I could not avoid noticing them. VALENTINE. Noticing what, Miss Livvy? PHOEBE. The grey hairs, sir. VALENTINE. I vow, ma'am, there is not one in my head. PHOEBE. He is such a quiz. I so love a quiz. VALENTINE. Then, ma'am, I shall do nothing but quiz you at the ball. Miss Susan, I beg you-- MISS SUSAN. Oh, sir, dissuade her. VALENTINE. Nay, I entreat. PHOEBE. Auntie! MISS SUSAN. Think, my dear, think, we dare not. PHOEBE (_shuddering_). No, we dare not, I cannot go. VALENTINE. Indeed, ma'am. PHOEBE. 'Tis impossible. (_She really means it, and had not the music here taken an unfair advantage of her it is certain that_ MISS PHOEBE _would never have gone to the ball. In after years she and_ MISS SUSAN _would have talked together of the monstrous evening when she nearly lost her head, but regained it before it could fall off. But suddenly the music swells so alluringly that it is a thousand fingers beckoning her to all the balls she has missed, and in a transport she whirls_ MISS SUSAN _from the blue and white room to the bed-chamber where is the bombazine_. VALENTINE _awaits their return like a conqueror, until_ MISS LIVVY'S _words about his hair return to trouble him. He is stooping, gazing intently into a small mirror, extracting the grey hairs one by one, when_ PATTY _ushers in the sisters_ WILLOUGHBY _and_ MISS HENRIETTA. MISS HENRIETTA _is wearing the new veil, which opens or closes like curtains when she pulls a string. She opens it now to see what he is doing, and the slight sound brings him to his feet._) MISS HENRIETTA. 'Tis but the new veil, sir; there is no cause for alarm. (_They have already learned from_ PATTY, _we may be sure, that he is in the house, but they express genteel surprise._) MISS FANNY. Mary, surely we are addressing the gallant Captain Brown! VALENTINE. It is the Misses Willoughby and Miss Henrietta. 'Tis indeed a gratification to renew acquaintance with such elegant and respectable females. (_The greetings are elaborate._) MISS WILLOUGHBY. You have seen Miss Phoebe, sir? VALENTINE. I have had the honour. Miss Phoebe, I regret to say, is now lying down with the headache. (_The ladies are too delicately minded to exchange glances before a man, but they are privately of opinion that this meeting after ten years with the dazzling_ BROWN _has laid_ MISS PHOEBE _low. They are in a twitter of sympathy with her, and yearning to see_ MISS SUSAN _alone, so that they may draw from her an account of the exciting meeting._) You do not favour the ball to-night? MISS FANNY. I confess balls are distasteful to me. MISS HENRIETTA. 'Twill be a mixed assembly. I am credibly informed that the woollen draper's daughter has obtained a card. VALENTINE (_gravely_). Good God, ma'am, is it possible? MISS WILLOUGHBY. We shall probably spend the evening here with Miss Susan at the card table. VALENTINE. But Miss Susan goes with me to the ball, ma'am. (_This is scarcely less exciting to them than the overthrow of the Corsican._) VALENTINE. Nay, I hope there be no impropriety. Miss Livvy will accompany her. MISS WILLOUGHBY (_bewildered_). Miss Livvy? VALENTINE. Their charming niece. (_The ladies repeat the word in a daze._) MISS FANNY. They had not apprised us that they have a visitor. (_They think this reticence unfriendly, and are wondering whether they ought not to retire hurt, when_ MISS SUSAN _enters in her bombazine, wraps, and bonnet. She starts at sight of them, and has the bearing of a guilty person._) MISS WILLOUGHBY (_stiffly_). We have but now been advertised of your intention for this evening, Susan. MISS HENRIETTA. We deeply regret our intrusion. MISS SUSAN (_wistfully_). Please not to be piqued, Mary. 'Twas so--sudden. MISS WILLOUGHBY. I cannot remember, Susan, that your estimable brother had a daughter. I thought all the three were sons. MISS SUSAN (_with deplorable readiness_). Three sons and a daughter. Surely you remember little Livvy, Mary? MISS WILLOUGHBY (_bluntly_). No, Susan, I do not. MISS SUSAN. I--I must go. I hear Livvy calling. MISS FANNY (_tartly_). I hear nothing but the band. We are not to see your niece? MISS SUSAN. Another time--to-morrow. Pray rest a little before you depart, Mary. I--I--Phoebe Livvy--the headache---- (_But before she can go another lady enters gaily._) VALENTINE. Ah, here is Miss Livvy. (_The true culprit is more cunning than_ MISS SUSAN, _and before they can see her she quickly pulls the strings of her bonnet, which is like_ MISS HENRIETTA'S, _and it obscures her face._) MISS SUSAN. This--this is my niece, Livvy--Miss Willoughby, Miss Henrietta, Miss Fanny Willoughby. VALENTINE. Ladies, excuse my impatience, but-- MISS WILLOUGHBY. One moment, sir. May I ask, Miss Livvy, how many brothers you have. PHOEBE. Two. MISS WILLOUGHBY. I thank you. (_She looks strangely at_ MISS SUSAN, _and_ MISS PHOEBE _knows that she has blundered._) PHOEBE (_at a venture_). Excluding the unhappy Thomas. MISS SUSAN (_clever for the only moment in her life_). We never mention him. (_They are swept away on the arms of the impatient_ CAPTAIN.) MISS WILLOUGHBY, MISS HENRIETTA, AND MISS FANNY. What has Thomas done? (_They have no suspicion as yet of what_ MISS PHOEBE _has done; but they believe there is a scandal in the Throssel family, and they will not sleep happily until they know what it is._) _End of Act II._ ACT III THE BALL _A ball, but not the one to which we have seen Miss Susan and Miss Phoebe rush forth upon their career of crime. This is the third of the series, the one of which Patty has foretold with horrid relish that it promises to be specially given over to devilries. The scene is a canvas pavilion, used as a retiring room and for card play, and through an opening in the back we have glimpses of gay uniforms and fair ladies intermingled in the bravery of the dance. There is coming and going through this opening, and also through slits in the canvas. The pavilion is fantastically decorated in various tastes, and is lit with lanterns. A good-natured moon, nevertheless, shines into it benignly. Some of the card tables are neglected, but at one a game of quadrille is in progress. There is much movement and hilarity, but none from one side of the tent, where sit several young ladies, all pretty, all appealing and all woeful, for no gallant comes to ask them if he may have the felicity. The nervous woman chaperoning them, and afraid to meet their gaze lest they scowl or weep in reply, is no other than Miss Susan, the most unhappy Miss Susan we have yet seen; she sits there gripping her composure in both hands. Far less susceptible to shame is the brazen Phoebe, who may be seen passing the opening on the arm of a cavalier, and flinging her trembling sister a mischievous kiss. The younger ladies note the incident; alas, they are probably meant to notice it, and they cower, as under a blow._ HARRIET (_a sad-eyed, large girl, who we hope found a romance at her next ball_). Are we so disagreeable that no one will dance with us? Miss Susan, 'tis infamous; they have eyes for no one but your niece. CHARLOTTE. Miss Livvy has taken Ensign Blades from me. HARRIET. If Miss Phoebe were here, I am sure she would not allow her old pupils to be so neglected. (_The only possible reply for_ MISS SUSAN _is to make herself look as small as possible. A lieutenant comes to them, once a scorner of woman, but now_ SPICER _the bewitched_. HARRIET _has a moment's hope._) How do you do, sir? SPICER (_with dreadful indifference, though she is his dear cousin_). Nay, ma'am, how do you do? (_Wistfully._) May I stand beside you, Miss Susan? (_He is a most melancholic young man, and he fidgets her._) MISS SUSAN (_with spirit_). You have been standing beside me, sir, nearly all the evening. SPICER (_humbly. It is strange to think that he had been favourably mentioned in despatches_). Indeed, I cannot but be cognisant of the sufferings I cause by attaching myself to you in this unseemly manner. Accept my assurances, ma'am, that you have my deepest sympathy. MISS SUSAN. Then why do you do it? SPICER. Because you are her aunt, ma'am. It is a scheme of mine by which I am in hopes to soften her heart. Her affection for you, ma'am, is beautiful to observe, and if she could be persuaded that I seek her hand from a passionate desire to have you for my Aunt Susan--do you perceive anything hopeful in my scheme, ma'am? MISS SUSAN. No, sir, I do not. (SPICER _wanders away gloomily, takes too much to drink, and ultimately becomes a general_. ENSIGN BLADES _appears, frowning, and_ CHARLOTTE _ventures to touch his sleeve._) CHARLOTTE. Ensign Blades, I have not danced with you once this evening. BLADES (_with the cold brutality of a lover to another she_). Nor I with you, Charlotte. (_To_ SUSAN.) May I solicit of you, Miss Susan, is Captain Brown Miss Livvy's guardian; is he affianced to her? MISS SUSAN. No, sir. BLADES. Then by what right, ma'am, does he interfere? Your elegant niece had consented to accompany me to the shrubbery--to look at the moon. And now Captain Brown forbids it. 'Tis unendurable. CHARLOTTE. But you may see the moon from here, sir. BLADES (_glancing at it contemptuously_). I believe not, ma'am. (_The moon still shines on._) MISS SUSAN (_primly_). I am happy Captain Brown forbade her. BLADES. Miss Susan, 'twas but because he is to conduct her to the shrubbery himself. (_He flings out pettishly, and_ MISS SUSAN _looks pityingly at the wall-flowers._) MISS SUSAN. My poor Charlotte! May I take you to some very agreeable ladies? CHARLOTTE (_tartly_). No, you may not. I am going to the shrubbery to watch Miss Livvy. MISS SUSAN. Please not to do that. CHARLOTTE (_implying that_ MISS SUSAN _will be responsible for her early death_). My chest is weak. I shall sit among the dew. MISS SUSAN. Charlotte, you terrify me. At least, please to put this cloak about your shoulders. Nay, my dear, allow me. (_She puts a cloak around_ CHARLOTTE, _who departs vindictively for the shrubbery. She will not find_ LIVVY _there, however, for next moment_ MISS PHOEBE _darts in from the back._) PHOEBE (_in a gay whisper_). Susan, another offer [Transcriber's note: officer?] --Major Linkwater--rotund man, black whiskers, fierce expression; he has rushed away to destroy himself. (_We have been unable to find any record of the Major's tragic end._) AN OLD SOLDIER (_looking up from a card table, whence he has heard the raging of_ BLADES). Miss Livvy, ma'am, what is this about the moon? (PHOEBE _smiles roguishly._) PHOEBE (_looking about her_). I want my cloak, Aunt Susan. MISS SUSAN. I have just lent it to poor Charlotte Parratt. PHOEBE. Oh, auntie! OLD SOLDIER. And now Miss Livvy cannot go into the shrubbery to see the moon; and she is so fond of the moon! (MISS PHOEBE _screws her nose at him merrily, and darts back to the dance, but she has left a defender behind her._) A GALLANT (_whose name we have not succeeded in discovering_). Am I to understand, sir, that you are intimating disparagement of the moon? If a certain female has been graciously pleased to signify approval of that orb, any slight cast upon the moon, sir, I shall regard as a personal affront. OLD SOLDIER. Hoity-toity. (_But he rises, and they face each other, as_ MISS SUSAN _feels, for battle. She is about to rush between their undrawn swords when there is a commotion outside; a crowd gathers and opens to allow some officers to assist a fainting woman into the tent. It is_ MISS PHOEBE, _and_ MISS SUSAN _with a cry goes on her knees beside her. The tent has filled with the sympathetic and inquisitive, but_ CAPTAIN BROWN, _as a physician, takes command, and by his order they retire. He finds difficulty in bringing the sufferer to, and gets little help from_ MISS SUSAN, _who can only call upon_ MISS PHOEBE _by name._) VALENTINE. Nay, Miss Susan, 'tis useless calling for Miss Phoebe. 'Tis my fault; I should not have permitted Miss Livvy to dance so immoderately. Why do they delay with the cordial? (_He goes to the back to close the opening, and while he is doing so the incomprehensible_ MISS PHOEBE _seizes the opportunity to sit up on her couch of chairs, waggle her finger at_ MISS SUSAN, _and sign darkly that she is about to make a genteel recovery._) PHOEBE. Where am I? Is that you, Aunt Susan? What has happened? VALENTINE (_returning_). Nay, you must recline, Miss Livvy. You fainted. You have over-fatigued yourself. PHOEBE. I remember. (BLADES _enters with the cordial._) VALENTINE. You will sip this cordial. BLADES. By your leave, sir. (_He hands it to_ PHOEBE _himself._) VALENTINE. She is in restored looks already, Miss Susan. PHOEBE. I am quite recovered. Perhaps if you were to leave me now with my excellent aunt---- VALENTINE. Be off with you, apple cheeks. BLADES. Sir, I will suffer no reference to my complexion; and, if I mistake not, this charming lady was addressing you. PHOEBE. If you please, both of you. (_They retire together, and no sooner have they gone than_ MISS PHOEBE _leaps from the couch, her eyes sparkling. She presses the cordial on_ MISS SUSAN.) Nay, drink it, Susan. I left it for you on purpose. I have such awful information to impart. Drink. (MISS SUSAN _drinks tremblingly and then the bolt is fired._) Susan, Miss Henrietta and Miss Fanny are here! MISS SUSAN. Phoebe! PHOEBE. Suddenly my eyes lighted on them. At once I slipped to the ground. MISS SUSAN. You think they did not see you? PHOEBE. I am sure of it. They talked for a moment to Ensign Blades, and then turned and seemed to be going towards the shrubbery. MISS SUSAN. He had heard that you were there with Captain Brown. He must have told them. PHOEBE. I was not. But oh, sister, I am sure they suspect, else why should they be here? They never frequent balls. MISS SUSAN. They have suspected for a week, ever since they saw you in your veil, Phoebe, on the night of the first dance. How could they but suspect, when they have visited us every day since then and we have always pretended that Livvy was gone out. PHOEBE. Should they see my face it will be idle to attempt to deceive them. MISS SUSAN. Idle indeed; Phoebe, the scandal! You--a schoolmistress! PHOEBE. That is it, sister. A little happiness has gone to my head like strong waters. (_She is very restless and troubled._) MISS SUSAN. My dear, stand still, and think. PHOEBE. I dare not, I cannot. Oh, Susan, if they see me we need not open school again. MISS SUSAN. We shall starve. PHOEBE (_passionately_). This horrid, forward, flirting, heartless, hateful little toad of a Livvy. MISS SUSAN. Brother James's daughter, as we call her! PHOEBE. 'Tis all James's fault. MISS SUSAN. Sister, when you know that James has no daughter! PHOEBE. If he had really had one, think you I could have been so wicked as to personate her? Susan, I know not what I am saying, but you know who it is that has turned me into this wild creature. MISS SUSAN. Oh, Valentine Brown, how could you? PHOEBE. To weary of Phoebe--patient, lady-like Phoebe--the Phoebe whom I have lost--to turn from her with a 'Bah, you make me old,' and become enamoured in a night of a thing like this! MISS SUSAN. Yes, yes, indeed; yet he has been kind to us also. He has been to visit us several times. PHOEBE. In the hope to see her. Was he not most silent and gloomy when we said she was gone out? MISS SUSAN. He is infatuate---- (_She hesitates._) Sister, you are not partial to him still? PHOEBE. No, Susan, no. I did love him all those years, though I never spoke of it to you. I put hope aside at once, I folded it up and kissed it and put it away like a pretty garment I could never wear again, I but loved to think of him as a noble man. But he is not a noble man, and Livvy found it out in an hour. The gallant! I flirted that I might enjoy his fury. Susan, there has been a declaration in his eyes all to-night, and when he cries 'Adorable Miss Livvy, be mine,' I mean to answer with an 'Oh, la, how ridiculous you are. You are much too old--I have been but quizzing you, sir.' MISS SUSAN. Phoebe, how can you be so cruel? PHOEBE. Because he has taken from me the one great glory that is in a woman's life. Not a man's love--she can do without that--but her own dear sweet love for him. He is unworthy of my love; that is why I can be so cruel. MISS SUSAN. Oh, dear. PHOEBE. And now my triumph is to be denied me, for we must steal away home before Henrietta and Fanny see us. MISS SUSAN. Yes, yes. PHOEBE (_dispirited_). And to-morrow we must say that Livvy has gone back to her father, for I dare keep up this deception no longer. Susan, let us go. (_They are going dejectedly, but are arrested by the apparition of_ MISS HENRIETTA _and_ MISS FANNY _peeping into the tent_. PHOEBE _has just time to signify to her sister that she will confess all and beg for mercy, when the intruders speak._) Miss HENRIETTA (_not triumphant but astounded_). You, Miss Phoebe? PHOEBE (_with bowed head_). Yes. MISS FANNY. How amazing! You do not deny, ma'am, that you are Miss Phoebe? PHOEBE (_making confession_). Yes, Fanny, I am Miss Phoebe. (_To her bewilderment_ HENRIETTA _and_ FANNY _exchange ashamed glances._) MISS HENRIETTA. Miss Phoebe, we have done you a cruel wrong. MISS FANNY. Phoebe, we apologise. MISS HENRIETTA. To think how excitedly we have been following her about in the shrubbery. MISS FANNY. She is wearing your cloak. MISS HENRIETTA. Ensign Blades told us she was gone to the shrubbery. MISS FANNY. And we were convinced there was no such person. MISS HENRIETTA. So of course we thought it must be you. MISS FANNY (_who has looked out_). I can discern her in the shrubbery still. She is decidedly taller than Phoebe. MISS HENRIETTA. I thought she looked taller. I meant to say so. Phoebe, 'twas the cloak deceived us. We could not see her face. PHOEBE (_beginning to understand_). Cloak? You mean, Henrietta--you mean, Fanny-- MISS FANNY. 'Twas wicked of us, my dear, but we--we thought that you and Miss Livvy were the same person. (_They have evidently been stalking_ CHARLOTTE _in_ MISS PHOEBE'S _cloak_. MISS SUSAN _shudders, but_ MISS PHOEBE _utters a cry of reproach, and it is some time before they can persuade her to forgive them. It is of course also some time before we can forgive_ MISS PHOEBE.) Phoebe, you look so pretty. Are they paying you no attentions, my dear? (PHOEBE _is unable to resist these delightful openings. The imploring looks_ MISS SUSAN _gives her but add to her enjoyment. It is as if the sense of fun she had caged a moment ago were broke loose again._) PHOEBE. Alas, they think of none but Livvy. They come to me merely to say that they adore her. MISS HENRIETTA. Surely not Captain Brown? PHOEBE. He is infatuate about her. MISS FANNY. Poor Phoebe! (_They make much of her, and she purrs naughtily to their stroking, with lightning peeps at_ MISS SUSAN. _Affronted Providence seeks to pay her out by sending_ ENSIGN BLADES _into the tent. Then the close observer may see_ MISS PHOEBE'S _heart sink like a bucket in a well_. MISS SUSAN _steals from the tent._) MISS HENRIETTA. Mr. Blades, I have been saying that if I were a gentleman I would pay my addresses to Miss Phoebe much rather than to her niece. BLADES. Ma'am, excuse me. MISS HENRIETTA (_indignant that_ MISS PHOEBE _should be slighted so publicly_). Sir, you are a most ungallant and deficient young man. BLADES. Really, ma'am, I assure you---- MISS HENRIETTA. Not another word, sir. PHOEBE (_in her most old-maidish manner_). Miss Fanny, Miss Henrietta, it is time I spoke plainly to this gentleman. Please leave him to me. Surely 'twill come best from me. MISS HENRIETTA. Indeed, yes, if it be not too painful to you. PHOEBE. I must do my duty. MISS FANNY (_wistfully_). If we could remain-- PHOEBE. Would it be seemly, Miss Fanny? MISS HENRIETTA. Come, Fanny. (_To_ BLADES.) Sir, you bring your punishment upon yourself. (_They press_ PHOEBE'S _hand, and go. Her heart returns to its usual abode._) BLADES (_bewildered_). Are you angry with me, Miss Livvy? PHOEBE. Oh, no. BLADES. Miss Livvy, I have something to say to you of supreme importance to me. With regard to my complexion, I am aware, Miss Livvy, that it has retained a too youthful bloom. My brother officers comment on it with a certain lack of generosity. (_Anxiously._) Might I inquire, ma'am, whether you regard my complexion as a subject for light talk. PHOEBE. No indeed, sir, I only wish I had it. BLADES (_who has had no intention of offering, but is suddenly carried off his feet by the excellence of the opportunity, which is no doubt responsible for many proposals_). Miss Livvy, ma'am, you may have it. (_She has a great and humorous longing that she could turn before his affrighted eyes into the schoolmistress she really is. She would endure much to be able at this moment to say, 'I have listened to you,_ ENSIGN BLADES, _with attention, but I am really_ MISS PHOEBE, _and I must now request you to fetch me the implement.' Under the shock, would he have surrendered his palm for punishment? It can never be known, for as she looks at him longingly,_ LIEUTENANT SPICER _enters, and he mistakes the meaning of that longing look._) SPICER. 'Tis my dance, ma'am--'tis not Ensign Blades'. BLADES. Leave us, sir. We have matter of moment to discuss. SPICER (_fearing the worst_). His affection, Miss Livvy, is not so deep as mine. He is a light and shallow nature. PHOEBE. Pooh! You are both light and shallow natures. BLADES. Both, ma'am? (_But he is not sure that he has not had a miraculous escape._) PHOEBE (_severely_). 'Tis such as you, with your foolish flirting ways, that confuse the minds of women and make us try to be as silly as yourselves. SPICER (_crushed_). Ma'am. PHOEBE. I did not mean to hurt you. (_She takes a hand of each and tries to advise them as if her curls were once more hidden under a cap._) You are so like little boys in a school. Do be good. Sit here beside me. I know you are very brave-- BLADES. Ha! PHOEBE. And when you come back from the wars it must be so delightful to you to flirt with the ladies again. SPICER. Oh, ma'am. PHOEBE. As soon as you see a lady with a pretty nose you cannot help saying that you adore her. BLADES (_in an ecstasy_). Nay, I swear. PHOEBE. And you offer to her, not from love, but because you are so deficient in conversation. SPICER. Charming, Miss Livvy. PHOEBE (_with sudden irritation_). Oh, sir, go away; go away, both of you, and read improving books. (_They are cast down. She has not been quite fair to these gallants, for it is not really of them she has grown weary so much as of the lady they temporarily adore. If_ MISS PHOEBE _were to analyse her feelings she would find that her remark is addressed to_ LIVVY, _and that it means, 'I have enjoyed for a little pretending to be you, but I am not you and I do not wish to be you. Your glitter and the airs of you and the racket of you tire me, I want to be done with you, and to be back in quiet Quality Street, of which I am a part; it is really pleasant to me to know that I shall wake up to-morrow slightly middle-aged.' With the entrance of_ CAPTAIN BROWN, _however, she is at once a frivol again. He frowns at sight of her cavaliers._) VALENTINE. Gentlemen, I instructed this lady to rest, and I am surprised to find you in attendance. Miss Livvy, you must be weary of their fatuities, and I have taken the liberty to order your chaise. PHOEBE. It is indeed a liberty. BLADES. An outrage. PHOEBE. I prefer to remain. VALENTINE. Nay. PHOEBE. I promised this dance to Ensign Blades. SPICER. To me, ma'am. PHOEBE. And the following one to Lieutenant Spicer. Mr. Blades, your arm. VALENTINE. I forbid any further dancing. PHOEBE. Forbid. La! BLADES. Sir, by what right---- VALENTINE. By a right which I hope to make clear to Miss Livvy as soon as you gentlemen have retired. (PHOEBE _sees that the declaration is coming. She steels herself._) PHOEBE. I am curious to know what Captain Brown can have to say to me. In a few minutes, Mr. Blades, Lieutenant Spicer, I shall be at your service. VALENTINE. I trust not. PHOEBE. I give them my word. (_The young gentlemen retire, treading air once more_. BROWN _surveys her rather grimly._) VALENTINE. You are an amazing pretty girl, ma'am, but you are a shocking flirt. PHOEBE. La! VALENTINE. It has somewhat diverted me to watch them go down before you. But I know you have a kind heart, and that if there be a rapier in your one hand there is a handkerchief in the other ready to staunch their wounds. PHOEBE. I have not observed that they bled much. VALENTINE. The Blades and the like, no. But one may, perhaps. PHOEBE (_obviously the reference is to himself_). Perhaps I may wish to see him bleed. VALENTINE (_grown stern_). For shame, Miss Livvy. (_Anger rises in her, but she wishes him to proceed._) I speak, ma'am, in the interests of the man to whom I hope to see you affianced. (_No, she does not wish him to proceed. She had esteemed him for so long, she cannot have him debase himself before her now._) PHOEBE. Shall we--I have changed my mind, I consent to go home. Please to say nothing. VALENTINE. Nay---- PHOEBE. I beg you. VALENTINE. No. We must have it out. PHOEBE. Then if you must go on, do so. But remember I begged you to desist. Who is this happy man? (_His next words are a great shock to her._) VALENTINE. As to who he is, ma'am, of course I have no notion. Nor, I am sure, have you, else you would be more guarded in your conduct. But some day, Miss Livvy, the right man will come. Not to be able to tell him all, would it not be hard? And how could you acquaint him with this poor sport? His face would change, ma'am, as you told him of it, and yours would be a false face until it was told. This is what I have been so desirous to say to you--by the right of a friend. PHOEBE (_in a low voice but bravely_). I see. VALENTINE (_afraid that he has hurt her_). It has been hard to say and I have done it bunglingly. Ah, but believe me, Miss Livvy, it is not the flaunting flower men love; it is the modest violet. PHOEBE. The modest violet! _You_ dare to say that. VALENTINE. Yes, indeed, and when you are acquaint with what love really is---- PHOEBE. Love! What do you know of love? VALENTINE (_a little complacently_). Why, ma'am, I know all about it. I am in love, Miss Livvy. PHOEBE (_with a disdainful inclination of the head_). I wish you happy. VALENTINE. With a lady who was once very like you, ma'am. (_At first_ PHOEBE _does not understand, then a suspicion of his meaning comes to her._) PHOEBE. Not--not--oh no. VALENTINE. I had not meant to speak of it, but why should not I? It will be a fine lesson to you, Miss Livvy. Ma'am, it is your Aunt Phoebe whom I love. PHOEBE (_rigid_). You do not mean that. VALENTINE. Most ardently. PHOEBE. It is not true; how dare you make sport of her. VALENTINE. Is it sport to wish she may be my wife? PHOEBE. Your wife! VALENTINE. If I could win her. PHOEBE (_bewildered_). May I solicit, sir, for how long you have been attached to Miss Phoebe? VALENTINE. For nine years, I think. PHOEBE. You think! VALENTINE. I want to be honest. Never in all that time had I thought myself in love. Your aunts were my dear friends, and while I was at the wars we sometimes wrote to each other, but they were only friendly letters. I presume the affection was too placid to be love. PHOEBE. I think that would be Aunt Phoebe's opinion. VALENTINE. Yet I remember, before we went into action for the first time--I suppose the fear of death was upon me--some of them were making their wills--I have no near relative--I left everything to these two ladies. PHOEBE (_softly_). Did you? (_What is it that_ MISS PHOEBE _begins to see as she sits there so quietly, with her hands pressed together as if upon some treasure? It is_ PHOEBE _of the ringlets with the stain taken out of her._) VALENTINE. And when I returned a week ago and saw Miss Phoebe, grown so tired-looking and so poor---- PHOEBE. The shock made you feel old, I know. VALENTINE. No, Miss Livvy, but it filled me with a sudden passionate regret that I had not gone down in that first engagement. They would have been very comfortably left. PHOEBE. Oh, sir! VALENTINE. I am not calling it love. PHOEBE. It was sweet and kind, but it was not love. VALENTINE. It is love now. PHOEBE. No, it is only pity. VALENTINE. It is love. PHOEBE (_she smiles tremulously_). You really mean Phoebe--tired, unattractive Phoebe, that woman whose girlhood is gone. Nay, impossible. VALENTINE (_stoutly_). Phoebe of the fascinating playful ways, whose ringlets were once as pretty as yours, ma'am. I have visited her in her home several times this week--you were always out--I thank you for that! I was alone with her, and with fragrant memories of her. PHOEBE. Memories! Yes, that is the Phoebe you love, the bright girl of the past--not the schoolmistress in her old-maid's cap. VALENTINE. There you wrong me, for I have discovered for myself that the schoolmistress in her old-maid's cap is the noblest Miss Phoebe of them all. (_If only he would go away, and let_ MISS PHOEBE _cry._) When I enlisted, I remember I compared her to a garden. I have often thought of that. PHOEBE. 'Tis an old garden now. VALENTINE. The paths, ma'am, are better shaded. PHOEBE. The flowers have grown old-fashioned. VALENTINE. They smell the sweeter. Miss Livvy, do you think there is any hope for me? PHOEBE. There was a man whom Miss Phoebe loved--long ago. He did not love her. VALENTINE. Now here was a fool! PHOEBE. He kissed her once. VALENTINE. If Miss Phoebe suffered him to do that she thought he loved her. PHOEBE. Yes, yes. (_She has to ask him the ten years old question._) Do you opinion that this makes her action in allowing it less reprehensible? It has been such a pain to her ever since. VALENTINE. How like Miss Phoebe! (_Sternly._) But that man was a knave. PHOEBE. No, he was a good man--only a little--inconsiderate. She knows now that he has even forgotten that he did it. I suppose men are like that? VALENTINE. No, Miss Livvy, men are not like that. I am a very average man, but I thank God I am not like that. PHOEBE. It was you. VALENTINE (_after a pause_). Did Miss Phoebe say that? PHOEBE. Yes. VALENTINE. Then it is true. (_He is very grave and quiet._) PHOEBE. It was raining and her face was wet. You said you did it because her face was wet. VALENTINE. I had quite forgotten. PHOEBE. But she remembers, and how often do you think the shameful memory has made her face wet since? The face you love, Captain Brown, you were the first to give it pain. The tired eyes--how much less tired they might be if they had never known you. You who are torturing me with every word, what have you done to Miss Phoebe? You who think you can bring back the bloom to that faded garden, and all the pretty airs and graces that fluttered round it once like little birds before the nest is torn down--bring them back to her if you can, sir; it was you who took them away. VALENTINE. I vow I shall do my best to bring them back. (MISS PHOEBE _shakes her head._) Miss Livvy, with your help---- PHOEBE. My help! I have not helped. I tried to spoil it all. VALENTINE (_smiling_). To spoil it? You mean that you sought to flirt even with me. Ah, I knew you did. But that is nothing. PHOEBE. Oh, sir, if you could overlook it. VALENTINE. I do. PHOEBE. And forget these hateful balls. VALENTINE. Hateful! Nay, I shall never call them that. They have done me too great a service. It was at the balls that I fell in love with Miss Phoebe. PHOEBE. What can you mean? VALENTINE. She who was never at a ball! (_Checking himself humorously._) But I must not tell you, it might hurt you. PHOEBE. Tell me. VALENTINE (_gaily_). Then on your own head be the blame. It is you who have made me love her, Miss Livvy. PHOEBE. Sir? VALENTINE. Yes, it is odd, and yet very simple. You who so resembled her as she was! for an hour, ma'am, you bewitched me; yes, I confess it, but 'twas only for an hour. How like, I cried at first, but soon it was, how unlike. There was almost nothing she would have said that you said; you did so much that she would have scorned to do. But I must not say these things to you! PHOEBE. I ask it of you, Captain Brown. VALENTINE. Well! Miss Phoebe's 'lady-likeness,' on which she set such store that I used to make merry of the word--I gradually perceived that it is a woman's most beautiful garment, and the casket which contains all the adorable qualities that go to the making of a perfect female. When Miss Livvy rolled her eyes--ah! (_He stops apologetically._) PHOEBE. Proceed, sir. VALENTINE. It but made me the more complacent that never in her life had Miss Phoebe been guilty of the slightest deviation from the strictest propriety. (_She shudders._) I was always conceiving her in your place. Oh, it was monstrous unfair to you. I stood looking at you, Miss Livvy, and seeing in my mind her and the pretty things she did, and you did not do; why, ma'am, that is how I fell in love with Miss Phoebe at the balls. PHOEBE. I thank you. VALENTINE. Ma'am, tell me, do you think there is any hope for me? PHOEBE. Hope! VALENTINE. I shall go to her. 'Miss Phoebe,' I will say--oh, ma'am, so reverently--'Miss Phoebe, my beautiful, most estimable of women, let me take care of you for ever more.' (MISS PHOEBE _presses the words to her heart and then drops them._) PHOEBE. Beautiful. La, Aunt Phoebe! VALENTINE. Ah, ma'am, you may laugh at a rough soldier so much enamoured, but 'tis true. 'Marry me, Miss Phoebe,' I will say, 'and I will take you back through those years of hardships that have made your sweet eyes too patient. Instead of growing older you shall grow younger. We will travel back together to pick up the many little joys and pleasures you had to pass by when you trod that thorny path alone.' PHOEBE. Can't be--can't be. VALENTINE. Nay, Miss Phoebe has loved me. 'Tis you have said it. PHOEBE. I did not mean to tell you. VALENTINE. She will be my wife yet. PHOEBE. Never. VALENTINE. You are severe, Miss Livvy. But it is because you are partial to her, and I am happy of that. PHOEBE (_in growing horror of herself_). I partial to her! I am laughing at both of you. Miss Phoebe. La, that old thing. VALENTINE (_sternly_). Silence! PHOEBE. I hate her and despise her. If you knew what she is---- (_He stops her with a gesture._) VALENTINE. I know what you are. PHOEBE. That paragon who has never been guilty of the slightest deviation from the strictest propriety. VALENTINE. Never. PHOEBE. That garden---- VALENTINE. Miss Livvy, for shame. PHOEBE. Your garden has been destroyed, sir; the weeds have entered it, and all the flowers are choked. VALENTINE. You false woman, what do you mean? PHOEBE. I will tell you. (_But his confidence awes her._) What faith you have in her. VALENTINE. As in my God. Speak. PHOEBE. I cannot tell you. VALENTINE. No, you cannot. PHOEBE. It is too horrible. VALENTINE. You are too horrible. Is not that it? PHOEBE. Yes, that is it. (MISS SUSAN _has entered and caught the last words._) MISS SUSAN (_shrinking as from a coming blow_). What is too horrible? VALENTINE. Ma'am, I leave the telling of it to her, if she dare. And I devoutly hope those are the last words I shall ever address to this lady. (_He bows and goes out in dudgeon_. MISS SUSAN _believes all is discovered and that_ MISS PHOEBE _is for ever shamed._) MISS SUSAN (_taking_ PHOEBE _in her arms_). My love, my dear, what terrible thing has he said to you? PHOEBE (_forgetting everything but that she is loved_). Not terrible--glorious! Susan, 'tis Phoebe he loves, 'tis me, not Livvy! He loves me, he loves me! Me--Phoebe! (MISS SUSAN'S _bosom swells. It is her great hour as much as_ PHOEBE'S.) _End of Act III._ ACT IV THE BLUE AND WHITE ROOM _If we could shut our eyes to the two sisters sitting here in woe, this would be, to the male eye at least, the identical blue and white room of ten years ago; the same sun shining into it and playing familiarly with Miss Susan's treasures. But the ladies are changed. It is not merely that Miss Phoebe has again donned her schoolmistress's gown and hidden her curls under the cap. To see her thus once more, her real self, after the escapade of the ball, is not unpleasant, and the cap and gown do not ill become the quiet room. But she now turns guiltily from the sun that used to be her intimate, her face is drawn, her form condensed into the smallest space, and her hands lie trembling in her lap. It is disquieting to note that any life there is in the room comes not from her but from Miss Susan. If the house were to go on fire now it would be she who would have to carry out Miss Phoebe._ _Whatever of import has happened since the ball, Patty knows it, and is enjoying it. We see this as she ushers in Miss Willoughby. Note also, with concern, that at mention of the visitor's name the eyes of the sisters turn affrightedly, not to the door by which their old friend enters, but to the closed door of the spare bed-chamber. Patty also gives it a meaning glance; then the three look at each other, and two of them blanch._ MISS WILLOUGHBY (_the fourth to look at the door_). I am just run across, Susan, to inquire how Miss Livvy does now. MISS SUSAN. She is still very poorly, Mary. MISS WILLOUGHBY. I am so unhappy of that. I conceive it to be a nervous disorder? MISS SUSAN (_almost too glibly_). Accompanied by trembling, flutterings, and spasms. MISS WILLOUGHBY. The excitements of the ball. You have summoned the apothecary at last, I trust, Phoebe? (MISS PHOEBE, _once so ready of defence, can say nothing._) MISS SUSAN (_to the rescue_). It is Livvy's own wish that he should not be consulted. Miss WILLOUGHBY (_looking longingly at the door_). May I go in to see her? MISS SUSAN. I fear not, Mary. She is almost asleep, and it is best not to disturb her. (_Peeping into the bedroom._) Lie quite still, Livvy, my love, quite still. (_Somehow this makes_ PATTY _smile so broadly that she finds it advisable to retire_. MISS WILLOUGHBY _sighs, and produces a small bowl from the folds of her cloak._) Miss WILLOUGHBY. This is a little arrowroot, of which I hope Miss Livvy will be so obliging as to partake. MISS SUSAN (_taking the bowl_). I thank you, Mary. PHOEBE (_ashamed_). Susan, we ought not---- MISS SUSAN (_shameless_). I will take it to her while it is still warm. (_She goes into the bedroom_. MISS WILLOUGHBY _gazes at_ MISS PHOEBE, _who certainly shrinks. It has not escaped the notice of the visitor that_ MISS PHOEBE _has become the more timid of the sisters, and she has evolved an explanation._) MISS WILLOUGHBY. Phoebe, has Captain Brown been apprised of Miss Livvy's illness? PHOEBE (_uncomfortably_). I think not, Miss Willoughby. MISS WILLOUGHBY (_sorry for_ PHOEBE, _and speaking very kindly_). Is this right, Phoebe? You informed Fanny and Henrietta at the ball of his partiality for Livvy. My dear, it is hard for you, but have you any right to keep them apart? PHOEBE (_discovering only now what are the suspicions of her friends_). Is that what you think I am doing, Miss Willoughby? MISS WILLOUGHBY. Such a mysterious illness. (_Sweetly_) Long ago, Phoebe, I once caused much unhappiness through foolish jealousy. That is why I venture to hope that you will not be as I was, my dear. PHOEBE. I jealous of Livvy! MISS WILLOUGHBY (_with a sigh_). I thought as little of the lady I refer to, but he thought otherwise. PHOEBE. Indeed, Miss Willoughby, you wrong me. (_But_ MISS WILLOUGHBY _does not entirely believe her, and there is a pause, so long a pause that unfortunately_ MISS SUSAN _thinks she has left the house._) MISS SUSAN (_peeping in_). Is she gone? MISS WILLOUGHBY (_hurt_). No, Susan, but I am going. MISS SUSAN (_distressed_). Mary! (_She follows her out, but_ MISS WILLOUGHBY _will not be comforted, and there is a coldness between them for the rest of the day_. MISS SUSAN _is not so abashed as she ought to be. She returns, and partakes with avidity of the arrowroot._) MISS SUSAN. Phoebe, I am well aware that this is wrong of me, but Mary's arrowroot is so delicious. The ladies'-fingers and petticoat-tails those officers sent to Livvy, I ate them also! (_Once on a time this would have amused_ MISS PHOEBE, _but her sense of humour has gone. She is crying._) Phoebe, if you have such remorse you will weep yourself to death. PHOEBE. Oh, sister, were it not for you, how gladly would I go into a decline. MISS SUSAN (_after she has soothed_ PHOEBE _a little_). My dear, what is to be done about her? We cannot have her supposed to be here for ever. PHOEBE. We had to pretend that she was ill to keep her out of sight; and now we cannot say she has gone away, for the Miss Willoughby's windows command our door, and they are always watching. MISS SUSAN (_peeping from the window_). I see Fanny watching now. I feel, Phoebe, as if Livvy really existed. PHOEBE (_mournfully_). We shall never be able to esteem ourselves again. MISS SUSAN (_who has in her the makings of a desperate criminal_). Phoebe, why not marry him? If only we could make him think that Livvy had gone home. Then he need never know. PHOEBE. Susan, you pain me. She who marries without telling all--hers must ever be a false face. They are his own words. (PATTY _enters importantly._) PATTY. Captain Brown. PHOEBE (_starting up_). I wrote to him, begging him not to come. MISS SUSAN (_quickly_). Patty, I am sorry we are out. (_But_ VALENTINE _has entered in time to hear her words._) VALENTINE (_not unmindful that this is the room in which he is esteemed a wit_). I regret that they are out, Patty, but I will await their return. (_The astonishing man sits on the ottoman beside_ MISS SUSAN, _but politely ignores her presence._) It is not my wish to detain you, Patty. (PATTY _goes reluctantly, and the sisters think how like him, and how delightful it would be if they were still the patterns of propriety he considers them._) PHOEBE (_bravely_). Captain Brown. VALENTINE (_rising_). You, Miss Phoebe. I hear Miss Livvy is indisposed? PHOEBE. She is--very poorly. VALENTINE. But it is not that unpleasant girl I have come to see, it is you. MISS SUSAN (_meekly_). How do you do? VALENTINE (_ignoring her_). And I am happy, Miss Phoebe, to find you alone. MISS SUSAN (_appealingly_). How do you do, sir? PHOEBE. You know quite well, sir, that Susan is here. VALENTINE. Nay, ma'am, excuse me. I heard Miss Susan say she was gone out. Miss Susan is incapable of prevarication. MISS SUSAN (_rising--helpless_). What am I to do? PHOEBE. Don't go, Susan--'tis what he wants. VALENTINE. I have her word that she is not present. MISS SUSAN. Oh dear. VALENTINE. My faith in Miss Susan is absolute. (_At this she retires into the bedroom, and immediately his manner changes. He takes_ MISS PHOEBE'S _hands into his own kind ones._) You coward, Miss Phoebe, to be afraid of Valentine Brown. PHOEBE. I wrote and begged you not to come. VALENTINE. You implied as a lover, Miss Phoebe, but surely always as a friend. PHOEBE. Oh yes, yes. VALENTINE. You told Miss Livvy that you loved me once. How carefully you hid it from me! PHOEBE (_more firmly_). A woman must never tell. You went away to the great battles. I was left to fight in a little one. Women have a flag to fly, Mr. Brown, as well as men, and old maids have a flag as well as women. I tried to keep mine flying. VALENTINE. But you ceased to care for me. (_Tenderly._) I dare ask your love no more, but I still ask you to put yourself into my keeping. Miss Phoebe, let me take care of you. PHOEBE. It cannot be. VALENTINE. This weary teaching! Let me close your school. PHOEBE. Please, sir. VALENTINE. If not for your own sake, I ask you, Miss Phoebe, to do it for mine. In memory of the thoughtless recruit who went off laughing to the wars. They say ladies cannot quite forget the man who has used them ill; Miss Phoebe, do it for me because I used you ill. PHOEBE. I beg you--no more. VALENTINE (_manfully_). There, it is all ended. Miss Phoebe, here is my hand on it. PHOEBE. What will you do now? VALENTINE. I also must work. I will become a physician again, with some drab old housekeeper to neglect me and the house. Do you foresee the cobwebs gathering and gathering, Miss Phoebe? PHOEBE. Oh, sir! VALENTINE. You shall yet see me in Quality Street, wearing my stock all awry. PHOEBE. Oh, oh! VALENTINE. And with snuff upon my sleeve. PHOEBE. Sir, sir! VALENTINE. No skulker, ma'am, I hope, but gradually turning into a grumpy, crusty, bottle-nosed old bachelor. PHOEBE. Oh, Mr. Brown! VALENTINE. And all because you will not walk across the street with me. PHOEBE. Indeed, sir, you must marry--and I hope it may be some one who is really like a garden. VALENTINE. I know but one. That reminds me, Miss Phoebe, of something I had forgot. (_He produces a paper from his pocket._) 'Tis a trifle I have wrote about you. But I fear to trouble you. (PHOEBE'S _hands go out longingly for it._) PHOEBE (_reading_). 'Lines to a Certain Lady, who is Modestly unaware of her Resemblance to a Garden. Wrote by her servant, V. B.' (_The beauty of this makes her falter. She looks up._) VALENTINE (_with a poet's pride_). There is more of it, ma'am. PHOEBE (_reading_) The lilies are her pretty thoughts, Her shoulders are the may, Her smiles are all forget-me-nots, The path 's her gracious way, The roses that do line it are Her fancies walking round, 'Tis sweetly smelling lavender In which my lady's gowned. (MISS PHOEBE _has thought herself strong, but she is not able to read such exquisite lines without betraying herself to a lover's gaze._) VALENTINE (_excitedly_). Miss Phoebe, when did you cease to care for me? PHOEBE (_retreating from him but clinging to her poem_). You promised not to ask. VALENTINE. I know not why you should, Miss Phoebe, but I believe you love me still! (MISS PHOEBE _has the terrified appearance of a detected felon._) (_MISS SUSAN returns._) MISS SUSAN. You are talking so loudly. VALENTINE. Miss Susan, does she care for me still? MISS SUSAN (_forgetting her pride of sex_). Oh, sir, how could she help it. VALENTINE. Then by Gad, Miss Phoebe, you shall marry me though I have to carry you in my arms to the church. PHOEBE. Sir, how can you! (_But_ MISS SUSAN _gives her a look which means that it must be done if only to avoid such a scandal. It is at this inopportune moment that_ MISS HENRIETTA _and_ MISS FANNY _are announced._) MISS HENRIETTA. I think Miss Willoughby has already popped in. PHOEBE (_with a little spirit_). Yes, indeed. MISS SUSAN (_a mistress of sarcasm_). How is Mary, Fanny? She has not been to see us for several minutes. MISS FANNY (_somewhat daunted_). Mary is so partial to you, Susan. VALENTINE. Your servant, Miss Henrietta, Miss Fanny. MISS FANNY. How do you do, sir? MISS HENRIETTA (_wistfully_). And how do you find Miss Livvy, sir? VALENTINE. I have not seen her, Miss Henrietta. MISS HENRIETTA. Indeed! MISS FANNY. Not even you? VALENTINE. You seem surprised? MISS FANNY. Nay, sir, you must not say so; but really, Phoebe! PHOEBE. Fanny, you presume! VALENTINE (_puzzled_). If one of you ladies would deign to enlighten me. To begin with, what is Miss Livvy's malady? MISS HENRIETTA. He does not know? Oh, Phoebe. VALENTINE. Ladies, have pity on a dull man, and explain. MISS FANNY (_timidly_). Please not to ask us to explain. I fear we have already said more than was proper. Phoebe, forgive. (_To_ CAPTAIN BROWN _this but adds to the mystery, and he looks to_ PHOEBE _for enlightenment._) PHOEBE (_desperate_). I understand, sir, there is a belief that I keep Livvy in confinement because of your passion for her. VALENTINE. My passion for Miss Livvy? Why, Miss Fanny, I cannot abide her--nor she me. (_Looking manfully at_ MISS PHOEBE.) Furthermore, I am proud to tell you that this is the lady whom I adore. MISS FANNY. Phoebe? VALENTINE. Yes, ma'am. (_The ladies are for a moment bereft of speech, and the uplifted_ PHOEBE _cannot refrain from a movement which, if completed, would be a curtsy. Her punishment follows promptly._) MISS HENRIETTA (_from her heart_). Phoebe, I am so happy 'tis you. MISS FANNY. Dear Phoebe, I give you joy. And you also, sir. (MISS PHOEBE _sends her sister a glance of unutterable woe, and escapes from the room. It is most ill-bred of her._) Miss Susan, I do not understand! MISS HENRIETTA. Is it that Miss Livvy is an obstacle? MISS SUSAN (_who knows that there is no hope for her but in flight_). I think I hear Phoebe calling me--a sudden indisposition. Pray excuse me, Henrietta. (_She goes._) MISS HENRIETTA. We know not, sir, whether to offer you our felicitations? VALENTINE (_cogitating_). May I ask, ma'am, what you mean by an obstacle? Is there some mystery about Miss Livvy? MISS HENRIETTA. So much so, sir, that we at one time thought she and Miss Phoebe were the same person. VALENTINE. Pshaw! MISS FANNY. Why will they admit no physician into her presence? MISS HENRIETTA. The blinds of her room are kept most artfully drawn. MISS FANNY (_plaintively_). We have never seen her, sir. Neither Miss Susan nor Miss Phoebe will present her to us. VALENTINE (_impressed_). Indeed. (MISS HENRIETTA _and_ MISS FANNY, _encouraged by his sympathy, draw nearer the door of the interesting bedchamber. They falter. Any one who thinks, however, that they would so far forget themselves as to open the door and peep in, has no understanding of the ladies of Quality Street. They are, nevertheless, not perfect, for_ MISS HENRIETTA _knocks on the door._) MISS HENRIETTA. How do you find yourself, dear Miss Livvy? (_There is no answer. It is our pride to record that they come away without even touching the handle. They look appealing at_ CAPTAIN BROWN, _whose face has grown grave._) VALENTINE. I think, ladies, as a physician-- (_He walks into the bedroom. They feel an ignoble drawing to follow him, but do not yield to it. When he returns his face is inscrutable._) MISS HENRIETTA. Is she very poorly, sir? VALENTINE. Ha. MISS FANNY. We did not hear you address her. VALENTINE. She is not awake, ma'am. MISS HENRIETTA. It is provoking. MISS FANNY (_sternly just_). They informed Mary that she was nigh asleep. VALENTINE. It is not a serious illness I think, ma'am. With the permission of Miss Phoebe and Miss Susan I will make myself more acquaint with her disorder presently. (_He is desirous to be alone._) But we must not talk lest we disturb her. MISS FANNY. You suggest our retiring, sir? VALENTINE. Nay, Miss Fanny---- MISS FANNY. You are very obliging; but I think, Henrietta---- MISS HENRIETTA (_rising_). Yes, Fanny. (_No doubt they are the more ready to depart that they wish to inform_ MISS WILLOUGHBY _at once of these strange doings. As they go_, MISS SUSAN _and_ MISS PHOEBE _return, and the adieux are less elaborate than usual. Neither visitors nor hostesses quite know what to say_. MISS SUSAN _is merely relieved to see them leave, but_ MISS PHOEBE _has read something in their manner that makes her uneasy._) PHOEBE. Why have they departed so hurriedly, sir? They--they did not go in to see Livvy? VALENTINE. No. (_She reads danger in his face._) PHOEBE. Why do you look at me so strangely? VALENTINE (_somewhat stern_). Miss Phoebe, I desire to see Miss Livvy. PHOEBE. Impossible. VALENTINE. Why impossible? They tell me strange stories about no one's seeing her. Miss Phoebe, I will not leave this house until I have seen her. PHOEBE. You cannot. (_But he is very determined, and she is afraid of him._) Will you excuse me, sir, while I talk with Susan behind the door? (_The sisters go guiltily into the bedroom, and_ CAPTAIN BROWN _after some hesitation rings for_ PATTY.) VALENTINE. Patty, come here. Why is this trick being played upon me? PATTY (_with all her wits about her_). Trick, sir! Who would dare? VALENTINE. I know, Patty, that Miss Phoebe has been Miss Livvy all the time. PATTY. I give in! VALENTINE. Why has she done this? PATTY (_beseechingly_). Are you laughing, sir? VALENTINE. I am very far from laughing. PATTY (_turning on him_). 'Twas you that began it, all by not knowing her in the white gown. VALENTINE. Why has this deception been kept up so long? PATTY. Because you would not see through it. Oh, the wicked denseness. She thought you were infatuate with Miss Livvy because she was young and silly. VALENTINE. It is infamous. PATTY. I will not have you call her names. 'Twas all playful innocence at first, and now she is so feared of you she is weeping her soul to death, and all I do I cannot rouse her. 'I ha' a follower in the kitchen, ma'am,' says I, to infuriate her. 'Give him a glass of cowslip wine,' says she, like a gentle lamb. And ill she can afford it, you having lost their money for them. VALENTINE. What is that? On the contrary, all the money they have, Patty, they owe to my having invested it for them. PATTY. That is the money they lost. VALENTINE. You are sure of that? PATTY. I can swear to it. VALENTINE. Deceived me about that also. Good God; but why? PATTY. I think she was feared you would offer to her out of pity. She said something to Miss Susan about keeping a flag flying. What she meant I know not. (_But he knows, and he turns away his face._) Are you laughing, sir? VALENTINE. No, Patty, I am not laughing. Why do they not say Miss Livvy has gone home? It would save them a world of trouble. PATTY. The Misses Willoughby and Miss Henrietta--they watch the house all day. They would say she cannot be gone, for we did not see her go. VALENTINE (_enlightened at last_). I see! PATTY. And Miss Phoebe and Miss Susan wring their hands, for they are feared Miss Livvy is bedridden here for all time. (_Now his sense of humour asserts itself_). Thank the Lord, you 're laughing! (_At this he laughs the more, and it is a gay_ CAPTAIN BROWN _on whom_ MISS SUSAN _opens the bedroom door. This desperate woman is too full of plot to note the change in him._) MISS SUSAN. I am happy to inform you, sir, that Livvy finds herself much improved. VALENTINE (_bolting_). It is joy to me to hear it. MISS SUSAN. She is coming in to see you. PATTY (_aghast_). Oh, ma'am! VALENTINE (_frowning on_ PATTY). I shall be happy to see the poor invalid. PATTY. Ma'am----! (_But_ MISS SUSAN, _believing that so far all is well, has returned to the bedchamber_. CAPTAIN BROWN _bestows a quizzical glance upon the maid._) VALENTINE. Go away, Patty. Anon I may claim a service of you, but for the present, go. PATTY. But--but---- VALENTINE. Retire, woman. (_She has to go, and he prepares his face for the reception of the invalid_. PHOEBE _comes in without her cap, the ringlets showing again. She wears a dressing jacket and is supported by_ MISS SUSAN.) VALENTINE (_gravely_). Your servant, Miss Livvy. PHOEBE (_weakly_). How do you do? VALENTINE. Allow me, Miss Susan. (_He takes_ MISS SUSAN'S _place; but after an exquisite moment_ MISS PHOEBE _breaks away from him, feeling that she is not worthy of such bliss._) PHOEBE. No, no, I--I can walk alone--see. (_She reclines upon the couch._) MISS SUSAN. How do you think she is looking? (_He makes a professional examination of the patient, and they are very ashamed to deceive him, but not so ashamed that they must confess._) What do you think? VALENTINE (_solemnly_). She will recover. May I say, ma'am, it surprises me that any one should see much resemblance between you and your Aunt Phoebe. Miss Phoebe is decidedly shorter and more thick-set. PHOEBE (_sitting up_). No, I am not. VALENTINE. I said Miss Phoebe, ma'am. (_She reclines._) But tell me, is not Miss Phoebe to join us? PHOEBE. She hopes you will excuse her, sir. MISS SUSAN (_vaguely_). Taking the opportunity of airing the room. VALENTINE. Ah, of course. MISS SUSAN (_opening bedroom door and catting mendaciously_). Captain Brown will excuse you, Phoebe. VALENTINE. Certainly, Miss Susan. Well, ma'am, I think I could cure Miss Livvy if she is put unreservedly into my hands. MISS SUSAN (_with a sigh_). I am sure you could. VALENTINE. Then you are my patient, Miss Livvy. PHOEBE (_nervously_). 'Twas but a passing indisposition, I am almost quite recovered. VALENTINE. Nay, you still require attention. Do you propose making a long stay in Quality Street, ma'am? PHOEBE. I--I--I hope not. It--it depends. MISS SUSAN (_forgetting herself_). Mary is the worst. VALENTINE. I ask your pardon? PHOEBE. Aunt Susan, you are excited. VALENTINE. But you are quite right, Miss Livvy; home is the place for you. PHOEBE. Would that I could go! VALENTINE. You are going. PHOEBE. Yes--soon. VALENTINE. Indeed, I have a delightful surprise for you, Miss Livvy, you are going to-day. PHOEBE. To-day? VALENTINE. Not merely to-day, but now. As it happens, my carriage is standing idle at your door, and I am to take you in it to your home--some twenty miles if I remember. PHOEBE. You are to take me? VALENTINE. Nay, 'tis no trouble at all, and as your physician my mind is made up. Some wraps for her, Miss Susan. MISS SUSAN. But--but---- PHOEBE (_in a panic_). Sir, I decline to go. VALENTINE. Come, Miss Livvy, you are in my hands. PHOEBE. I decline. I am most determined. VALENTINE. You admit yourself that you are recovered. PHOEBE. I do not feel so well now. Aunt Susan! MISS SUSAN. Sir---- VALENTINE. If you wish to consult Miss Phoebe---- MISS SUSAN. Oh, no. VALENTINE. Then the wraps, Miss Susan. PHOEBE. Auntie, don't leave me. VALENTINE. What a refractory patient it is. But reason with her, Miss Susan, and I shall ask Miss Phoebe for some wraps. PHOEBE. Sir! (_To their consternation he goes cheerily into the bedroom_. MISS PHOEBE _saves herself by instant flight, and nothing but mesmeric influence keeps_ MISS SUSAN _rooted to the blue and white room. When he returns he is loaded with wraps, and still cheerfully animated, as if he had found nothing untoward in_ LIVVY'S _bedchamber._) VALENTINE. I think these will do admirably, Miss Susan. MISS SUSAN. But Phoebe---- VALENTINE. If I swathe Miss Livvy in these---- MISS SUSAN. Phoebe---- VALENTINE. She is still busy airing the room. (_The extraordinary man goes to the couch as if unable to perceive that its late occupant has gone, and_ MISS SUSAN _watches him, fascinated._) Come, Miss Livvy, put these over you. Allow me--this one over your shoulders, so. Be so obliging as to lean on me. Be brave, ma'am, you cannot fall--my arm is round you; gently, gently, Miss Livvy; ah, that is better; we are doing famously; come, come. Good-bye, Miss Susan, I will take every care of her. (_He has gone, with the bundle on his arm, but_ MISS SUSAN _does not wake up. Even the banging of the outer door is unable to rouse her. It is heard, however, by_ MISS PHOEBE, _who steals back into the room, her cap upon her head to give her courage._) PHOEBE. He is gone! (MISS SUSAN'S _rapt face alarms her._) Oh, Susan, was he as dreadful as that? MISS SUSAN (_in tones unnatural to her_). Phoebe, he knows all. PHOEBE. Yes, of course he knows all now. Sister, did his face change? Oh, Susan, what did he say? MISS SUSAN. He said 'Good-bye, Miss Susan.' That was almost all he said. PHOEBE. Did his eyes flash fire? MISS SUSAN. Phoebe, it was what he did. He--he took Livvy with him. PHOEBE. Susan, dear, don't say that. You are not distraught, are you? MISS SUSAN (_clinging to facts_). He did; he wrapped her up in a shawl. PHOEBE. Susan! You are Susan Throssel, my love. You remember me, don't you? Phoebe, your sister. I was Livvy also, you know, Livvy. MISS SUSAN. He took Livvy with him. PHOEBE (_in woe_). Oh, oh! sister, who am I? MISS SUSAN. You are Phoebe. PHOEBE. And who was Livvy? MISS SUSAN. You were. PHOEBE. Thank heaven. MISS SUSAN. But he took her away in the carriage. PHOEBE. Oh, dear! (_She has quite forgotten her own troubles now._) Susan, you will soon be well again. Dear, let us occupy our minds. Shall we draw up the advertisement for the reopening of the school? MISS SUSAN. I do so hate the school. PHOEBE. Come, dear, come, sit down. Write, Susan. (_Dictating._) 'The Misses Throssel have the pleasure to announce----' MISS SUSAN. Pleasure! Oh, Phoebe. PHOEBE. 'That they will resume school on the 5th of next month. Music, embroidery, the backboard, and all the elegancies of the mind. Latin--shall we say algebra?' MISS SUSAN. I refuse to write algebra. PHOEBE. --for beginners. MISS SUSAN. I refuse. There is only one thing I can write; it writes itself in my head all day. 'Miss Susan Throssel presents her compliments to the Misses Willoughby and Miss Henrietta Turnbull, and requests the honour of their presence at the nuptials of her sister Phoebe and Captain Valentine Brown.' PHOEBE. Susan! MISS SUSAN. Phoebe! (_A door is heard banging._) He has returned! PHOEBE. Oh cruel, cruel. Susan, I am so alarmed. MISS SUSAN. I will face him. PHOEBE. Nay, if it must be, I will. (_But when he enters he is not very terrible._) VALENTINE. Miss Phoebe, it is not raining, but your face is wet. I wish always to kiss you when your face is wet. PHOEBE. Susan! VALENTINE. Miss Livvy will never trouble you any more, Miss Susan. I have sent her home. MISS SUSAN. Oh, sir, how can you invent such a story for us. VALENTINE. I did not. I invented it for the Misses Willoughby and Miss Henrietta, who from their windows watched me put her into my carriage. Patty accompanies her, and in a few hours Patty will return alone. MISS SUSAN. Phoebe, he has got rid of Livvy! PHOEBE. Susan, his face hasn't changed! VALENTINE. Dear Phoebe Throssel, will you be Phoebe Brown? PHOEBE (_quivering_). You know everything? And that I am not a garden? VALENTINE. I know everything, ma'am--except that. PHOEBE (_so very glad to be prim at the end_). Sir, the dictates of my heart enjoin me to accept your too flattering offer. (_He puts her cap in his pocket. He kisses her_. MISS SUSAN _is about to steal away._) Oh, sir, Susan also. (_He kisses_ MISS SUSAN _also; and here we bid them good-bye._) The End. 
2662	----	Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk from the 1912 Macmillan and Co. edition. Proofed by Margaret Rose Price, Dagny and David Price. UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE or THE MELLSTOCK QUIRE A RURAL PAINTING OF THE DUTCH SCHOOL by Thomas Hardy PREFACE This story of the Mellstock Quire and its old established west-gallery musicians, with some supplementary descriptions of similar officials in Two on a Tower, A Few Crusted Characters, and other places, is intended to be a fairly true picture, at first hand, of the personages, ways, and customs which were common among such orchestral bodies in the villages of fifty or sixty years ago. One is inclined to regret the displacement of these ecclesiastical bandsmen by an isolated organist (often at first a barrel-organist) or harmonium player; and despite certain advantages in point of control and accomplishment which were, no doubt, secured by installing the single artist, the change has tended to stultify the professed aims of the clergy, its direct result being to curtail and extinguish the interest of parishioners in church doings. Under the old plan, from half a dozen to ten full-grown players, in addition to the numerous more or less grown-up singers, were officially occupied with the Sunday routine, and concerned in trying their best to make it an artistic outcome of the combined musical taste of the congregation. With a musical executive limited, as it mostly is limited now, to the parson's wife or daughter and the school- children, or to the school-teacher and the children, an important union of interests has disappeared. The zest of these bygone instrumentalists must have been keen and staying to take them, as it did, on foot every Sunday after a toilsome week, through all weathers, to the church, which often lay at a distance from their homes. They usually received so little in payment for their performances that their efforts were really a labour of love. In the parish I had in my mind when writing the present tale, the gratuities received yearly by the musicians at Christmas were somewhat as follows: From the manor-house ten shillings and a supper; from the vicar ten shillings; from the farmers five shillings each; from each cottage-household one shilling; amounting altogether to not more than ten shillings a head annually--just enough, as an old executant told me, to pay for their fiddle-strings, repairs, rosin, and music-paper (which they mostly ruled themselves). Their music in those days was all in their own manuscript, copied in the evenings after work, and their music-books were home-bound. It was customary to inscribe a few jigs, reels, horn-pipes, and ballads in the same book, by beginning it at the other end, the insertions being continued from front and back till sacred and secular met together in the middle, often with bizarre effect, the words of some of the songs exhibiting that ancient and broad humour which our grandfathers, and possibly grandmothers, took delight in, and is in these days unquotable. The aforesaid fiddle-strings, rosin, and music-paper were supplied by a pedlar, who travelled exclusively in such wares from parish to parish, coming to each village about every six months. Tales are told of the consternation once caused among the church fiddlers when, on the occasion of their producing a new Christmas anthem, he did not come to time, owing to being snowed up on the downs, and the straits they were in through having to make shift with whipcord and twine for strings. He was generally a musician himself, and sometimes a composer in a small way, bringing his own new tunes, and tempting each choir to adopt them for a consideration. Some of these compositions which now lie before me, with their repetitions of lines, half-lines, and half-words, their fugues and their intermediate symphonies, are good singing still, though they would hardly be admitted into such hymn-books as are popular in the churches of fashionable society at the present time. August 1896. Under the Greenwood Tree was first brought out in the summer of 1872 in two volumes. The name of the story was originally intended to be, more appropriately, The Mellstock Quire, and this has been appended as a sub- title since the early editions, it having been thought unadvisable to displace for it the title by which the book first became known. In rereading the narrative after a long interval there occurs the inevitable reflection that the realities out of which it was spun were material for another kind of study of this little group of church musicians than is found in the chapters here penned so lightly, even so farcically and flippantly at times. But circumstances would have rendered any aim at a deeper, more essential, more transcendent handling unadvisable at the date of writing; and the exhibition of the Mellstock Quire in the following pages must remain the only extant one, except for the few glimpses of that perished band which I have given in verse elsewhere. T. H. April 1912. PART THE FIRST--WINTER CHAPTER I: MELLSTOCK-LANE To dwellers in a wood almost every species of tree has its voice as well as its feature. At the passing of the breeze the fir-trees sob and moan no less distinctly than they rock; the holly whistles as it battles with itself; the ash hisses amid its quiverings; the beech rustles while its flat boughs rise and fall. And winter, which modifies the note of such trees as shed their leaves, does not destroy its individuality. On a cold and starry Christmas-eve within living memory a man was passing up a lane towards Mellstock Cross in the darkness of a plantation that whispered thus distinctively to his intelligence. All the evidences of his nature were those afforded by the spirit of his footsteps, which succeeded each other lightly and quickly, and by the liveliness of his voice as he sang in a rural cadence: "With the rose and the lily And the daffodowndilly, The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go." The lonely lane he was following connected one of the hamlets of Mellstock parish with Upper Mellstock and Lewgate, and to his eyes, casually glancing upward, the silver and black-stemmed birches with their characteristic tufts, the pale grey boughs of beech, the dark-creviced elm, all appeared now as black and flat outlines upon the sky, wherein the white stars twinkled so vehemently that their flickering seemed like the flapping of wings. Within the woody pass, at a level anything lower than the horizon, all was dark as the grave. The copse-wood forming the sides of the bower interlaced its branches so densely, even at this season of the year, that the draught from the north-east flew along the channel with scarcely an interruption from lateral breezes. After passing the plantation and reaching Mellstock Cross the white surface of the lane revealed itself between the dark hedgerows like a ribbon jagged at the edges; the irregularity being caused by temporary accumulations of leaves extending from the ditch on either side. The song (many times interrupted by flitting thoughts which took the place of several bars, and resumed at a point it would have reached had its continuity been unbroken) now received a more palpable check, in the shape of "Ho-i-i-i-i-i!" from the crossing lane to Lower Mellstock, on the right of the singer who had just emerged from the trees. "Ho-i-i-i-i-i!" he answered, stopping and looking round, though with no idea of seeing anything more than imagination pictured. "Is that thee, young Dick Dewy?" came from the darkness. "Ay, sure, Michael Mail." "Then why not stop for fellow-craters--going to thy own father's house too, as we be, and knowen us so well?" Dick Dewy faced about and continued his tune in an under-whistle, implying that the business of his mouth could not be checked at a moment's notice by the placid emotion of friendship. Having come more into the open he could now be seen rising against the sky, his profile appearing on the light background like the portrait of a gentleman in black cardboard. It assumed the form of a low-crowned hat, an ordinary-shaped nose, an ordinary chin, an ordinary neck, and ordinary shoulders. What he consisted of further down was invisible from lack of sky low enough to picture him on. Shuffling, halting, irregular footsteps of various kinds were now heard coming up the hill, and presently there emerged from the shade severally five men of different ages and gaits, all of them working villagers of the parish of Mellstock. They, too, had lost their rotundity with the daylight, and advanced against the sky in flat outlines, which suggested some processional design on Greek or Etruscan pottery. They represented the chief portion of Mellstock parish choir. The first was a bowed and bent man, who carried a fiddle under his arm, and walked as if engaged in studying some subject connected with the surface of the road. He was Michael Mail, the man who had hallooed to Dick. The next was Mr. Robert Penny, boot- and shoemaker; a little man, who, though rather round-shouldered, walked as if that fact had not come to his own knowledge, moving on with his back very hollow and his face fixed on the north-east quarter of the heavens before him, so that his lower waist-coat-buttons came first, and then the remainder of his figure. His features were invisible; yet when he occasionally looked round, two faint moons of light gleamed for an instant from the precincts of his eyes, denoting that he wore spectacles of a circular form. The third was Elias Spinks, who walked perpendicularly and dramatically. The fourth outline was Joseph Bowman's, who had now no distinctive appearance beyond that of a human being. Finally came a weak lath-like form, trotting and stumbling along with one shoulder forward and his head inclined to the left, his arms dangling nervelessly in the wind as if they were empty sleeves. This was Thomas Leaf. "Where be the boys?" said Dick to this somewhat indifferently-matched assembly. The eldest of the group, Michael Mail, cleared his throat from a great depth. "We told them to keep back at home for a time, thinken they wouldn't be wanted yet awhile; and we could choose the tuens, and so on." "Father and grandfather William have expected ye a little sooner. I have just been for a run round by Ewelease Stile and Hollow Hill to warm my feet." "To be sure father did! To be sure 'a did expect us--to taste the little barrel beyond compare that he's going to tap." "'Od rabbit it all! Never heard a word of it!" said Mr. Penny, gleams of delight appearing upon his spectacle-glasses, Dick meanwhile singing parenthetically-- "The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go." "Neighbours, there's time enough to drink a sight of drink now afore bedtime?" said Mail. "True, true--time enough to get as drunk as lords!" replied Bowman cheerfully. This opinion being taken as convincing they all advanced between the varying hedges and the trees dotting them here and there, kicking their toes occasionally among the crumpled leaves. Soon appeared glimmering indications of the few cottages forming the small hamlet of Upper Mellstock for which they were bound, whilst the faint sound of church- bells ringing a Christmas peal could be heard floating over upon the breeze from the direction of Longpuddle and Weatherbury parishes on the other side of the hills. A little wicket admitted them to the garden, and they proceeded up the path to Dick's house. CHAPTER II: THE TRANTER'S It was a long low cottage with a hipped roof of thatch, having dormer windows breaking up into the eaves, a chimney standing in the middle of the ridge and another at each end. The window-shutters were not yet closed, and the fire- and candle-light within radiated forth upon the thick bushes of box and laurestinus growing in clumps outside, and upon the bare boughs of several codlin-trees hanging about in various distorted shapes, the result of early training as espaliers combined with careless climbing into their boughs in later years. The walls of the dwelling were for the most part covered with creepers, though these were rather beaten back from the doorway--a feature which was worn and scratched by much passing in and out, giving it by day the appearance of an old keyhole. Light streamed through the cracks and joints of outbuildings a little way from the cottage, a sight which nourished a fancy that the purpose of the erection must be rather to veil bright attractions than to shelter unsightly necessaries. The noise of a beetle and wedges and the splintering of wood was periodically heard from this direction; and at some little distance further a steady regular munching and the occasional scurr of a rope betokened a stable, and horses feeding within it. The choir stamped severally on the door-stone to shake from their boots any fragment of earth or leaf adhering thereto, then entered the house and looked around to survey the condition of things. Through the open doorway of a small inner room on the right hand, of a character between pantry and cellar, was Dick Dewy's father Reuben, by vocation a "tranter," or irregular carrier. He was a stout florid man about forty years of age, who surveyed people up and down when first making their acquaintance, and generally smiled at the horizon or other distant object during conversations with friends, walking about with a steady sway, and turning out his toes very considerably. Being now occupied in bending over a hogshead, that stood in the pantry ready horsed for the process of broaching, he did not take the trouble to turn or raise his eyes at the entry of his visitors, well knowing by their footsteps that they were the expected old comrades. The main room, on the left, was decked with bunches of holly and other evergreens, and from the middle of the beam bisecting the ceiling hung the mistletoe, of a size out of all proportion to the room, and extending so low that it became necessary for a full-grown person to walk round it in passing, or run the risk of entangling his hair. This apartment contained Mrs. Dewy the tranter's wife, and the four remaining children, Susan, Jim, Bessy, and Charley, graduating uniformly though at wide stages from the age of sixteen to that of four years--the eldest of the series being separated from Dick the firstborn by a nearly equal interval. Some circumstance had apparently caused much grief to Charley just previous to the entry of the choir, and he had absently taken down a small looking-glass, holding it before his face to learn how the human countenance appeared when engaged in crying, which survey led him to pause at the various points in each wail that were more than ordinarily striking, for a thorough appreciation of the general effect. Bessy was leaning against a chair, and glancing under the plaits about the waist of the plaid frock she wore, to notice the original unfaded pattern of the material as there preserved, her face bearing an expression of regret that the brightness had passed away from the visible portions. Mrs. Dewy sat in a brown settle by the side of the glowing wood fire--so glowing that with a heedful compression of the lips she would now and then rise and put her hand upon the hams and flitches of bacon lining the chimney, to reassure herself that they were not being broiled instead of smoked--a misfortune that had been known to happen now and then at Christmas-time. "Hullo, my sonnies, here you be, then!" said Reuben Dewy at length, standing up and blowing forth a vehement gust of breath. "How the blood do puff up in anybody's head, to be sure, a-stooping like that! I was just going out to gate to hark for ye." He then carefully began to wind a strip of brown paper round a brass tap he held in his hand. "This in the cask here is a drop o' the right sort" (tapping the cask); "'tis a real drop o' cordial from the best picked apples--Sansoms, Stubbards, Five-corners, and such-like--you d'mind the sort, Michael?" (Michael nodded.) "And there's a sprinkling of they that grow down by the orchard- rails--streaked ones--rail apples we d'call 'em, as 'tis by the rails they grow, and not knowing the right name. The water-cider from 'em is as good as most people's best cider is." "Ay, and of the same make too," said Bowman. "'It rained when we wrung it out, and the water got into it,' folk will say. But 'tis on'y an excuse. Watered cider is too common among us." "Yes, yes; too common it is!" said Spinks with an inward sigh, whilst his eyes seemed to be looking at the case in an abstract form rather than at the scene before him. "Such poor liquor do make a man's throat feel very melancholy--and is a disgrace to the name of stimmilent." "Come in, come in, and draw up to the fire; never mind your shoes," said Mrs. Dewy, seeing that all except Dick had paused to wipe them upon the door-mat. "I am glad that you've stepped up-along at last; and, Susan, you run down to Grammer Kaytes's and see if you can borrow some larger candles than these fourteens. Tommy Leaf, don't ye be afeard! Come and sit here in the settle." This was addressed to the young man before mentioned, consisting chiefly of a human skeleton and a smock-frock, who was very awkward in his movements, apparently on account of having grown so very fast that before he had had time to get used to his height he was higher. "Hee--hee--ay!" replied Leaf, letting his mouth continue to smile for some time after his mind had done smiling, so that his teeth remained in view as the most conspicuous members of his body. "Here, Mr. Penny," resumed Mrs. Dewy, "you sit in this chair. And how's your daughter, Mrs. Brownjohn?" "Well, I suppose I must say pretty fair." He adjusted his spectacles a quarter of an inch to the right. "But she'll be worse before she's better, 'a b'lieve." "Indeed--poor soul! And how many will that make in all, four or five?" "Five; they've buried three. Yes, five; and she not much more than a maid yet. She do know the multiplication table onmistakable well. However, 'twas to be, and none can gainsay it." Mrs. Dewy resigned Mr. Penny. "Wonder where your grandfather James is?" she inquired of one of the children. "He said he'd drop in to-night." "Out in fuel-house with grandfather William," said Jimmy. "Now let's see what we can do," was heard spoken about this time by the tranter in a private voice to the barrel, beside which he had again established himself, and was stooping to cut away the cork. "Reuben, don't make such a mess o' tapping that barrel as is mostly made in this house," Mrs. Dewy cried from the fireplace. "I'd tap a hundred without wasting more than you do in one. Such a squizzling and squirting job as 'tis in your hands! There, he always was such a clumsy man indoors." "Ay, ay; I know you'd tap a hundred beautiful, Ann--I know you would; two hundred, perhaps. But I can't promise. This is a' old cask, and the wood's rotted away about the tap-hole. The husbird of a feller Sam Lawson--that ever I should call'n such, now he's dead and gone, poor heart!--took me in completely upon the feat of buying this cask. 'Reub,' says he--'a always used to call me plain Reub, poor old heart!--'Reub,' he said, says he, 'that there cask, Reub, is as good as new; yes, good as new. 'Tis a wine-hogshead; the best port-wine in the commonwealth have been in that there cask; and you shall have en for ten shillens, Reub,'--'a said, says he--'he's worth twenty, ay, five-and-twenty, if he's worth one; and an iron hoop or two put round en among the wood ones will make en worth thirty shillens of any man's money, if--'" "I think I should have used the eyes that Providence gave me to use afore I paid any ten shillens for a jimcrack wine-barrel; a saint is sinner enough not to be cheated. But 'tis like all your family was, so easy to be deceived." "That's as true as gospel of this member," said Reuben. Mrs. Dewy began a smile at the answer, then altering her lips and refolding them so that it was not a smile, commenced smoothing little Bessy's hair; the tranter having meanwhile suddenly become oblivious to conversation, occupying himself in a deliberate cutting and arrangement of some more brown paper for the broaching operation. "Ah, who can believe sellers!" said old Michael Mail in a carefully-cautious voice, by way of tiding-over this critical point of affairs. "No one at all," said Joseph Bowman, in the tone of a man fully agreeing with everybody. "Ay," said Mail, in the tone of a man who did not agree with everybody as a rule, though he did now; "I knowed a' auctioneering feller once--a very friendly feller 'a was too. And so one hot day as I was walking down the front street o' Casterbridge, jist below the King's Arms, I passed a' open winder and see him inside, stuck upon his perch, a-selling off. I jist nodded to en in a friendly way as I passed, and went my way, and thought no more about it. Well, next day, as I was oilen my boots by fuel-house door, if a letter didn't come wi' a bill charging me with a feather-bed, bolster, and pillers, that I had bid for at Mr. Taylor's sale. The slim-faced martel had knocked 'em down to me because I nodded to en in my friendly way; and I had to pay for 'em too. Now, I hold that that was coming it very close, Reuben?" "'Twas close, there's no denying," said the general voice. "Too close, 'twas," said Reuben, in the rear of the rest. "And as to Sam Lawson--poor heart! now he's dead and gone too!--I'll warrant, that if so be I've spent one hour in making hoops for that barrel, I've spent fifty, first and last. That's one of my hoops"--touching it with his elbow--"that's one of mine, and that, and that, and all these." "Ah, Sam was a man," said Mr. Penny, contemplatively. "Sam was!" said Bowman. "Especially for a drap o' drink," said the tranter. "Good, but not religious-good," suggested Mr. Penny. The tranter nodded. Having at last made the tap and hole quite ready, "Now then, Suze, bring a mug," he said. "Here's luck to us, my sonnies!" The tap went in, and the cider immediately squirted out in a horizontal shower over Reuben's hands, knees, and leggings, and into the eyes and neck of Charley, who, having temporarily put off his grief under pressure of more interesting proceedings, was squatting down and blinking near his father. "There 'tis again!" said Mrs. Dewy. "Devil take the hole, the cask, and Sam Lawson too, that good cider should be wasted like this!" exclaimed the tranter. "Your thumb! Lend me your thumb, Michael! Ram it in here, Michael! I must get a bigger tap, my sonnies." "Idd it cold inthide te hole?" inquired Charley of Michael, as he continued in a stooping posture with his thumb in the cork-hole. "What wonderful odds and ends that chiel has in his head to be sure!" Mrs. Dewy admiringly exclaimed from the distance. "I lay a wager that he thinks more about how 'tis inside that barrel than in all the other parts of the world put together." All persons present put on a speaking countenance of admiration for the cleverness alluded to, in the midst of which Reuben returned. The operation was then satisfactorily performed; when Michael arose and stretched his head to the extremest fraction of height that his body would allow of, to re-straighten his back and shoulders--thrusting out his arms and twisting his features to a mass of wrinkles to emphasize the relief aquired. A quart or two of the beverage was then brought to table, at which all the new arrivals reseated themselves with wide-spread knees, their eyes meditatively seeking out any speck or knot in the board upon which the gaze might precipitate itself. "Whatever is father a-biding out in fuel-house so long for?" said the tranter. "Never such a man as father for two things--cleaving up old dead apple-tree wood and playing the bass-viol. 'A'd pass his life between the two, that 'a would." He stepped to the door and opened it. "Father!" "Ay!" rang thinly from round the corner. "Here's the barrel tapped, and we all a-waiting!" A series of dull thuds, that had been heard without for some time past, now ceased; and after the light of a lantern had passed the window and made wheeling rays upon the ceiling inside the eldest of the Dewy family appeared. CHAPTER III: THE ASSEMBLED QUIRE William Dewy--otherwise grandfather William--was now about seventy; yet an ardent vitality still preserved a warm and roughened bloom upon his face, which reminded gardeners of the sunny side of a ripe ribstone-pippin; though a narrow strip of forehead, that was protected from the weather by lying above the line of his hat-brim, seemed to belong to some town man, so gentlemanly was its whiteness. His was a humorous and kindly nature, not unmixed with a frequent melancholy; and he had a firm religious faith. But to his neighbours he had no character in particular. If they saw him pass by their windows when they had been bottling off old mead, or when they had just been called long-headed men who might do anything in the world if they chose, they thought concerning him, "Ah, there's that good-hearted man--open as a child!" If they saw him just after losing a shilling or half-a-crown, or accidentally letting fall a piece of crockery, they thought, "There's that poor weak-minded man Dewy again! Ah, he's never done much in the world either!" If he passed when fortune neither smiled nor frowned on them, they merely thought him old William Dewy. "Ah, so's--here you be!--Ah, Michael and Joseph and John--and you too, Leaf! a merry Christmas all! We shall have a rare log-wood fire directly, Reub, to reckon by the toughness of the job I had in cleaving 'em." As he spoke he threw down an armful of logs which fell in the chimney-corner with a rumble, and looked at them with something of the admiring enmity he would have bestowed on living people who had been very obstinate in holding their own. "Come in, grandfather James." Old James (grandfather on the maternal side) had simply called as a visitor. He lived in a cottage by himself, and many people considered him a miser; some, rather slovenly in his habits. He now came forward from behind grandfather William, and his stooping figure formed a well- illuminated picture as he passed towards the fire-place. Being by trade a mason, he wore a long linen apron reaching almost to his toes, corduroy breeches and gaiters, which, together with his boots, graduated in tints of whitish-brown by constant friction against lime and stone. He also wore a very stiff fustian coat, having folds at the elbows and shoulders as unvarying in their arrangement as those in a pair of bellows: the ridges and the projecting parts of the coat collectively exhibiting a shade different from that of the hollows, which were lined with small ditch-like accumulations of stone and mortar-dust. The extremely large side-pockets, sheltered beneath wide flaps, bulged out convexly whether empty or full; and as he was often engaged to work at buildings far away--his breakfasts and dinners being eaten in a strange chimney-corner, by a garden wall, on a heap of stones, or walking along the road--he carried in these pockets a small tin canister of butter, a small canister of sugar, a small canister of tea, a paper of salt, and a paper of pepper; the bread, cheese, and meat, forming the substance of his meals, hanging up behind him in his basket among the hammers and chisels. If a passer-by looked hard at him when he was drawing forth any of these, "My buttery," he said, with a pinched smile. "Better try over number seventy-eight before we start, I suppose?" said William, pointing to a heap of old Christmas-carol books on a side table. "Wi' all my heart," said the choir generally. "Number seventy-eight was always a teaser--always. I can mind him ever since I was growing up a hard boy-chap." "But he's a good tune, and worth a mint o' practice," said Michael. "He is; though I've been mad enough wi' that tune at times to seize en and tear en all to linnit. Ay, he's a splendid carrel--there's no denying that." "The first line is well enough," said Mr. Spinks; "but when you come to 'O, thou man,' you make a mess o't." "We'll have another go into en, and see what we can make of the martel. Half-an-hour's hammering at en will conquer the toughness of en; I'll warn it." "'Od rabbit it all!" said Mr. Penny, interrupting with a flash of his spectacles, and at the same time clawing at something in the depths of a large side-pocket. "If so be I hadn't been as scatter-brained and thirtingill as a chiel, I should have called at the schoolhouse wi' a boot as I cam up along. Whatever is coming to me I really can't estimate at all!" "The brain has its weaknesses," murmured Mr. Spinks, waving his head ominously. Mr. Spinks was considered to be a scholar, having once kept a night-school, and always spoke up to that level. "Well, I must call with en the first thing to-morrow. And I'll empt my pocket o' this last too, if you don't mind, Mrs. Dewy." He drew forth a last, and placed it on a table at his elbow. The eyes of three or four followed it. "Well," said the shoemaker, seeming to perceive that the interest the object had excited was greater than he had anticipated, and warranted the last's being taken up again and exhibited; "now, whose foot do ye suppose this last was made for? It was made for Geoffrey Day's father, over at Yalbury Wood. Ah, many's the pair o' boots he've had off the last! Well, when 'a died, I used the last for Geoffrey, and have ever since, though a little doctoring was wanted to make it do. Yes, a very queer natured last it is now, 'a b'lieve," he continued, turning it over caressingly. "Now, you notice that there" (pointing to a lump of leather bradded to the toe), "that's a very bad bunion that he've had ever since 'a was a boy. Now, this remarkable large piece" (pointing to a patch nailed to the side), "shows a' accident he received by the tread of a horse, that squashed his foot a'most to a pomace. The horseshoe cam full-butt on this point, you see. And so I've just been over to Geoffrey's, to know if he wanted his bunion altered or made bigger in the new pair I'm making." During the latter part of this speech, Mr. Penny's left hand wandered towards the cider-cup, as if the hand had no connection with the person speaking; and bringing his sentence to an abrupt close, all but the extreme margin of the bootmaker's face was eclipsed by the circular brim of the vessel. "However, I was going to say," continued Penny, putting down the cup, "I ought to have called at the school"--here he went groping again in the depths of his pocket--"to leave this without fail, though I suppose the first thing to-morrow will do." He now drew forth and placed upon the table a boot--small, light, and prettily shaped--upon the heel of which he had been operating. "The new schoolmistress's!" "Ay, no less, Miss Fancy Day; as neat a little figure of fun as ever I see, and just husband-high." "Never Geoffrey's daughter Fancy?" said Bowman, as all glances present converged like wheel-spokes upon the boot in the centre of them. "Yes, sure," resumed Mr. Penny, regarding the boot as if that alone were his auditor; "'tis she that's come here schoolmistress. You knowed his daughter was in training?" "Strange, isn't it, for her to be here Christmas night, Master Penny?" "Yes; but here she is, 'a b'lieve." "I know how she comes here--so I do!" chirruped one of the children. "Why?" Dick inquired, with subtle interest. "Pa'son Maybold was afraid he couldn't manage us all to-morrow at the dinner, and he talked o' getting her jist to come over and help him hand about the plates, and see we didn't make pigs of ourselves; and that's what she's come for!" "And that's the boot, then," continued its mender imaginatively, "that she'll walk to church in to-morrow morning. I don't care to mend boots I don't make; but there's no knowing what it may lead to, and her father always comes to me." There, between the cider-mug and the candle, stood this interesting receptacle of the little unknown's foot; and a very pretty boot it was. A character, in fact--the flexible bend at the instep, the rounded localities of the small nestling toes, scratches from careless scampers now forgotten--all, as repeated in the tell-tale leather, evidencing a nature and a bias. Dick surveyed it with a delicate feeling that he had no right to do so without having first asked the owner of the foot's permission. "Now, neighbours, though no common eye can see it," the shoemaker went on, "a man in the trade can see the likeness between this boot and that last, although that is so deformed as hardly to recall one of God's creatures, and this is one of as pretty a pair as you'd get for ten-and- sixpence in Casterbridge. To you, nothing; but 'tis father's voot and daughter's voot to me, as plain as houses." "I don't doubt there's a likeness, Master Penny--a mild likeness--a fantastical likeness," said Spinks. "But I han't got imagination enough to see it, perhaps." Mr. Penny adjusted his spectacles. "Now, I'll tell ye what happened to me once on this very point. You used to know Johnson the dairyman, William?" "Ay, sure; I did." "Well, 'twasn't opposite his house, but a little lower down--by his paddock, in front o' Parkmaze Pool. I was a-bearing across towards Bloom's End, and lo and behold, there was a man just brought out o' the Pool, dead; he had un'rayed for a dip, but not being able to pitch it just there had gone in flop over his head. Men looked at en; women looked at en; children looked at en; nobody knowed en. He was covered wi' a sheet; but I catched sight of his voot, just showing out as they carried en along. 'I don't care what name that man went by,' I said, in my way, 'but he's John Woodward's brother; I can swear to the family voot.' At that very moment up comes John Woodward, weeping and teaving, 'I've lost my brother! I've lost my brother!'" "Only to think of that!" said Mrs. Dewy. "'Tis well enough to know this foot and that foot," said Mr. Spinks. "'Tis long-headed, in fact, as far as feet do go. I know little, 'tis true--I say no more; but show me a man's foot, and I'll tell you that man's heart." "You must be a cleverer feller, then, than mankind in jineral," said the tranter. "Well, that's nothing for me to speak of," returned Mr. Spinks. "A man lives and learns. Maybe I've read a leaf or two in my time. I don't wish to say anything large, mind you; but nevertheless, maybe I have." "Yes, I know," said Michael soothingly, "and all the parish knows, that ye've read sommat of everything a'most, and have been a great filler of young folks' brains. Learning's a worthy thing, and ye've got it, Master Spinks." "I make no boast, though I may have read and thought a little; and I know--it may be from much perusing, but I make no boast--that by the time a man's head is finished, 'tis almost time for him to creep underground. I am over forty-five." Mr. Spinks emitted a look to signify that if his head was not finished, nobody's head ever could be. "Talk of knowing people by their feet!" said Reuben. "Rot me, my sonnies, then, if I can tell what a man is from all his members put together, oftentimes." "But still, look is a good deal," observed grandfather William absently, moving and balancing his head till the tip of grandfather James's nose was exactly in a right line with William's eye and the mouth of a miniature cavern he was discerning in the fire. "By the way," he continued in a fresher voice, and looking up, "that young crater, the schoolmis'ess, must be sung to to-night wi' the rest? If her ear is as fine as her face, we shall have enough to do to be up-sides with her." "What about her face?" said young Dewy. "Well, as to that," Mr. Spinks replied, "'tis a face you can hardly gainsay. A very good pink face, as far as that do go. Still, only a face, when all is said and done." "Come, come, Elias Spinks, say she's a pretty maid, and have done wi' her," said the tranter, again preparing to visit the cider-barrel. CHAPTER IV: GOING THE ROUNDS Shortly after ten o'clock the singing-boys arrived at the tranter's house, which was invariably the place of meeting, and preparations were made for the start. The older men and musicians wore thick coats, with stiff perpendicular collars, and coloured handkerchiefs wound round and round the neck till the end came to hand, over all which they just showed their ears and noses, like people looking over a wall. The remainder, stalwart ruddy men and boys, were dressed mainly in snow-white smock-frocks, embroidered upon the shoulders and breasts, in ornamental forms of hearts, diamonds, and zigzags. The cider-mug was emptied for the ninth time, the music-books were arranged, and the pieces finally decided upon. The boys in the meantime put the old horn-lanterns in order, cut candles into short lengths to fit the lanterns; and, a thin fleece of snow having fallen since the early part of the evening, those who had no leggings went to the stable and wound wisps of hay round their ankles to keep the insidious flakes from the interior of their boots. Mellstock was a parish of considerable acreage, the hamlets composing it lying at a much greater distance from each other than is ordinarily the case. Hence several hours were consumed in playing and singing within hearing of every family, even if but a single air were bestowed on each. There was Lower Mellstock, the main village; half a mile from this were the church and vicarage, and a few other houses, the spot being rather lonely now, though in past centuries it had been the most thickly-populated quarter of the parish. A mile north-east lay the hamlet of Upper Mellstock, where the tranter lived; and at other points knots of cottages, besides solitary farmsteads and dairies. Old William Dewy, with the violoncello, played the bass; his grandson Dick the treble violin; and Reuben and Michael Mail the tenor and second violins respectively. The singers consisted of four men and seven boys, upon whom devolved the task of carrying and attending to the lanterns, and holding the books open for the players. Directly music was the theme, old William ever and instinctively came to the front. "Now mind, neighbours," he said, as they all went out one by one at the door, he himself holding it ajar and regarding them with a critical face as they passed, like a shepherd counting out his sheep. "You two counter- boys, keep your ears open to Michael's fingering, and don't ye go straying into the treble part along o' Dick and his set, as ye did last year; and mind this especially when we be in 'Arise, and hail.' Billy Chimlen, don't you sing quite so raving mad as you fain would; and, all o' ye, whatever ye do, keep from making a great scuffle on the ground when we go in at people's gates; but go quietly, so as to strike up all of a sudden, like spirits." "Farmer Ledlow's first?" "Farmer Ledlow's first; the rest as usual." "And, Voss," said the tranter terminatively, "you keep house here till about half-past two; then heat the metheglin and cider in the warmer you'll find turned up upon the copper; and bring it wi' the victuals to church-hatch, as th'st know." * * * * * Just before the clock struck twelve they lighted the lanterns and started. The moon, in her third quarter, had risen since the snowstorm; but the dense accumulation of snow-cloud weakened her power to a faint twilight, which was rather pervasive of the landscape than traceable to the sky. The breeze had gone down, and the rustle of their feet and tones of their speech echoed with an alert rebound from every post, boundary-stone, and ancient wall they passed, even where the distance of the echo's origin was less than a few yards. Beyond their own slight noises nothing was to be heard, save the occasional bark of foxes in the direction of Yalbury Wood, or the brush of a rabbit among the grass now and then, as it scampered out of their way. Most of the outlying homesteads and hamlets had been visited by about two o'clock; they then passed across the outskirts of a wooded park toward the main village, nobody being at home at the Manor. Pursuing no recognized track, great care was necessary in walking lest their faces should come in contact with the low-hanging boughs of the old lime-trees, which in many spots formed dense over-growths of interlaced branches. "Times have changed from the times they used to be," said Mail, regarding nobody can tell what interesting old panoramas with an inward eye, and letting his outward glance rest on the ground, because it was as convenient a position as any. "People don't care much about us now! I've been thinking we must be almost the last left in the county of the old string players? Barrel-organs, and the things next door to 'em that you blow wi' your foot, have come in terribly of late years." "Ay!" said Bowman, shaking his head; and old William, on seeing him, did the same thing. "More's the pity," replied another. "Time was--long and merry ago now!--when not one of the varmits was to be heard of; but it served some of the quires right. They should have stuck to strings as we did, and kept out clarinets, and done away with serpents. If you'd thrive in musical religion, stick to strings, says I." "Strings be safe soul-lifters, as far as that do go," said Mr. Spinks. "Yet there's worse things than serpents," said Mr. Penny. "Old things pass away, 'tis true; but a serpent was a good old note: a deep rich note was the serpent." "Clar'nets, however, be bad at all times," said Michael Mail. "One Christmas--years agone now, years--I went the rounds wi' the Weatherbury quire. 'Twas a hard frosty night, and the keys of all the clar'nets froze--ah, they did freeze!--so that 'twas like drawing a cork every time a key was opened; and the players o' 'em had to go into a hedger-and-ditcher's chimley-corner, and thaw their clar'nets every now and then. An icicle o' spet hung down from the end of every man's clar'net a span long; and as to fingers--well, there, if ye'll believe me, we had no fingers at all, to our knowing." "I can well bring back to my mind," said Mr. Penny, "what I said to poor Joseph Ryme (who took the treble part in Chalk-Newton Church for two-and- forty year) when they thought of having clar'nets there. 'Joseph,' I said, says I, 'depend upon't, if so be you have them tooting clar'nets you'll spoil the whole set-out. Clar'nets were not made for the service of the Lard; you can see it by looking at 'em,' I said. And what came o't? Why, souls, the parson set up a barrel-organ on his own account within two years o' the time I spoke, and the old quire went to nothing." "As far as look is concerned," said the tranter, "I don't for my part see that a fiddle is much nearer heaven than a clar'net. 'Tis further off. There's always a rakish, scampish twist about a fiddle's looks that seems to say the Wicked One had a hand in making o'en; while angels be supposed to play clar'nets in heaven, or som'at like 'em, if ye may believe picters." "Robert Penny, you was in the right," broke in the eldest Dewy. "They should ha' stuck to strings. Your brass-man is a rafting dog--well and good; your reed-man is a dab at stirring ye--well and good; your drum-man is a rare bowel-shaker--good again. But I don't care who hears me say it, nothing will spak to your heart wi' the sweetness o' the man of strings!" "Strings for ever!" said little Jimmy. "Strings alone would have held their ground against all the new comers in creation." ("True, true!" said Bowman.) "But clarinets was death." ("Death they was!" said Mr. Penny.) "And harmonions," William continued in a louder voice, and getting excited by these signs of approval, "harmonions and barrel-organs" ("Ah!" and groans from Spinks) "be miserable--what shall I call 'em?--miserable--" "Sinners," suggested Jimmy, who made large strides like the men, and did not lag behind like the other little boys. "Miserable dumbledores!" "Right, William, and so they be--miserable dumbledores!" said the choir with unanimity. By this time they were crossing to a gate in the direction of the school, which, standing on a slight eminence at the junction of three ways, now rose in unvarying and dark flatness against the sky. The instruments were retuned, and all the band entered the school enclosure, enjoined by old William to keep upon the grass. "Number seventy-eight," he softly gave out as they formed round in a semicircle, the boys opening the lanterns to get a clearer light, and directing their rays on the books. Then passed forth into the quiet night an ancient and time-worn hymn, embodying a quaint Christianity in words orally transmitted from father to son through several generations down to the present characters, who sang them out right earnestly: "Remember Adam's fall, O thou Man: Remember Adam's fall From Heaven to Hell. Remember Adam's fall; How he hath condemn'd all In Hell perpetual There for to dwell. Remember God's goodnesse, O thou Man: Remember God's goodnesse, His promise made. Remember God's goodnesse; He sent His Son sinlesse Our ails for to redress; Be not afraid! In Bethlehem He was born, O thou Man: In Bethlehem He was born, For mankind's sake. In Bethlehem He was born, Christmas-day i' the morn: Our Saviour thought no scorn Our faults to take. Give thanks to God alway, O thou Man: Give thanks to God alway With heart-most joy. Give thanks to God alway On this our joyful day: Let all men sing and say, Holy, Holy!" Having concluded the last note, they listened for a minute or two, but found that no sound issued from the schoolhouse. "Four breaths, and then, 'O, what unbounded goodness!' number fifty-nine," said William. This was duly gone through, and no notice whatever seemed to be taken of the performance. "Good guide us, surely 'tisn't a' empty house, as befell us in the year thirty-nine and forty-three!" said old Dewy. "Perhaps she's jist come from some musical city, and sneers at our doings?" the tranter whispered. "'Od rabbit her!" said Mr. Penny, with an annihilating look at a corner of the school chimney, "I don't quite stomach her, if this is it. Your plain music well done is as worthy as your other sort done bad, a' b'lieve, souls; so say I." "Four breaths, and then the last," said the leader authoritatively. "'Rejoice, ye Tenants of the Earth,' number sixty-four." At the close, waiting yet another minute, he said in a clear loud voice, as he had said in the village at that hour and season for the previous forty years--"A merry Christmas to ye!" CHAPTER V: THE LISTENERS When the expectant stillness consequent upon the exclamation had nearly died out of them all, an increasing light made itself visible in one of the windows of the upper floor. It came so close to the blind that the exact position of the flame could be perceived from the outside. Remaining steady for an instant, the blind went upward from before it, revealing to thirty concentrated eyes a young girl, framed as a picture by the window architrave, and unconsciously illuminating her countenance to a vivid brightness by a candle she held in her left hand, close to her face, her right hand being extended to the side of the window. She was wrapped in a white robe of some kind, whilst down her shoulders fell a twining profusion of marvellously rich hair, in a wild disorder which proclaimed it to be only during the invisible hours of the night that such a condition was discoverable. Her bright eyes were looking into the grey world outside with an uncertain expression, oscillating between courage and shyness, which, as she recognized the semicircular group of dark forms gathered before her, transformed itself into pleasant resolution. Opening the window, she said lightly and warmly--"Thank you, singers, thank you!" Together went the window quickly and quietly, and the blind started downward on its return to its place. Her fair forehead and eyes vanished; her little mouth; her neck and shoulders; all of her. Then the spot of candlelight shone nebulously as before; then it moved away. "How pretty!" exclaimed Dick Dewy. "If she'd been rale wexwork she couldn't ha' been comelier," said Michael Mail. "As near a thing to a spiritual vision as ever I wish to see!" said tranter Dewy. "O, sich I never, never see!" said Leaf fervently. All the rest, after clearing their throats and adjusting their hats, agreed that such a sight was worth singing for. "Now to Farmer Shiner's, and then replenish our insides, father?" said the tranter. "Wi' all my heart," said old William, shouldering his bass-viol. Farmer Shiner's was a queer lump of a house, standing at the corner of a lane that ran into the principal thoroughfare. The upper windows were much wider than they were high, and this feature, together with a broad bay-window where the door might have been expected, gave it by day the aspect of a human countenance turned askance, and wearing a sly and wicked leer. To-night nothing was visible but the outline of the roof upon the sky. The front of this building was reached, and the preliminaries arranged as usual. "Four breaths, and number thirty-two, 'Behold the Morning Star,'" said old William. They had reached the end of the second verse, and the fiddlers were doing the up bow-stroke previously to pouring forth the opening chord of the third verse, when, without a light appearing or any signal being given, a roaring voice exclaimed-- "Shut up, woll 'ee! Don't make your blaring row here! A feller wi' a headache enough to split his skull likes a quiet night!" Slam went the window. "Hullo, that's a' ugly blow for we!" said the tranter, in a keenly appreciative voice, and turning to his companions. "Finish the carrel, all who be friends of harmony!" commanded old William; and they continued to the end. "Four breaths, and number nineteen!" said William firmly. "Give it him well; the quire can't be insulted in this manner!" A light now flashed into existence, the window opened, and the farmer stood revealed as one in a terrific passion. "Drown en!--drown en!" the tranter cried, fiddling frantically. "Play fortissimy, and drown his spaking!" "Fortissimy!" said Michael Mail, and the music and singing waxed so loud that it was impossible to know what Mr. Shiner had said, was saying, or was about to say; but wildly flinging his arms and body about in the forms of capital Xs and Ys, he appeared to utter enough invectives to consign the whole parish to perdition. "Very onseemly--very!" said old William, as they retired. "Never such a dreadful scene in the whole round o' my carrel practice--never! And he a churchwarden!" "Only a drap o' drink got into his head," said the tranter. "Man's well enough when he's in his religious frame. He's in his worldly frame now. Must ask en to our bit of a party to-morrow night, I suppose, and so put en in humour again. We bear no mortal man ill-will." They now crossed Mellstock Bridge, and went along an embowered path beside the Froom towards the church and vicarage, meeting Voss with the hot mead and bread-and-cheese as they were approaching the churchyard. This determined them to eat and drink before proceeding further, and they entered the church and ascended to the gallery. The lanterns were opened, and the whole body sat round against the walls on benches and whatever else was available, and made a hearty meal. In the pauses of conversation there could be heard through the floor overhead a little world of undertones and creaks from the halting clockwork, which never spread further than the tower they were born in, and raised in the more meditative minds a fancy that here lay the direct pathway of Time. Having done eating and drinking, they again tuned the instruments, and once more the party emerged into the night air. "Where's Dick?" said old Dewy. Every man looked round upon every other man, as if Dick might have been transmuted into one or the other; and then they said they didn't know. "Well now, that's what I call very nasty of Master Dicky, that I do," said Michael Mail. "He've clinked off home-along, depend upon't," another suggested, though not quite believing that he had. "Dick!" exclaimed the tranter, and his voice rolled sonorously forth among the yews. He suspended his muscles rigid as stone whilst listening for an answer, and finding he listened in vain, turned to the assemblage. "The treble man too! Now if he'd been a tenor or counter chap, we might ha' contrived the rest o't without en, you see. But for a quire to lose the treble, why, my sonnies, you may so well lose your . . . " The tranter paused, unable to mention an image vast enough for the occasion. "Your head at once," suggested Mr. Penny. The tranter moved a pace, as if it were puerile of people to complete sentences when there were more pressing things to be done. "Was ever heard such a thing as a young man leaving his work half done and turning tail like this!" "Never," replied Bowman, in a tone signifying that he was the last man in the world to wish to withhold the formal finish required of him. "I hope no fatal tragedy has overtook the lad!" said his grandfather. "O no," replied tranter Dewy placidly. "Wonder where he's put that there fiddle of his. Why that fiddle cost thirty shillings, and good words besides. Somewhere in the damp, without doubt; that instrument will be unglued and spoilt in ten minutes--ten! ay, two." "What in the name o' righteousness can have happened?" said old William, more uneasily. "Perhaps he's drownded!" Leaving their lanterns and instruments in the belfry they retraced their steps along the waterside track. "A strapping lad like Dick d'know better than let anything happen onawares," Reuben remarked. "There's sure to be some poor little scram reason for't staring us in the face all the while." He lowered his voice to a mysterious tone: "Neighbours, have ye noticed any sign of a scornful woman in his head, or suchlike?" "Not a glimmer of such a body. He's as clear as water yet." "And Dicky said he should never marry," cried Jimmy, "but live at home always along wi' mother and we!" "Ay, ay, my sonny; every lad has said that in his time." They had now again reached the precincts of Mr. Shiner's, but hearing nobody in that direction, one or two went across to the schoolhouse. A light was still burning in the bedroom, and though the blind was down, the window had been slightly opened, as if to admit the distant notes of the carollers to the ears of the occupant of the room. Opposite the window, leaning motionless against a beech tree, was the lost man, his arms folded, his head thrown back, his eyes fixed upon the illuminated lattice. "Why, Dick, is that thee? What b'st doing here?" Dick's body instantly flew into a more rational attitude, and his head was seen to turn east and west in the gloom, as if endeavouring to discern some proper answer to that question; and at last he said in rather feeble accents--"Nothing, father." "Th'st take long enough time about it then, upon my body," said the tranter, as they all turned anew towards the vicarage. "I thought you hadn't done having snap in the gallery," said Dick. "Why, we've been traypsing and rambling about, looking everywhere, and thinking you'd done fifty deathly things, and here have you been at nothing at all!" "The stupidness lies in that point of it being nothing at all," murmured Mr. Spinks. The vicarage front was their next field of operation, and Mr. Maybold, the lately-arrived incumbent, duly received his share of the night's harmonies. It was hoped that by reason of his profession he would have been led to open the window, and an extra carol in quick time was added to draw him forth. But Mr. Maybold made no stir. "A bad sign!" said old William, shaking his head. However, at that same instant a musical voice was heard exclaiming from inner depths of bedclothes--"Thanks, villagers!" "What did he say?" asked Bowman, who was rather dull of hearing. Bowman's voice, being therefore loud, had been heard by the vicar within. "I said, 'Thanks, villagers!'" cried the vicar again. "Oh, we didn't hear 'ee the first time!" cried Bowman. "Now don't for heaven's sake spoil the young man's temper by answering like that!" said the tranter. "You won't do that, my friends!" the vicar shouted. "Well to be sure, what ears!" said Mr. Penny in a whisper. "Beats any horse or dog in the parish, and depend upon't, that's a sign he's a proper clever chap." "We shall see that in time," said the tranter. Old William, in his gratitude for such thanks from a comparatively new inhabitant, was anxious to play all the tunes over again; but renounced his desire on being reminded by Reuben that it would be best to leave well alone. "Now putting two and two together," the tranter continued, as they went their way over the hill, and across to the last remaining houses; "that is, in the form of that young female vision we zeed just now, and this young tenor-voiced parson, my belief is she'll wind en round her finger, and twist the pore young feller about like the figure of 8--that she will so, my sonnies." CHAPTER VI: CHRISTMAS MORNING The choir at last reached their beds, and slept like the rest of the parish. Dick's slumbers, through the three or four hours remaining for rest, were disturbed and slight; an exhaustive variation upon the incidents that had passed that night in connection with the school-window going on in his brain every moment of the time. In the morning, do what he would--go upstairs, downstairs, out of doors, speak of the wind and weather, or what not--he could not refrain from an unceasing renewal, in imagination, of that interesting enactment. Tilted on the edge of one foot he stood beside the fireplace, watching his mother grilling rashers; but there was nothing in grilling, he thought, unless the Vision grilled. The limp rasher hung down between the bars of the gridiron like a cat in a child's arms; but there was nothing in similes, unless She uttered them. He looked at the daylight shadows of a yellow hue, dancing with the firelight shadows in blue on the whitewashed chimney corner, but there was nothing in shadows. "Perhaps the new young wom--sch--Miss Fancy Day will sing in church with us this morning," he said. The tranter looked a long time before he replied, "I fancy she will; and yet I fancy she won't." Dick implied that such a remark was rather to be tolerated than admired; though deliberateness in speech was known to have, as a rule, more to do with the machinery of the tranter's throat than with the matter enunciated. They made preparations for going to church as usual; Dick with extreme alacrity, though he would not definitely consider why he was so religious. His wonderful nicety in brushing and cleaning his best light boots had features which elevated it to the rank of an art. Every particle and speck of last week's mud was scraped and brushed from toe and heel; new blacking from the packet was carefully mixed and made use of, regardless of expense. A coat was laid on and polished; then another coat for increased blackness; and lastly a third, to give the perfect and mirror-like jet which the hoped-for rencounter demanded. It being Christmas-day, the tranter prepared himself with Sunday particularity. Loud sousing and snorting noises were heard to proceed from a tub in the back quarters of the dwelling, proclaiming that he was there performing his great Sunday wash, lasting half-an-hour, to which his washings on working-day mornings were mere flashes in the pan. Vanishing into the outhouse with a large brown towel, and the above-named bubblings and snortings being carried on for about twenty minutes, the tranter would appear round the edge of the door, smelling like a summer fog, and looking as if he had just narrowly escaped a watery grave with the loss of much of his clothes, having since been weeping bitterly till his eyes were red; a crystal drop of water hanging ornamentally at the bottom of each ear, one at the tip of his nose, and others in the form of spangles about his hair. After a great deal of crunching upon the sanded stone floor by the feet of father, son, and grandson as they moved to and fro in these preparations, the bass-viol and fiddles were taken from their nook, and the strings examined and screwed a little above concert-pitch, that they might keep their tone when the service began, to obviate the awkward contingency of having to retune them at the back of the gallery during a cough, sneeze, or amen--an inconvenience which had been known to arise in damp wintry weather. The three left the door and paced down Mellstock-lane and across the ewe- lease, bearing under their arms the instruments in faded green-baize bags, and old brown music-books in their hands; Dick continually finding himself in advance of the other two, and the tranter moving on with toes turned outwards to an enormous angle. At the foot of an incline the church became visible through the north gate, or 'church hatch,' as it was called here. Seven agile figures in a clump were observable beyond, which proved to be the choristers waiting; sitting on an altar-tomb to pass the time, and letting their heels dangle against it. The musicians being now in sight, the youthful party scampered off and rattled up the old wooden stairs of the gallery like a regiment of cavalry; the other boys of the parish waiting outside and observing birds, cats, and other creatures till the vicar entered, when they suddenly subsided into sober church-goers, and passed down the aisle with echoing heels. The gallery of Mellstock Church had a status and sentiment of its own. A stranger there was regarded with a feeling altogether differing from that of the congregation below towards him. Banished from the nave as an intruder whom no originality could make interesting, he was received above as a curiosity that no unfitness could render dull. The gallery, too, looked down upon and knew the habits of the nave to its remotest peculiarity, and had an extensive stock of exclusive information about it; whilst the nave knew nothing of the gallery folk, as gallery folk, beyond their loud-sounding minims and chest notes. Such topics as that the clerk was always chewing tobacco except at the moment of crying amen; that he had a dust-hole in his pew; that during the sermon certain young daughters of the village had left off caring to read anything so mild as the marriage service for some years, and now regularly studied the one which chronologically follows it; that a pair of lovers touched fingers through a knot-hole between their pews in the manner ordained by their great exemplars, Pyramus and Thisbe; that Mrs. Ledlow, the farmer's wife, counted her money and reckoned her week's marketing expenses during the first lesson--all news to those below--were stale subjects here. Old William sat in the centre of the front row, his violoncello between his knees and two singers on each hand. Behind him, on the left, came the treble singers and Dick; and on the right the tranter and the tenors. Farther back was old Mail with the altos and supernumeraries. But before they had taken their places, and whilst they were standing in a circle at the back of the gallery practising a psalm or two, Dick cast his eyes over his grandfather's shoulder, and saw the vision of the past night enter the porch-door as methodically as if she had never been a vision at all. A new atmosphere seemed suddenly to be puffed into the ancient edifice by her movement, which made Dick's body and soul tingle with novel sensations. Directed by Shiner, the churchwarden, she proceeded to the small aisle on the north side of the chancel, a spot now allotted to a throng of Sunday-school girls, and distinctly visible from the gallery-front by looking under the curve of the furthermost arch on that side. Before this moment the church had seemed comparatively empty--now it was thronged; and as Miss Fancy rose from her knees and looked around her for a permanent place in which to deposit herself--finally choosing the remotest corner--Dick began to breathe more freely the warm new air she had brought with her; to feel rushings of blood, and to have impressions that there was a tie between her and himself visible to all the congregation. Ever afterwards the young man could recollect individually each part of the service of that bright Christmas morning, and the trifling occurrences which took place as its minutes slowly drew along; the duties of that day dividing themselves by a complete line from the services of other times. The tunes they that morning essayed remained with him for years, apart from all others; also the text; also the appearance of the layer of dust upon the capitals of the piers; that the holly-bough in the chancel archway was hung a little out of the centre--all the ideas, in short, that creep into the mind when reason is only exercising its lowest activity through the eye. By chance or by fate, another young man who attended Mellstock Church on that Christmas morning had towards the end of the service the same instinctive perception of an interesting presence, in the shape of the same bright maiden, though his emotion reached a far less developed stage. And there was this difference, too, that the person in question was surprised at his condition, and sedulously endeavoured to reduce himself to his normal state of mind. He was the young vicar, Mr. Maybold. The music on Christmas mornings was frequently below the standard of church-performances at other times. The boys were sleepy from the heavy exertions of the night; the men were slightly wearied; and now, in addition to these constant reasons, there was a dampness in the atmosphere that still further aggravated the evil. Their strings, from the recent long exposure to the night air, rose whole semitones, and snapped with a loud twang at the most silent moment; which necessitated more retiring than ever to the back of the gallery, and made the gallery throats quite husky with the quantity of coughing and hemming required for tuning in. The vicar looked cross. When the singing was in progress there was suddenly discovered to be a strong and shrill reinforcement from some point, ultimately found to be the school-girls' aisle. At every attempt it grew bolder and more distinct. At the third time of singing, these intrusive feminine voices were as mighty as those of the regular singers; in fact, the flood of sound from this quarter assumed such an individuality, that it had a time, a key, almost a tune of its own, surging upwards when the gallery plunged downwards, and the reverse. Now this had never happened before within the memory of man. The girls, like the rest of the congregation, had always been humble and respectful followers of the gallery; singing at sixes and sevens if without gallery leaders; never interfering with the ordinances of these practised artists--having no will, union, power, or proclivity except it was given them from the established choir enthroned above them. A good deal of desperation became noticeable in the gallery throats and strings, which continued throughout the musical portion of the service. Directly the fiddles were laid down, Mr. Penny's spectacles put in their sheath, and the text had been given out, an indignant whispering began. "Did ye hear that, souls?" Mr. Penny said, in a groaning breath. "Brazen-faced hussies!" said Bowman. "True; why, they were every note as loud as we, fiddles and all, if not louder!" "Fiddles and all!" echoed Bowman bitterly. "Shall anything saucier be found than united 'ooman?" Mr. Spinks murmured. "What I want to know is," said the tranter (as if he knew already, but that civilization required the form of words), "what business people have to tell maidens to sing like that when they don't sit in a gallery, and never have entered one in their lives? That's the question, my sonnies." "'Tis the gallery have got to sing, all the world knows," said Mr. Penny. "Why, souls, what's the use o' the ancients spending scores of pounds to build galleries if people down in the lowest depths of the church sing like that at a moment's notice?" "Really, I think we useless ones had better march out of church, fiddles and all!" said Mr. Spinks, with a laugh which, to a stranger, would have sounded mild and real. Only the initiated body of men he addressed could understand the horrible bitterness of irony that lurked under the quiet words 'useless ones,' and the ghastliness of the laughter apparently so natural. "Never mind! Let 'em sing too--'twill make it all the louder--hee, hee!" said Leaf. "Thomas Leaf, Thomas Leaf! Where have you lived all your life?" said grandfather William sternly. The quailing Leaf tried to look as if he had lived nowhere at all. "When all's said and done, my sonnies," Reuben said, "there'd have been no real harm in their singing if they had let nobody hear 'em, and only jined in now and then." "None at all," said Mr. Penny. "But though I don't wish to accuse people wrongfully, I'd say before my lord judge that I could hear every note o' that last psalm come from 'em as much as from us--every note as if 'twas their own." "Know it! ah, I should think I did know it!" Mr. Spinks was heard to observe at this moment, without reference to his fellow players--shaking his head at some idea he seemed to see floating before him, and smiling as if he were attending a funeral at the time. "Ah, do I or don't I know it!" No one said "Know what?" because all were aware from experience that what he knew would declare itself in process of time. "I could fancy last night that we should have some trouble wi' that young man," said the tranter, pending the continuance of Spinks's speech, and looking towards the unconscious Mr. Maybold in the pulpit. "I fancy," said old William, rather severely, "I fancy there's too much whispering going on to be of any spiritual use to gentle or simple." Then folding his lips and concentrating his glance on the vicar, he implied that none but the ignorant would speak again; and accordingly there was silence in the gallery, Mr. Spinks's telling speech remaining for ever unspoken. Dick had said nothing, and the tranter little, on this episode of the morning; for Mrs. Dewy at breakfast expressed it as her intention to invite the youthful leader of the culprits to the small party it was customary with them to have on Christmas night--a piece of knowledge which had given a particular brightness to Dick's reflections since he had received it. And in the tranter's slightly-cynical nature, party feeling was weaker than in the other members of the choir, though friendliness and faithful partnership still sustained in him a hearty earnestness on their account. CHAPTER VII: THE TRANTER'S PARTY During the afternoon unusual activity was seen to prevail about the precincts of tranter Dewy's house. The flagstone floor was swept of dust, and a sprinkling of the finest yellow sand from the innermost stratum of the adjoining sand-pit lightly scattered thereupon. Then were produced large knives and forks, which had been shrouded in darkness and grease since the last occasion of the kind, and bearing upon their sides, "Shear-steel, warranted," in such emphatic letters of assurance, that the warranter's name was not required as further proof, and not given. The key was left in the tap of the cider-barrel, instead of being carried in a pocket. And finally the tranter had to stand up in the room and let his wife wheel him round like a turnstile, to see if anything discreditable was visible in his appearance. "Stand still till I've been for the scissors," said Mrs. Dewy. The tranter stood as still as a sentinel at the challenge. The only repairs necessary were a trimming of one or two whiskers that had extended beyond the general contour of the mass; a like trimming of a slightly-frayed edge visible on his shirt-collar; and a final tug at a grey hair--to all of which operations he submitted in resigned silence, except the last, which produced a mild "Come, come, Ann," by way of expostulation. "Really, Reuben, 'tis quite a disgrace to see such a man," said Mrs. Dewy, with the severity justifiable in a long-tried companion, giving him another turn round, and picking several of Smiler's hairs from the shoulder of his coat. Reuben's thoughts seemed engaged elsewhere, and he yawned. "And the collar of your coat is a shame to behold--so plastered with dirt, or dust, or grease, or something. Why, wherever could you have got it?" "'Tis my warm nater in summer-time, I suppose. I always did get in such a heat when I bustle about." "Ay, the Dewys always were such a coarse-skinned family. There's your brother Bob just as bad--as fat as a porpoise--wi' his low, mean, 'How'st do, Ann?' whenever he meets me. I'd 'How'st do' him indeed! If the sun only shines out a minute, there be you all streaming in the face--I never see!" "If I be hot week-days, I must be hot Sundays." "If any of the girls should turn after their father 'twill be a bad look- out for 'em, poor things! None of my family were sich vulgar sweaters, not one of 'em. But, Lord-a-mercy, the Dewys! I don't know how ever I cam' into such a family!" "Your woman's weakness when I asked ye to jine us. That's how it was I suppose." But the tranter appeared to have heard some such words from his wife before, and hence his answer had not the energy it might have shown if the inquiry had possessed the charm of novelty. "You never did look so well in a pair o' trousers as in them," she continued in the same unimpassioned voice, so that the unfriendly criticism of the Dewy family seemed to have been more normal than spontaneous. "Such a cheap pair as 'twas too. As big as any man could wish to have, and lined inside, and double-lined in the lower parts, and an extra piece of stiffening at the bottom. And 'tis a nice high cut that comes up right under your armpits, and there's enough turned down inside the seams to make half a pair more, besides a piece of cloth left that will make an honest waistcoat--all by my contriving in buying the stuff at a bargain, and having it made up under my eye. It only shows what may be done by taking a little trouble, and not going straight to the rascally tailors." The discourse was cut short by the sudden appearance of Charley on the scene, with a face and hands of hideous blackness, and a nose like a guttering candle. Why, on that particularly cleanly afternoon, he should have discovered that the chimney-crook and chain from which the hams were suspended should have possessed more merits and general interest as playthings than any other articles in the house, is a question for nursing mothers to decide. However, the humour seemed to lie in the result being, as has been seen, that any given player with these articles was in the long-run daubed with soot. The last that was seen of Charley by daylight after this piece of ingenuity was when in the act of vanishing from his father's presence round the corner of the house--looking back over his shoulder with an expression of great sin on his face, like Cain as the Outcast in Bible pictures. * * * * * The guests had all assembled, and the tranter's party had reached that degree of development which accords with ten o'clock P.M. in rural assemblies. At that hour the sound of a fiddle in process of tuning was heard from the inner pantry. "That's Dick," said the tranter. "That lad's crazy for a jig." "Dick! Now I cannot--really, I cannot have any dancing at all till Christmas-day is out," said old William emphatically. "When the clock ha' done striking twelve, dance as much as ye like." "Well, I must say there's reason in that, William," said Mrs. Penny. "If you do have a party on Christmas-night, 'tis only fair and honourable to the sky-folk to have it a sit-still party. Jigging parties be all very well on the Devil's holidays; but a jigging party looks suspicious now. O yes; stop till the clock strikes, young folk--so say I." It happened that some warm mead accidentally got into Mr. Spinks's head about this time. "Dancing," he said, "is a most strengthening, livening, and courting movement, 'specially with a little beverage added! And dancing is good. But why disturb what is ordained, Richard and Reuben, and the company zhinerally? Why, I ask, as far as that do go?" "Then nothing till after twelve," said William. Though Reuben and his wife ruled on social points, religious questions were mostly disposed of by the old man, whose firmness on this head quite counterbalanced a certain weakness in his handling of domestic matters. The hopes of the younger members of the household were therefore relegated to a distance of one hour and three-quarters--a result that took visible shape in them by a remote and listless look about the eyes--the singing of songs being permitted in the interim. At five minutes to twelve the soft tuning was again heard in the back quarters; and when at length the clock had whizzed forth the last stroke, Dick appeared ready primed, and the instruments were boldly handled; old William very readily taking the bass-viol from its accustomed nail, and touching the strings as irreligiously as could be desired. The country-dance called the 'Triumph, or Follow my Lover,' was the figure with which they opened. The tranter took for his partner Mrs. Penny, and Mrs. Dewy was chosen by Mr. Penny, who made so much of his limited height by a judicious carriage of the head, straightening of the back, and important flashes of his spectacle-glasses, that he seemed almost as tall as the tranter. Mr. Shiner, age about thirty-five, farmer and church-warden, a character principally composed of a crimson stare, vigorous breath, and a watch-chain, with a mouth hanging on a dark smile but never smiling, had come quite willingly to the party, and showed a wondrous obliviousness of all his antics on the previous night. But the comely, slender, prettily-dressed prize Fancy Day fell to Dick's lot, in spite of some private machinations of the farmer, for the reason that Mr. Shiner, as a richer man, had shown too much assurance in asking the favour, whilst Dick had been duly courteous. We gain a good view of our heroine as she advances to her place in the ladies' line. She belonged to the taller division of middle height. Flexibility was her first characteristic, by which she appeared to enjoy the most easeful rest when she was in gliding motion. Her dark eyes--arched by brows of so keen, slender, and soft a curve, that they resembled nothing so much as two slurs in music--showed primarily a bright sparkle each. This was softened by a frequent thoughtfulness, yet not so frequent as to do away, for more than a few minutes at a time, with a certain coquettishness; which in its turn was never so decided as to banish honesty. Her lips imitated her brows in their clearly-cut outline and softness of bend; and her nose was well shaped--which is saying a great deal, when it is remembered that there are a hundred pretty mouths and eyes for one pretty nose. Add to this, plentiful knots of dark-brown hair, a gauzy dress of white, with blue facings; and the slightest idea may be gained of the young maiden who showed, amidst the rest of the dancing-ladies, like a flower among vegetables. And so the dance proceeded. Mr. Shiner, according to the interesting rule laid down, deserted his own partner, and made off down the middle with this fair one of Dick's--the pair appearing from the top of the room like two persons tripping down a lane to be married. Dick trotted behind with what was intended to be a look of composure, but which was, in fact, a rather silly expression of feature--implying, with too much earnestness, that such an elopement could not be tolerated. Then they turned and came back, when Dick grew more rigid around his mouth, and blushed with ingenuous ardour as he joined hands with the rival and formed the arch over his lady's head; which presumably gave the figure its name; relinquishing her again at setting to partners, when Mr. Shiner's new chain quivered in every link, and all the loose flesh upon the tranter--who here came into action again--shook like jelly. Mrs. Penny, being always rather concerned for her personal safety when she danced with the tranter, fixed her face to a chronic smile of timidity the whole time it lasted--a peculiarity which filled her features with wrinkles, and reduced her eyes to little straight lines like hyphens, as she jigged up and down opposite him; repeating in her own person not only his proper movements, but also the minor flourishes which the richness of the tranter's imagination led him to introduce from time to time--an imitation which had about it something of slavish obedience, not unmixed with fear. The ear-rings of the ladies now flung themselves wildly about, turning violent summersaults, banging this way and that, and then swinging quietly against the ears sustaining them. Mrs. Crumpler--a heavy woman, who, for some reason which nobody ever thought worth inquiry, danced in a clean apron--moved so smoothly through the figure that her feet were never seen; conveying to imaginative minds the idea that she rolled on castors. Minute after minute glided by, and the party reached the period when ladies' back-hair begins to look forgotten and dissipated; when a perceptible dampness makes itself apparent upon the faces even of delicate girls--a ghastly dew having for some time rained from the features of their masculine partners; when skirts begin to be torn out of their gathers; when elderly people, who have stood up to please their juniors, begin to feel sundry small tremblings in the region of the knees, and to wish the interminable dance was at Jericho; when (at country parties of the thorough sort) waistcoats begin to be unbuttoned, and when the fiddlers' chairs have been wriggled, by the frantic bowing of their occupiers, to a distance of about two feet from where they originally stood. Fancy was dancing with Mr. Shiner. Dick knew that Fancy, by the law of good manners, was bound to dance as pleasantly with one partner as with another; yet he could not help suggesting to himself that she need not have put quite so much spirit into her steps, nor smiled quite so frequently whilst in the farmer's hands. "I'm afraid you didn't cast off," said Dick mildly to Mr. Shiner, before the latter man's watch-chain had done vibrating from a recent whirl. Fancy made a motion of accepting the correction; but her partner took no notice, and proceeded with the next movement, with an affectionate bend towards her. "That Shiner's too fond of her," the young man said to himself as he watched them. They came to the top again, Fancy smiling warmly towards her partner, and went to their places. "Mr. Shiner, you didn't cast off," said Dick, for want of something else to demolish him with; casting off himself, and being put out at the farmer's irregularity. "Perhaps I sha'n't cast off for any man," said Mr. Shiner. "I think you ought to, sir." Dick's partner, a young lady of the name of Lizzy--called Lizz for short--tried to mollify. "I can't say that I myself have much feeling for casting off," she said. "Nor I," said Mrs. Penny, following up the argument, "especially if a friend and neighbour is set against it. Not but that 'tis a terrible tasty thing in good hands and well done; yes, indeed, so say I." "All I meant was," said Dick, rather sorry that he had spoken correctingly to a guest, "that 'tis in the dance; and a man has hardly any right to hack and mangle what was ordained by the regular dance-maker, who, I daresay, got his living by making 'em, and thought of nothing else all his life." "I don't like casting off: then very well; I cast off for no dance-maker that ever lived." Dick now appeared to be doing mental arithmetic, the act being really an effort to present to himself, in an abstract form, how far an argument with a formidable rival ought to be carried, when that rival was his mother's guest. The dead-lock was put an end to by the stamping arrival up the middle of the tranter, who, despising minutiae on principle, started a theme of his own. "I assure you, neighbours," he said, "the heat of my frame no tongue can tell!" He looked around and endeavoured to give, by a forcible gaze of self-sympathy, some faint idea of the truth. Mrs. Dewy formed one of the next couple. "Yes," she said, in an auxiliary tone, "Reuben always was such a hot man." Mrs. Penny implied the species of sympathy that such a class of affliction required, by trying to smile and to look grieved at the same time. "If he only walk round the garden of a Sunday morning, his shirt-collar is as limp as no starch at all," continued Mrs. Dewy, her countenance lapsing parenthetically into a housewifely expression of concern at the reminiscence. "Come, come, you women-folk; 'tis hands across--come, come!" said the tranter; and the conversation ceased for the present. CHAPTER VIII: THEY DANCE MORE WILDLY Dick had at length secured Fancy for that most delightful of country-dances, opening with six-hands-round. "Before we begin," said the tranter, "my proposal is, that 'twould be a right and proper plan for every mortal man in the dance to pull off his jacket, considering the heat." "Such low notions as you have, Reuben! Nothing but strip will go down with you when you are a-dancing. Such a hot man as he is!" "Well, now, look here, my sonnies," he argued to his wife, whom he often addressed in the plural masculine for economy of epithet merely; "I don't see that. You dance and get hot as fire; therefore you lighten your clothes. Isn't that nature and reason for gentle and simple? If I strip by myself and not necessary, 'tis rather pot-housey I own; but if we stout chaps strip one and all, why, 'tis the native manners of the country, which no man can gainsay? Hey--what did you say, my sonnies?" "Strip we will!" said the three other heavy men who were in the dance; and their coats were accordingly taken off and hung in the passage, whence the four sufferers from heat soon reappeared, marching in close column, with flapping shirt-sleeves, and having, as common to them all, a general glance of being now a match for any man or dancer in England or Ireland. Dick, fearing to lose ground in Fancy's good opinion, retained his coat like the rest of the thinner men; and Mr. Shiner did the same from superior knowledge. And now a further phase of revelry had disclosed itself. It was the time of night when a guest may write his name in the dust upon the tables and chairs, and a bluish mist pervades the atmosphere, becoming a distinct halo round the candles; when people's nostrils, wrinkles, and crevices in general, seem to be getting gradually plastered up; when the very fiddlers as well as the dancers get red in the face, the dancers having advanced further still towards incandescence, and entered the cadaverous phase; the fiddlers no longer sit down, but kick back their chairs and saw madly at the strings, with legs firmly spread and eyes closed, regardless of the visible world. Again and again did Dick share his Love's hand with another man, and wheel round; then, more delightfully, promenade in a circle with her all to himself, his arm holding her waist more firmly each time, and his elbow getting further and further behind her back, till the distance reached was rather noticeable; and, most blissful, swinging to places shoulder to shoulder, her breath curling round his neck like a summer zephyr that had strayed from its proper date. Threading the couples one by one they reached the bottom, when there arose in Dick's mind a minor misery lest the tune should end before they could work their way to the top again, and have anew the same exciting run down through. Dick's feelings on actually reaching the top in spite of his doubts were supplemented by a mortal fear that the fiddling might even stop at this supreme moment; which prompted him to convey a stealthy whisper to the far-gone musicians, to the effect that they were not to leave off till he and his partner had reached the bottom of the dance once more, which remark was replied to by the nearest of those convulsed and quivering men by a private nod to the anxious young man between two semiquavers of the tune, and a simultaneous "All right, ay, ay," without opening the eyes. Fancy was now held so closely that Dick and she were practically one person. The room became to Dick like a picture in a dream; all that he could remember of it afterwards being the look of the fiddlers going to sleep, as humming-tops sleep, by increasing their motion and hum, together with the figures of grandfather James and old Simon Crumpler sitting by the chimney-corner, talking and nodding in dumb-show, and beating the air to their emphatic sentences like people near a threshing machine. The dance ended. "Piph-h-h-h!" said tranter Dewy, blowing out his breath in the very finest stream of vapour that a man's lips could form. "A regular tightener, that one, sonnies!" He wiped his forehead, and went to the cider and ale mugs on the table. "Well!" said Mrs. Penny, flopping into a chair, "my heart haven't been in such a thumping state of uproar since I used to sit up on old Midsummer- eves to see who my husband was going to be." "And that's getting on for a good few years ago now, from what I've heard you tell," said the tranter, without lifting his eyes from the cup he was filling. Being now engaged in the business of handing round refreshments, he was warranted in keeping his coat off still, though the other heavy men had resumed theirs. "And a thing I never expected would come to pass, if you'll believe me, came to pass then," continued Mrs. Penny. "Ah, the first spirit ever I see on a Midsummer-eve was a puzzle to me when he appeared, a hard puzzle, so say I!" "So I should have fancied," said Elias Spinks. "Yes," said Mrs. Penny, throwing her glance into past times, and talking on in a running tone of complacent abstraction, as if a listener were not a necessity. "Yes; never was I in such a taking as on that Midsummer- eve! I sat up, quite determined to see if John Wildway was going to marry me or no. I put the bread-and-cheese and beer quite ready, as the witch's book ordered, and I opened the door, and I waited till the clock struck twelve, my nerves all alive and so strained that I could feel every one of 'em twitching like bell-wires. Yes, sure! and when the clock had struck, lo and behold, I could see through the door a little small man in the lane wi' a shoemaker's apron on." Here Mr. Penny stealthily enlarged himself half an inch. "Now, John Wildway," Mrs. Penny continued, "who courted me at that time, was a shoemaker, you see, but he was a very fair-sized man, and I couldn't believe that any such a little small man had anything to do wi' me, as anybody might. But on he came, and crossed the threshold--not John, but actually the same little small man in the shoemaker's apron--" "You needn't be so mighty particular about little and small!" said her husband. "In he walks, and down he sits, and O my goodness me, didn't I flee upstairs, body and soul hardly hanging together! Well, to cut a long story short, by-long and by-late, John Wildway and I had a miff and parted; and lo and behold, the coming man came! Penny asked me if I'd go snacks with him, and afore I knew what I was about a'most, the thing was done." "I've fancied you never knew better in your life; but I mid be mistaken," said Mr. Penny in a murmur. After Mrs. Penny had spoken, there being no new occupation for her eyes, she still let them stay idling on the past scenes just related, which were apparently visible to her in the centre of the room. Mr. Penny's remark received no reply. During this discourse the tranter and his wife might have been observed standing in an unobtrusive corner, in mysterious closeness to each other, a just perceptible current of intelligence passing from each to each, which had apparently no relation whatever to the conversation of their guests, but much to their sustenance. A conclusion of some kind having at length been drawn, the palpable confederacy of man and wife was once more obliterated, the tranter marching off into the pantry, humming a tune that he couldn't quite recollect, and then breaking into the words of a song of which he could remember about one line and a quarter. Mrs. Dewy spoke a few words about preparations for a bit of supper. That elder portion of the company which loved eating and drinking put on a look to signify that till this moment they had quite forgotten that it was customary to expect suppers on these occasions; going even further than this politeness of feature, and starting irrelevant subjects, the exceeding flatness and forced tone of which rather betrayed their object. The younger members said they were quite hungry, and that supper would be delightful though it was so late. Good luck attended Dick's love-passes during the meal. He sat next Fancy, and had the thrilling pleasure of using permanently a glass which had been taken by Fancy in mistake; of letting the outer edge of the sole of his boot touch the lower verge of her skirt; and to add to these delights the cat, which had lain unobserved in her lap for several minutes, crept across into his own, touching him with fur that had touched her hand a moment before. There were, besides, some little pleasures in the shape of helping her to vegetable she didn't want, and when it had nearly alighted on her plate taking it across for his own use, on the plea of waste not, want not. He also, from time to time, sipped sweet sly glances at her profile; noticing the set of her head, the curve of her throat, and other artistic properties of the lively goddess, who the while kept up a rather free, not to say too free, conversation with Mr. Shiner sitting opposite; which, after some uneasy criticism, and much shifting of argument backwards and forwards in Dick's mind, he decided not to consider of alarming significance. "A new music greets our ears now," said Miss Fancy, alluding, with the sharpness that her position as village sharpener demanded, to the contrast between the rattle of knives and forks and the late notes of the fiddlers. "Ay; and I don't know but what 'tis sweeter in tone when you get above forty," said the tranter; "except, in faith, as regards father there. Never such a mortal man as he for tunes. They do move his soul; don't 'em, father?" The eldest Dewy smiled across from his distant chair an assent to Reuben's remark. "Spaking of being moved in soul," said Mr. Penny, "I shall never forget the first time I heard the 'Dead March.' 'Twas at poor Corp'l Nineman's funeral at Casterbridge. It fairly made my hair creep and fidget about like a vlock of sheep--ah, it did, souls! And when they had done, and the last trump had sounded, and the guns was fired over the dead hero's grave, a' icy-cold drop o' moist sweat hung upon my forehead, and another upon my jawbone. Ah, 'tis a very solemn thing!" "Well, as to father in the corner there," the tranter said, pointing to old William, who was in the act of filling his mouth; "he'd starve to death for music's sake now, as much as when he was a boy-chap of fifteen." "Truly, now," said Michael Mail, clearing the corner of his throat in the manner of a man who meant to be convincing; "there's a friendly tie of some sort between music and eating." He lifted the cup to his mouth, and drank himself gradually backwards from a perpendicular position to a slanting one, during which time his looks performed a circuit from the wall opposite him to the ceiling overhead. Then clearing the other corner of his throat: "Once I was a-setting in the little kitchen of the Dree Mariners at Casterbridge, having a bit of dinner, and a brass band struck up in the street. Such a beautiful band as that were! I was setting eating fried liver and lights, I well can mind--ah, I was! and to save my life, I couldn't help chawing to the tune. Band played six-eight time; six-eight chaws I, willynilly. Band plays common; common time went my teeth among the liver and lights as true as a hair. Beautiful 'twere! Ah, I shall never forget that there band!" "That's as tuneful a thing as ever I heard of," said grandfather James, with the absent gaze which accompanies profound criticism. "I don't like Michael's tuneful stories then," said Mrs. Dewy. "They are quite coarse to a person o' decent taste." Old Michael's mouth twitched here and there, as if he wanted to smile but didn't know where to begin, which gradually settled to an expression that it was not displeasing for a nice woman like the tranter's wife to correct him. "Well, now," said Reuben, with decisive earnestness, "that sort o' coarse touch that's so upsetting to Ann's feelings is to my mind a recommendation; for it do always prove a story to be true. And for the same reason, I like a story with a bad moral. My sonnies, all true stories have a coarse touch or a bad moral, depend upon't. If the story- tellers could ha' got decency and good morals from true stories, who'd ha' troubled to invent parables?" Saying this the tranter arose to fetch a new stock of cider, ale, mead, and home-made wines. Mrs. Dewy sighed, and appended a remark (ostensibly behind her husband's back, though that the words should reach his ears distinctly was understood by both): "Such a man as Dewy is! Nobody do know the trouble I have to keep that man barely respectable. And did you ever hear too--just now at supper-time--talking about 'taties' with Michael in such a work-folk way. Well, 'tis what I was never brought up to! With our family 'twas never less than 'taters,' and very often 'pertatoes' outright; mother was so particular and nice with us girls there was no family in the parish that kept them selves up more than we." The hour of parting came. Fancy could not remain for the night, because she had engaged a woman to wait up for her. She disappeared temporarily from the flagging party of dancers, and then came downstairs wrapped up and looking altogether a different person from whom she had been hitherto, in fact (to Dick's sadness and disappointment), a woman somewhat reserved and of a phlegmatic temperament--nothing left in her of the romping girl that she had seemed but a short quarter-hour before, who had not minded the weight of Dick's hand upon her waist, nor shirked the purlieus of the mistletoe. "What a difference!" thought the young man--hoary cynic pro tem. "What a miserable deceiving difference between the manners of a maid's life at dancing times and at others! Look at this lovely Fancy! Through the whole past evening touchable, squeezeable--even kissable! For whole half- hours I held her so chose to me that not a sheet of paper could have been shipped between us; and I could feel her heart only just outside my own, her life beating on so close to mine, that I was aware of every breath in it. A flit is made upstairs--a hat and a cloak put on--and I no more dare to touch her than--" Thought failed him, and he returned to realities. But this was an endurable misery in comparison with what followed. Mr. Shiner and his watch-chain, taking the intrusive advantage that ardent bachelors who are going homeward along the same road as a pretty young woman always do take of that circumstance, came forward to assure Fancy--with a total disregard of Dick's emotions, and in tones which were certainly not frigid--that he (Shiner) was not the man to go to bed before seeing his Lady Fair safe within her own door--not he, nobody should say he was that;--and that he would not leave her side an inch till the thing was done--drown him if he would. The proposal was assented to by Miss Day, in Dick's foreboding judgment, with one degree--or at any rate, an appreciable fraction of a degree--of warmth beyond that required by a disinterested desire for protection from the dangers of the night. All was over; and Dick surveyed the chair she had last occupied, looking now like a setting from which the gem has been torn. There stood her glass, and the romantic teaspoonful of elder wine at the bottom that she couldn't drink by trying ever so hard, in obedience to the mighty arguments of the tranter (his hand coming down upon her shoulder the while, like a Nasmyth hammer); but the drinker was there no longer. There were the nine or ten pretty little crumbs she had left on her plate; but the eater was no more seen. There seemed a disagreeable closeness of relationship between himself and the members of his family, now that they were left alone again face to face. His father seemed quite offensive for appearing to be in just as high spirits as when the guests were there; and as for grandfather James (who had not yet left), he was quite fiendish in being rather glad they were gone. "Really," said the tranter, in a tone of placid satisfaction, "I've had so little time to attend to myself all the evenen, that I mean to enjoy a quiet meal now! A slice of this here ham--neither too fat nor too lean--so; and then a drop of this vinegar and pickles--there, that's it--and I shall be as fresh as a lark again! And to tell the truth, my sonny, my inside has been as dry as a lime-basket all night." "I like a party very well once in a while," said Mrs. Dewy, leaving off the adorned tones she had been bound to use throughout the evening, and returning to the natural marriage voice; "but, Lord, 'tis such a sight of heavy work next day! What with the dirty plates, and knives and forks, and dust and smother, and bits kicked off your furniture, and I don't know what all, why a body could a'most wish there were no such things as Christmases . . . Ah-h dear!" she yawned, till the clock in the corner had ticked several beats. She cast her eyes round upon the displaced, dust-laden furniture, and sank down overpowered at the sight. "Well, I be getting all right by degrees, thank the Lord for't!" said the tranter cheerfully through a mangled mass of ham and bread, without lifting his eyes from his plate, and chopping away with his knife and fork as if he were felling trees. "Ann, you may as well go on to bed at once, and not bide there making such sleepy faces; you look as long-favoured as a fiddle, upon my life, Ann. There, you must be wearied out, 'tis true. I'll do the doors and draw up the clock; and you go on, or you'll be as white as a sheet to-morrow." "Ay; I don't know whether I shan't or no." The matron passed her hand across her eyes to brush away the film of sleep till she got upstairs. Dick wondered how it was that when people were married they could be so blind to romance; and was quite certain that if he ever took to wife that dear impossible Fancy, he and she would never be so dreadfully practical and undemonstrative of the Passion as his father and mother were. The most extraordinary thing was, that all the fathers and mothers he knew were just as undemonstrative as his own. CHAPTER IX: DICK CALLS AT THE SCHOOL The early days of the year drew on, and Fancy, having spent the holiday weeks at home, returned again to Mellstock. Every spare minute of the week following her return was used by Dick in accidentally passing the schoolhouse in his journeys about the neighbourhood; but not once did she make herself visible. A handkerchief belonging to her had been providentially found by his mother in clearing the rooms the day after that of the dance; and by much contrivance Dick got it handed over to him, to leave with her at any time he should be near the school after her return. But he delayed taking the extreme measure of calling with it lest, had she really no sentiment of interest in him, it might be regarded as a slightly absurd errand, the reason guessed; and the sense of the ludicrous, which was rather keen in her, do his dignity considerable injury in her eyes; and what she thought of him, even apart from the question of her loving, was all the world to him now. But the hour came when the patience of love at twenty-one could endure no longer. One Saturday he approached the school with a mild air of indifference, and had the satisfaction of seeing the object of his quest at the further end of her garden, trying, by the aid of a spade and gloves, to root a bramble that had intruded itself there. He disguised his feelings from some suspicious-looking cottage-windows opposite by endeavouring to appear like a man in a great hurry of business, who wished to leave the handkerchief and have done with such trifling errands. This endeavour signally failed; for on approaching the gate he found it locked to keep the children, who were playing 'cross-dadder' in the front, from running into her private grounds. She did not see him; and he could only think of one thing to be done, which was to shout her name. "Miss Day!" The words were uttered with a jerk and a look meant to imply to the cottages opposite that he was now simply one who liked shouting as a pleasant way of passing his time, without any reference to persons in gardens. The name died away, and the unconscious Miss Day continued digging and pulling as before. He screwed himself up to enduring the cottage-windows yet more stoically, and shouted again. Fancy took no notice whatever. He shouted the third time, with desperate vehemence, turning suddenly about and retiring a little distance, as if it were by no means for his own pleasure that he had come. This time she heard him, came down the garden, and entered the school at the back. Footsteps echoed across the interior, the door opened, and three-quarters of the blooming young schoolmistress's face and figure stood revealed before him; a slice on her left-hand side being cut off by the edge of the door. Having surveyed and recognized him, she came to the gate. At sight of him had the pink of her cheeks increased, lessened, or did it continue to cover its normal area of ground? It was a question meditated several hundreds of times by her visitor in after-hours--the meditation, after wearying involutions, always ending in one way, that it was impossible to say. "Your handkerchief: Miss Day: I called with." He held it out spasmodically and awkwardly. "Mother found it: under a chair." "O, thank you very much for bringing it, Mr. Dewy. I couldn't think where I had dropped it." Now Dick, not being an experienced lover--indeed, never before having been engaged in the practice of love-making at all, except in a small schoolboy way--could not take advantage of the situation; and out came the blunder, which afterwards cost him so many bitter moments and a sleepless night:- "Good morning, Miss Day." "Good morning, Mr. Dewy." The gate was closed; she was gone; and Dick was standing outside, unchanged in his condition from what he had been before he called. Of course the Angel was not to blame--a young woman living alone in a house could not ask him indoors unless she had known him better--he should have kept her outside before floundering into that fatal farewell. He wished that before he called he had realized more fully than he did the pleasure of being about to call; and turned away. PART THE SECOND--SPRING CHAPTER I: PASSING BY THE SCHOOL It followed that, as the spring advanced, Dick walked abroad much more frequently than had hitherto been usual with him, and was continually finding that his nearest way to or from home lay by the road which skirted the garden of the school. The first-fruits of his perseverance were that, on turning the angle on the nineteenth journey by that track, he saw Miss Fancy's figure, clothed in a dark-gray dress, looking from a high open window upon the crown of his hat. The friendly greeting resulting from this rencounter was considered so valuable an elixir that Dick passed still oftener; and by the time he had almost trodden a little path under the fence where never a path was before, he was rewarded with an actual meeting face to face on the open road before her gate. This brought another meeting, and another, Fancy faintly showing by her bearing that it was a pleasure to her of some kind to see him there; but the sort of pleasure she derived, whether exultation at the hope her exceeding fairness inspired, or the true feeling which was alone Dick's concern, he could not anyhow decide, although he meditated on her every little movement for hours after it was made. CHAPTER II: A MEETING OF THE QUIRE It was the evening of a fine spring day. The descending sun appeared as a nebulous blaze of amber light, its outline being lost in cloudy masses hanging round it, like wild locks of hair. The chief members of Mellstock parish choir were standing in a group in front of Mr. Penny's workshop in the lower village. They were all brightly illuminated, and each was backed up by a shadow as long as a steeple; the lowness of the source of light rendering the brims of their hats of no use at all as a protection to the eyes. Mr. Penny's was the last house in that part of the parish, and stood in a hollow by the roadside so that cart-wheels and horses' legs were about level with the sill of his shop-window. This was low and wide, and was open from morning till evening, Mr. Penny himself being invariably seen working inside, like a framed portrait of a shoemaker by some modern Moroni. He sat facing the road, with a boot on his knees and the awl in his hand, only looking up for a moment as he stretched out his arms and bent forward at the pull, when his spectacles flashed in the passer's face with a shine of flat whiteness, and then returned again to the boot as usual. Rows of lasts, small and large, stout and slender, covered the wall which formed the background, in the extreme shadow of which a kind of dummy was seen sitting, in the shape of an apprentice with a string tied round his hair (probably to keep it out of his eyes). He smiled at remarks that floated in from without, but was never known to answer them in Mr. Penny's presence. Outside the window the upper-leather of a Wellington-boot was usually hung, pegged to a board as if to dry. No sign was over his door; in fact--as with old banks and mercantile houses--advertising in any shape was scorned, and it would have been felt as beneath his dignity to paint up, for the benefit of strangers, the name of an establishment whose trade came solely by connection based on personal respect. His visitors now came and stood on the outside of his window, sometimes leaning against the sill, sometimes moving a pace or two backwards and forwards in front of it. They talked with deliberate gesticulations to Mr. Penny, enthroned in the shadow of the interior. "I do like a man to stick to men who be in the same line o' life--o' Sundays, anyway--that I do so." "'Tis like all the doings of folk who don't know what a day's work is, that's what I say." "My belief is the man's not to blame; 'tis she--she's the bitter weed!" "No, not altogether. He's a poor gawk-hammer. Look at his sermon yesterday." "His sermon was well enough, a very good guessable sermon, only he couldn't put it into words and speak it. That's all was the matter wi' the sermon. He hadn't been able to get it past his pen." "Well--ay, the sermon might have been good; for, 'tis true, the sermon of Old Eccl'iastes himself lay in Eccl'iastes's ink-bottle afore he got it out." Mr. Penny, being in the act of drawing the last stitch tight, could afford time to look up and throw in a word at this point. "He's no spouter--that must be said, 'a b'lieve." "'Tis a terrible muddle sometimes with the man, as far as spout do go," said Spinks. "Well, we'll say nothing about that," the tranter answered; "for I don't believe 'twill make a penneth o' difference to we poor martels here or hereafter whether his sermons be good or bad, my sonnies." Mr. Penny made another hole with his awl, pushed in the thread, and looked up and spoke again at the extension of arms. "'Tis his goings-on, souls, that's what it is." He clenched his features for an Herculean addition to the ordinary pull, and continued, "The first thing he done when he came here was to be hot and strong about church business." "True," said Spinks; "that was the very first thing he done." Mr. Penny, having now been offered the ear of the assembly, accepted it, ceased stitching, swallowed an unimportant quantity of air as if it were a pill, and continued: "The next thing he do do is to think about altering the church, until he found 'twould be a matter o' cost and what not, and then not to think no more about it." "True: that was the next thing he done." "And the next thing was to tell the young chaps that they were not on no account to put their hats in the christening font during service." "True." "And then 'twas this, and then 'twas that, and now 'tis--" Words were not forcible enough to conclude the sentence, and Mr. Penny gave a huge pull to signify the concluding word. "Now 'tis to turn us out of the quire neck and crop," said the tranter after an interval of half a minute, not by way of explaining the pause and pull, which had been quite understood, but as a means of keeping the subject well before the meeting. Mrs. Penny came to the door at this point in the discussion. Like all good wives, however much she was inclined to play the Tory to her husband's Whiggism, and vice versa, in times of peace, she coalesced with him heartily enough in time of war. "It must be owned he's not all there," she replied in a general way to the fragments of talk she had heard from indoors. "Far below poor Mr. Grinham" (the late vicar). "Ay, there was this to be said for he, that you were quite sure he'd never come mumbudgeting to see ye, just as you were in the middle of your work, and put you out with his fuss and trouble about ye." "Never. But as for this new Mr. Maybold, though he mid be a very well- intending party in that respect, he's unbearable; for as to sifting your cinders, scrubbing your floors, or emptying your slops, why, you can't do it. I assure you I've not been able to empt them for several days, unless I throw 'em up the chimley or out of winder; for as sure as the sun you meet him at the door, coming to ask how you are, and 'tis such a confusing thing to meet a gentleman at the door when ye are in the mess o' washing." "'Tis only for want of knowing better, poor gentleman," said the tranter. "His meaning's good enough. Ay, your pa'son comes by fate: 'tis heads or tails, like pitch-halfpenny, and no choosing; so we must take en as he is, my sonnies, and thank God he's no worse, I suppose." "I fancy I've seen him look across at Miss Day in a warmer way than Christianity asked for," said Mrs. Penny musingly; "but I don't quite like to say it." "O no; there's nothing in that," said grandfather William. "If there's nothing, we shall see nothing," Mrs. Penny replied, in the tone of a woman who might possibly have private opinions still. "Ah, Mr. Grinham was the man!" said Bowman. "Why, he never troubled us wi' a visit from year's end to year's end. You might go anywhere, do anything: you'd be sure never to see him." "Yes, he was a right sensible pa'son," said Michael. "He never entered our door but once in his life, and that was to tell my poor wife--ay, poor soul, dead and gone now, as we all shall!--that as she was such a' old aged person, and lived so far from the church, he didn't at all expect her to come any more to the service." "And 'a was a very jinerous gentleman about choosing the psalms and hymns o' Sundays. 'Confound ye,' says he, 'blare and scrape what ye will, but don't bother me!'" "And he was a very honourable man in not wanting any of us to come and hear him if we were all on-end for a jaunt or spree, or to bring the babies to be christened if they were inclined to squalling. There's good in a man's not putting a parish to unnecessary trouble." "And there's this here man never letting us have a bit o' peace; but keeping on about being good and upright till 'tis carried to such a pitch as I never see the like afore nor since!" "No sooner had he got here than he found the font wouldn't hold water, as it hadn't for years off and on; and when I told him that Mr. Grinham never minded it, but used to spet upon his vinger and christen 'em just as well, 'a said, 'Good Heavens! Send for a workman immediate. What place have I come to!' Which was no compliment to us, come to that." "Still, for my part," said old William, "though he's arrayed against us, I like the hearty borussnorus ways of the new pa'son." "You, ready to die for the quire," said Bowman reproachfully, "to stick up for the quire's enemy, William!" "Nobody will feel the loss of our church-work so much as I," said the old man firmly; "that you d'all know. I've a-been in the quire man and boy ever since I was a chiel of eleven. But for all that 'tisn't in me to call the man a bad man, because I truly and sincerely believe en to be a good young feller." Some of the youthful sparkle that used to reside there animated William's eye as he uttered the words, and a certain nobility of aspect was also imparted to him by the setting sun, which gave him a Titanic shadow at least thirty feet in length, stretching away to the east in outlines of imposing magnitude, his head finally terminating upon the trunk of a grand old oak-tree. "Mayble's a hearty feller enough," the tranter replied, "and will spak to you be you dirty or be you clane. The first time I met en was in a drong, and though 'a didn't know me no more than the dead, 'a passed the time of day. 'D'ye do?' he said, says he, nodding his head. 'A fine day.' Then the second time I met en was full-buff in town street, when my breeches were tore into a long strent by getting through a copse of thorns and brimbles for a short cut home-along; and not wanting to disgrace the man by spaking in that state, I fixed my eye on the weathercock to let en pass me as a stranger. But no: 'How d'ye do, Reuben?' says he, right hearty, and shook my hand. If I'd been dressed in silver spangles from top to toe, the man couldn't have been civiller." At this moment Dick was seen coming up the village-street, and they turned and watched him. CHAPTER III: A TURN IN THE DISCUSSION "I'm afraid Dick's a lost man," said the tranter. "What?--no!" said Mail, implying by his manner that it was a far commoner thing for his ears to report what was not said than that his judgment should be at fault. "Ay," said the tranter, still gazing at Dick's unconscious advance. "I don't at all like what I see! There's too many o' them looks out of the winder without noticing anything; too much shining of boots; too much peeping round corners; too much looking at the clock; telling about clever things she did till you be sick of it; and then upon a hint to that effect a horrible silence about her. I've walked the path once in my life and know the country, neighbours; and Dick's a lost man!" The tranter turned a quarter round and smiled a smile of miserable satire at the setting new moon, which happened to catch his eye. The others became far too serious at this announcement to allow them to speak; and they still regarded Dick in the distance. "'Twas his mother's fault," the tranter continued, "in asking the young woman to our party last Christmas. When I eyed the blue frock and light heels o' the maid, I had my thoughts directly. 'God bless thee, Dicky my sonny,' I said to myself; 'there's a delusion for thee!'" "They seemed to be rather distant in manner last Sunday, I thought?" Mail tentatively observed, as became one who was not a member of the family. "Ay, that's a part of the zickness. Distance belongs to it, slyness belongs to it, queerest things on earth belongs to it! There, 'tmay as well come early as late s'far as I know. The sooner begun, the sooner over; for come it will." "The question I ask is," said Mr. Spinks, connecting into one thread the two subjects of discourse, as became a man learned in rhetoric, and beating with his hand in a way which signified that the manner rather than the matter of his speech was to be observed, "how did Mr. Maybold know she could play the organ? You know we had it from her own lips, as far as lips go, that she has never, first or last, breathed such a thing to him; much less that she ever would play." In the midst of this puzzle Dick joined the party, and the news which had caused such a convulsion among the ancient musicians was unfolded to him. "Well," he said, blushing at the allusion to Miss Day, "I know by some words of hers that she has a particular wish not to play, because she is a friend of ours; and how the alteration comes, I don't know." "Now, this is my plan," said the tranter, reviving the spirit of the discussion by the infusion of new ideas, as was his custom--"this is my plan; if you don't like it, no harm's done. We all know one another very well, don't we, neighbours?" That they knew one another very well was received as a statement which, though familiar, should not be omitted in introductory speeches. "Then I say this"--and the tranter in his emphasis slapped down his hand on Mr. Spinks's shoulder with a momentum of several pounds, upon which Mr. Spinks tried to look not in the least startled--"I say that we all move down-along straight as a line to Pa'son Mayble's when the clock has gone six to-morrow night. There we one and all stand in the passage, then one or two of us go in and spak to en, man and man; and say, 'Pa'son Mayble, every tradesman d'like to have his own way in his workshop, and Mellstock Church is yours. Instead of turning us out neck and crop, let us stay on till Christmas, and we'll gie way to the young woman, Mr. Mayble, and make no more ado about it. And we shall always be quite willing to touch our hats when we meet ye, Mr. Mayble, just as before.' That sounds very well? Hey?" "Proper well, in faith, Reuben Dewy." "And we won't sit down in his house; 'twould be looking too familiar when only just reconciled?" "No need at all to sit down. Just do our duty man and man, turn round, and march out--he'll think all the more of us for it." "I hardly think Leaf had better go wi' us?" said Michael, turning to Leaf and taking his measure from top to bottom by the eye. "He's so terrible silly that he might ruin the concern." "He don't want to go much; do ye, Thomas Leaf?" said William. "Hee-hee! no; I don't want to. Only a teeny bit!" "I be mortal afeard, Leaf, that you'll never be able to tell how many cuts d'take to sharpen a spar," said Mail. "I never had no head, never! that's how it happened to happen, hee-hee!" They all assented to this, not with any sense of humiliating Leaf by disparaging him after an open confession, but because it was an accepted thing that Leaf didn't in the least mind having no head, that deficiency of his being an unimpassioned matter of parish history. "But I can sing my treble!" continued Thomas Leaf, quite delighted at being called a fool in such a friendly way; "I can sing my treble as well as any maid, or married woman either, and better! And if Jim had lived, I should have had a clever brother! To-morrow is poor Jim's birthday. He'd ha' been twenty-six if he'd lived till to-morrow." "You always seem very sorry for Jim," said old William musingly. "Ah! I do. Such a stay to mother as he'd always ha' been! She'd never have had to work in her old age if he had continued strong, poor Jim!" "What was his age when 'a died?" "Four hours and twenty minutes, poor Jim. 'A was born as might be at night; and 'a didn't last as might be till the morning. No, 'a didn't last. Mother called en Jim on the day that would ha' been his christening day if he had lived; and she's always thinking about en. You see he died so very young." "Well, 'twas rather youthful," said Michael. "Now to my mind that woman is very romantical on the matter o' children?" said the tranter, his eye sweeping his audience. "Ah, well she mid be," said Leaf. "She had twelve regular one after another, and they all, except myself, died very young; either before they was born or just afterwards." "Pore feller, too. I suppose th'st want to come wi' us?" the tranter murmured. "Well, Leaf, you shall come wi' us as yours is such a melancholy family," said old William rather sadly. "I never see such a melancholy family as that afore in my life," said Reuben. "There's Leaf's mother, poor woman! Every morning I see her eyes mooning out through the panes of glass like a pot-sick winder-flower; and as Leaf sings a very high treble, and we don't know what we should do without en for upper G, we'll let en come as a trate, poor feller." "Ay, we'll let en come, 'a b'lieve," said Mr. Penny, looking up, as the pull happened to be at that moment. "Now," continued the tranter, dispersing by a new tone of voice these digressions about Leaf; "as to going to see the pa'son, one of us might call and ask en his meaning, and 'twould be just as well done; but it will add a bit of flourish to the cause if the quire waits on him as a body. Then the great thing to mind is, not for any of our fellers to be nervous; so before starting we'll one and all come to my house and have a rasher of bacon; then every man-jack het a pint of cider into his inside; then we'll warm up an extra drop wi' some mead and a bit of ginger; every one take a thimbleful--just a glimmer of a drop, mind ye, no more, to finish off his inner man--and march off to Pa'son Mayble. Why, sonnies, a man's not himself till he is fortified wi' a bit and a drop? We shall be able to look any gentleman in the face then without shrink or shame." Mail recovered from a deep meditation and downward glance into the earth in time to give a cordial approval to this line of action, and the meeting adjourned. CHAPTER IV: THE INTERVIEW WITH THE VICAR At six o'clock the next day, the whole body of men in the choir emerged from the tranter's door, and advanced with a firm step down the lane. This dignity of march gradually became obliterated as they went on, and by the time they reached the hill behind the vicarage a faint resemblance to a flock of sheep might have been discerned in the venerable party. A word from the tranter, however, set them right again; and as they descended the hill, the regular tramp, tramp, tramp of the united feet was clearly audible from the vicarage garden. At the opening of the gate there was another short interval of irregular shuffling, caused by a rather peculiar habit the gate had, when swung open quickly, of striking against the bank and slamming back into the opener's face. "Now keep step again, will ye?" said the tranter. "It looks better, and more becomes the high class of arrant which has brought us here." Thus they advanced to the door. At Reuben's ring the more modest of the group turned aside, adjusted their hats, and looked critically at any shrub that happened to lie in the line of vision; endeavouring thus to give a person who chanced to look out of the windows the impression that their request, whatever it was going to be, was rather a casual thought occurring whilst they were inspecting the vicar's shrubbery and grass-plot than a predetermined thing. The tranter, who, coming frequently to the vicarage with luggage, coals, firewood, etc., had none of the awe for its precincts that filled the breasts of most of the others, fixed his eyes firmly on the knocker during this interval of waiting. The knocker having no characteristic worthy of notice, he relinquished it for a knot in one of the door-panels, and studied the winding lines of the grain. "O, sir, please, here's Tranter Dewy, and old William Dewy, and young Richard Dewy, O, and all the quire too, sir, except the boys, a-come to see you!" said Mr. Maybold's maid-servant to Mr. Maybold, the pupils of her eyes dilating like circles in a pond. "All the choir?" said the astonished vicar (who may be shortly described as a good-looking young man with courageous eyes, timid mouth, and neutral nose), abandoning his writing and looking at his parlour-maid after speaking, like a man who fancied he had seen her face before but couldn't recollect where. "And they looks very firm, and Tranter Dewy do turn neither to the right hand nor to the left, but stares quite straight and solemn with his mind made up!" "O, all the choir," repeated the vicar to himself, trying by that simple device to trot out his thoughts on what the choir could come for. "Yes; every man-jack of 'em, as I be alive!" (The parlour-maid was rather local in manner, having in fact been raised in the same village.) "Really, sir, 'tis thoughted by many in town and country that--" "Town and country!--Heavens, I had no idea that I was public property in this way!" said the vicar, his face acquiring a hue somewhere between that of the rose and the peony. "Well, 'It is thought in town and country that--'" "It is thought that you be going to get it hot and strong!--excusen my incivility, sir." The vicar suddenly recalled to his recollection that he had long ago settled it to be decidedly a mistake to encourage his servant Jane in giving personal opinions. The servant Jane saw by the vicar's face that he recalled this fact to his mind; and removing her forehead from the edge of the door, and rubbing away the indent that edge had made, vanished into the passage as Mr. Maybold remarked, "Show them in, Jane." A few minutes later a shuffling and jostling (reduced to as refined a form as was compatible with the nature of shuffles and jostles) was heard in the passage; then an earnest and prolonged wiping of shoes, conveying the notion that volumes of mud had to be removed; but the roads being so clean that not a particle of dirt appeared on the choir's boots (those of all the elder members being newly oiled, and Dick's brightly polished), this wiping might have been set down simply as a desire to show that respectable men had no wish to take a mean advantage of clean roads for curtailing proper ceremonies. Next there came a powerful whisper from the same quarter:- "Now stand stock-still there, my sonnies, one and all! And don't make no noise; and keep your backs close to the wall, that company may pass in and out easy if they want to without squeezing through ye: and we two are enough to go in." . . . The voice was the tranter's. "I wish I could go in too and see the sight!" said a reedy voice--that of Leaf. "'Tis a pity Leaf is so terrible silly, or else he might," said another. "I never in my life seed a quire go into a study to have it out about the playing and singing," pleaded Leaf; "and I should like to see it just once!" "Very well; we'll let en come in," said the tranter. "You'll be like chips in porridge, {1} Leaf--neither good nor hurt. All right, my sonny, come along;" and immediately himself, old William, and Leaf appeared in the room. "We took the liberty to come and see 'ee, sir," said Reuben, letting his hat hang in his left hand, and touching with his right the brim of an imaginary one on his head. "We've come to see 'ee, sir, man and man, and no offence, I hope?" "None at all," said Mr. Maybold. "This old aged man standing by my side is father; William Dewy by name, sir." "Yes; I see it is," said the vicar, nodding aside to old William, who smiled. "I thought you mightn't know en without his bass-viol," the tranter apologized. "You see, he always wears his best clothes and his bass-viol a-Sundays, and it do make such a difference in a' old man's look." "And who's that young man?" the vicar said. "Tell the pa'son yer name," said the tranter, turning to Leaf, who stood with his elbows nailed back to a bookcase. "Please, Thomas Leaf, your holiness!" said Leaf, trembling. "I hope you'll excuse his looks being so very thin," continued the tranter deprecatingly, turning to the vicar again. "But 'tisn't his fault, poor feller. He's rather silly by nature, and could never get fat; though he's a' excellent treble, and so we keep him on." "I never had no head, sir," said Leaf, eagerly grasping at this opportunity for being forgiven his existence. "Ah, poor young man!" said Mr. Maybold. "Bless you, he don't mind it a bit, if you don't, sir," said the tranter assuringly. "Do ye, Leaf?" "Not I--not a morsel--hee, hee! I was afeard it mightn't please your holiness, sir, that's all." The tranter, finding Leaf get on so very well through his negative qualities, was tempted in a fit of generosity to advance him still higher, by giving him credit for positive ones. "He's very clever for a silly chap, good-now, sir. You never knowed a young feller keep his smock-frocks so clane; very honest too. His ghastly looks is all there is against en, poor feller; but we can't help our looks, you know, sir." "True: we cannot. You live with your mother, I think, Leaf?" The tranter looked at Leaf to express that the most friendly assistant to his tongue could do no more for him now, and that he must be left to his own resources. "Yes, sir: a widder, sir. Ah, if brother Jim had lived she'd have had a clever son to keep her without work!" "Indeed! poor woman. Give her this half-crown. I'll call and see your mother." "Say, 'Thank you, sir,'" the tranter whispered imperatively towards Leaf. "Thank you, sir!" said Leaf. "That's it, then; sit down, Leaf," said Mr. Maybold. "Y-yes, sir!" The tranter cleared his throat after this accidental parenthesis about Leaf, rectified his bodily position, and began his speech. "Mr. Mayble," he said, "I hope you'll excuse my common way, but I always like to look things in the face." Reuben made a point of fixing this sentence in the vicar's mind by gazing hard at him at the conclusion of it, and then out of the window. Mr. Maybold and old William looked in the same direction, apparently under the impression that the things' faces alluded to were there visible. "What I have been thinking"--the tranter implied by this use of the past tense that he was hardly so discourteous as to be positively thinking it then--"is that the quire ought to be gie'd a little time, and not done away wi' till Christmas, as a fair thing between man and man. And, Mr. Mayble, I hope you'll excuse my common way?" "I will, I will. Till Christmas," the vicar murmured, stretching the two words to a great length, as if the distance to Christmas might be measured in that way. "Well, I want you all to understand that I have no personal fault to find, and that I don't wish to change the church music by forcible means, or in a way which should hurt the feelings of any parishioners. Why I have at last spoken definitely on the subject is that a player has been brought under--I may say pressed upon--my notice several times by one of the churchwardens. And as the organ I brought with me is here waiting" (pointing to a cabinet-organ standing in the study), "there is no reason for longer delay." "We made a mistake I suppose then, sir? But we understood the young woman didn't want to play particularly?" The tranter arranged his countenance to signify that he did not want to be inquisitive in the least. "No, nor did she. Nor did I definitely wish her to just yet; for your playing is very good. But, as I said, one of the churchwardens has been so anxious for a change, that, as matters stand, I couldn't consistently refuse my consent." Now for some reason or other, the vicar at this point seemed to have an idea that he had prevaricated; and as an honest vicar, it was a thing he determined not to do. He corrected himself, blushing as he did so, though why he should blush was not known to Reuben. "Understand me rightly," he said: "the church-warden proposed it to me, but I had thought myself of getting--Miss Day to play." "Which churchwarden might that be who proposed her, sir?--excusing my common way." The tranter intimated by his tone that, so far from being inquisitive, he did not even wish to ask a single question. "Mr. Shiner, I believe." "Clk, my sonny!--beg your pardon, sir, that's only a form of words of mine, and slipped out accidental--he nourishes enmity against us for some reason or another; perhaps because we played rather hard upon en Christmas night. Anyhow 'tis certain sure that Mr. Shiner's real love for music of a particular kind isn't his reason. He've no more ear than that chair. But let that be." "I don't think you should conclude that, because Mr. Shiner wants a different music, he has any ill-feeling for you. I myself, I must own, prefer organ-music to any other. I consider it most proper, and feel justified in endeavouring to introduce it; but then, although other music is better, I don't say yours is not good." "Well then, Mr. Mayble, since death's to be, we'll die like men any day you name (excusing my common way)." Mr. Maybold bowed his head. "All we thought was, that for us old ancient singers to be choked off quiet at no time in particular, as now, in the Sundays after Easter, would seem rather mean in the eyes of other parishes, sir. But if we fell glorious with a bit of a flourish at Christmas, we should have a respectable end, and not dwindle away at some nameless paltry second-Sunday-after or Sunday-next-before something, that's got no name of his own." "Yes, yes, that's reasonable; I own it's reasonable." "You see, Mr. Mayble, we've got--do I keep you inconvenient long, sir?" "No, no." "We've got our feelings--father there especially." The tranter, in his earnestness, had advanced his person to within six inches of the vicar's. "Certainly, certainly!" said Mr. Maybold, retreating a little for convenience of seeing. "You are all enthusiastic on the subject, and I am all the more gratified to find you so. A Laodicean lukewarmness is worse than wrongheadedness itself." "Exactly, sir. In fact now, Mr. Mayble," Reuben continued, more impressively, and advancing a little closer still to the vicar, "father there is a perfect figure o' wonder, in the way of being fond of music!" The vicar drew back a little further, the tranter suddenly also standing back a foot or two, to throw open the view of his father, and pointing to him at the same time. Old William moved uneasily in the large chair, and with a minute smile on the mere edge of his lips, for good-manners, said he was indeed very fond of tunes. "Now, you see exactly how it is," Reuben continued, appealing to Mr. Maybold's sense of justice by looking sideways into his eyes. The vicar seemed to see how it was so well that the gratified tranter walked up to him again with even vehement eagerness, so that his waistcoat-buttons almost rubbed against the vicar's as he continued: "As to father, if you or I, or any man or woman of the present generation, at the time music is a-playing, was to shake your fist in father's face, as may be this way, and say, 'Don't you be delighted with that music!'"--the tranter went back to where Leaf was sitting, and held his fist so close to Leaf's face that the latter pressed his head back against the wall: "All right, Leaf, my sonny, I won't hurt you; 'tis just to show my meaning to Mr. Mayble.--As I was saying, if you or I, or any man, was to shake your fist in father's face this way, and say, 'William, your life or your music!' he'd say, 'My life!' Now that's father's nature all over; and you see, sir, it must hurt the feelings of a man of that kind for him and his bass- viol to be done away wi' neck and crop." The tranter went back to the vicar's front and again looked earnestly at his face. "True, true, Dewy," Mr. Maybold answered, trying to withdraw his head and shoulders without moving his feet; but finding this impracticable, edging back another inch. These frequent retreats had at last jammed Mr. Maybold between his easy-chair and the edge of the table. And at the moment of the announcement of the choir, Mr. Maybold had just re-dipped the pen he was using; at their entry, instead of wiping it, he had laid it on the table with the nib overhanging. At the last retreat his coat-tails came in contact with the pen, and down it rolled, first against the back of the chair, thence turning a summersault into the seat, thence falling to the floor with a rattle. The vicar stooped for his pen, and the tranter, wishing to show that, however great their ecclesiastical differences, his mind was not so small as to let this affect his social feelings, stooped also. "And have you anything else you want to explain to me, Dewy?" said Mr. Maybold from under the table. "Nothing, sir. And, Mr. Mayble, you be not offended? I hope you see our desire is reason?" said the tranter from under the chair. "Quite, quite; and I shouldn't think of refusing to listen to such a reasonable request," the vicar replied. Seeing that Reuben had secured the pen, he resumed his vertical position, and added, "You know, Dewy, it is often said how difficult a matter it is to act up to our convictions and please all parties. It may be said with equal truth, that it is difficult for a man of any appreciativeness to have convictions at all. Now in my case, I see right in you, and right in Shiner. I see that violins are good, and that an organ is good; and when we introduce the organ, it will not be that fiddles were bad, but that an organ was better. That you'll clearly understand, Dewy?" "I will; and thank you very much for such feelings, sir. Piph-h-h-h! How the blood do get into my head, to be sure, whenever I quat down like that!" said Reuben, who having also risen to his feet stuck the pen vertically in the inkstand and almost through the bottom, that it might not roll down again under any circumstances whatever. Now the ancient body of minstrels in the passage felt their curiosity surging higher and higher as the minutes passed. Dick, not having much affection for this errand, soon grew tired, and went away in the direction of the school. Yet their sense of propriety would probably have restrained them from any attempt to discover what was going on in the study had not the vicar's pen fallen to the floor. The conviction that the movement of chairs, etc., necessitated by the search, could only have been caused by the catastrophe of a bloody fight beginning, overpowered all other considerations; and they advanced to the door, which had only just fallen to. Thus, when Mr. Maybold raised his eyes after the stooping he beheld glaring through the door Mr. Penny in full- length portraiture, Mail's face and shoulders above Mr. Penny's head, Spinks's forehead and eyes over Mail's crown, and a fractional part of Bowman's countenance under Spinks's arm--crescent-shaped portions of other heads and faces being visible behind these--the whole dozen and odd eyes bristling with eager inquiry. Mr. Penny, as is the case with excitable boot-makers and men, seeing the vicar look at him and hearing no word spoken, thought it incumbent upon himself to say something of any kind. Nothing suggested itself till he had looked for about half a minute at the vicar. "You'll excuse my naming of it, sir," he said, regarding with much commiseration the mere surface of the vicar's face; "but perhaps you don't know that your chin have bust out a-bleeding where you cut yourself a-shaving this morning, sir." "Now, that was the stooping, depend upon't," the tranter suggested, also looking with much interest at the vicar's chin. "Blood always will bust out again if you hang down the member that's been bleeding." Old William raised his eyes and watched the vicar's bleeding chin likewise; and Leaf advanced two or three paces from the bookcase, absorbed in the contemplation of the same phenomenon, with parted lips and delighted eyes. "Dear me, dear me!" said Mr. Maybold hastily, looking very red, and brushing his chin with his hand, then taking out his handkerchief and wiping the place. "That's it, sir; all right again now, 'a b'lieve--a mere nothing," said Mr. Penny. "A little bit of fur off your hat will stop it in a minute if it should bust out again." "I'll let 'ee have a bit off mine," said Reuben, to show his good feeling; "my hat isn't so new as yours, sir, and 'twon't hurt mine a bit." "No, no; thank you, thank you," Mr. Maybold again nervously replied. "'Twas rather a deep cut seemingly?" said Reuben, feeling these to be the kindest and best remarks he could make. "O, no; not particularly." "Well, sir, your hand will shake sometimes a-shaving, and just when it comes into your head that you may cut yourself, there's the blood." "I have been revolving in my mind that question of the time at which we make the change," said Mr. Maybold, "and I know you'll meet me half-way. I think Christmas-day as much too late for me as the present time is too early for you. I suggest Michaelmas or thereabout as a convenient time for both parties; for I think your objection to a Sunday which has no name is not one of any real weight." "Very good, sir. I suppose mortal men mustn't expect their own way entirely; and I express in all our names that we'll make shift and be satisfied with what you say." The tranter touched the brim of his imaginary hat again, and all the choir did the same. "About Michaelmas, then, as far as you are concerned, sir, and then we make room for the next generation." "About Michaelmas," said the vicar. CHAPTER V: RETURNING HOME WARD "'A took it very well, then?" said Mail, as they all walked up the hill. "He behaved like a man, 'a did so," said the tranter. "And I'm glad we've let en know our minds. And though, beyond that, we ha'n't got much by going, 'twas worth while. He won't forget it. Yes, he took it very well. Supposing this tree here was Pa'son Mayble, and I standing here, and thik gr't stone is father sitting in the easy-chair. 'Dewy,' says he, 'I don't wish to change the church music in a forcible way.'" "That was very nice o' the man, even though words be wind." "Proper nice--out and out nice. The fact is," said Reuben confidentially, "'tis how you take a man. Everybody must be managed. Queens must be managed: kings must be managed; for men want managing almost as much as women, and that's saying a good deal." "'Tis truly!" murmured the husbands. "Pa'son Mayble and I were as good friends all through it as if we'd been sworn brothers. Ay, the man's well enough; 'tis what's put in his head that spoils him, and that's why we've got to go." "There's really no believing half you hear about people nowadays." "Bless ye, my sonnies! 'tisn't the pa'son's move at all. That gentleman over there" (the tranter nodded in the direction of Shiner's farm) "is at the root of the mischty." "What! Shiner?" "Ay; and I see what the pa'son don't see. Why, Shiner is for putting forward that young woman that only last night I was saying was our Dick's sweet-heart, but I suppose can't be, and making much of her in the sight of the congregation, and thinking he'll win her by showing her off. Well, perhaps 'a woll." "Then the music is second to the woman, the other churchwarden is second to Shiner, the pa'son is second to the churchwardens, and God A'mighty is nowhere at all." "That's true; and you see," continued Reuben, "at the very beginning it put me in a stud as to how to quarrel wi' en. In short, to save my soul, I couldn't quarrel wi' such a civil man without belying my conscience. Says he to father there, in a voice as quiet as a lamb's, 'William, you are a' old aged man, as all shall be, so sit down in my easy-chair, and rest yourself.' And down father zot. I could fain ha' laughed at thee, father; for thou'st take it so unconcerned at first, and then looked so frightened when the chair-bottom sunk in." "You see," said old William, hastening to explain, "I was scared to find the bottom gie way--what should I know o' spring bottoms?--and thought I had broke it down: and of course as to breaking down a man's chair, I didn't wish any such thing." "And, neighbours, when a feller, ever so much up for a miff, d'see his own father sitting in his enemy's easy-chair, and a poor chap like Leaf made the best of, as if he almost had brains--why, it knocks all the wind out of his sail at once: it did out of mine." "If that young figure of fun--Fance Day, I mean," said Bowman, "hadn't been so mighty forward wi' showing herself off to Shiner and Dick and the rest, 'tis my belief we should never ha' left the gallery." "'Tis my belief that though Shiner fired the bullets, the parson made 'em," said Mr. Penny. "My wife sticks to it that he's in love wi' her." "That's a thing we shall never know. I can't onriddle her, nohow." "Thou'st ought to be able to onriddle such a little chiel as she," the tranter observed. "The littler the maid, the bigger the riddle, to my mind. And coming of such a stock, too, she may well be a twister." "Yes; Geoffrey Day is a clever man if ever there was one. Never says anything: not he." "Never." "You might live wi' that man, my sonnies, a hundred years, and never know there was anything in him." "Ay; one o' these up-country London ink-bottle chaps would call Geoffrey a fool." "Ye never find out what's in that man: never," said Spinks. "Close? ah, he is close! He can hold his tongue well. That man's dumbness is wonderful to listen to." "There's so much sense in it. Every moment of it is brimmen over wi' sound understanding." "'A can hold his tongue very clever--very clever truly," echoed Leaf. "'A do look at me as if 'a could see my thoughts running round like the works of a clock." "Well, all will agree that the man can halt well in his talk, be it a long time or be it a short time. And though we can't expect his daughter to inherit his closeness, she may have a few dribblets from his sense." "And his pocket, perhaps." "Yes; the nine hundred pound that everybody says he's worth; but I call it four hundred and fifty; for I never believe more than half I hear." "Well, he've made a pound or two, and I suppose the maid will have it, since there's nobody else. But 'tis rather sharp upon her, if she's been born to fortune, to bring her up as if not born for it, and letting her work so hard." "'Tis all upon his principle. A long-headed feller!" "Ah," murmured Spinks, "'twould be sharper upon her if she were born for fortune, and not to it! I suffer from that affliction." CHAPTER VI: YALBURY WOOD AND THE KEEPER'S HOUSE A mood of blitheness rarely experienced even by young men was Dick's on the following Monday morning. It was the week after the Easter holidays, and he was journeying along with Smart the mare and the light spring-cart, watching the damp slopes of the hill-sides as they streamed in the warmth of the sun, which at this unsettled season shone on the grass with the freshness of an occasional inspector rather than as an accustomed proprietor. His errand was to fetch Fancy, and some additional household goods, from her father's house in the neighbouring parish to her dwelling at Mellstock. The distant view was darkly shaded with clouds; but the nearer parts of the landscape were whitely illumined by the visible rays of the sun streaming down across the heavy gray shade behind. The tranter had not yet told his son of the state of Shiner's heart that had been suggested to him by Shiner's movements. He preferred to let such delicate affairs right themselves; experience having taught him that the uncertain phenomenon of love, as it existed in other people, was not a groundwork upon which a single action of his own life could be founded. Geoffrey Day lived in the depths of Yalbury Wood, which formed portion of one of the outlying estates of the Earl of Wessex, to whom Day was head game-keeper, timber-steward, and general overlooker for this district. The wood was intersected by the highway from Casterbridge to London at a place not far from the house, and some trees had of late years been felled between its windows and the ascent of Yalbury Hill, to give the solitary cottager a glimpse of the passers-by. It was a satisfaction to walk into the keeper's house, even as a stranger, on a fine spring morning like the present. A curl of wood-smoke came from the chimney, and drooped over the roof like a blue feather in a lady's hat; and the sun shone obliquely upon the patch of grass in front, which reflected its brightness through the open doorway and up the staircase opposite, lighting up each riser with a shiny green radiance, and leaving the top of each step in shade. The window-sill of the front room was between four and five feet from the floor, dropping inwardly to a broad low bench, over which, as well as over the whole surface of the wall beneath, there always hung a deep shade, which was considered objectionable on every ground save one, namely, that the perpetual sprinkling of seeds and water by the caged canary above was not noticed as an eyesore by visitors. The window was set with thickly-leaded diamond glazing, formed, especially in the lower panes, of knotty glass of various shades of green. Nothing was better known to Fancy than the extravagant manner in which these circular knots or eyes distorted everything seen through them from the outside--lifting hats from heads, shoulders from bodies; scattering the spokes of cart- wheels, and bending the straight fir-trunks into semicircles. The ceiling was carried by a beam traversing its midst, from the side of which projected a large nail, used solely and constantly as a peg for Geoffrey's hat; the nail was arched by a rainbow-shaped stain, imprinted by the brim of the said hat when it was hung there dripping wet. The most striking point about the room was the furniture. This was a repetition upon inanimate objects of the old principle introduced by Noah, consisting for the most part of two articles of every sort. The duplicate system of furnishing owed its existence to the forethought of Fancy's mother, exercised from the date of Fancy's birthday onwards. The arrangement spoke for itself: nobody who knew the tone of the household could look at the goods without being aware that the second set was a provision for Fancy, when she should marry and have a house of her own. The most noticeable instance was a pair of green-faced eight-day clocks, ticking alternately, which were severally two and half minutes and three minutes striking the hour of twelve, one proclaiming, in Italian flourishes, Thomas Wood as the name of its maker, and the other--arched at the top, and altogether of more cynical appearance--that of Ezekiel Saunders. They were two departed clockmakers of Casterbridge, whose desperate rivalry throughout their lives was nowhere more emphatically perpetuated than here at Geoffrey's. These chief specimens of the marriage provision were supported on the right by a couple of kitchen dressers, each fitted complete with their cups, dishes, and plates, in their turn followed by two dumb-waiters, two family Bibles, two warming- pans, and two intermixed sets of chairs. But the position last reached--the chimney-corner--was, after all, the most attractive side of the parallelogram. It was large enough to admit, in addition to Geoffrey himself, Geoffrey's wife, her chair, and her work- table, entirely within the line of the mantel, without danger or even inconvenience from the heat of the fire; and was spacious enough overhead to allow of the insertion of wood poles for the hanging of bacon, which were cloaked with long shreds of soot, floating on the draught like the tattered banners on the walls of ancient aisles. These points were common to most chimney corners of the neighbourhood; but one feature there was which made Geoffrey's fireside not only an object of interest to casual aristocratic visitors--to whom every cottage fireside was more or less a curiosity--but the admiration of friends who were accustomed to fireplaces of the ordinary hamlet model. This peculiarity was a little window in the chimney-back, almost over the fire, around which the smoke crept caressingly when it left the perpendicular course. The window-board was curiously stamped with black circles, burnt thereon by the heated bottoms of drinking-cups, which had rested there after previously standing on the hot ashes of the hearth for the purpose of warming their contents, the result giving to the ledge the look of an envelope which has passed through innumerable post-offices. Fancy was gliding about the room preparing dinner, her head inclining now to the right, now to the left, and singing the tips and ends of tunes that sprang up in her mind like mushrooms. The footsteps of Mrs. Day could be heard in the room overhead. Fancy went finally to the door. "Father! Dinner." A tall spare figure was seen advancing by the window with periodical steps, and the keeper entered from the garden. He appeared to be a man who was always looking down, as if trying to recollect something he said yesterday. The surface of his face was fissured rather than wrinkled, and over and under his eyes were folds which seemed as a kind of exterior eyelids. His nose had been thrown backwards by a blow in a poaching fray, so that when the sun was low and shining in his face, people could see far into his head. There was in him a quiet grimness, which would in his moments of displeasure have become surliness, had it not been tempered by honesty of soul, and which was often wrongheadedness because not allied with subtlety. Although not an extraordinarily taciturn man among friends slightly richer than himself, he never wasted words upon outsiders, and to his trapper Enoch his ideas were seldom conveyed by any other means than nods and shakes of the head. Their long acquaintance with each other's ways, and the nature of their labours, rendered words between them almost superfluous as vehicles of thought, whilst the coincidence of their horizons, and the astonishing equality of their social views, by startling the keeper from time to time as very damaging to the theory of master and man, strictly forbade any indulgence in words as courtesies. Behind the keeper came Enoch (who had been assisting in the garden) at the well-considered chronological distance of three minutes--an interval of non-appearance on the trapper's part not arrived at without some reflection. Four minutes had been found to express indifference to indoor arrangements, and simultaneousness had implied too great an anxiety about meals. "A little earlier than usual, Fancy," the keeper said, as he sat down and looked at the clocks. "That Ezekiel Saunders o' thine is tearing on afore Thomas Wood again." "I kept in the middle between them," said Fancy, also looking at the two clocks. "Better stick to Thomas," said her father. "There's a healthy beat in Thomas that would lead a man to swear by en offhand. He is as true as the town time. How is it your stap-mother isn't here?" As Fancy was about to reply, the rattle of wheels was heard, and "Weh- hey, Smart!" in Mr. Richard Dewy's voice rolled into the cottage from round the corner of the house. "Hullo! there's Dewy's cart come for thee, Fancy--Dick driving--afore time, too. Well, ask the lad to have pot-luck with us." Dick on entering made a point of implying by his general bearing that he took an interest in Fancy simply as in one of the same race and country as himself; and they all sat down. Dick could have wished her manner had not been so entirely free from all apparent consciousness of those accidental meetings of theirs: but he let the thought pass. Enoch sat diagonally at a table afar off, under the corner cupboard, and drank his cider from a long perpendicular pint cup, having tall fir-trees done in brown on its sides. He threw occasional remarks into the general tide of conversation, and with this advantage to himself, that he participated in the pleasures of a talk (slight as it was) at meal-times, without saddling himself with the responsibility of sustaining it. "Why don't your stap-mother come down, Fancy?" said Geoffrey. "You'll excuse her, Mister Dick, she's a little queer sometimes." "O yes,--quite," said Richard, as if he were in the habit of excusing people every day. "She d'belong to that class of womankind that become second wives: a rum class rather." "Indeed," said Dick, with sympathy for an indefinite something. "Yes; and 'tis trying to a female, especially if you've been a first wife, as she hev." "Very trying it must be." "Yes: you see her first husband was a young man, who let her go too far; in fact, she used to kick up Bob's-a-dying at the least thing in the world. And when I'd married her and found it out, I thought, thinks I, ''Tis too late now to begin to cure 'e;' and so I let her bide. But she's queer,--very queer, at times!" "I'm sorry to hear that." "Yes: there; wives be such a provoking class o' society, because though they be never right, they be never more than half wrong." Fancy seemed uneasy under the infliction of this household moralizing, which might tend to damage the airy-fairy nature that Dick, as maiden shrewdness told her, had accredited her with. Her dead silence impressed Geoffrey with the notion that something in his words did not agree with her educated ideas, and he changed the conversation. "Did Fred Shiner send the cask o' drink, Fancy?" "I think he did: O yes, he did." "Nice solid feller, Fred Shiner!" said Geoffrey to Dick as he helped himself to gravy, bringing the spoon round to his plate by way of the potato-dish, to obviate a stain on the cloth in the event of a spill. Now Geoffrey's eyes had been fixed upon his plate for the previous four or five minutes, and in removing them he had only carried them to the spoon, which, from its fulness and the distance of its transit, necessitated a steady watching through the whole of the route. Just as intently as the keeper's eyes had been fixed on the spoon, Fancy's had been fixed on her father's, without premeditation or the slightest phase of furtiveness; but there they were fastened. This was the reason why: Dick was sitting next to her on the right side, and on the side of the table opposite to her father. Fancy had laid her right hand lightly down upon the table-cloth for an instant, and to her alarm Dick, after dropping his fork and brushing his forehead as a reason, flung down his own left hand, overlapping a third of Fancy's with it, and keeping it there. So the innocent Fancy, instead of pulling her hand from the trap, settled her eyes on her father's, to guard against his discovery of this perilous game of Dick's. Dick finished his mouthful; Fancy finished her crumb, and nothing was done beyond watching Geoffrey's eyes. Then the hands slid apart; Fancy's going over six inches of cloth, Dick's over one. Geoffrey's eye had risen. "I said Fred Shiner is a nice solid feller," he repeated, more emphatically. "He is; yes, he is," stammered Dick; "but to me he is little more than a stranger." "O, sure. Now I know en as well as any man can be known. And you know en very well too, don't ye, Fancy?" Geoffrey put on a tone expressing that these words signified at present about one hundred times the amount of meaning they conveyed literally. Dick looked anxious. "Will you pass me some bread?" said Fancy in a flurry, the red of her face becoming slightly disordered, and looking as solicitous as a human being could look about a piece of bread. "Ay, that I will," replied the unconscious Geoffrey. "Ay," he continued, returning to the displaced idea, "we are likely to remain friendly wi' Mr. Shiner if the wheels d'run smooth." "An excellent thing--a very capital thing, as I should say," the youth answered with exceeding relevance, considering that his thoughts, instead of following Geoffrey's remark, were nestling at a distance of about two feet on his left the whole time. "A young woman's face will turn the north wind, Master Richard: my heart if 'twon't." Dick looked more anxious and was attentive in earnest at these words. "Yes; turn the north wind," added Geoffrey after an impressive pause. "And though she's one of my own flesh and blood . . . " "Will you fetch down a bit of raw-mil' cheese from pantry-shelf?" Fancy interrupted, as if she were famishing. "Ay, that I will, chiel; chiel, says I, and Mr. Shiner only asking last Saturday night . . . cheese you said, Fancy?" Dick controlled his emotion at these mysterious allusions to Mr. Shiner,--the better enabled to do so by perceiving that Fancy's heart went not with her father's--and spoke like a stranger to the affairs of the neighbourhood. "Yes, there's a great deal to be said upon the power of maiden faces in settling your courses," he ventured, as the keeper retreated for the cheese. "The conversation is taking a very strange turn: nothing that I have ever done warrants such things being said!" murmured Fancy with emphasis, just loud enough to reach Dick's ears. "You think to yourself, 'twas to be," cried Enoch from his distant corner, by way of filling up the vacancy caused by Geoffrey's momentary absence. "And so you marry her, Master Dewy, and there's an end o't." "Pray don't say such things, Enoch," came from Fancy severely, upon which Enoch relapsed into servitude. "If we be doomed to marry, we marry; if we be doomed to remain single, we do," replied Dick. Geoffrey had by this time sat down again, and he now made his lips thin by severely straining them across his gums, and looked out of the window along the vista to the distant highway up Yalbury Hill. "That's not the case with some folk," he said at length, as if he read the words on a board at the further end of the vista. Fancy looked interested, and Dick said, "No?" "There's that wife o' mine. It was her doom to be nobody's wife at all in the wide universe. But she made up her mind that she would, and did it twice over. Doom? Doom is nothing beside a elderly woman--quite a chiel in her hands!" A movement was now heard along the upstairs passage, and footsteps descending. The door at the foot of the stairs opened, and the second Mrs. Day appeared in view, looking fixedly at the table as she advanced towards it, with apparent obliviousness of the presence of any other human being than herself. In short, if the table had been the personages, and the persons the table, her glance would have been the most natural imaginable. She showed herself to possess an ordinary woman's face, iron-grey hair, hardly any hips, and a great deal of cleanliness in a broad white apron- string, as it appeared upon the waist of her dark stuff dress. "People will run away with a story now, I suppose," she began saying, "that Jane Day's tablecloths are as poor and ragged as any union beggar's!" Dick now perceived that the tablecloth was a little the worse for wear, and reflecting for a moment, concluded that 'people' in step-mother language probably meant himself. On lifting his eyes he found that Mrs. Day had vanished again upstairs, and presently returned with an armful of new damask-linen tablecloths, folded square and hard as boards by long compression. These she flounced down into a chair; then took one, shook it out from its folds, and spread it on the table by instalments, transferring the plates and dishes one by one from the old to the new cloth. "And I suppose they'll say, too, that she ha'n't a decent knife and fork in her house!" "I shouldn't say any such ill-natured thing, I am sure--" began Dick. But Mrs. Day had vanished into the next room. Fancy appeared distressed. "Very strange woman, isn't she?" said Geoffrey, quietly going on with his dinner. "But 'tis too late to attempt curing. My heart! 'tis so growed into her that 'twould kill her to take it out. Ay, she's very queer: you'd be amazed to see what valuable goods we've got stowed away upstairs." Back again came Mrs. Day with a box of bright steel horn-handled knives, silver-plated forks, carver, and all complete. These were wiped of the preservative oil which coated them, and then a knife and fork were laid down to each individual with a bang, the carving knife and fork thrust into the meat dish, and the old ones they had hitherto used tossed away. Geoffrey placidly cut a slice with the new knife and fork, and asked Dick if he wanted any more. The table had been spread for the mixed midday meal of dinner and tea, which was common among frugal countryfolk. "The parishioners about here," continued Mrs. Day, not looking at any living being, but snatching up the brown delf tea-things, "are the laziest, gossipest, poachest, jailest set of any ever I came among. And they'll talk about my teapot and tea-things next, I suppose!" She vanished with the teapot, cups, and saucers, and reappeared with a tea-service in white china, and a packet wrapped in brown paper. This was removed, together with folds of tissue- paper underneath; and a brilliant silver teapot appeared. "I'll help to put the things right," said Fancy soothingly, and rising from her seat. "I ought to have laid out better things, I suppose. But" (here she enlarged her looks so as to include Dick) "I have been away from home a good deal, and I make shocking blunders in my housekeeping." Smiles and suavity were then dispensed all around by this bright little bird. After a little more preparation and modification, Mrs. Day took her seat at the head of the table, and during the latter or tea division of the meal, presided with much composure. It may cause some surprise to learn that, now her vagary was over, she showed herself to be an excellent person with much common sense, and even a religious seriousness of tone on matters pertaining to her afflictions. CHAPTER VII: DICK MAKES HIMSELF USEFUL The effect of Geoffrey's incidental allusions to Mr. Shiner was to restrain a considerable flow of spontaneous chat that would otherwise have burst from young Dewy along the drive homeward. And a certain remark he had hazarded to her, in rather too blunt and eager a manner, kept the young lady herself even more silent than Dick. On both sides there was an unwillingness to talk on any but the most trivial subjects, and their sentences rarely took a larger form than could be expressed in two or three words. Owing to Fancy being later in the day than she had promised, the charwoman had given up expecting her; whereupon Dick could do no less than stay and see her comfortably tided over the disagreeable time of entering and establishing herself in an empty house after an absence of a week. The additional furniture and utensils that had been brought (a canary and cage among the rest) were taken out of the vehicle, and the horse was unharnessed and put in the plot opposite, where there was some tender grass. Dick lighted the fire already laid; and activity began to loosen their tongues a little. "There!" said Fancy, "we forgot to bring the fire-irons!" She had originally found in her sitting-room, to bear out the expression 'nearly furnished' which the school-manager had used in his letter to her, a table, three chairs, a fender, and a piece of carpet. This 'nearly' had been supplemented hitherto by a kind friend, who had lent her fire-irons and crockery until she should fetch some from home. Dick attended to the young lady's fire, using his whip-handle for a poker till it was spoilt, and then flourishing a hurdle stick for the remainder of the time. "The kettle boils; now you shall have a cup of tea," said Fancy, diving into the hamper she had brought. "Thank you," said Dick, whose drive had made him ready for some, especially in her company. "Well, here's only one cup-and-saucer, as I breathe! Whatever could mother be thinking about? Do you mind making shift, Mr. Dewy?" "Not at all, Miss Day," said that civil person. "--And only having a cup by itself? or a saucer by itself?" "Don't mind in the least." "Which do you mean by that?" "I mean the cup, if you like the saucer." "And the saucer, if I like the cup?" "Exactly, Miss Day." "Thank you, Mr. Dewy, for I like the cup decidedly. Stop a minute; there are no spoons now!" She dived into the hamper again, and at the end of two or three minutes looked up and said, "I suppose you don't mind if I can't find a spoon?" "Not at all," said the agreeable Richard. "The fact is, the spoons have slipped down somewhere; right under the other things. O yes, here's one, and only one. You would rather have one than not, I suppose, Mr. Dewy?" "Rather not. I never did care much about spoons." "Then I'll have it. I do care about them. You must stir up your tea with a knife. Would you mind lifting the kettle off, that it may not boil dry?" Dick leapt to the fireplace, and earnestly removed the kettle. "There! you did it so wildly that you have made your hand black. We always use kettle-holders; didn't you learn housewifery as far as that, Mr. Dewy? Well, never mind the soot on your hand. Come here. I am going to rinse mine, too." They went to a basin she had placed in the back room. "This is the only basin I have," she said. "Turn up your sleeves, and by that time my hands will be washed, and you can come." Her hands were in the water now. "O, how vexing!" she exclaimed. "There's not a drop of water left for you, unless you draw it, and the well is I don't know how many furlongs deep; all that was in the pitcher I used for the kettle and this basin. Do you mind dipping the tips of your fingers in the same?" "Not at all. And to save time I won't wait till you have done, if you have no objection?" Thereupon he plunged in his hands, and they paddled together. It being the first time in his life that he had touched female fingers under water, Dick duly registered the sensation as rather a nice one. "Really, I hardly know which are my own hands and which are yours, they have got so mixed up together," she said, withdrawing her own very suddenly. "It doesn't matter at all," said Dick, "at least as far as I am concerned." "There! no towel! Whoever thinks of a towel till the hands are wet?" "Nobody." "'Nobody.' How very dull it is when people are so friendly! Come here, Mr. Dewy. Now do you think you could lift the lid of that box with your elbow, and then, with something or other, take out a towel you will find under the clean clothes? Be sure don't touch any of them with your wet hands, for the things at the top are all Starched and Ironed." Dick managed, by the aid of a knife and fork, to extract a towel from under a muslin dress without wetting the latter; and for a moment he ventured to assume a tone of criticism. "I fear for that dress," he said, as they wiped their hands together. "What?" said Miss Day, looking into the box at the dress alluded to. "O, I know what you mean--that the vicar will never let me wear muslin?" "Yes." "Well, I know it is condemned by all orders in the church as flaunting, and unfit for common wear for girls who've their living to get; but we'll see." "In the interest of the church, I hope you don't speak seriously." "Yes, I do; but we'll see." There was a comely determination on her lip, very pleasant to a beholder who was neither bishop, priest, nor deacon. "I think I can manage any vicar's views about me if he's under forty." Dick rather wished she had never thought of managing vicars. "I certainly shall be glad to get some of your delicious tea," he said in rather a free way, yet modestly, as became one in a position between that of visitor and inmate, and looking wistfully at his lonely saucer. "So shall I. Now is there anything else we want, Mr Dewy?" "I really think there's nothing else, Miss Day." She prepared to sit down, looking musingly out of the window at Smart's enjoyment of the rich grass. "Nobody seems to care about me," she murmured, with large lost eyes fixed upon the sky beyond Smart. "Perhaps Mr. Shiner does," said Dick, in the tone of a slightly injured man. "Yes, I forgot--he does, I know." Dick precipitately regretted that he had suggested Shiner, since it had produced such a miserable result as this. "I'll warrant you'll care for somebody very much indeed another day, won't you, Mr. Dewy?" she continued, looking very feelingly into the mathematical centre of his eyes. "Ah, I'll warrant I shall," said Dick, feelingly too, and looking back into her dark pupils, whereupon they were turned aside. "I meant," she went on, preventing him from speaking just as he was going to narrate a forcible story about his feelings; "I meant that nobody comes to see if I have returned--not even the vicar." "If you want to see him, I'll call at the vicarage directly we have had some tea." "No, no! Don't let him come down here, whatever you do, whilst I am in such a state of disarrangement. Parsons look so miserable and awkward when one's house is in a muddle; walking about, and making impossible suggestions in quaint academic phrases till your flesh creeps and you wish them dead. Do you take sugar?" Mr. Maybold was at this instant seen coming up the path. "There! That's he coming! How I wish you were not here!--that is, how awkward--dear, dear!" she exclaimed, with a quick ascent of blood to her face, and irritated with Dick rather than the vicar, as it seemed. "Pray don't be alarmed on my account, Miss Day--good-afternoon!" said Dick in a huff, putting on his hat, and leaving the room hastily by the back-door. The horse was caught and put in, and on mounting the shafts to start he saw through the window the vicar, standing upon some books piled in a chair, and driving a nail into the wall; Fancy, with a demure glance, holding the canary-cage up to him, as if she had never in her life thought of anything but vicars and canaries. CHAPTER VIII: DICK MEETS HIS FATHER For several minutes Dick drove along homeward, with the inner eye of reflection so anxiously set on his passages at arms with Fancy, that the road and scenery were as a thin mist over the real pictures of his mind. Was she a coquette? The balance between the evidence that she did love him and that she did not was so nicely struck, that his opinion had no stability. She had let him put his hand upon hers; she had allowed her gaze to drop plumb into the depths of his--his into hers--three or four times; her manner had been very free with regard to the basin and towel; she had appeared vexed at the mention of Shiner. On the other hand, she had driven him about the house like a quiet dog or cat, said Shiner cared for her, and seemed anxious that Mr. Maybold should do the same. Thinking thus as he neared the handpost at Mellstock Cross, sitting on the front board of the spring cart--his legs on the outside, and his whole frame jigging up and down like a candle-flame to the time of Smart's trotting--who should he see coming down the hill but his father in the light wagon, quivering up and down on a smaller scale of shakes, those merely caused by the stones in the road. They were soon crossing each other's front. "Weh-hey!" said the tranter to Smiler. "Weh-hey!" said Dick to Smart, in an echo of the same voice. "Th'st hauled her back, I suppose?" Reuben inquired peaceably. "Yes," said Dick, with such a clinching period at the end that it seemed he was never going to add another word. Smiler, thinking this the close of the conversation, prepared to move on. "Weh-hey!" said the tranter. "I tell thee what it is, Dick. That there maid is taking up thy thoughts more than's good for thee, my sonny. Thou'rt never happy now unless th'rt making thyself miserable about her in one way or another." "I don't know about that, father," said Dick rather stupidly. "But I do--Wey, Smiler!--'Od rot the women, 'tis nothing else wi' 'em nowadays but getting young men and leading 'em astray." "Pooh, father! you just repeat what all the common world says; that's all you do." "The world's a very sensible feller on things in jineral, Dick; very sensible indeed." Dick looked into the distance at a vast expanse of mortgaged estate. "I wish I was as rich as a squire when he's as poor as a crow," he murmured; "I'd soon ask Fancy something." "I wish so too, wi' all my heart, sonny; that I do. Well, mind what beest about, that's all." Smart moved on a step or two. "Supposing now, father,--We-hey, Smart!--I did think a little about her, and I had a chance, which I ha'n't; don't you think she's a very good sort of--of--one?" "Ay, good; she's good enough. When you've made up your mind to marry, take the first respectable body that comes to hand--she's as good as any other; they be all alike in the groundwork; 'tis only in the flourishes there's a difference. She's good enough; but I can't see what the nation a young feller like you--wi' a comfortable house and home, and father and mother to take care o' thee, and who sent 'ee to a school so good that 'twas hardly fair to the other children--should want to go hollering after a young woman for, when she's quietly making a husband in her pocket, and not troubled by chick nor chiel, to make a poverty-stric' wife and family of her, and neither hat, cap, wig, nor waistcoat to set 'em up with: be drowned if I can see it, and that's the long and the short o't, my sonny." Dick looked at Smart's ears, then up the hill; but no reason was suggested by any object that met his gaze. "For about the same reason that you did, father, I suppose." "Dang it, my sonny, thou'st got me there!" And the tranter gave vent to a grim admiration, with the mien of a man who was too magnanimous not to appreciate artistically a slight rap on the knuckles, even if they were his own. "Whether or no," said Dick, "I asked her a thing going along the road." "Come to that, is it? Turk! won't thy mother be in a taking! Well, she's ready, I don't doubt?" "I didn't ask her anything about having me; and if you'll let me speak, I'll tell 'ee what I want to know. I just said, Did she care about me?" "Piph-ph-ph!" "And then she said nothing for a quarter of a mile, and then she said she didn't know. Now, what I want to know is, what was the meaning of that speech?" The latter words were spoken resolutely, as if he didn't care for the ridicule of all the fathers in creation. "The meaning of that speech is," the tranter replied deliberately, "that the meaning is meant to be rather hid at present. Well, Dick, as an honest father to thee, I don't pretend to deny what you d'know well enough; that is, that her father being rather better in the pocket than we, I should welcome her ready enough if it must be somebody." "But what d'ye think she really did mean?" said the unsatisfied Dick. "I'm afeard I am not o' much account in guessing, especially as I was not there when she said it, and seeing that your mother was the only 'ooman I ever cam' into such close quarters as that with." "And what did mother say to you when you asked her?" said Dick musingly. "I don't see that that will help 'ee." "The principle is the same." "Well--ay: what did she say? Let's see. I was oiling my working-day boots without taking 'em off, and wi' my head hanging down, when she just brushed on by the garden hatch like a flittering leaf. 'Ann,' I said, says I, and then,--but, Dick I'm afeard 'twill be no help to thee; for we were such a rum couple, your mother and I, leastways one half was, that is myself--and your mother's charms was more in the manner than the material." "Never mind! 'Ann,' said you." "'Ann,' said I, as I was saying . . . 'Ann,' I said to her when I was oiling my working-day boots wi' my head hanging down, 'Woot hae me?' . . . What came next I can't quite call up at this distance o' time. Perhaps your mother would know,--she's got a better memory for her little triumphs than I. However, the long and the short o' the story is that we were married somehow, as I found afterwards. 'Twas on White Tuesday,--Mellstock Club walked the same day, every man two and two, and a fine day 'twas,--hot as fire,--how the sun did strike down upon my back going to church! I well can mind what a bath o' sweating I was in, body and soul! But Fance will ha' thee, Dick--she won't walk with another chap--no such good luck." "I don't know about that," said Dick, whipping at Smart's flank in a fanciful way, which, as Smart knew, meant nothing in connection with going on. "There's Pa'son Maybold, too--that's all against me." "What about he? She's never been stuffing into thy innocent heart that he's in hove with her? Lord, the vanity o' maidens!" "No, no. But he called, and she looked at him in such a way, and at me in such a way--quite different the ways were,--and as I was coming off, there was he hanging up her birdcage." "Well, why shouldn't the man hang up her bird-cage? Turk seize it all, what's that got to do wi' it? Dick, that thou beest a white-lyvered chap I don't say, but if thou beestn't as mad as a cappel-faced bull, let me smile no more." "O, ay." "And what's think now, Dick?" "I don't know." "Here's another pretty kettle o' fish for thee. Who d'ye think's the bitter weed in our being turned out? Did our party tell 'ee?" "No. Why, Pa'son Maybold, I suppose." "Shiner,--because he's in love with thy young woman, and d'want to see her young figure sitting up at that queer instrument, and her young fingers rum-strumming upon the keys." A sharp ado of sweet and bitter was going on in Dick during this communication from his father. "Shiner's a fool!--no, that's not it; I don't believe any such thing, father. Why, Shiner would never take a bold step like that, unless she'd been a little made up to, and had taken it kindly. Pooh!" "Who's to say she didn't?" "I do." "The more fool you." "Why, father of me?" "Has she ever done more to thee?" "No." "Then she has done as much to he--rot 'em! Now, Dick, this is how a maid is. She'll swear she's dying for thee, and she is dying for thee, and she will die for thee; but she'll fling a look over t'other shoulder at another young feller, though never leaving off dying for thee just the same." "She's not dying for me, and so she didn't fling a look at him." "But she may be dying for him, for she looked at thee." "I don't know what to make of it at all," said Dick gloomily. "All I can make of it is," the tranter said, raising his whip, arranging his different joints and muscles, and motioning to the horse to move on, "that if you can't read a maid's mind by her motions, nature d'seem to say thou'st ought to be a bachelor. Clk, clk! Smiler!" And the tranter moved on. Dick held Smart's rein firmly, and the whole concern of horse, cart, and man remained rooted in the lane. How long this condition would have lasted is unknown, had not Dick's thoughts, after adding up numerous items of misery, gradually wandered round to the fact that as something must be done, it could not be done by staying there all night. Reaching home he went up to his bedroom, shut the door as if he were going to be seen no more in this life, and taking a sheet of paper and uncorking the ink-bottle, he began a letter. The dignity of the writer's mind was so powerfully apparent in every line of this effusion that it obscured the logical sequence of facts and intentions to an appreciable degree; and it was not at all clear to a reader whether he there and then left off loving Miss Fancy Day; whether he had never loved her seriously, and never meant to; whether he had been dying up to the present moment, and now intended to get well again; or whether he had hitherto been in good health, and intended to die for her forthwith. He put this letter in an envelope, sealed it up, directed it in a stern handwriting of straight dashes--easy flourishes being rigorously excluded. He walked with it in his pocket down the lane in strides not an inch less than three feet long. Reaching her gate he put on a resolute expression--then put it off again, turned back homeward, tore up his letter, and sat down. That letter was altogether in a wrong tone--that he must own. A heartless man-of-the-world tone was what the juncture required. That he rather wanted her, and rather did not want her--the latter for choice; but that as a member of society he didn't mind making a query in jaunty terms, which could only be answered in the same way: did she mean anything by her bearing towards him, or did she not? This letter was considered so satisfactory in every way that, being put into the hands of a little boy, and the order given that he was to run with it to the school, he was told in addition not to look behind him if Dick called after him to bring it back, but to run along with it just the same. Having taken this precaution against vacillation, Dick watched his messenger down the road, and turned into the house whistling an air in such ghastly jerks and starts, that whistling seemed to be the act the very furthest removed from that which was instinctive in such a youth. The letter was left as ordered: the next morning came and passed--and no answer. The next. The next. Friday night came. Dick resolved that if no answer or sign were given by her the next day, on Sunday he would meet her face to face, and have it all out by word of mouth. "Dick," said his father, coming in from the garden at that moment--in each hand a hive of bees tied in a cloth to prevent their egress--"I think you'd better take these two swarms of bees to Mrs. Maybold's to- morrow, instead o' me, and I'll go wi' Smiler and the wagon." It was a relief; for Mrs. Maybold, the vicar's mother, who had just taken into her head a fancy for keeping bees (pleasantly disguised under the pretence of its being an economical wish to produce her own honey), lived near the watering-place of Budmouth-Regis, ten miles off, and the business of transporting the hives thither would occupy the whole day, and to some extent annihilate the vacant time between this evening and the coming Sunday. The best spring-cart was washed throughout, the axles oiled, and the bees placed therein for the journey. PART THE THIRD--SUMMER CHAPTER I: DRIVING OUT OF BUDMOUTH An easy bend of neck and graceful set of head; full and wavy bundles of dark-brown hair; light fall of little feet; pretty devices on the skirt of the dress; clear deep eyes; in short, a bunch of sweets: it was Fancy! Dick's heart went round to her with a rush. The scene was the corner of Mary Street in Budmouth-Regis, near the King's statue, at which point the white angle of the last house in the row cut perpendicularly an embayed and nearly motionless expanse of salt water projected from the outer ocean--to-day lit in bright tones of green and opal. Dick and Smart had just emerged from the street, and there on the right, against the brilliant sheet of liquid colour, stood Fancy Day; and she turned and recognized him. Dick suspended his thoughts of the letter and wonder at how she came there by driving close to the chains of the Esplanade--incontinently displacing two chairmen, who had just come to life for the summer in new clean shirts and revivified clothes, and being almost displaced in turn by a rigid boy rattling along with a baker's cart, and looking neither to the right nor the left. He asked if she were going to Mellstock that night. "Yes, I'm waiting for the carrier," she replied, seeming, too, to suspend thoughts of the letter. "Now I can drive you home nicely, and you save half an hour. Will ye come with me?" As Fancy's power to will anything seemed to have departed in some mysterious manner at that moment, Dick settled the matter by getting out and assisting her into the vehicle without another word. The temporary flush upon her cheek changed to a lesser hue, which was permanent, and at length their eyes met; there was present between them a certain feeling of embarrassment, which arises at such moments when all the instinctive acts dictated by the position have been performed. Dick, being engaged with the reins, thought less of this awkwardness than did Fancy, who had nothing to do but to feel his presence, and to be more and more conscious of the fact, that by accepting a seat beside him in this way she succumbed to the tone of his note. Smart jogged along, and Dick jogged, and the helpless Fancy necessarily jogged, too; and she felt that she was in a measure captured and made a prisoner. "I am so much obliged to you for your company, Miss Day," he observed, as they drove past the two semicircular bays of the Old Royal Hotel, where His Majesty King George the Third had many a time attended the balls of the burgesses. To Miss Day, crediting him with the same consciousness of mastery--a consciousness of which he was perfectly innocent--this remark sounded like a magnanimous intention to soothe her, the captive. "I didn't come for the pleasure of obliging you with my company," she said. The answer had an unexpected manner of incivility in it that must have been rather surprising to young Dewy. At the same time it may be observed, that when a young woman returns a rude answer to a young man's civil remark, her heart is in a state which argues rather hopefully for his case than otherwise. There was silence between them till they had left the sea-front and passed about twenty of the trees that ornamented the road leading up out of the town towards Casterbridge and Mellstock. "Though I didn't come for that purpose either, I would have done it," said Dick at the twenty-first tree. "Now, Mr. Dewy, no flirtation, because it's wrong, and I don't wish it." Dick seated himself afresh just as he had been sitting before, arranged his looks very emphatically, and cleared his throat. "Really, anybody would think you had met me on business and were just going to commence," said the lady intractably. "Yes, they would." "Why, you never have, to be sure!" This was a shaky beginning. He chopped round, and said cheerily, as a man who had resolved never to spoil his jollity by loving one of womankind-- "Well, how are you getting on, Miss Day, at the present time? Gaily, I don't doubt for a moment." "I am not gay, Dick; you know that." "Gaily doesn't mean decked in gay dresses." "I didn't suppose gaily was gaily dressed. Mighty me, what a scholar you've grown!" "Lots of things have happened to you this spring, I see." "What have you seen?" "O, nothing; I've heard, I mean!" "What have you heard?" "The name of a pretty man, with brass studs and a copper ring and a tin watch-chain, a little mixed up with your own. That's all." "That's a very unkind picture of Mr. Shiner, for that's who you mean! The studs are gold, as you know, and it's a real silver chain; the ring I can't conscientiously defend, and he only wore it once." "He might have worn it a hundred times without showing it half so much." "Well, he's nothing to me," she serenely observed. "Not any more than I am?" "Now, Mr. Dewy," said Fancy severely, "certainly he isn't any more to me than you are!" "Not so much?" She looked aside to consider the precise compass of that question. "That I can't exactly answer," she replied with soft archness. As they were going rather slowly, another spring-cart, containing a farmer, farmer's wife, and farmer's man, jogged past them; and the farmer's wife and farmer's man eyed the couple very curiously. The farmer never looked up from the horse's tail. "Why can't you exactly answer?" said Dick, quickening Smart a little, and jogging on just behind the farmer and farmer's wife and man. As no answer came, and as their eyes had nothing else to do, they both contemplated the picture presented in front, and noticed how the farmer's wife sat flattened between the two men, who bulged over each end of the seat to give her room, till they almost sat upon their respective wheels; and they looked too at the farmer's wife's silk mantle, inflating itself between her shoulders like a balloon and sinking flat again, at each jog of the horse. The farmer's wife, feeling their eyes sticking into her back, looked over her shoulder. Dick dropped ten yards further behind. "Fancy, why can't you answer?" he repeated. "Because how much you are to me depends upon how much I am to you," said she in low tones. "Everything," said Dick, putting his hand towards hers, and casting emphatic eyes upon the upper curve of her cheek. "Now, Richard Dewy, no touching me! I didn't say in what way your thinking of me affected the question--perhaps inversely, don't you see? No touching, sir! Look; goodness me, don't, Dick!" The cause of her sudden start was the unpleasant appearance over Dick's right shoulder of an empty timber-wagon and four journeymen-carpenters reclining in lazy postures inside it, their eyes directed upwards at various oblique angles into the surrounding world, the chief object of their existence being apparently to criticize to the very backbone and marrow every animate object that came within the compass of their vision. This difficulty of Dick's was overcome by trotting on till the wagon and carpenters were beginning to look rather misty by reason of a film of dust that accompanied their wagon-wheels, and rose around their heads like a fog. "Say you love me, Fancy." "No, Dick, certainly not; 'tisn't time to do that yet." "Why, Fancy?" "'Miss Day' is better at present--don't mind my saying so; and I ought not to have called you Dick." "Nonsense! when you know that I would do anything on earth for your love. Why, you make any one think that loving is a thing that can be done and undone, and put on and put off at a mere whim." "No, no, I don't," she said gently; "but there are things which tell me I ought not to give way to much thinking about you, even if--" "But you want to, don't you? Yes, say you do; it is best to be truthful. Whatever they may say about a woman's right to conceal where her love lies, and pretend it doesn't exist, and things like that, it is not best; I do know it, Fancy. And an honest woman in that, as well as in all her daily concerns, shines most brightly, and is thought most of in the long- run." "Well then, perhaps, Dick, I do love you a little," she whispered tenderly; "but I wish you wouldn't say any more now." "I won't say any more now, then, if you don't like it, dear. But you do love me a little, don't you?" "Now you ought not to want me to keep saying things twice; I can't say any more now, and you must be content with what you have." "I may at any rate call you Fancy? There's no harm in that." "Yes, you may." "And you'll not call me Mr. Dewy any more?" "Very well." CHAPTER II: FURTHER ALONG THE ROAD Dick's spirits having risen in the course of these admissions of his sweetheart, he now touched Smart with the whip; and on Smart's neck, not far behind his ears. Smart, who had been lost in thought for some time, never dreaming that Dick could reach so far with a whip which, on this particular journey, had never been extended further than his flank, tossed his head, and scampered along with exceeding briskness, which was very pleasant to the young couple behind him till, turning a bend in the road, they came instantly upon the farmer, farmer's man, and farmer's wife with the flapping mantle, all jogging on just the same as ever. "Bother those people! Here we are upon them again." "Well, of course. They have as much right to the road as we." "Yes, but it is provoking to be overlooked so. I like a road all to myself. Look what a lumbering affair theirs is!" The wheels of the farmer's cart, just at that moment, jogged into a depression running across the road, giving the cart a twist, whereupon all three nodded to the left, and on coming out of it all three nodded to the right, and went on jerking their backs in and out as usual. "We'll pass them when the road gets wider." When an opportunity seemed to offer itself for carrying this intention into effect, they heard light flying wheels behind, and on their quartering there whizzed along past them a brand-new gig, so brightly polished that the spokes of the wheels sent forth a continual quivering light at one point in their circle, and all the panels glared like mirrors in Dick and Fancy's eyes. The driver, and owner as it appeared, was really a handsome man; his companion was Shiner. Both turned round as they passed Dick and Fancy, and stared with bold admiration in her face till they were obliged to attend to the operation of passing the farmer. Dick glanced for an instant at Fancy while she was undergoing their scrutiny; then returned to his driving with rather a sad countenance. "Why are you so silent?" she said, after a while, with real concern. "Nothing." "Yes, it is, Dick. I couldn't help those people passing." "I know that." "You look offended with me. What have I done?" "I can't tell without offending you." "Better out." "Well," said Dick, who seemed longing to tell, even at the risk of offending her, "I was thinking how different you in love are from me in love. Whilst those men were staring, you dismissed me from your thoughts altogether, and--" "You can't offend me further now; tell all!" "And showed upon your face a pleased sense of being attractive to 'em." "Don't be silly, Dick! You know very well I didn't." Dick shook his head sceptically, and smiled. "Dick, I always believe flattery if possible--and it was possible then. Now there's an open confession of weakness. But I showed no consciousness of it." Dick, perceiving by her look that she would adhere to her statement, charitably forbore saying anything that could make her prevaricate. The sight of Shiner, too, had recalled another branch of the subject to his mind; that which had been his greatest trouble till her company and words had obscured its probability. "By the way, Fancy, do you know why our quire is to be dismissed?" "No: except that it is Mr. Maybold's wish for me to play the organ." "Do you know how it came to be his wish?" "That I don't." "Mr. Shiner, being churchwarden, has persuaded the vicar; who, however, was willing enough before. Shiner, I know, is crazy to see you playing every Sunday; I suppose he'll turn over your music, for the organ will be close to his pew. But--I know you have never encouraged him?" "Never once!" said Fancy emphatically, and with eyes full of earnest truth. "I don't like him indeed, and I never heard of his doing this before! I have always felt that I should like to play in a church, but I never wished to turn you and your choir out; and I never even said that I could play till I was asked. You don't think for a moment that I did, surely, do you?" "I know you didn't, dear." "Or that I care the least morsel of a bit for him?" "I know you don't." The distance between Budmouth and Mellstock was ten or eleven miles, and there being a good inn, 'The Ship,' four miles out of Budmouth, with a mast and cross-trees in front, Dick's custom in driving thither was to divide the journey into three stages by resting at this inn going and coming, and not troubling the Budmouth stables at all, whenever his visit to the town was a mere call and deposit, as to-day. Fancy was ushered into a little tea-room, and Dick went to the stables to see to the feeding of Smart. In face of the significant twitches of feature that were visible in the ostler and labouring men idling around, Dick endeavoured to look unconscious of the fact that there was any sentiment between him and Fancy beyond a tranter's desire to carry a passenger home. He presently entered the inn and opened the door of Fancy's room. "Dick, do you know, it has struck me that it is rather awkward, my being here alone with you like this. I don't think you had better come in with me." "That's rather unpleasant, dear." "Yes, it is, and I wanted you to have some tea as well as myself too, because you must be tired." "Well, let me have some with you, then. I was denied once before, if you recollect, Fancy." "Yes, yes, never mind! And it seems unfriendly of me now, but I don't know what to do." "It shall be as you say, then." Dick began to retreat with a dissatisfied wrinkling of face, and a farewell glance at the cosy tea- tray. "But you don't see how it is, Dick, when you speak like that," she said, with more earnestness than she had ever shown before. "You do know, that even if I care very much for you, I must remember that I have a difficult position to maintain. The vicar would not like me, as his schoolmistress, to indulge in a tete-a-tete anywhere with anybody." "But I am not any body!" exclaimed Dick. "No, no, I mean with a young man;" and she added softly, "unless I were really engaged to be married to him." "Is that all? Then, dearest, dearest, why we'll be engaged at once, to be sure we will, and down I sit! There it is, as easy as a glove!" "Ah! but suppose I won't! And, goodness me, what have I done!" she faltered, getting very red. "Positively, it seems as if I meant you to say that!" "Let's do it! I mean get engaged," said Dick. "Now, Fancy, will you be my wife?" "Do you know, Dick, it was rather unkind of you to say what you did coming along the road," she remarked, as if she had not heard the latter part of his speech; though an acute observer might have noticed about her breast, as the word 'wife' fell from Dick's lips, a soft silent escape of breaths, with very short rests between each. "What did I say?" "About my trying to look attractive to those men in the gig." "You couldn't help looking so, whether you tried or no. And, Fancy, you do care for me?" "Yes." "Very much?" "Yes." "And you'll be my own wife?" Her heart quickened, adding to and withdrawing from her cheek varying tones of red to match each varying thought. Dick looked expectantly at the ripe tint of her delicate mouth, waiting for what was coming forth. "Yes--if father will let me." Dick drew himself close to her, compressing his lips and pouting them out, as if he were about to whistle the softest melody known. "O no!" said Fancy solemnly. The modest Dick drew back a little. "Dick, Dick, kiss me and let me go instantly!--here's somebody coming!" she whisperingly exclaimed. * * * Half an hour afterwards Dick emerged from the inn, and if Fancy's lips had been real cherries probably Dick's would have appeared deeply stained. The landlord was standing in the yard. "Heu-heu! hay-hay, Master Dewy! Ho-ho!" he laughed, letting the laugh slip out gently and by degrees that it might make little noise in its exit, and smiting Dick under the fifth rib at the same time. "This will never do, upon my life, Master Dewy! calling for tay for a feymel passenger, and then going in and sitting down and having some too, and biding such a fine long time!" "But surely you know?" said Dick, with great apparent surprise. "Yes, yes! Ha-ha!" smiting the landlord under the ribs in return. "Why, what? Yes, yes; ha-ha!" "You know, of course!" "Yes, of course! But--that is--I don't." "Why about--between that young lady and me?" nodding to the window of the room that Fancy occupied. "No; not I!" said the innkeeper, bringing his eyes into circles. "And you don't!" "Not a word, I'll take my oath!" "But you laughed when I laughed." "Ay, that was me sympathy; so did you when I laughed!" "Really, you don't know? Goodness--not knowing that!" "I'll take my oath I don't!" "O yes," said Dick, with frigid rhetoric of pitying astonishment, "we're engaged to be married, you see, and I naturally look after her." "Of course, of course! I didn't know that, and I hope ye'll excuse any little freedom of mine, Mr. Dewy. But it is a very odd thing; I was talking to your father very intimate about family matters only last Friday in the world, and who should come in but Keeper Day, and we all then fell a-talking o' family matters; but neither one o' them said a mortal word about it; knowen me too so many years, and I at your father's own wedding. 'Tisn't what I should have expected from an old neighbour!" "Well, to say the truth, we hadn't told father of the engagement at that time; in fact, 'twasn't settled." "Ah! the business was done Sunday. Yes, yes, Sunday's the courting day. Heu-heu!" "No, 'twasn't done Sunday in particular." "After school-hours this week? Well, a very good time, a very proper good time." "O no, 'twasn't done then." "Coming along the road to-day then, I suppose?" "Not at all; I wouldn't think of getting engaged in a dog-cart." "Dammy--might as well have said at once, the when be blowed! Anyhow, 'tis a fine day, and I hope next time you'll come as one." Fancy was duly brought out and assisted into the vehicle, and the newly affianced youth and maiden passed up the steep hill to the Ridgeway, and vanished in the direction of Mellstock. CHAPTER III: A CONFESSION It was a morning of the latter summer-time; a morning of lingering dews, when the grass is never dry in the shade. Fuchsias and dahlias were laden till eleven o'clock with small drops and dashes of water, changing the colour of their sparkle at every movement of the air; and elsewhere hanging on twigs like small silver fruit. The threads of garden spiders appeared thick and polished. In the dry and sunny places, dozens of long- legged crane-flies whizzed off the grass at every step the passer took. Fancy Day and her friend Susan Dewy the tranter's daughter, were in such a spot as this, pulling down a bough laden with early apples. Three months had elapsed since Dick and Fancy had journeyed together from Budmouth, and the course of their love had run on vigorously during the whole time. There had been just enough difficulty attending its development, and just enough finesse required in keeping it private, to lend the passion an ever-increasing freshness on Fancy's part, whilst, whether from these accessories or not, Dick's heart had been at all times as fond as could be desired. But there was a cloud on Fancy's horizon now. "She is so well off--better than any of us," Susan Dewy was saying. "Her father farms five hundred acres, and she might marry a doctor or curate or anything of that kind if she contrived a little." "I don't think Dick ought to have gone to that gipsy-party at all when he knew I couldn't go," replied Fancy uneasily. "He didn't know that you would not be there till it was too late to refuse the invitation," said Susan. "And what was she like? Tell me." "Well, she was rather pretty, I must own." "Tell straight on about her, can't you! Come, do, Susan. How many times did you say he danced with her?" "Once." "Twice, I think you said?" "Indeed I'm sure I didn't." "Well, and he wanted to again, I expect." "No; I don't think he did. She wanted to dance with him again bad enough, I know. Everybody does with Dick, because he's so handsome and such a clever courter." "O, I wish!--How did you say she wore her hair?" "In long curls,--and her hair is light, and it curls without being put in paper: that's how it is she's so attractive." "She's trying to get him away! yes, yes, she is! And through keeping this miserable school I mustn't wear my hair in curls! But I will; I don't care if I leave the school and go home, I will wear my curls! Look, Susan, do! is her hair as soft and long as this?" Fancy pulled from its coil under her hat a twine of her own hair, and stretched it down her shoulder to show its length, looking at Susan to catch her opinion from her eyes. "It is about the same length as that, I think," said Miss Dewy. Fancy paused hopelessly. "I wish mine was lighter, like hers!" she continued mournfully. "But hers isn't so soft, is it? Tell me, now." "I don't know." Fancy abstractedly extended her vision to survey a yellow butterfly and a red-and-black butterfly that were flitting along in company, and then became aware that Dick was advancing up the garden. "Susan, here's Dick coming; I suppose that's because we've been talking about him." "Well, then, I shall go indoors now--you won't want me;" and Susan turned practically and walked off. Enter the single-minded Dick, whose only fault at the gipsying, or picnic, had been that of loving Fancy too exclusively, and depriving himself of the innocent pleasure the gathering might have afforded him, by sighing regretfully at her absence,--who had danced with the rival in sheer despair of ever being able to get through that stale, flat, and unprofitable afternoon in any other way; but this she would not believe. Fancy had settled her plan of emotion. To reproach Dick? O no, no. "I am in great trouble," said she, taking what was intended to be a hopelessly melancholy survey of a few small apples lying under the tree; yet a critical ear might have noticed in her voice a tentative tone as to the effect of the words upon Dick when she uttered them. "What are you in trouble about? Tell me of it," said Dick earnestly. "Darling, I will share it with 'ee and help 'ee." "No, no: you can't! Nobody can!" "Why not? You don't deserve it, whatever it is. Tell me, dear." "O, it isn't what you think! It is dreadful: my own sin!" "Sin, Fancy! as if you could sin! I know it can't be." "'Tis, 'tis!" said the young lady, in a pretty little frenzy of sorrow. "I have done wrong, and I don't like to tell it! Nobody will forgive me, nobody! and you above all will not! . . . I have allowed myself to--to--fl--" "What,--not flirt!" he said, controlling his emotion as it were by a sudden pressure inward from his surface. "And you said only the day before yesterday that you hadn't flirted in your life!" "Yes, I did; and that was a wicked story! I have let another love me, and--" "Good G--! Well, I'll forgive you,--yes, if you couldn't help it,--yes, I will!" said the now dismal Dick. "Did you encourage him?" "O,--I don't know,--yes--no. O, I think so!" "Who was it?" A pause. "Tell me!" "Mr. Shiner." After a silence that was only disturbed by the fall of an apple, a long- checked sigh from Dick, and a sob from Fancy, he said with real austerity-- "Tell it all;--every word!" "He looked at me, and I looked at him, and he said, 'Will you let me show you how to catch bullfinches down here by the stream?' And I--wanted to know very much--I did so long to have a bullfinch! I couldn't help that and I said, 'Yes!' and then he said, 'Come here.' And I went with him down to the lovely river, and then he said to me, 'Look and see how I do it, and then you'll know: I put this birdlime round this twig, and then I go here,' he said, 'and hide away under a bush; and presently clever Mister Bird comes and perches upon the twig, and flaps his wings, and you've got him before you can say Jack'--something; O, O, O, I forget what!" "Jack Sprat," mournfully suggested Dick through the cloud of his misery. "No, not Jack Sprat," she sobbed. "Then 'twas Jack Robinson!" he said, with the emphasis of a man who had resolved to discover every iota of the truth, or die. "Yes, that was it! And then I put my hand upon the rail of the bridge to get across, and--That's all." "Well, that isn't much, either," said Dick critically, and more cheerfully. "Not that I see what business Shiner has to take upon himself to teach you anything. But it seems--it do seem there must have been more than that to set you up in such a dreadful taking?" He looked into Fancy's eyes. Misery of miseries!--guilt was written there still. "Now, Fancy, you've not told me all!" said Dick, rather sternly for a quiet young man. "O, don't speak so cruelly! I am afraid to tell now! If you hadn't been harsh, I was going on to tell all; now I can't!" "Come, dear Fancy, tell: come. I'll forgive; I must,--by heaven and earth, I must, whether I will or no; I love you so!" "Well, when I put my hand on the bridge, he touched it--" "A scamp!" said Dick, grinding an imaginary human frame to powder. "And then he looked at me, and at last he said, 'Are you in love with Dick Dewy?' And I said, 'Perhaps I am!' and then he said, 'I wish you weren't then, for I want to marry you, with all my soul.'" "There's a villain now! Want to marry you!" And Dick quivered with the bitterness of satirical laughter. Then suddenly remembering that he might be reckoning without his host: "Unless, to be sure, you are willing to have him,--perhaps you are," he said, with the wretched indifference of a castaway. "No, indeed I am not!" she said, her sobs just beginning to take a favourable turn towards cure. "Well, then," said Dick, coming a little to his senses, "you've been stretching it very much in giving such a dreadful beginning to such a mere nothing. And I know what you've done it for,--just because of that gipsy-party!" He turned away from her and took five paces decisively, as if he were tired of an ungrateful country, including herself. "You did it to make me jealous, and I won't stand it!" He flung the words to her over his shoulder and then stalked on, apparently very anxious to walk to the remotest of the Colonies that very minute. "O, O, O, Dick--Dick!" she cried, trotting after him like a pet lamb, and really seriously alarmed at last, "you'll kill me! My impulses are bad--miserably wicked,--and I can't help it; forgive me, Dick! And I love you always; and those times when you look silly and don't seem quite good enough for me,--just the same, I do, Dick! And there is something more serious, though not concerning that walk with him." "Well, what is it?" said Dick, altering his mind about walking to the Colonies; in fact, passing to the other extreme, and standing so rooted to the road that he was apparently not even going home. "Why this," she said, drying the beginning of a new flood of tears she had been going to shed, "this is the serious part. Father has told Mr. Shiner that he would like him for a son-in-law, if he could get me;--that he has his right hearty consent to come courting me!" CHAPTER IV: AN ARRANGEMENT "That is serious," said Dick, more intellectually than he had spoken for a long time. The truth was that Geoffrey knew nothing about his daughter's continued walks and meetings with Dick. When a hint that there were symptoms of an attachment between them had first reached Geoffrey's ears, he stated so emphatically that he must think the matter over before any such thing could be allowed that, rather unwisely on Dick's part, whatever it might have been on the lady's, the lovers were careful to be seen together no more in public; and Geoffrey, forgetting the report, did not think over the matter at all. So Mr. Shiner resumed his old position in Geoffrey's brain by mere flux of time. Even Shiner began to believe that Dick existed for Fancy no more,--though that remarkably easy-going man had taken no active steps on his own account as yet. "And father has not only told Mr. Shiner that," continued Fancy, "but he has written me a letter, to say he should wish me to encourage Mr. Shiner, if 'twas convenient!" "I must start off and see your father at once!" said Dick, taking two or three vehement steps to the south, recollecting that Mr. Day lived to the north, and coming back again. "I think we had better see him together. Not tell him what you come for, or anything of the kind, until he likes you, and so win his brain through his heart, which is always the way to manage people. I mean in this way: I am going home on Saturday week to help them in the honey-taking. You might come there to me, have something to eat and drink, and let him guess what your coming signifies, without saying it in so many words." "We'll do it, dearest. But I shall ask him for you, flat and plain; not wait for his guessing." And the lover then stepped close to her, and attempted to give her one little kiss on the cheek, his lips alighting, however, on an outlying tract of her back hair by reason of an impulse that had caused her to turn her head with a jerk. "Yes, and I'll put on my second-best suit and a clean shirt and collar, and black my boots as if 'twas a Sunday. 'Twill have a good appearance, you see, and that's a great deal to start with." "You won't wear that old waistcoat, will you, Dick?" "Bless you, no! Why I--" "I didn't mean to be personal, dear Dick," she said, fearing she had hurt his feelings. "'Tis a very nice waistcoat, but what I meant was, that though it is an excellent waistcoat for a settled-down man, it is not quite one for" (she waited, and a blush expanded over her face, and then she went on again)--"for going courting in." "No, I'll wear my best winter one, with the leather lining, that mother made. It is a beautiful, handsome waistcoat inside, yes, as ever anybody saw. In fact, only the other day, I unbuttoned it to show a chap that very lining, and he said it was the strongest, handsomest lining you could wish to see on the king's waistcoat himself." "I don't quite know what to wear," she said, as if her habitual indifference alone to dress had kept back so important a subject till now. "Why, that blue frock you wore last week." "Doesn't set well round the neck. I couldn't wear that." "But I shan't care." "No, you won't mind." "Well, then it's all right. Because you only care how you look to me, do you, dear? I only dress for you, that's certain." "Yes, but you see I couldn't appear in it again very well." "Any strange gentleman you mid meet in your journey might notice the set of it, I suppose. Fancy, men in love don't think so much about how they look to other women." It is difficult to say whether a tone of playful banter or of gentle reproach prevailed in the speech. "Well then, Dick," she said, with good-humoured frankness, "I'll own it. I shouldn't like a stranger to see me dressed badly, even though I am in love. 'Tis our nature, I suppose." "You perfect woman!" "Yes; if you lay the stress on 'woman,'" she murmured, looking at a group of hollyhocks in flower, round which a crowd of butterflies had gathered like female idlers round a bonnet-shop. "But about the dress. Why not wear the one you wore at our party?" "That sets well, but a girl of the name of Bet Tallor, who lives near our house, has had one made almost like it (only in pattern, though of miserably cheap stuff), and I couldn't wear it on that account. Dear me, I am afraid I can't go now." "O yes, you must; I know you will!" said Dick, with dismay. "Why not wear what you've got on?" "What! this old one! After all, I think that by wearing my gray one Saturday, I can make the blue one do for Sunday. Yes, I will. A hat or a bonnet, which shall it be? Which do I look best in?" "Well, I think the bonnet is nicest, more quiet and matronly." "What's the objection to the hat? Does it make me look old?" "O no; the hat is well enough; but it makes you look rather too--you won't mind me saying it, dear?" "Not at all, for I shall wear the bonnet." "--Rather too coquettish and flirty for an engaged young woman." She reflected a minute. "Yes; yes. Still, after all, the hat would do best; hats are best, you see. Yes, I must wear the hat, dear Dicky, because I ought to wear a hat, you know." PART THE FOURTH--AUTUMN CHAPTER I: GOING NUTTING Dick, dressed in his 'second-best' suit, burst into Fancy's sitting-room with a glow of pleasure on his face. It was two o'clock on Friday, the day before her contemplated visit to her father, and for some reason connected with cleaning the school the children had been given this Friday afternoon for pastime, in addition to the usual Saturday. "Fancy! it happens just right that it is a leisure half day with you. Smart is lame in his near-foot-afore, and so, as I can't do anything, I've made a holiday afternoon of it, and am come for you to go nutting with me!" She was sitting by the parlour window, with a blue frock lying across her lap and scissors in her hand. "Go nutting! Yes. But I'm afraid I can't go for an hour or so." "Why not? 'Tis the only spare afternoon we may both have together for weeks." "This dress of mine, that I am going to wear on Sunday at Yalbury;--I find it fits so badly that I must alter it a little, after all. I told the dressmaker to make it by a pattern I gave her at the time; instead of that, she did it her own way, and made me look a perfect fright." "How long will you be?" he inquired, looking rather disappointed. "Not long. Do wait and talk to me; come, do, dear." Dick sat down. The talking progressed very favourably, amid the snipping and sewing, till about half-past two, at which time his conversation began to be varied by a slight tapping upon his toe with a walking-stick he had cut from the hedge as he came along. Fancy talked and answered him, but sometimes the answers were so negligently given, that it was evident her thoughts lay for the greater part in her lap with the blue dress. The clock struck three. Dick arose from his seat, walked round the room with his hands behind him, examined all the furniture, then sounded a few notes on the harmonium, then looked inside all the books he could find, then smoothed Fancy's head with his hand. Still the snipping and sewing went on. The clock struck four. Dick fidgeted about, yawned privately; counted the knots in the table, yawned publicly; counted the flies on the ceiling, yawned horribly; went into the kitchen and scullery, and so thoroughly studied the principle upon which the pump was constructed that he could have delivered a lecture on the subject. Stepping back to Fancy, and finding still that she had not done, he went into her garden and looked at her cabbages and potatoes, and reminded himself that they seemed to him to wear a decidedly feminine aspect; then pulled up several weeds, and came in again. The clock struck five, and still the snipping and sewing went on. Dick attempted to kill a fly, peeled all the rind off his walking-stick, then threw the stick into the scullery because it was spoilt, produced hideous discords from the harmonium, and accidentally overturned a vase of flowers, the water from which ran in a rill across the table and dribbled to the floor, where it formed a lake, the shape of which, after the lapse of a few minutes, he began to modify considerably with his foot, till it was like a map of England and Wales. "Well, Dick, you needn't have made quite such a mess." "Well, I needn't, I suppose." He walked up to the blue dress, and looked at it with a rigid gaze. Then an idea seemed to cross his brain. "Fancy." "Yes." "I thought you said you were going to wear your gray gown all day to-morrow on your trip to Yalbury, and in the evening too, when I shall be with you, and ask your father for you?" "So I am." "And the blue one only on Sunday?" "And the blue one Sunday." "Well, dear, I sha'n't be at Yalbury Sunday to see it." "No, but I shall walk to Longpuddle church in the afternoon with father, and such lots of people will be looking at me there, you know; and it did set so badly round the neck." "I never noticed it, and 'tis like nobody else would." "They might." "Then why not wear the gray one on Sunday as well? 'Tis as pretty as the blue one." "I might make the gray one do, certainly. But it isn't so good; it didn't cost half so much as this one, and besides, it would be the same I wore Saturday." "Then wear the striped one, dear." "I might." "Or the dark one." "Yes, I might; but I want to wear a fresh one they haven't seen." "I see, I see," said Dick, in a voice in which the tones of love were decidedly inconvenienced by a considerable emphasis, his thoughts meanwhile running as follows: "I, the man she loves best in the world, as she says, am to understand that my poor half-holiday is to be lost, because she wants to wear on Sunday a gown there is not the slightest necessity for wearing, simply, in fact, to appear more striking than usual in the eyes of Longpuddle young men; and I not there, either." "Then there are three dresses good enough for my eyes, but neither is good enough for the youths of Longpuddle," he said. "No, not that exactly, Dick. Still, you see, I do want--to look pretty to them--there, that's honest! But I sha'n't be much longer." "How much?" "A quarter of an hour." "Very well; I'll come in in a quarter of an hour." "Why go away?" "I mid as well." He went out, walked down the road, and sat upon a gate. Here he meditated and meditated, and the more he meditated the more decidedly did he begin to fume, and the more positive was he that his time had been scandalously trifled with by Miss Fancy Day--that, so far from being the simple girl who had never had a sweetheart before, as she had solemnly assured him time after time, she was, if not a flirt, a woman who had had no end of admirers; a girl most certainly too anxious about her frocks; a girl, whose feelings, though warm, were not deep; a girl who cared a great deal too much how she appeared in the eyes of other men. "What she loves best in the world," he thought, with an incipient spice of his father's grimness, "is her hair and complexion. What she loves next best, her gowns and hats; what she loves next best, myself, perhaps!" Suffering great anguish at this disloyalty in himself and harshness to his darling, yet disposed to persevere in it, a horribly cruel thought crossed his mind. He would not call for her, as he had promised, at the end of a quarter of an hour! Yes, it would be a punishment she well deserved. Although the best part of the afternoon had been wasted he would go nutting as he had intended, and go by himself. He leaped over the gate, and pushed up the lane for nearly two miles, till a winding path called Snail-Creep sloped up a hill and entered a hazel copse by a hole like a rabbit's burrow. In he plunged, vanished among the bushes, and in a short time there was no sign of his existence upon earth, save an occasional rustling of boughs and snapping of twigs in divers points of Grey's Wood. Never man nutted as Dick nutted that afternoon. He worked like a galley slave. Half-hour after half-hour passed away, and still he gathered without ceasing. At last, when the sun had set, and bunches of nuts could not be distinguished from the leaves which nourished them, he shouldered his bag, containing quite two pecks of the finest produce of the wood, about as much use to him as two pecks of stones from the road, strolled down the woodland track, crossed the highway and entered the homeward lane, whistling as he went. Probably, Miss Fancy Day never before or after stood so low in Mr. Dewy's opinion as on that afternoon. In fact, it is just possible that a few more blue dresses on the Longpuddle young men's account would have clarified Dick's brain entirely, and made him once more a free man. But Venus had planned other developments, at any rate for the present. Cuckoo-Lane, the way he pursued, passed over a ridge which rose keenly against the sky about fifty yards in his van. Here, upon the bright after-glow about the horizon, was now visible an irregular shape, which at first he conceived to be a bough standing a little beyond the line of its neighbours. Then it seemed to move, and, as he advanced still further, there was no doubt that it was a living being sitting in the bank, head bowed on hand. The grassy margin entirely prevented his footsteps from being heard, and it was not till he was close that the figure recognized him. Up it sprang, and he was face to face with Fancy. "Dick, Dick! O, is it you, Dick!" "Yes, Fancy," said Dick, in a rather repentant tone, and lowering his nuts. She ran up to him, flung her parasol on the grass, put her little head against his breast, and then there began a narrative, disjointed by such a hysterical weeping as was never surpassed for intensity in the whole history of love. "O Dick," she sobbed out, "where have you been away from me? O, I have suffered agony, and thought you would never come any more! 'Tis cruel, Dick; no 'tisn't, it is justice! I've been walking miles and miles up and down Grey's Wood, trying to find you, till I was wearied and worn out, and I could walk no further, and had come back this far! O Dick, directly you were gone, I thought I had offended you and I put down the dress; 'tisn't finished now, and I never will finish, it, and I'll wear an old one Sunday! Yes, Dick, I will, because I don't care what I wear when you are not by my side--ha, you think I do, but I don't!--and I ran after you, and I saw you go up Snail-Creep and not look back once, and then you plunged in, and I after you; but I was too far behind. O, I did wish the horrid bushes had been cut down, so that I could see your dear shape again! And then I called out to you, and nobody answered, and I was afraid to call very loud, lest anybody else should hear me. Then I kept wandering and wandering about, and it was dreadful misery, Dick. And then I shut my eyes and fell to picturing you looking at some other woman, very pretty and nice, but with no affection or truth in her at all, and then imagined you saying to yourself, 'Ah, she's as good as Fancy, for Fancy told me a story, and was a flirt, and cared for herself more than me, so now I'll have this one for my sweetheart.' O, you won't, will you, Dick, for I do love you so!" It is scarcely necessary to add that Dick renounced his freedom there and then, and kissed her ten times over, and promised that no pretty woman of the kind alluded to should ever engross his thoughts; in short, that though he had been vexed with her, all such vexation was past, and that henceforth and for ever it was simply Fancy or death for him. And then they set about proceeding homewards, very slowly on account of Fancy's weariness, she leaning upon his shoulder, and in addition receiving support from his arm round her waist; though she had sufficiently recovered from her desperate condition to sing to him, 'Why are you wandering here, I pray?' during the latter part of their walk. Nor is it necessary to describe in detail how the bag of nuts was quite forgotten until three days later, when it was found among the brambles and restored empty to Mrs. Dewy, her initials being marked thereon in red cotton; and how she puzzled herself till her head ached upon the question of how on earth her meal-bag could have got into Cuckoo-Lane. CHAPTER II: HONEY-TAKING, AND AFTERWARDS Saturday evening saw Dick Dewy journeying on foot to Yalbury Wood, according to the arrangement with Fancy. The landscape being concave, at the going down of the sun everything suddenly assumed a uniform robe of shade. The evening advanced from sunset to dusk long before Dick's arrival, and his progress during the latter portion of his walk through the trees was indicated by the flutter of terrified birds that had been roosting over the path. And in crossing the glades, masses of hot dry air, that had been formed on the hills during the day, greeted his cheeks alternately with clouds of damp night air from the valleys. He reached the keeper-steward's house, where the grass-plot and the garden in front appeared light and pale against the unbroken darkness of the grove from which he had emerged, and paused at the garden gate. He had scarcely been there a minute when he beheld a sort of procession advancing from the door in his front. It consisted first of Enoch the trapper, carrying a spade on his shoulder and a lantern dangling in his hand; then came Mrs. Day, the light of the lantern revealing that she bore in her arms curious objects about a foot long, in the form of Latin crosses (made of lath and brown paper dipped in brimstone--called matches by bee-masters); next came Miss Day, with a shawl thrown over her head; and behind all, in the gloom, Mr. Frederic Shiner. Dick, in his consternation at finding Shiner present, was at a loss how to proceed, and retired under a tree to collect his thoughts. "Here I be, Enoch," said a voice; and the procession advancing farther, the lantern's rays illuminated the figure of Geoffrey, awaiting their arrival beside a row of bee-hives, in front of the path. Taking the spade from Enoch, he proceeded to dig two holes in the earth beside the hives, the others standing round in a circle, except Mrs. Day, who deposited her matches in the fork of an apple-tree and returned to the house. The party remaining were now lit up in front by the lantern in their midst, their shadows radiating each way upon the garden-plot like the spokes of a wheel. An apparent embarrassment of Fancy at the presence of Shiner caused a silence in the assembly, during which the preliminaries of execution were arranged, the matches fixed, the stake kindled, the two hives placed over the two holes, and the earth stopped round the edges. Geoffrey then stood erect, and rather more, to straighten his backbone after the digging. "They were a peculiar family," said Mr. Shiner, regarding the hives reflectively. Geoffrey nodded. "Those holes will be the grave of thousands!" said Fancy. "I think 'tis rather a cruel thing to do." Her father shook his head. "No," he said, tapping the hives to shake the dead bees from their cells, "if you suffocate 'em this way, they only die once: if you fumigate 'em in the new way, they come to life again, and die o' starvation; so the pangs o' death be twice upon 'em." "I incline to Fancy's notion," said Mr. Shiner, laughing lightly. "The proper way to take honey, so that the bees be neither starved nor murdered, is a puzzling matter," said the keeper steadily. "I should like never to take it from them," said Fancy. "But 'tis the money," said Enoch musingly. "For without money man is a shadder!" The lantern-light had disturbed many bees that had escaped from hives destroyed some days earlier, and, demoralized by affliction, were now getting a living as marauders about the doors of other hives. Several flew round the head and neck of Geoffrey; then darted upon him with an irritated bizz. Enoch threw down the lantern, and ran off and pushed his head into a currant bush; Fancy scudded up the path; and Mr. Shiner floundered away helter-skelter among the cabbages. Geoffrey stood his ground, unmoved and firm as a rock. Fancy was the first to return, followed by Enoch picking up the lantern. Mr. Shiner still remained invisible. "Have the craters stung ye?" said Enoch to Geoffrey. "No, not much--on'y a little here and there," he said with leisurely solemnity, shaking one bee out of his shirt sleeve, pulling another from among his hair, and two or three more from his neck. The rest looked on during this proceeding with a complacent sense of being out of it,--much as a European nation in a state of internal commotion is watched by its neighbours. "Are those all of them, father?" said Fancy, when Geoffrey had pulled away five. "Almost all,--though I feel one or two more sticking into my shoulder and side. Ah! there's another just begun again upon my backbone. You lively young mortals, how did you get inside there? However, they can't sting me many times more, poor things, for they must be getting weak. They mid as well stay in me till bedtime now, I suppose." As he himself was the only person affected by this arrangement, it seemed satisfactory enough; and after a noise of feet kicking against cabbages in a blundering progress among them, the voice of Mr. Shiner was heard from the darkness in that direction. "Is all quite safe again?" No answer being returned to this query, he apparently assumed that he might venture forth, and gradually drew near the lantern again. The hives were now removed from their position over the holes, one being handed to Enoch to carry indoors, and one being taken by Geoffrey himself. "Bring hither the lantern, Fancy: the spade can bide." Geoffrey and Enoch then went towards the house, leaving Shiner and Fancy standing side by side on the garden-plot. "Allow me," said Shiner, stooping for the lantern and seizing it at the same time with Fancy. "I can carry it," said Fancy, religiously repressing all inclination to trifle. She had thoroughly considered that subject after the tearful explanation of the bird-catching adventure to Dick, and had decided that it would be dishonest in her, as an engaged young woman, to trifle with men's eyes and hands any more. Finding that Shiner still retained his hold of the lantern, she relinquished it, and he, having found her retaining it, also let go. The lantern fell, and was extinguished. Fancy moved on. "Where is the path?" said Mr. Shiner. "Here," said Fancy. "Your eyes will get used to the dark in a minute or two." "Till that time will ye lend me your hand?" Fancy gave him the extreme tips of her fingers, and they stepped from the plot into the path. "You don't accept attentions very freely." "It depends upon who offers them." "A fellow like me, for instance." A dead silence. "Well, what do you say, Missie?" "It then depends upon how they are offered." "Not wildly, and yet not careless-like; not purposely, and yet not by chance; not too quick nor yet too slow." "How then?" said Fancy. "Coolly and practically," he said. "How would that kind of love be taken?" "Not anxiously, and yet not indifferently; neither blushing nor pale; nor religiously nor yet quite wickedly." "Well, how?" "Not at all." * * * * * Geoffrey Day's storehouse at the back of his dwelling was hung with bunches of dried horehound, mint, and sage; brown-paper bags of thyme and lavender; and long ropes of clean onions. On shelves were spread large red and yellow apples, and choice selections of early potatoes for seed next year;--vulgar crowds of commoner kind lying beneath in heaps. A few empty beehives were clustered around a nail in one corner, under which stood two or three barrels of new cider of the first crop, each bubbling and squirting forth from the yet open bunghole. Fancy was now kneeling beside the two inverted hives, one of which rested against her lap, for convenience in operating upon the contents. She thrust her sleeves above her elbows, and inserted her small pink hand edgewise between each white lobe of honeycomb, performing the act so adroitly and gently as not to unseal a single cell. Then cracking the piece off at the crown of the hive by a slight backward and forward movement, she lifted each portion as it was loosened into a large blue platter, placed on a bench at her side. "Bother these little mortals!" said Geoffrey, who was holding the light to her, and giving his back an uneasy twist. "I really think I may as well go indoors and take 'em out, poor things! for they won't let me alone. There's two a stinging wi' all their might now. I'm sure I wonder their strength can last so long." "All right, friend; I'll hold the candle whilst you are gone," said Mr. Shiner, leisurely taking the light, and allowing Geoffrey to depart, which he did with his usual long paces. He could hardly have gone round to the house-door when other footsteps were heard approaching the outbuilding; the tip of a finger appeared in the hole through which the wood latch was lifted, and Dick Dewy came in, having been all this time walking up and down the wood, vainly waiting for Shiner's departure. Fancy looked up and welcomed him rather confusedly. Shiner grasped the candlestick more firmly, and, lest doing this in silence should not imply to Dick with sufficient force that he was quite at home and cool, he sang invincibly-- "'King Arthur he had three sons.'" "Father here?" said Dick. "Indoors, I think," said Fancy, looking pleasantly at him. Dick surveyed the scene, and did not seem inclined to hurry off just at that moment. Shiner went on singing-- "'The miller was drown'd in his pond, The weaver was hung in his yarn, And the d--- ran away with the little tail-or, With the broadcloth under his arm.'" "That's a terrible crippled rhyme, if that's your rhyme!" said Dick, with a grain of superciliousness in his tone. "It's no use your complaining to me about the rhyme!" said Mr. Shiner. "You must go to the man that made it." Fancy by this time had acquired confidence. "Taste a bit, Mr. Dewy," she said, holding up to him a small circular piece of honeycomb that had been the last in the row of layers, remaining still on her knees and flinging back her head to look in his face; "and then I'll taste a bit too." "And I, if you please," said Mr. Shiner. Nevertheless the farmer looked superior, as if he could even now hardly join the trifling from very importance of station; and after receiving the honeycomb from Fancy, he turned it over in his hand till the cells began to be crushed, and the liquid honey ran down from his fingers in a thin string. Suddenly a faint cry from Fancy caused them to gaze at her. "What's the matter, dear?" said Dick. "It is nothing, but O-o! a bee has stung the inside of my lip! He was in one of the cells I was eating!" "We must keep down the swelling, or it may be serious!" said Shiner, stepping up and kneeling beside her. "Let me see it." "No, no!" "Just let me see it," said Dick, kneeling on the other side: and after some hesitation she pressed down her lip with one finger to show the place. "O, I hope 'twill soon be better! I don't mind a sting in ordinary places, but it is so bad upon your lip," she added with tears in her eyes, and writhing a little from the pain. Shiner held the light above his head and pushed his face close to Fancy's, as if the lip had been shown exclusively to himself, upon which Dick pushed closer, as if Shiner were not there at all. "It is swelling," said Dick to her right aspect. "It isn't swelling," said Shiner to her left aspect. "Is it dangerous on the lip?" cried Fancy. "I know it is dangerous on the tongue." "O no, not dangerous!" answered Dick. "Rather dangerous," had answered Shiner simultaneously. "I must try to bear it!" said Fancy, turning again to the hives. "Hartshorn-and-oil is a good thing to put to it, Miss Day," said Shiner with great concern. "Sweet-oil-and-hartshorn I've found to be a good thing to cure stings, Miss Day," said Dick with greater concern. "We have some mixed indoors; would you kindly run and get it for me?" she said. Now, whether by inadvertence, or whether by mischievous intention, the individuality of the you was so carelessly denoted that both Dick and Shiner sprang to their feet like twin acrobats, and marched abreast to the door; both seized the latch and lifted it, and continued marching on, shoulder to shoulder, in the same manner to the dwelling-house. Not only so, but entering the room, they marched as before straight up to Mrs. Day's chair, letting the door in the oak partition slam so forcibly, that the rows of pewter on the dresser rang like a bell. "Mrs. Day, Fancy has stung her lip, and wants you to give me the hartshorn, please," said Mr. Shiner, very close to Mrs. Day's face. "O, Mrs. Day, Fancy has asked me to bring out the hartshorn, please, because she has stung her lip!" said Dick, a little closer to Mrs. Day's face. "Well, men alive! that's no reason why you should eat me, I suppose!" said Mrs. Day, drawing back. She searched in the corner-cupboard, produced the bottle, and began to dust the cork, the rim, and every other part very carefully, Dick's hand and Shiner's hand waiting side by side. "Which is head man?" said Mrs. Day. "Now, don't come mumbudgeting so close again. Which is head man?" Neither spoke; and the bottle was inclined towards Shiner. Shiner, as a high-class man, would not look in the least triumphant, and turned to go off with it as Geoffrey came downstairs after the search in his linen for concealed bees. "O--that you, Master Dewy?" Dick assured the keeper that it was; and the young man then determined upon a bold stroke for the attainment of his end, forgetting that the worst of bold strokes is the disastrous consequences they involve if they fail. "I've come on purpose to speak to you very particular, Mr. Day," he said, with a crushing emphasis intended for the ears of Mr. Shiner, who was vanishing round the door-post at that moment. "Well, I've been forced to go upstairs and unrind myself, and shake some bees out o' me" said Geoffrey, walking slowly towards the open door, and standing on the threshold. "The young rascals got into my shirt and wouldn't be quiet nohow." Dick followed him to the door. "I've come to speak a word to you," he repeated, looking out at the pale mist creeping up from the gloom of the valley. "You may perhaps guess what it is about." The keeper lowered his hands into the depths of his pockets, twirled his eyes, balanced himself on his toes, looked as perpendicularly downward as if his glance were a plumb-line, then horizontally, collecting together the cracks that lay about his face till they were all in the neighbourhood of his eyes. "Maybe I don't know," he replied. Dick said nothing; and the stillness was disturbed only by some small bird that was being killed by an owl in the adjoining wood, whose cry passed into the silence without mingling with it. "I've left my hat up in chammer," said Geoffrey; "wait while I step up and get en." "I'll be in the garden," said Dick. He went round by a side wicket into the garden, and Geoffrey went upstairs. It was the custom in Mellstock and its vicinity to discuss matters of pleasure and ordinary business inside the house, and to reserve the garden for very important affairs: a custom which, as is supposed, originated in the desirability of getting away at such times from the other members of the family when there was only one room for living in, though it was now quite as frequently practised by those who suffered from no such limitation to the size of their domiciles. The head-keeper's form appeared in the dusky garden, and Dick walked towards him. The elder paused and leant over the rail of a piggery that stood on the left of the path, upon which Dick did the same; and they both contemplated a whitish shadowy shape that was moving about and grunting among the straw of the interior. "I've come to ask for Fancy," said Dick. "I'd as lief you hadn't." "Why should that be, Mr. Day?" "Because it makes me say that you've come to ask what ye be'n't likely to have. Have ye come for anything else?" "Nothing." "Then I'll just tell 'ee you've come on a very foolish errand. D'ye know what her mother was?" "No." "A teacher in a landed family's nursery, who was foolish enough to marry the keeper of the same establishment; for I was only a keeper then, though now I've a dozen other irons in the fire as steward here for my lord, what with the timber sales and the yearly fellings, and the gravel and sand sales and one thing and 'tother. However, d'ye think Fancy picked up her good manners, the smooth turn of her tongue, her musical notes, and her knowledge of books, in a homely hole like this?" "No." "D'ye know where?" "No." "Well, when I went a-wandering after her mother's death, she lived with her aunt, who kept a boarding-school, till her aunt married Lawyer Green--a man as sharp as a needle--and the school was broke up. Did ye know that then she went to the training-school, and that her name stood first among the Queen's scholars of her year?" "I've heard so." "And that when she sat for her certificate as Government teacher, she had the highest of the first class?" "Yes." "Well, and do ye know what I live in such a miserly way for when I've got enough to do without it, and why I make her work as a schoolmistress instead of living here?" "No." "That if any gentleman, who sees her to be his equal in polish, should want to marry her, and she want to marry him, he sha'n't be superior to her in pocket. Now do ye think after this that you be good enough for her?" "No." "Then good-night t'ee, Master Dewy." "Good-night, Mr. Day." Modest Dick's reply had faltered upon his tongue, and he turned away wondering at his presumption in asking for a woman whom he had seen from the beginning to be so superior to him. CHAPTER III: FANCY IN THE RAIN The next scene is a tempestuous afternoon in the following month, and Fancy Day is discovered walking from her father's home towards Mellstock. A single vast gray cloud covered the country, from which the small rain and mist had just begun to blow down in wavy sheets, alternately thick and thin. The trees of the fields and plantations writhed like miserable men as the air wound its way swiftly among them: the lowest portions of their trunks, that had hardly ever been known to move, were visibly rocked by the fiercer gusts, distressing the mind by its painful unwontedness, as when a strong man is seen to shed tears. Low-hanging boughs went up and down; high and erect boughs went to and fro; the blasts being so irregular, and divided into so many cross-currents, that neighbouring branches of the same tree swept the skies in independent motions, crossed each other, or became entangled. Across the open spaces flew flocks of green and yellowish leaves, which, after travelling a long distance from their parent trees, reached the ground, and lay there with their under-sides upward. As the rain and wind increased, and Fancy's bonnet-ribbons leapt more and more snappishly against her chin, she paused on entering Mellstock Lane to consider her latitude, and the distance to a place of shelter. The nearest house was Elizabeth Endorfield's, in Higher Mellstock, whose cottage and garden stood not far from the junction of that hamlet with the road she followed. Fancy hastened onward, and in five minutes entered a gate, which shed upon her toes a flood of water-drops as she opened it. "Come in, chiel!" a voice exclaimed, before Fancy had knocked: a promptness that would have surprised her had she not known that Mrs. Endorfield was an exceedingly and exceptionally sharp woman in the use of her eyes and ears. Fancy went in and sat down. Elizabeth was paring potatoes for her husband's supper. Scrape, scrape, scrape; then a toss, and splash went a potato into a bucket of water. Now, as Fancy listlessly noted these proceedings of the dame, she began to reconsider an old subject that lay uppermost in her heart. Since the interview between her father and Dick, the days had been melancholy days for her. Geoffrey's firm opposition to the notion of Dick as a son-in- law was more than she had expected. She had frequently seen her lover since that time, it is true, and had loved him more for the opposition than she would have otherwise dreamt of doing--which was a happiness of a certain kind. Yet, though love is thus an end in itself, it must be believed to be the means to another end if it is to assume the rosy hues of an unalloyed pleasure. And such a belief Fancy and Dick were emphatically denied just now. Elizabeth Endorfield had a repute among women which was in its nature something between distinction and notoriety. It was founded on the following items of character. She was shrewd and penetrating; her house stood in a lonely place; she never went to church; she wore a red cloak; she always retained her bonnet indoors and she had a pointed chin. Thus far her attributes were distinctly Satanic; and those who looked no further called her, in plain terms, a witch. But she was not gaunt, nor ugly in the upper part of her face, nor particularly strange in manner; so that, when her more intimate acquaintances spoke of her the term was softened, and she became simply a Deep Body, who was as long-headed as she was high. It may be stated that Elizabeth belonged to a class of suspects who were gradually losing their mysterious characteristics under the administration of the young vicar; though, during the long reign of Mr. Grinham, the parish of Mellstock had proved extremely favourable to the growth of witches. While Fancy was revolving all this in her mind, and putting it to herself whether it was worth while to tell her troubles to Elizabeth, and ask her advice in getting out of them, the witch spoke. "You be down--proper down," she said suddenly, dropping another potato into the bucket. Fancy took no notice. "About your young man." Fancy reddened. Elizabeth seemed to be watching her thoughts. Really, one would almost think she must have the powers people ascribed to her. "Father not in the humour for't, hey?" Another potato was finished and flung in. "Ah, I know about it. Little birds tell me things that people don't dream of my knowing." Fancy was desperate about Dick, and here was a chance--O, such a wicked chance--of getting help; and what was goodness beside love! "I wish you'd tell me how to put him in the humour for it?" she said. "That I could soon do," said the witch quietly. "Really? O, do; anyhow--I don't care--so that it is done! How could I do it, Mrs. Endorfield?" "Nothing so mighty wonderful in it." "Well, but how?" "By witchery, of course!" said Elizabeth. "No!" said Fancy. "'Tis, I assure ye. Didn't you ever hear I was a witch?" "Well," hesitated Fancy, "I have heard you called so." "And you believed it?" "I can't say that I did exactly believe it, for 'tis very horrible and wicked; but, O, how I do wish it was possible for you to be one!" "So I am. And I'll tell you how to bewitch your father to let you marry Dick Dewy." "Will it hurt him, poor thing?" "Hurt who?" "Father." "No; the charm is worked by common sense, and the spell can only be broke by your acting stupidly." Fancy looked rather perplexed, and Elizabeth went on: "This fear of Lizz--whatever 'tis-- By great and small; She makes pretence to common sense, And that's all. "You must do it like this." The witch laid down her knife and potato, and then poured into Fancy's ear a long and detailed list of directions, glancing up from the corner of her eye into Fancy's face with an expression of sinister humour. Fancy's face brightened, clouded, rose and sank, as the narrative proceeded. "There," said Elizabeth at length, stooping for the knife and another potato, "do that, and you'll have him by-long and by-late, my dear." "And do it I will!" said Fancy. She then turned her attention to the external world once more. The rain continued as usual, but the wind had abated considerably during the discourse. Judging that it was now possible to keep an umbrella erect, she pulled her hood again over her bonnet, bade the witch good-bye, and went her way. CHAPTER IV: THE SPELL Mrs. Endorfield's advice was duly followed. "I be proper sorry that your daughter isn't so well as she might be," said a Mellstock man to Geoffrey one morning. "But is there anything in it?" said Geoffrey uneasily, as he shifted his hat to the right. "I can't understand the report. She didn't complain to me a bit when I saw her." "No appetite at all, they say." Geoffrey crossed to Mellstock and called at the school that afternoon. Fancy welcomed him as usual, and asked him to stay and take tea with her. "I be'n't much for tea, this time o' day," he said, but stayed. During the meal he watched her narrowly. And to his great consternation discovered the following unprecedented change in the healthy girl--that she cut herself only a diaphanous slice of bread-and-butter, and, laying it on her plate, passed the meal-time in breaking it into pieces, but eating no more than about one-tenth of the slice. Geoffrey hoped she would say something about Dick, and finish up by weeping, as she had done after the decision against him a few days subsequent to the interview in the garden. But nothing was said, and in due time Geoffrey departed again for Yalbury Wood. "'Tis to be hoped poor Miss Fancy will be able to keep on her school," said Geoffrey's man Enoch to Geoffrey the following week, as they were shovelling up ant-hills in the wood. Geoffrey stuck in the shovel, swept seven or eight ants from his sleeve, and killed another that was prowling round his ear, then looked perpendicularly into the earth as usual, waiting for Enoch to say more. "Well, why shouldn't she?" said the keeper at last. "The baker told me yesterday," continued Enoch, shaking out another emmet that had run merrily up his thigh, "that the bread he've left at that there school-house this last month would starve any mouse in the three creations; that 'twould so! And afterwards I had a pint o' small down at Morrs's, and there I heard more." "What might that ha' been?" "That she used to have a pound o' the best rolled butter a week, regular as clockwork, from Dairyman Viney's for herself, as well as just so much salted for the helping girl, and the 'ooman she calls in; but now the same quantity d'last her three weeks, and then 'tis thoughted she throws it away sour." "Finish doing the emmets, and carry the bag home-along." The keeper resumed his gun, tucked it under his arm, and went on without whistling to the dogs, who however followed, with a bearing meant to imply that they did not expect any such attentions when their master was reflecting. On Saturday morning a note came from Fancy. He was not to trouble about sending her the couple of rabbits, as was intended, because she feared she should not want them. Later in the day Geoffrey went to Casterbridge and called upon the butcher who served Fancy with fresh meat, which was put down to her father's account. "I've called to pay up our little bill, Neighbour Haylock, and you can gie me the chiel's account at the same time." Mr. Haylock turned round three quarters of a circle in the midst of a heap of joints, altered the expression of his face from meat to money, went into a little office consisting only of a door and a window, looked very vigorously into a book which possessed length but no breadth; and then, seizing a piece of paper and scribbling thereupon, handed the bill. Probably it was the first time in the history of commercial transactions that the quality of shortness in a butcher's bill was a cause of tribulation to the debtor. "Why, this isn't all she've had in a whole month!" said Geoffrey. "Every mossel," said the butcher--"(now, Dan, take that leg and shoulder to Mrs. White's, and this eleven pound here to Mr. Martin's)--you've been treating her to smaller joints lately, to my thinking, Mr. Day?" "Only two or three little scram rabbits this last week, as I am alive--I wish I had!" "Well, my wife said to me--(Dan! not too much, not too much on that tray at a time; better go twice)--my wife said to me as she posted up the books: she says, 'Miss Day must have been affronted this summer during that hot muggy weather that spolit so much for us; for depend upon't,' she says, 'she've been trying John Grimmett unknown to us: see her account else.' 'Tis little, of course, at the best of times, being only for one, but now 'tis next kin to nothing." "I'll inquire," said Geoffrey despondingly. He returned by way of Mellstock, and called upon Fancy, in fulfilment of a promise. It being Saturday, the children were enjoying a holiday, and on entering the residence Fancy was nowhere to be seen. Nan, the charwoman, was sweeping the kitchen. "Where's my da'ter?" said the keeper. "Well, you see she was tired with the week's teaching, and this morning she said, 'Nan, I sha'n't get up till the evening.' You see, Mr. Day, if people don't eat, they can't work; and as she've gie'd up eating, she must gie up working." "Have ye carried up any dinner to her?" "No; she don't want any. There, we all know that such things don't come without good reason--not that I wish to say anything about a broken heart, or anything of the kind." Geoffrey's own heart felt inconveniently large just then. He went to the staircase and ascended to his daughter's door. "Fancy!" "Come in, father." To see a person in bed from any cause whatever, on a fine afternoon, is depressing enough; and here was his only child Fancy, not only in bed, but looking very pale. Geoffrey was visibly disturbed. "Fancy, I didn't expect to see thee here, chiel," he said. "What's the matter?" "I'm not well, father." "How's that?" "Because I think of things." "What things can you have to think o' so mortal much?" "You know, father." "You think I've been cruel to thee in saying that that penniless Dick o' thine sha'n't marry thee, I suppose?" No answer. "Well, you know, Fancy, I do it for the best, and he isn't good enough for thee. You know that well enough." Here he again looked at her as she lay. "Well, Fancy, I can't let my only chiel die; and if you can't live without en, you must ha' en, I suppose." "O, I don't want him like that; all against your will, and everything so disobedient!" sighed the invalid. "No, no, 'tisn't against my will. My wish is, now I d'see how 'tis hurten thee to live without en, that he shall marry thee as soon as we've considered a little. That's my wish flat and plain, Fancy. There, never cry, my little maid! You ought to ha' cried afore; no need o' crying now 'tis all over. Well, howsoever, try to step over and see me and mother- law to-morrow, and ha' a bit of dinner wi' us." "And--Dick too?" "Ay, Dick too, 'far's I know." "And when do you think you'll have considered, father, and he may marry me?" she coaxed. "Well, there, say next Midsummer; that's not a day too long to wait." On leaving the school Geoffrey went to the tranter's. Old William opened the door. "Is your grandson Dick in 'ithin, William?" "No, not just now, Mr. Day. Though he've been at home a good deal lately." "O, how's that?" "What wi' one thing, and what wi' t'other, he's all in a mope, as might be said. Don't seem the feller he used to. Ay, 'a will sit studding and thinking as if 'a were going to turn chapel-member, and then do nothing but traypse and wamble about. Used to be such a chatty boy, too, Dick did; and now 'a don't speak at all. But won't ye step inside? Reuben will be home soon, 'a b'lieve." "No, thank you, I can't stay now. Will ye just ask Dick if he'll do me the kindness to step over to Yalbury to-morrow with my da'ter Fancy, if she's well enough? I don't like her to come by herself, now she's not so terrible topping in health." "So I've heard. Ay, sure, I'll tell him without fail." CHAPTER V: AFTER GAINING HER POINT The visit to Geoffrey passed off as delightfully as a visit might have been expected to pass off when it was the first day of smooth experience in a hitherto obstructed love-course. And then came a series of several happy days, of the same undisturbed serenity. Dick could court her when he chose; stay away when he chose,--which was never; walk with her by winding streams and waterfalls and autumn scenery till dews and twilight sent them home. And thus they drew near the day of the Harvest Thanksgiving, which was also the time chosen for opening the organ in Mellstock Church. It chanced that Dick on that very day was called away from Mellstock. A young acquaintance had died of consumption at Charmley, a neighbouring village, on the previous Monday, and Dick, in fulfilment of a long-standing promise, was to assist in carrying him to the grave. When on Tuesday, Dick went towards the school to acquaint Fancy with the fact, it is difficult to say whether his own disappointment at being denied the sight of her triumphant debut as organist, was greater than his vexation that his pet should on this great occasion be deprived of the pleasure of his presence. However, the intelligence was communicated. She bore it as she best could, not without many expressions of regret, and convictions that her performance would be nothing to her now. Just before eleven o'clock on Sunday he set out upon his sad errand. The funeral was to be immediately after the morning service, and as there were four good miles to walk, driving being inconvenient, it became necessary to start comparatively early. Half an hour later would certainly have answered his purpose quite as well, yet at the last moment nothing would content his ardent mind but that he must go a mile out of his way in the direction of the school, in the hope of getting a glimpse of his Love as she started for church. Striking, therefore, into the lane towards the school, instead of across the ewelease direct to Charmley, he arrived opposite her door as his goddess emerged. If ever a woman looked a divinity, Fancy Day appeared one that morning as she floated down those school steps, in the form of a nebulous collection of colours inclining to blue. With an audacity unparalleled in the whole history of village-school-mistresses at this date--partly owing, no doubt, to papa's respectable accumulation of cash, which rendered her profession not altogether one of necessity--she had actually donned a hat and feather, and lowered her hitherto plainly looped-up hair, which now fell about her shoulders in a profusion of curls. Poor Dick was astonished: he had never seen her look so distractingly beautiful before, save on Christmas-eve, when her hair was in the same luxuriant condition of freedom. But his first burst of delighted surprise was followed by less comfortable feelings, as soon as his brain recovered its power to think. Fancy had blushed;--was it with confusion? She had also involuntarily pressed back her curls. She had not expected him. "Fancy, you didn't know me for a moment in my funeral clothes, did you?" "Good-morning, Dick--no, really, I didn't know you for an instant in such a sad suit." He looked again at the gay tresses and hat. "You've never dressed so charming before, dearest." "I like to hear you praise me in that way, Dick," she said, smiling archly. "It is meat and drink to a woman. Do I look nice really?" "Fie! you know it. Did you remember,--I mean didn't you remember about my going away to-day?" "Well, yes, I did, Dick; but, you know, I wanted to look well;--forgive me." "Yes, darling; yes, of course,--there's nothing to forgive. No, I was only thinking that when we talked on Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday and Friday about my absence to-day, and I was so sorry for it, you said, Fancy, so were you sorry, and almost cried, and said it would be no pleasure to you to be the attraction of the church to-day, since I could not be there." "My dear one, neither will it be so much pleasure to me . . . But I do take a little delight in my life, I suppose," she pouted. "Apart from mine?" She looked at him with perplexed eyes. "I know you are vexed with me, Dick, and it is because the first Sunday I have curls and a hat and feather since I have been here happens to be the very day you are away and won't be with me. Yes, say it is, for that is it! And you think that all this week I ought to have remembered you wouldn't be here to- day, and not have cared to be better dressed than usual. Yes, you do, Dick, and it is rather unkind!" "No, no," said Dick earnestly and simply, "I didn't think so badly of you as that. I only thought that--if you had been going away, I shouldn't have tried new attractions for the eyes of other people. But then of course you and I are different, naturally." "Well, perhaps we are." "Whatever will the vicar say, Fancy?" "I don't fear what he says in the least!" she answered proudly. "But he won't say anything of the sort you think. No, no." "He can hardly have conscience to, indeed." "Now come, you say, Dick, that you quite forgive me, for I must go," she said with sudden gaiety, and skipped backwards into the porch. "Come here, sir;--say you forgive me, and then you shall kiss me;--you never have yet when I have worn curls, you know. Yes, just where you want to so much,--yes, you may!" Dick followed her into the inner corner, where he was probably not slow in availing himself of the privilege offered. "Now that's a treat for you, isn't it?" she continued. "Good-bye, or I shall be late. Come and see me to-morrow: you'll be tired to-night." Thus they parted, and Fancy proceeded to the church. The organ stood on one side of the chancel, close to and under the immediate eye of the vicar when he was in the pulpit, and also in full view of the congregation. Here she sat down, for the first time in such a conspicuous position, her seat having previously been in a remote spot in the aisle. "Good heavens--disgraceful! Curls and a hat and feather!" said the daughters of the small gentry, who had either only curly hair without a hat and feather, or a hat and feather without curly hair. "A bonnet for church always," said sober matrons. That Mr. Maybold was conscious of her presence close beside him during the sermon; that he was not at all angry at her development of costume; that he admired her, she perceived. But she did not see that he loved her during that sermon-time as he had never loved a woman before; that her proximity was a strange delight to him; and that he gloried in her musical success that morning in a spirit quite beyond a mere cleric's glory at the inauguration of a new order of things. The old choir, with humbled hearts, no longer took their seats in the gallery as heretofore (which was now given up to the school-children who were not singers, and a pupil-teacher), but were scattered about with their wives in different parts of the church. Having nothing to do with conducting the service for almost the first time in their lives, they all felt awkward, out of place, abashed, and inconvenienced by their hands. The tranter had proposed that they should stay away to-day and go nutting, but grandfather William would not hear of such a thing for a moment. "No," he replied reproachfully, and quoted a verse: "Though this has come upon us, let not our hearts be turned back, or our steps go out of the way." So they stood and watched the curls of hair trailing down the back of the successful rival, and the waving of her feather, as she swayed her head. After a few timid notes and uncertain touches her playing became markedly correct, and towards the end full and free. But, whether from prejudice or unbiassed judgment, the venerable body of musicians could not help thinking that the simpler notes they had been wont to bring forth were more in keeping with the simplicity of their old church than the crowded chords and interludes it was her pleasure to produce. CHAPTER VI: INTO TEMPTATION The day was done, and Fancy was again in the school-house. About five o'clock it began to rain, and in rather a dull frame of mind she wandered into the schoolroom, for want of something better to do. She was thinking--of her lover Dick Dewy? Not precisely. Of how weary she was of living alone: how unbearable it would be to return to Yalbury under the rule of her strange-tempered step-mother; that it was far better to be married to anybody than do that; that eight or nine long months had yet to be lived through ere the wedding could take place. At the side of the room were high windows of Ham-hill stone, upon either sill of which she could sit by first mounting a desk and using it as a footstool. As the evening advanced here she perched herself, as was her custom on such wet and gloomy occasions, put on a light shawl and bonnet, opened the window, and looked out at the rain. The window overlooked a field called the Grove, and it was the position from which she used to survey the crown of Dick's passing hat in the early days of their acquaintance and meetings. Not a living soul was now visible anywhere; the rain kept all people indoors who were not forced abroad by necessity, and necessity was less importunate on Sundays than during the week. Sitting here and thinking again--of her lover, or of the sensation she had created at church that day?--well, it is unknown--thinking and thinking she saw a dark masculine figure arising into distinctness at the further end of the Grove--a man without an umbrella. Nearer and nearer he came, and she perceived that he was in deep mourning, and then that it was Dick. Yes, in the fondness and foolishness of his young heart, after walking four miles, in a drizzling rain without overcoat or umbrella, and in face of a remark from his love that he was not to come because he would be tired, he had made it his business to wander this mile out of his way again, from sheer wish of spending ten minutes in her presence. "O Dick, how wet you are!" she said, as he drew up under the window. "Why, your coat shines as if it had been varnished, and your hat--my goodness, there's a streaming hat!" "O, I don't mind, darling!" said Dick cheerfully. "Wet never hurts me, though I am rather sorry for my best clothes. However, it couldn't be helped; we lent all the umbrellas to the women. I don't know when I shall get mine back!" "And look, there's a nasty patch of something just on your shoulder." "Ah, that's japanning; it rubbed off the clamps of poor Jack's coffin when we lowered him from our shoulders upon the bier! I don't care about that, for 'twas the last deed I could do for him; and 'tis hard if you can't afford a coat for an old friend." Fancy put her hand to her mouth for half a minute. Underneath the palm of that little hand there existed for that half-minute a little yawn. "Dick, I don't like you to stand there in the wet. And you mustn't sit down. Go home and change your things. Don't stay another minute." "One kiss after coming so far," he pleaded. "If I can reach, then." He looked rather disappointed at not being invited round to the door. She twisted from her seated position and bent herself downwards, but not even by standing on the plinth was it possible for Dick to get his lips into contact with hers as she held them. By great exertion she might have reached a little lower; but then she would have exposed her head to the rain. "Never mind, Dick; kiss my hand," she said, flinging it down to him. "Now, good-bye." "Good-bye." He walked slowly away, turning and turning again to look at her till he was out of sight. During the retreat she said to herself, almost involuntarily, and still conscious of that morning's triumph--"I like Dick, and I love him; but how plain and sorry a man looks in the rain, with no umbrella, and wet through!" As he vanished, she made as if to descend from her seat; but glancing in the other direction she saw another form coming along the same track. It was also that of a man. He, too, was in black from top to toe; but he carried an umbrella. He drew nearer, and the direction of the rain caused him so to slant his umbrella that from her height above the ground his head was invisible, as she was also to him. He passed in due time directly beneath her, and in looking down upon the exterior of his umbrella her feminine eyes perceived it to be of superior silk--less common at that date than since--and of elegant make. He reached the entrance to the building, and Fancy suddenly lost sight of him. Instead of pursuing the roadway as Dick had done he had turned sharply round into her own porch. She jumped to the floor, hastily flung off her shawl and bonnet, smoothed and patted her hair till the curls hung in passable condition, and listened. No knock. Nearly a minute passed, and still there was no knock. Then there arose a soft series of raps, no louder than the tapping of a distant woodpecker, and barely distinct enough to reach her ears. She composed herself and flung open the door. In the porch stood Mr. Maybold. There was a warm flush upon his face, and a bright flash in his eyes, which made him look handsomer than she had ever seen him before. "Good-evening, Miss Day." "Good-evening, Mr. Maybold," she said, in a strange state of mind. She had noticed, beyond the ardent hue of his face, that his voice had a singular tremor in it, and that his hand shook like an aspen leaf when he laid his umbrella in the corner of the porch. Without another word being spoken by either, he came into the schoolroom, shut the door, and moved close to her. Once inside, the expression of his face was no more discernible, by reason of the increasing dusk of evening. "I want to speak to you," he then said; "seriously--on a perhaps unexpected subject, but one which is all the world to me--I don't know what it may be to you, Miss Day." No reply. "Fancy, I have come to ask you if you will be my wife?" As a person who has been idly amusing himself with rolling a snowball might start at finding he had set in motion an avalanche, so did Fancy start at these words from the vicar. And in the dead silence which followed them, the breathings of the man and of the woman could be distinctly and separately heard; and there was this difference between them--his respirations gradually grew quieter and less rapid after the enunciation, hers, from having been low and regular, increased in quickness and force, till she almost panted. "I cannot, I cannot, Mr. Maybold--I cannot! Don't ask me!" she said. "Don't answer in a hurry!" he entreated. "And do listen to me. This is no sudden feeling on my part. I have loved you for more than six months! Perhaps my late interest in teaching the children here has not been so single-minded as it seemed. You will understand my motive--like me better, perhaps, for honestly telling you that I have struggled against my emotion continually, because I have thought that it was not well for me to love you! But I resolved to struggle no longer; I have examined the feeling; and the love I bear you is as genuine as that I could bear any woman! I see your great charm; I respect your natural talents, and the refinement they have brought into your nature--they are quite enough, and more than enough for me! They are equal to anything ever required of the mistress of a quiet parsonage-house--the place in which I shall pass my days, wherever it may be situated. O Fancy, I have watched you, criticized you even severely, brought my feelings to the light of judgment, and still have found them rational, and such as any man might have expected to be inspired with by a woman like you! So there is nothing hurried, secret, or untoward in my desire to do this. Fancy, will you marry me?" No answer was returned. "Don't refuse; don't," he implored. "It would be foolish of you--I mean cruel! Of course we would not live here, Fancy. I have had for a long time the offer of an exchange of livings with a friend in Yorkshire, but I have hitherto refused on account of my mother. There we would go. Your musical powers shall be still further developed; you shall have whatever pianoforte you like; you shall have anything, Fancy, anything to make you happy--pony-carriage, flowers, birds, pleasant society; yes, you have enough in you for any society, after a few months of travel with me! Will you, Fancy, marry me?" Another pause ensued, varied only by the surging of the rain against the window-panes, and then Fancy spoke, in a faint and broken voice. "Yes, I will," she said. "God bless you, my own!" He advanced quickly, and put his arm out to embrace her. She drew back hastily. "No no, not now!" she said in an agitated whisper. "There are things;--but the temptation is, O, too strong, and I can't resist it; I can't tell you now, but I must tell you! Don't, please, don't come near me now! I want to think, I can scarcely get myself used to the idea of what I have promised yet." The next minute she turned to a desk, buried her face in her hands, and burst into a hysterical fit of weeping. "O, leave me to myself!" she sobbed; "leave me! O, leave me!" "Don't be distressed; don't, dearest!" It was with visible difficulty that he restrained himself from approaching her. "You shall tell me at your leisure what it is that grieves you so; I am happy--beyond all measure happy!--at having your simple promise." "And do go and leave me now!" "But I must not, in justice to you, leave for a minute, until you are yourself again." "There then," she said, controlling her emotion, and standing up; "I am not disturbed now." He reluctantly moved towards the door. "Good-bye!" he murmured tenderly. "I'll come to-morrow about this time." CHAPTER VII: SECOND THOUGHTS The next morning the vicar rose early. The first thing he did was to write a long and careful letter to his friend in Yorkshire. Then, eating a little breakfast, he crossed the meadows in the direction of Casterbridge, bearing his letter in his pocket, that he might post it at the town office, and obviate the loss of one day in its transmission that would have resulted had he left it for the foot-post through the village. It was a foggy morning, and the trees shed in noisy water-drops the moisture they had collected from the thick air, an acorn occasionally falling from its cup to the ground, in company with the drippings. In the meads, sheets of spiders'-web, almost opaque with wet, hung in folds over the fences, and the falling leaves appeared in every variety of brown, green, and yellow hue. A low and merry whistling was heard on the highway he was approaching, then the light footsteps of a man going in the same direction as himself. On reaching the junction of his path with the road, the vicar beheld Dick Dewy's open and cheerful face. Dick lifted his hat, and the vicar came out into the highway that Dick was pursuing. "Good-morning, Dewy. How well you are looking!" said Mr. Maybold. "Yes, sir, I am well--quite well! I am going to Casterbridge now, to get Smart's collar; we left it there Saturday to be repaired." "I am going to Casterbridge, so we'll walk together," the vicar said. Dick gave a hop with one foot to put himself in step with Mr. Maybold, who proceeded: "I fancy I didn't see you at church yesterday, Dewy. Or were you behind the pier?" "No; I went to Charmley. Poor John Dunford chose me to be one of his bearers a long time before he died, and yesterday was the funeral. Of course I couldn't refuse, though I should have liked particularly to have been at home as 'twas the day of the new music." "Yes, you should have been. The musical portion of the service was successful--very successful indeed; and what is more to the purpose, no ill-feeling whatever was evinced by any of the members of the old choir. They joined in the singing with the greatest good-will." "'Twas natural enough that I should want to be there, I suppose," said Dick, smiling a private smile; "considering who the organ-player was." At this the vicar reddened a little, and said, "Yes, yes," though not at all comprehending Dick's true meaning, who, as he received no further reply, continued hesitatingly, and with another smile denoting his pride as a lover-- "I suppose you know what I mean, sir? You've heard about me and--Miss Day?" The red in Maybold's countenance went away: he turned and looked Dick in the face. "No," he said constrainedly, "I've heard nothing whatever about you and Miss Day." "Why, she's my sweetheart, and we are going to be married next Midsummer. We are keeping it rather close just at present, because 'tis a good many months to wait; but it is her father's wish that we don't marry before, and of course we must submit. But the time 'ill soon slip along." "Yes, the time will soon slip along--Time glides away every day--yes." Maybold said these words, but he had no idea of what they were. He was conscious of a cold and sickly thrill throughout him; and all he reasoned was this that the young creature whose graces had intoxicated him into making the most imprudent resolution of his life, was less an angel than a woman. "You see, sir," continued the ingenuous Dick, "'twill be better in one sense. I shall by that time be the regular manager of a branch o' father's business, which has very much increased lately, and business, which we think of starting elsewhere. It has very much increased lately, and we expect next year to keep a' extra couple of horses. We've already our eye on one--brown as a berry, neck like a rainbow, fifteen hands, and not a gray hair in her--offered us at twenty-five want a crown. And to kip pace with the times I have had some cards prented and I beg leave to hand you one, sir." "Certainly," said the vicar, mechanically taking the card that Dick offered him. "I turn in here by Grey's Bridge," said Dick. "I suppose you go straight on and up town?" "Yes." "Good-morning, sir." "Good-morning, Dewy." Maybold stood still upon the bridge, holding the card as it had been put into his hand, and Dick's footsteps died away towards Durnover Mill. The vicar's first voluntary action was to read the card:-- DEWY AND SON, TRANTERS AND HAULIERS, MELLSTOCK. NB.--Furniture, Coals, Potatoes, Live and Dead Stock, removed to any distance on the shortest notice. Mr. Maybold leant over the parapet of the bridge and looked into the river. He saw--without heeding--how the water came rapidly from beneath the arches, glided down a little steep, then spread itself over a pool in which dace, trout, and minnows sported at ease among the long green locks of weed that lay heaving and sinking with their roots towards the current. At the end of ten minutes spent leaning thus, he drew from his pocket the letter to his friend, tore it deliberately into such minute fragments that scarcely two syllables remained in juxtaposition, and sent the whole handful of shreds fluttering into the water. Here he watched them eddy, dart, and turn, as they were carried downwards towards the ocean and gradually disappeared from his view. Finally he moved off, and pursued his way at a rapid pace back again to Mellstock Vicarage. Nerving himself by a long and intense effort, he sat down in his study and wrote as follows: "DEAR MISS DAY,--The meaning of your words, 'the temptation is too strong,' of your sadness and your tears, has been brought home to me by an accident. I know to-day what I did not know yesterday--that you are not a free woman. "Why did you not tell me--why didn't you? Did you suppose I knew? No. Had I known, my conduct in coming to you as I did would have been reprehensible. "But I don't chide you! Perhaps no blame attaches to you--I can't tell. Fancy, though my opinion of you is assailed and disturbed in a way which cannot be expressed, I love you still, and my word to you holds good yet. But will you, in justice to an honest man who relies upon your word to him, consider whether, under the circumstances, you can honourably forsake him?--Yours ever sincerely, "ARTHUR MAYBOLD." He rang the bell. "Tell Charles to take these copybooks and this note to the school at once." The maid took the parcel and the letter, and in a few minutes a boy was seen to leave the vicarage gate, with the one under his arm, and the other in his hand. The vicar sat with his hand to his brow, watching the lad as he descended Church Lane and entered the waterside path which intervened between that spot and the school. Here he was met by another boy, and after a free salutation and pugilistic frisk had passed between the two, the second boy came on his way to the vicarage, and the other vanished out of sight. The boy came to the door, and a note for Mr. Maybold was brought in. He knew the writing. Opening the envelope with an unsteady hand, he read the subjoined words: "DEAR MR. MAYBOLD,--I have been thinking seriously and sadly through the whole of the night of the question you put to me last evening and of my answer. That answer, as an honest woman, I had no right to give. "It is my nature--perhaps all women's--to love refinement of mind and manners; but even more than this, to be ever fascinated with the idea of surroundings more elegant and pleasing than those which have been customary. And you praised me, and praise is life to me. It was alone my sensations at these things which prompted my reply. Ambition and vanity they would be called; perhaps they are so. "After this explanation I hope you will generously allow me to withdraw the answer I too hastily gave. "And one more request. To keep the meeting of last night, and all that passed between us there, for ever a secret. Were it to become known, it would utterly blight the happiness of a trusting and generous man, whom I love still, and shall love always.--Yours sincerely, "FANCY DAY. The last written communication that ever passed from the vicar to Fancy, was a note containing these words only: "Tell him everything; it is best. He will forgive you." PART THE FIFTH: CONCLUSION CHAPTER I: 'THE KNOT THERE'S NO UNTYING' The last day of the story is dated just subsequent to that point in the development of the seasons when country people go to bed among nearly naked trees, are lulled to sleep by a fall of rain, and awake next morning among green ones; when the landscape appears embarrassed with the sudden weight and brilliancy of its leaves; when the night-jar comes and strikes up for the summer his tune of one note; when the apple-trees have bloomed, and the roads and orchard-grass become spotted with fallen petals; when the faces of the delicate flowers are darkened, and their heads weighed down, by the throng of honey-bees, which increase their humming till humming is too mild a term for the all-pervading sound; and when cuckoos, blackbirds, and sparrows, that have hitherto been merry and respectful neighbours, become noisy and persistent intimates. The exterior of Geoffrey Day's house in Yalbury Wood appeared exactly as was usual at that season, but a frantic barking of the dogs at the back told of unwonted movements somewhere within. Inside the door the eyes beheld a gathering, which was a rarity indeed for the dwelling of the solitary wood-steward and keeper. About the room were sitting and standing, in various gnarled attitudes, our old acquaintance, grandfathers James and William, the tranter, Mr. Penny, two or three children, including Jimmy and Charley, besides three or four country ladies and gentlemen from a greater distance who do not require any distinction by name. Geoffrey was seen and heard stamping about the outhouse and among the bushes of the garden, attending to details of daily routine before the proper time arrived for their performance, in order that they might be off his hands for the day. He appeared with his shirt-sleeves rolled up; his best new nether garments, in which he had arrayed himself that morning, being temporarily disguised under a weekday apron whilst these proceedings were in operation. He occasionally glanced at the hives in passing, to see if his wife's bees were swarming, ultimately rolling down his shirt-sleeves and going indoors, talking to tranter Dewy whilst buttoning the wristbands, to save time; next going upstairs for his best waistcoat, and coming down again to make another remark whilst buttoning that, during the time looking fixedly in the tranter's face as if he were a looking-glass. The furniture had undergone attenuation to an alarming extent, every duplicate piece having been removed, including the clock by Thomas Wood; Ezekiel Saunders being at last left sole referee in matters of time. Fancy was stationary upstairs, receiving her layers of clothes and adornments, and answering by short fragments of laughter which had more fidgetiness than mirth in them, remarks that were made from time to time by Mrs. Dewy and Mrs. Penny, who were assisting her at the toilet, Mrs. Day having pleaded a queerness in her head as a reason for shutting herself up in an inner bedroom for the whole morning. Mrs. Penny appeared with nine corkscrew curls on each side of her temples, and a back comb stuck upon her crown like a castle on a steep. The conversation just now going on was concerning the banns, the last publication of which had been on the Sunday previous. "And how did they sound?" Fancy subtly inquired. "Very beautiful indeed," said Mrs. Penny. "I never heard any sound better." "But how?" "O, so natural and elegant, didn't they, Reuben!" she cried, through the chinks of the unceiled floor, to the tranter downstairs. "What's that?" said the tranter, looking up inquiringly at the floor above him for an answer. "Didn't Dick and Fancy sound well when they were called home in church last Sunday?" came downwards again in Mrs. Penny's voice. "Ay, that they did, my sonnies!--especially the first time. There was a terrible whispering piece of work in the congregation, wasn't there, neighbour Penny?" said the tranter, taking up the thread of conversation on his own account and, in order to be heard in the room above, speaking very loud to Mr. Penny, who sat at the distance of three feet from him, or rather less. "I never can mind seeing such a whispering as there was," said Mr. Penny, also loudly, to the room above. "And such sorrowful envy on the maidens' faces; really, I never did see such envy as there was!" Fancy's lineaments varied in innumerable little flushes, and her heart palpitated innumerable little tremors of pleasure. "But perhaps," she said, with assumed indifference, "it was only because no religion was going on just then?" "O, no; nothing to do with that. 'Twas because of your high standing in the parish. It was just as if they had one and all caught Dick kissing and coling ye to death, wasn't it, Mrs. Dewy?" "Ay; that 'twas." "How people will talk about one's doings!" Fancy exclaimed. "Well, if you make songs about yourself, my dear, you can't blame other people for singing 'em." "Mercy me! how shall I go through it?" said the young lady again, but merely to those in the bedroom, with a breathing of a kind between a sigh and a pant, round shining eyes, and warm face. "O, you'll get through it well enough, child," said Mrs. Dewy placidly. "The edge of the performance is took off at the calling home; and when once you get up to the chancel end o' the church, you feel as saucy as you please. I'm sure I felt as brave as a sodger all through the deed--though of course I dropped my face and looked modest, as was becoming to a maid. Mind you do that, Fancy." "And I walked into the church as quiet as a lamb, I'm sure," subjoined Mrs. Penny. "There, you see Penny is such a little small man. But certainly, I was flurried in the inside o' me. Well, thinks I, 'tis to be, and here goes! And do you do the same: say, ''Tis to be, and here goes!'" "Is there such wonderful virtue in ''Tis to be, and here goes!'" inquired Fancy. "Wonderful! 'Twill carry a body through it all from wedding to churching, if you only let it out with spirit enough." "Very well, then," said Fancy, blushing. "'Tis to be, and here goes!" "That's a girl for a husband!" said Mrs. Dewy. "I do hope he'll come in time!" continued the bride-elect, inventing a new cause of affright, now that the other was demolished. "'Twould be a thousand pities if he didn't come, now you be so brave," said Mrs. Penny. Grandfather James, having overheard some of these remarks, said downstairs with mischievous loudness-- "I've known some would-be weddings when the men didn't come." "They've happened not to come, before now, certainly," said Mr. Penny, cleaning one of the glasses of his spectacles. "O, do hear what they are saying downstairs," whispered Fancy. "Hush, hush!" She listened. "They have, haven't they, Geoffrey?" continued grandfather James, as Geoffrey entered. "Have what?" said Geoffrey. "The men have been known not to come." "That they have," said the keeper. "Ay; I've knowed times when the wedding had to be put off through his not appearing, being tired of the woman. And another case I knowed was when the man was catched in a man-trap crossing Oaker's Wood, and the three months had run out before he got well, and the banns had to be published over again." "How horrible!" said Fancy. "They only say it on purpose to tease 'ee, my dear," said Mrs. Dewy. "'Tis quite sad to think what wretched shifts poor maids have been put to," came again from downstairs. "Ye should hear Clerk Wilkins, my brother-law, tell his experiences in marrying couples these last thirty year: sometimes one thing, sometimes another--'tis quite heart-rending--enough to make your hair stand on end." "Those things don't happen very often, I know," said Fancy, with smouldering uneasiness. "Well, really 'tis time Dick was here," said the tranter. "Don't keep on at me so, grandfather James and Mr. Dewy, and all you down there!" Fancy broke out, unable to endure any longer. "I am sure I shall die, or do something, if you do!" "Never you hearken to these old chaps, Miss Day!" cried Nat Callcome, the best man, who had just entered, and threw his voice upward through the chinks of the floor as the others had done. "'Tis all right; Dick's coming on like a wild feller; he'll be here in a minute. The hive o' bees his mother gie'd en for his new garden swarmed jist as he was starting, and he said, 'I can't afford to lose a stock o' bees; no, that I can't, though I fain would; and Fancy wouldn't wish it on any account.' So he jist stopped to ting to 'em and shake 'em." "A genuine wise man," said Geoffrey. "To be sure, what a day's work we had yesterday!" Mr. Callcome continued, lowering his voice as if it were not necessary any longer to include those in the room above among his audience, and selecting a remote corner of his best clean handkerchief for wiping his face. "To be sure!" "Things so heavy, I suppose," said Geoffrey, as if reading through the chimney-window from the far end of the vista. "Ay," said Nat, looking round the room at points from which furniture had been removed. "And so awkward to carry, too. 'Twas ath'art and across Dick's garden; in and out Dick's door; up and down Dick's stairs; round and round Dick's chammers till legs were worn to stumps: and Dick is so particular, too. And the stores of victuals and drink that lad has laid in: why, 'tis enough for Noah's ark! I'm sure I never wish to see a choicer half-dozen of hams than he's got there in his chimley; and the cider I tasted was a very pretty drop, indeed;--none could desire a prettier cider." "They be for the love and the stalled ox both. Ah, the greedy martels!" said grandfather James. "Well, may-be they be. Surely," says I, "that couple between 'em have heaped up so much furniture and victuals, that anybody would think they were going to take hold the big end of married life first, and begin wi' a grown-up family. Ah, what a bath of heat we two chaps were in, to be sure, a-getting that furniture in order!" "I do so wish the room below was ceiled," said Fancy, as the dressing went on; "we can hear all they say and do down there." "Hark! Who's that?" exclaimed a small pupil-teacher, who also assisted this morning, to her great delight. She ran half-way down the stairs, and peeped round the banister. "O, you should, you should, you should!" she exclaimed, scrambling up to the room again. "What?" said Fancy. "See the bridesmaids! They've just a come! 'Tis wonderful, really! 'tis wonderful how muslin can be brought to it. There, they don't look a bit like themselves, but like some very rich sisters o' theirs that nobody knew they had!" "Make 'em come up to me, make 'em come up!" cried Fancy ecstatically; and the four damsels appointed, namely, Miss Susan Dewy, Miss Bessie Dewy, Miss Vashti Sniff, and Miss Mercy Onmey, surged upstairs, and floated along the passage. "I wish Dick would come!" was again the burden of Fancy. The same instant a small twig and flower from the creeper outside the door flew in at the open window, and a masculine voice said, "Ready, Fancy dearest?" "There he is, he is!" cried Fancy, tittering spasmodically, and breathing as it were for the first time that morning. The bridesmaids crowded to the window and turned their heads in the direction pointed out, at which motion eight earrings all swung as one:--not looking at Dick because they particularly wanted to see him, but with an important sense of their duty as obedient ministers of the will of that apotheosised being--the Bride. "He looks very taking!" said Miss Vashti Sniff, a young lady who blushed cream-colour and wore yellow bonnet ribbons. Dick was advancing to the door in a painfully new coat of shining cloth, primrose-coloured waistcoat, hat of the same painful style of newness, and with an extra quantity of whiskers shaved off his face, and hair cut to an unwonted shortness in honour of the occasion. "Now, I'll run down," said Fancy, looking at herself over her shoulder in the glass, and flitting off. "O Dick!" she exclaimed, "I am so glad you are come! I knew you would, of course, but I thought, Oh if you shouldn't!" "Not come, Fancy! Het or wet, blow or snow, here come I to-day! Why, what's possessing your little soul? You never used to mind such things a bit." "Ah, Mr. Dick, I hadn't hoisted my colours and committed myself then!" said Fancy. "'Tis a pity I can't marry the whole five of ye!" said Dick, surveying them all round. "Heh-heh-heh!" laughed the four bridesmaids, and Fancy privately touched Dick and smoothed him down behind his shoulder, as if to assure herself that he was there in flesh and blood as her own property. "Well, whoever would have thought such a thing?" said Dick, taking off his hat, sinking into a chair, and turning to the elder members of the company. The latter arranged their eyes and lips to signify that in their opinion nobody could have thought such a thing, whatever it was. "That my bees should ha' swarmed just then, of all times and seasons!" continued Dick, throwing a comprehensive glance like a net over the whole auditory. "And 'tis a fine swarm, too: I haven't seen such a fine swarm for these ten years." "A' excellent sign," said Mrs. Penny, from the depths of experience. "A' excellent sign." "I am glad everything seems so right," said Fancy with a breath of relief. "And so am I," said the four bridesmaids with much sympathy. "Well, bees can't be put off," observed the inharmonious grandfather James. "Marrying a woman is a thing you can do at any moment; but a swarm o' bees won't come for the asking." Dick fanned himself with his hat. "I can't think," he said thoughtfully, "whatever 'twas I did to offend Mr. Maybold, a man I like so much too. He rather took to me when he came first, and used to say he should like to see me married, and that he'd marry me, whether the young woman I chose lived in his parish or no. I just hinted to him of it when I put in the banns, but he didn't seem to take kindly to the notion now, and so I said no more. I wonder how it was." "I wonder!" said Fancy, looking into vacancy with those beautiful eyes of hers--too refined and beautiful for a tranter's wife; but, perhaps, not too good. "Altered his mind, as folks will, I suppose," said the tranter. "Well, my sonnies, there'll be a good strong party looking at us to-day as we go along." "And the body of the church," said Geoffrey, "will be lined with females, and a row of young fellers' heads, as far down as the eyes, will be noticed just above the sills of the chancel-winders." "Ay, you've been through it twice," said Reuben, "and well mid know." "I can put up with it for once," said Dick, "or twice either, or a dozen times." "O Dick!" said Fancy reproachfully. "Why, dear, that's nothing,--only just a bit of a flourish. You be as nervous as a cat to-day." "And then, of course, when 'tis all over," continued the tranter, "we shall march two and two round the parish." "Yes, sure," said Mr. Penny: "two and two: every man hitched up to his woman, 'a b'lieve." "I never can make a show of myself in that way!" said Fancy, looking at Dick to ascertain if he could. "I'm agreed to anything you and the company like, my dear!" said Mr. Richard Dewy heartily. "Why, we did when we were married, didn't we, Ann?" said the tranter; "and so do everybody, my sonnies." "And so did we," said Fancy's father. "And so did Penny and I," said Mrs. Penny: "I wore my best Bath clogs, I remember, and Penny was cross because it made me look so tall." "And so did father and mother," said Miss Mercy Onmey. "And I mean to, come next Christmas!" said Nat the groomsman vigorously, and looking towards the person of Miss Vashti Sniff. "Respectable people don't nowadays," said Fancy. "Still, since poor mother did, I will." "Ay," resumed the tranter, "'twas on a White Tuesday when I committed it. Mellstock Club walked the same day, and we new-married folk went a-gaying round the parish behind 'em. Everybody used to wear something white at Whitsuntide in them days. My sonnies, I've got the very white trousers that I wore, at home in box now. Ha'n't I, Ann?" "You had till I cut 'em up for Jimmy," said Mrs. Dewy. "And we ought, by rights, after doing this parish, to go round Higher and Lower Mellstock, and call at Viney's, and so work our way hither again across He'th," said Mr. Penny, recovering scent of the matter in hand. "Dairyman Viney is a very respectable man, and so is Farmer Kex, and we ought to show ourselves to them." "True," said the tranter, "we ought to go round Mellstock to do the thing well. We shall form a very striking object walking along in rotation, good-now, neighbours?" "That we shall: a proper pretty sight for the nation," said Mrs. Penny. "Hullo!" said the tranter, suddenly catching sight of a singular human figure standing in the doorway, and wearing a long smock-frock of pillow- case cut and of snowy whiteness. "Why, Leaf! whatever dost thou do here?" "I've come to know if so be I can come to the wedding--hee-hee!" said Leaf in a voice of timidity. "Now, Leaf," said the tranter reproachfully, "you know we don't want 'ee here to-day: we've got no room for ye, Leaf." "Thomas Leaf, Thomas Leaf, fie upon ye for prying!" said old William. "I know I've got no head, but I thought, if I washed and put on a clane shirt and smock-frock, I might just call," said Leaf, turning away disappointed and trembling. "Poor feller!" said the tranter, turning to Geoffrey. "Suppose we must let en come? His looks are rather against en, and he is terrible silly; but 'a have never been in jail, and 'a won't do no harm." Leaf looked with gratitude at the tranter for these praises, and then anxiously at Geoffrey, to see what effect they would have in helping his cause. "Ay, let en come," said Geoffrey decisively. "Leaf, th'rt welcome, 'st know;" and Leaf accordingly remained. They were now all ready for leaving the house, and began to form a procession in the following order: Fancy and her father, Dick and Susan Dewy, Nat Callcome and Vashti Sniff, Ted Waywood and Mercy Onmey, and Jimmy and Bessie Dewy. These formed the executive, and all appeared in strict wedding attire. Then came the tranter and Mrs. Dewy, and last of all Mr. and Mrs. Penny;--the tranter conspicuous by his enormous gloves, size eleven and three-quarters, which appeared at a distance like boxing gloves bleached, and sat rather awkwardly upon his brown hands; this hall- mark of respectability having been set upon himself to-day (by Fancy's special request) for the first time in his life. "The proper way is for the bridesmaids to walk together," suggested Fancy. "What? 'Twas always young man and young woman, arm in crook, in my time!" said Geoffrey, astounded. "And in mine!" said the tranter. "And in ours!" said Mr. and Mrs. Penny. "Never heard o' such a thing as woman and woman!" said old William; who, with grandfather James and Mrs. Day, was to stay at home. "Whichever way you and the company like, my dear!" said Dick, who, being on the point of securing his right to Fancy, seemed willing to renounce all other rights in the world with the greatest pleasure. The decision was left to Fancy. "Well, I think I'd rather have it the way mother had it," she said, and the couples moved along under the trees, every man to his maid. "Ah!" said grandfather James to grandfather William as they retired, "I wonder which she thinks most about, Dick or her wedding raiment!" "Well, 'tis their nature," said grandfather William. "Remember the words of the prophet Jeremiah: 'Can a maid forget her ornaments, or a bride her attire?'" Now among dark perpendicular firs, like the shafted columns of a cathedral; now through a hazel copse, matted with primroses and wild hyacinths; now under broad beeches in bright young leaves they threaded their way into the high road over Yalbury Hill, which dipped at that point directly into the village of Geoffrey Day's parish; and in the space of a quarter of an hour Fancy found herself to be Mrs. Richard Dewy, though, much to her surprise, feeling no other than Fancy Day still. On the circuitous return walk through the lanes and fields, amid much chattering and laughter, especially when they came to stiles, Dick discerned a brown spot far up a turnip field. "Why, 'tis Enoch!" he said to Fancy. "I thought I missed him at the house this morning. How is it he's left you?" "He drank too much cider, and it got into his head, and they put him in Weatherbury stocks for it. Father was obliged to get somebody else for a day or two, and Enoch hasn't had anything to do with the woods since." "We might ask him to call down to-night. Stocks are nothing for once, considering 'tis our wedding day." The bridal party was ordered to halt. "Eno-o-o-o-ch!" cried Dick at the top of his voice. "Y-a-a-a-a-a-as!" said Enoch from the distance. "D'ye know who I be-e-e-e-e-e?" "No-o-o-o-o-o-o!" "Dick Dew-w-w-w-wy!" "O-h-h-h-h-h!" "Just a-ma-a-a-a-a-arried!" "O-h-h-h-h-h!" "This is my wife, Fa-a-a-a-a-ancy!" (holding her up to Enoch's view as if she had been a nosegay.) "O-h-h-h-h-h!" "Will ye come across to the party to-ni-i-i-i-i-i-ight!" "Ca-a-a-a-a-an't!" "Why n-o-o-o-o-ot?" "Don't work for the family no-o-o-o-ow!" "Not nice of Master Enoch," said Dick, as they resumed their walk. "You mustn't blame en," said Geoffrey; "the man's not hisself now; he's in his morning frame of mind. When he's had a gallon o' cider or ale, or a pint or two of mead, the man's well enough, and his manners be as good as anybody's in the kingdom." CHAPTER II: UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE The point in Yalbury Wood which abutted on the end of Geoffrey Day's premises was closed with an ancient tree, horizontally of enormous extent, though having no great pretensions to height. Many hundreds of birds had been born amidst the boughs of this single tree; tribes of rabbits and hares had nibbled at its bark from year to year; quaint tufts of fungi had sprung from the cavities of its forks; and countless families of moles and earthworms had crept about its roots. Beneath and beyond its shade spread a carefully-tended grass-plot, its purpose being to supply a healthy exercise-ground for young chickens and pheasants; the hens, their mothers, being enclosed in coops placed upon the same green flooring. All these encumbrances were now removed, and as the afternoon advanced, the guests gathered on the spot, where music, dancing, and the singing of songs went forward with great spirit throughout the evening. The propriety of every one was intense by reason of the influence of Fancy, who, as an additional precaution in this direction, had strictly charged her father and the tranter to carefully avoid saying 'thee' and 'thou' in their conversation, on the plea that those ancient words sounded so very humiliating to persons of newer taste; also that they were never to be seen drawing the back of the hand across the mouth after drinking--a local English custom of extraordinary antiquity, but stated by Fancy to be decidedly dying out among the better classes of society. In addition to the local musicians present, a man who had a thorough knowledge of the tambourine was invited from the village of Tantrum Clangley,--a place long celebrated for the skill of its inhabitants as performers on instruments of percussion. These important members of the assembly were relegated to a height of two or three feet from the ground, upon a temporary erection of planks supported by barrels. Whilst the dancing progressed the older persons sat in a group under the trunk of the tree,--the space being allotted to them somewhat grudgingly by the young ones, who were greedy of pirouetting room,--and fortified by a table against the heels of the dancers. Here the gaffers and gammers, whose dancing days were over, told stories of great impressiveness, and at intervals surveyed the advancing and retiring couples from the same retreat, as people on shore might be supposed to survey a naval engagement in the bay beyond; returning again to their tales when the pause was over. Those of the whirling throng, who, during the rests between each figure, turned their eyes in the direction of these seated ones, were only able to discover, on account of the music and bustle, that a very striking circumstance was in course of narration--denoted by an emphatic sweep of the hand, snapping of the fingers, close of the lips, and fixed look into the centre of the listener's eye for the space of a quarter of a minute, which raised in that listener such a reciprocating working of face as to sometimes make the distant dancers half wish to know what such an interesting tale could refer to. Fancy caused her looks to wear as much matronly expression as was obtainable out of six hours' experience as a wife, in order that the contrast between her own state of life and that of the unmarried young women present might be duly impressed upon the company: occasionally stealing glances of admiration at her left hand, but this quite privately; for her ostensible bearing concerning the matter was intended to show that, though she undoubtedly occupied the most wondrous position in the eyes of the world that had ever been attained, she was almost unconscious of the circumstance, and that the somewhat prominent position in which that wonderfully-emblazoned left hand was continually found to be placed, when handing cups and saucers, knives, forks, and glasses, was quite the result of accident. As to wishing to excite envy in the bosoms of her maiden companions, by the exhibition of the shining ring, every one was to know it was quite foreign to the dignity of such an experienced married woman. Dick's imagination in the meantime was far less capable of drawing so much wontedness from his new condition. He had been for two or three hours trying to feel himself merely a newly- married man, but had been able to get no further in the attempt than to realize that he was Dick Dewy, the tranter's son, at a party given by Lord Wessex's head man-in-charge, on the outlying Yalbury estate, dancing and chatting with Fancy Day. Five country dances, including 'Haste to the Wedding,' two reels, and three fragments of horn-pipes, brought them to the time for supper, which, on account of the dampness of the grass from the immaturity of the summer season, was spread indoors. At the conclusion of the meal Dick went out to put the horse in; and Fancy, with the elder half of the four bridesmaids, retired upstairs to dress for the journey to Dick's new cottage near Mellstock. "How long will you be putting on your bonnet, Fancy?" Dick inquired at the foot of the staircase. Being now a man of business and married, he was strong on the importance of time, and doubled the emphasis of his words in conversing, and added vigour to his nods. "Only a minute." "How long is that?" "Well, dear, five." "Ah, sonnies!" said the tranter, as Dick retired, "'tis a talent of the female race that low numbers should stand for high, more especially in matters of waiting, matters of age, and matters of money." "True, true, upon my body," said Geoffrey. "Ye spak with feeling, Geoffrey, seemingly." "Anybody that d'know my experience might guess that." "What's she doing now, Geoffrey?" "Claning out all the upstairs drawers and cupboards, and dusting the second-best chainey--a thing that's only done once a year. 'If there's work to be done I must do it,' says she, 'wedding or no.'" "'Tis my belief she's a very good woman at bottom." "She's terrible deep, then." Mrs. Penny turned round. "Well, 'tis humps and hollers with the best of us; but still and for all that, Dick and Fancy stand as fair a chance of having a bit of sunsheen as any married pair in the land." "Ay, there's no gainsaying it." Mrs. Dewy came up, talking to one person and looking at another. "Happy, yes," she said. "'Tis always so when a couple is so exactly in tune with one another as Dick and she." "When they be'n't too poor to have time to sing," said grandfather James. "I tell ye, neighbours, when the pinch comes," said the tranter: "when the oldest daughter's boots be only a size less than her mother's, and the rest o' the flock close behind her. A sharp time for a man that, my sonnies; a very sharp time! Chanticleer's comb is a-cut then, 'a believe." "That's about the form o't," said Mr. Penny. "That'll put the stuns upon a man, when you must measure mother and daughter's lasts to tell 'em apart." "You've no cause to complain, Reuben, of such a close-coming flock," said Mrs. Dewy; "for ours was a straggling lot enough, God knows!" "I d'know it, I d'know it," said the tranter. "You be a well-enough woman, Ann." Mrs. Dewy put her mouth in the form of a smile, and put it back again without smiling. "And if they come together, they go together," said Mrs. Penny, whose family had been the reverse of the tranter's; "and a little money will make either fate tolerable. And money can be made by our young couple, I know." "Yes, that it can!" said the impulsive voice of Leaf, who had hitherto humbly admired the proceedings from a corner. "It can be done--all that's wanted is a few pounds to begin with. That's all! I know a story about it!" "Let's hear thy story, Leaf," said the tranter. "I never knew you were clever enough to tell a story. Silence, all of ye! Mr. Leaf will tell a story." "Tell your story, Thomas Leaf," said grandfather William in the tone of a schoolmaster. "Once," said the delighted Leaf, in an uncertain voice, "there was a man who lived in a house! Well, this man went thinking and thinking night and day. At last, he said to himself, as I might, 'If I had only ten pound, I'd make a fortune.' At last by hook or by crook, behold he got the ten pounds!" "Only think of that!" said Nat Callcome satirically. "Silence!" said the tranter. "Well, now comes the interesting part of the story! In a little time he made that ten pounds twenty. Then a little time after that he doubled it, and made it forty. Well, he went on, and a good while after that he made it eighty, and on to a hundred. Well, by-and-by he made it two hundred! Well, you'd never believe it, but--he went on and made it four hundred! He went on, and what did he do? Why, he made it eight hundred! Yes, he did," continued Leaf, in the highest pitch of excitement, bringing down his fist upon his knee with such force that he quivered with the pain; "yes, and he went on and made it A THOUSAND!" "Hear, hear!" said the tranter. "Better than the history of England, my sonnies!" "Thank you for your story, Thomas Leaf," said grandfather William; and then Leaf gradually sank into nothingness again. Amid a medley of laughter, old shoes, and elder-wine, Dick and his bride took their departure, side by side in the excellent new spring-cart which the young tranter now possessed. The moon was just over the full, rendering any light from lamps or their own beauties quite unnecessary to the pair. They drove slowly along Yalbury Bottom, where the road passed between two copses. Dick was talking to his companion. "Fancy," he said, "why we are so happy is because there is such full confidence between us. Ever since that time you confessed to that little flirtation with Shiner by the river (which was really no flirtation at all), I have thought how artless and good you must be to tell me o' such a trifling thing, and to be so frightened about it as you were. It has won me to tell you my every deed and word since then. We'll have no secrets from each other, darling, will we ever?--no secret at all." "None from to-day," said Fancy. "Hark! what's that?" From a neighbouring thicket was suddenly heard to issue in a loud, musical, and liquid voice-- "Tippiwit! swe-e-et! ki-ki-ki! Come hither, come hither, come hither!" "O, 'tis the nightingale," murmured she, and thought of a secret she would never tell. Footnotes: {1} This, a local expression, must be a corruption of something less questionable. 
37746	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) Transcriber's notes are at end of text. [Illustration: _She forgot the flowers in her arms, forgot the sunset, and stood entranced in prayer._] THE ANGEL OF THE GILA _A Tale of Arizona_ CORA MARSLAND _With Illustrations by S. S. HICKS and GEM VAUGHN_ [Illustration] RICHARD G. BADGER THE GORHAM PRESS BOSTON COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY RICHARD G. BADGER _All Rights Reserved_ _THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U. S. A._ TO MY MOTHER CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I THE MINING CAMP 11 II THE DAWN OF A NEW DAY 19 III CLAYTON RANCH 30 IV THE ANGEL OF THE GILA 41 V THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN BALL 57 VI A SOUL'S AWAKENING 78 VII THE GILA CLUB 89 VIII THE COW LASSES 107 IX A VISIT AT MURPHY RANCH 117 X CARLA EARLE 132 XI AN EVENTFUL DAY 140 XII CHRISTMAS DAY 154 XIII THE ADOPTION OF A MOTHER 167 XIV THE GREAT TRANSFORMATION 182 XV SOME SOCIAL EXPERIENCES 194 XVI OVER THE MOUNTAINS 205 XVII THE GREAT RACE 217 XVIII NIGHT ON THE RANGE 225 XIX INASMUCH 238 XX A WOMAN'S NO 241 XXI THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 248 XXII THE GREATEST OF THESE IS LOVE 265 XXIII AT SUNSET 271 XXIV AFTERMATH 278 THE ANGEL OF THE GILA The Angel of The Gila CHAPTER I THE MINING CAMP It was an October day in Gila,[1] Arizona. The one street of the mining camp wound around the foothills, and led eastward to Line Canyon, which, at that point, divides Arizona from New Mexico. Four saloons, an opium den, a store of general merchandise,--owned and operated by the mining company,--a repair shop, one large, pretentious adobe house,--the headquarters of the company, where superintendent, assayers, and mining engineers boarded,--several small dwelling houses, and many miners' shacks, constituted the town. [1] Pronounced hé la. A little further to the eastward, around a bend in the foothills, and near Line Canyon, lay Clayton Ranch,--the most historic, as well as the most picturesque spot in that region. Near the dwelling house, but closer to the river than the Clayton home, stood a little adobe schoolhouse. The town, facing south, overlooked Gila River and its wooded banks. Beyond the Gila, as in every direction, stretched foothills and mountains. Toward the south towered Mt. Graham, the highest peak of the Pinaleno range, blue in the distance, and crowned with snow. Up a pathway of the foothills, west of the town, bounding forward as if such a climb were but joy to her, came a slight, girlish figure. She paused now and then to turn her face westward, watching the changing colors of sunset. At last she reached a bowlder, and, seating herself, leaned against it, removed her sombrero hat, pushed back the moist curls from her forehead, and turned again to the sunset. The sun, for one supreme moment, poised on a mountain peak, then slowly sank, flashing its message of splendor into the majestic dome of the sky, over snow-capped mountains, over gigantic cliffs of red sandstone, over stretches of yellow foothills, and then caught the white-robed figure, leaning against the bowlder, in its rosy glow. The girl lifted her fine, sensitive face. Again she pushed the curls from her forehead. As she lifted her arm, her sleeve slipped back, revealing an arm and hand of exquisite form, and patrician to the tips of the fingers. She seemed absorbed in the scene before her, unconscious that she was the loveliest part of it. But if she was unconscious of the fact, a horseman who drew rein a short distance away, and who watched her intently a few moments, was not. At last the girl stirred, as though to continue on her way. Instantly the horseman gave his horse a sharp cut with his whip, and went cantering up the ascent before her. The sudden sound of a horse's hoofs startled her, and she glanced up to see the horseman and his thoroughbred speeding toward the town. She swung her sombrero hat over her shoulder, and gathered up her flowers; then, with a lingering glance to westward, turned and walked rapidly toward Gila. By the time she had reached the one long street, many cowboys and miners had already congregated about the saloons. She dreaded to pass there at this hour, but this she must do in order to reach Clayton Ranch, nearly a mile beyond. As she drew near one saloon, she heard uproarious laughter. The voices were loud and boisterous. It was impossible for her to escape hearing what was said. It was evident to her that she herself was at that moment the topic of conversation. "She'll git all the Bible school she wants Sunday afternoon, or my name's not Pete Tompkins," ejaculated a bar-tender as he stepped to the bar of a saloon. "What're ye goin' ter do, Pete?" asked a young miner. "I'm in f'r y'r game, or my name ain't Bill Hines." "I?" answered the individual designated as Pete Tompkins, "I mean ter give 'er a reception, Bill, a _reception_." Here he laughed boisterously. "I repeat it," he said. "I'll give 'er a reception, an' conterive ter let 'er understan' that no sech infernal business as a Bible school 'll be tol'ated in these yere parts o' Arizony. Them as wants ter join me in smashin' this cussed Sunday business step ter the bar. I'll treat the hull blanked lot o' ye." The girl passing along the street shuddered. The brutal voice went on: "Set up the glasses o' whiskey, Keith. Here, Jess an' Kate. We want yer ter have a hand in smashin' this devilish Bible school. Another glass fur Jess, Keith, an' one fur Kate." The pedestrian quickened her pace, but still the voice followed her. "Here's ter y'r healths, an' ter the smashin' o' the Bible school, an' ter the reception we'll give the new schoolma'am." The stranger heard the clink of glasses, mingled with the uproar of laughter. Then she caught the words: "Ye don't jine us, Hastings. P'r'aps y're too 'ristercratic, or p'r'aps y're gone on the gal! Ha-ha-ha-ha!" The saloon rang with the laughter of the men and women. The girl who had just passed quickened her pace, her cheeks tingling with indignation. As she hastened on, the man addressed as Hastings replied haughtily: "I am a _man_, and being a man I cannot see insult offered to any woman, especially when that woman is making an effort to do some good in this Godless region." "He's gone on 'er, sure, Bill. Ha-ha-ha-ha! Imagine me, Pete Tompkins, gone on the schoolma'am! Ha-ha-ha-ha!" His companions joined in his laughter. "What'ud she think o' my figger, Bill?" he asked, as he strutted across the saloon. "How 'ud I look by 'er side in Virginny reel, eh? I'm afeared it 'ud be the devil an' angel in comp'ny. Ha-ha-ha!" "Y're right thar," replied one of the men. "Ye certain are a devil, an' she do look like a angel." "Say, fellers," said Bill Hines, "me an' Pete an' all o' ye ought ter git some slime from the river, an' throw on them white dresses o' hern. I don't like nobody settin' theirselves up to be better'n we be, even in clo'es, do ye, Jess?" Jess agreed with him. "What's all this noise about?" interrupted a new comer. "Hello, Mark Clifton, is that you? Well, me an' Bill an' Jess an' the other kids is plannin' ter smash schoolma'am's Bible school, Sunday. We're goin' ter give 'er a reception." "What do you mean by that?" asked Clifton. "Ye kin jine the party an' we'll show yer." "Let me urge you to leave Miss Bright alone. She has not harmed you. Leave the Bible school alone, too, and attend to your own business." "Oh, he's a saint, ain't he! He is!" sneered Pete Tompkins. "What about this gal as he has with him here? More whiskey! Fill up the glasses, Keith. Come, Jess. Come, Kate Harraday." And the half-intoxicated man swung one woman around and tried to dance a jig, failing in which, he fell to the floor puffing and swearing. Mark Clifton's face darkened. He grasped a chair and stepped forward, as if to strike the speaker. He hesitated. As he did so, a handsome cowboy entered, followed by a little Indian boy of perhaps six years of age. "What's the row, Hastings?" asked the cowboy in a low voice. "Pete Tompkins and Bill Hines and their ilk are planning to give Miss Bright, the new teacher, some trouble when she attempts to start a Bible school to-morrow afternoon. Clifton remonstrated, and they taunted him about Carla Earle. That enraged him." "What do they plan ter do?" "I fancy they'll do every blackguard thing they can think of. They are drunk now, but when they are sober they may reconsider. At any rate, the decent men of the camp ought to be on the spot to protect that girl, Harding." "I'll be there fur one, Hastings. Have yer seen 'er?" "Yes. As I rode into camp just now I passed someone I took to be Miss Bright." "Pretty as a picter, ain't she?" said Jack Harding. "Look, there she goes around the bend of the road towards Claytons'. There goes y'r teacher, Wathemah." The Indian child bounded to the door. "Me teacher, _me_ teacher," he said over and over to himself, as he watched the receding figure. "_Your_ teacher, eh, sonny," said Kenneth Hastings smiling. He laid his hand on the child's head. "Yes, _me_ teacher," said the boy proudly. His remark was overheard by Pete Tompkins. "Lookee here, boys! There goes Wathemah's teacher. Now's y'r chance, my hearties. See the nat'ral cur'osity as is to start a religion shop, an' grind us fellers inter angels. Are my wings sproutin'?" As he spoke the words, he flapped his elbows up and down. Kenneth Hastings and Jack Harding exchanged glances. Mark Clifton had gone. Pete Tompkins hereupon stepped to the door and called out: "Three cheers fur the angel o' the Gila, my hearties. One, two, three! Now! That's it. Now! Death to the Bible school!" "Death to the Bible school!" shouted they in unison. The little Indian heard their words. He knew that insult and, possibly, injury threatened his teacher, and, stepping up to Pete Tompkins, he kicked his shins with all his childish strength, uttering oaths that drew forth hilarious laughter from the men. "Y're a good un," said one. "Give 'im a trounce in the air," added another. In a moment, the child was tossed from one to another, his passionate cries and curses mingling with their ribald laughter. At last he was caught by John Harding, who held him in his arms. "Never mind, Wathemah," he said soothingly. Hoarse with rage, the child shrieked, "You blankety blanked devils! You blankety blanked devils!" A ruffian cursed him. He was wild. He struggled to free himself, to return to the fray, but Jack Harding held him fast. "You devils, devils, devils!" he shrieked again. His little frame trembled with anger, and he burst into tears. "Never mind, little chap," said his captor, drawing him closer, "ye go with me." For once John Harding left the saloon without touching liquor. The Indian child was clasped in his arms. When he reached a place beyond the sound of the men's voices, he set the little lad on his feet. He patted him on the head, and looked down compassionately into the tear-stained face. "Poor little chap," he said, "poor little chap. Y're like me, ain't ye? Ye ain't got nobody in the world. Let's be pards, Wathemah!" "Pards?" repeated the child between sobs. "Yes, pards, sonny. That's what I said." Wathemah clasped his arms about Jack's knees. "Me _teacher_ pard too?" he asked, trying bravely to stop crying. "Yourn, not mine, sonny," answered Harding, smiling. Then hand in hand, they strolled toward Clayton Ranch. And this was the strengthening of the comradeship between the two, which was as loyal as it was tender. Kenneth Hastings overtook them, then passed them. He reached Clayton Ranch, hesitated a moment, then walked rapidly toward Line Canyon. For some indefinable reason he did not call that evening at Clayton Ranch as was his custom, nor did he knock at that door for many days. On the following Monday, he was called to a distant mining camp, where he was detained by business. So it happened that he was one of the last to meet the new teacher whose coming was to mean so much to his life and to the people of Gila. CHAPTER II THE DAWN OF A NEW DAY For many days, public attention had been centered upon Esther Bright, the new teacher in Gila. Her grasp of the conditions of the school, her power to cope with the lawless element there, and her absolute mastery of the situation had now become matters of local history. Her advent in Gila had been a nine days' wonder to the Gilaites; now, her presence there had come to be regarded as a matter of course. Every new feature introduced into the school life, every new acquaintance made, deepened her hold upon the better life of the community. Moreover, her vital interest in the people awakened in them a responsive interest in her. Fearlessly she tramped the foothills and canyons, returning laden with flowers and geological specimens. Learning her interest in these things, many people of the camp began to contribute to her collections. Here in the Rockies, Nature pours out her treasures with lavish hand. White men had long dwelt in the midst of her marvelous wealth of scenic beauty, amazingly ignorant of any values there save that which had a purchasing power and could be counted in dollars and cents. The mountains were ministering to the soul life of Esther Bright. The strength of the hills became hers. Nature's pages of history lay open before her; but more interesting to her than cell or crystal, or tree or flower, or the shining company of the stars, were the human beings she found fettered by ignorance and sin. The human element made demands upon her mind and heart. Here was something for her to do. If they had been a colony of blind folk or cripples, their condition could not have appealed more strongly to her sympathy. Profanity, gambling, drunkenness and immorality were about her everywhere. The vices of the adults had long been imitated as play by the children. So one of Esther Bright's first innovations in school work was to organize play and teach games, and be in the midst of children at play. She was philosopher enough to realize that evil habits of years could not be uprooted at once; but she did such heroic weeding that the playground soon became comparatively decent. How to save the children, and how to help the older people of the community were absorbing questions to her. She was a resourceful woman, and began at once to plan wisely, and methodically carried out her plans. In her conferences with Mr. Clayton, her school trustee, she repeatedly expressed her conviction that the greatest work before them was to bring this great human need into vital relation with God. So it came about very naturally that a movement to organize a Bible school began in Gila. Into every home, far and near, went Esther Bright, always sympathetic, earnest and enthusiastic. Her enthusiasm proved contagious. There had been days of this house to house visitation, and now the day of the organization of the Bible school was at hand. In the morning, Esther went to the schoolhouse to see that all was in readiness. She paused, as she so often did, to wonder at the glory of the scene. The schoolhouse itself was a part of the picture. It was built of huge blocks of reddish brown adobe, crumbled at the corners. The red tile roof added a picturesque bit of color to the landscape. Just above the roof, at the right, rose an ample chimney. At the left, and a little back of the schoolhouse, towered two giant cactuses. To the north, stretched great barren foothills, like vast sand dunes by the sea, the dreariness of their gray-white, or reddish soil relieved only by occasional bunches of gray-green sage, mesquite bushes, cacti and the Spanish dagger, with its sword-like foliage, and tall spikes of seed-pods. Beyond the foothills, miles away, though seeming near, towered rugged, cathedral-like masses of snow-capped mountains. The shadows flitted over the earth, now darkening the mountain country, now leaving floods of light. All along the valley of the Gila River, stretched great fields of green alfalfa. Here and there, above the green, towered feathery pampas plumes. The river, near the schoolhouse, made a bend northward. Along its banks were cottonwood trees, aspen, and sycamore, covered with green mistletoe, and tangles of vines. No wonder Esther paused to drink in the beauty. It was a veritable garden of the gods. At last she entered the schoolhouse. She carried with her Bibles, hymn books, and lesson leaves, all contributions from her grandfather. Already, the room was decorated with mountain asters of brilliant colors. She looked around with apparent satisfaction, for the room had been made beautiful with the flowers. She passed out, locked the door, and returned to the Clayton home. In the saloons, all that morning, the subject of gossip had been the Bible school. John Harding and Kenneth Hastings, occasionally sauntering in, gathered that serious trouble was brewing for the young teacher. The hour for the meeting drew near. As Esther approached the schoolhouse, she found perhaps forty people, men, women and children, grouped near the door. Some of the children ran to meet her, Wathemah, the little Indian, outrunning all of them. He trudged along proudly by his teacher's side. Esther Bright heard groans and hisses. As she looked at the faces before her, two stood out with peculiar distinctness,--one, a proud, high-bred face; the other, a handsome, though dissipated one. There were more hisses and then muttered insults. There was no mistaking the sounds or meaning. The Indian child sprang forward, transformed into a fury. He shook his little fist at the men, as he shouted, "Ye Wathemah teacher hurt, Wathemah kill ye blankety blanked devils." A coarse laugh arose from several men. "What're yer givin' us, kid?" said one man, staggering forward. "Wathemah show ye, ye blankety blanked devil," shrieked he again. Wild with rage, the child rushed forward, uttering oaths that made his teacher shudder. She too stepped rapidly forward, and clasped her arms about him. He fought desperately for release, but she held him, speaking to him in low, firm tones, apparently trying to quiet him. At last, he burst into tears of anger. For a moment, the mutterings and hisses ceased, but they burst forth again with greater strength. The child sprang from his teacher, leaped like a squirrel to the back of one of the ruffians, climbed to his shoulder, and dealt lightning blows upon his eyes and nose and mouth. The man grasped him and hurled him with terrific force to the ground. The little fellow lay in a helpless heap where he had fallen. Esther rushed to the child and bent over him. All the brute seemed roused in the drunken man. He lunged toward her with menacing fists, and a torrent of oaths. "Blank yer!" he said, "Yer needn't interfere with me. Blank y'r hide. Yer'll git out o' Gila ter-morrer, blank yer!" But he did not observe the three stern faces at the right and left of Esther Bright and the prostrate child. Three men with guns drawn protected them. The men who had come to insult and annoy knew well that if they offered further violence to the young teacher and the unconscious child, they would have to reckon with John Clayton, Kenneth Hastings and John Harding. Wordless messages were telegraphed from eye to eye, and one by one the ruffians disappeared. Esther still knelt by Wathemah. He had been stunned by the fall. Water revived him; and after a time, he was able to walk into the schoolhouse. Oh, little child of the Open, so many years misunderstood, how generously you respond with love to a little human kindness! How bitterly you resent a wrong! Afterwards, in describing what Miss Bright did during this trying ordeal, a Scotch miner said: "The lass's smile fair warmed the heart. It was na muckle, but when she comforted the Indian bairn I could na be her enemy." As Esther entered the door, she saw two middle-aged Scotch women clasp hands and exchange words of greeting. She did not dream then, nor did she know until months after, how each of these longed for her old home in Scotland; nor did she know, at that time, how the heart of each one of them had warmed towards her. Several women and children and a few men followed the teacher into the schoolroom. All looked around curiously. Esther looked into the faces before her, some dull, others hard; some worn by toil and exposure; others disfigured by dissipation. They were to her, above everything else, human beings to be helped; and ministration to their needs became of supreme interest to her. There were several Scotch people in the audience. As the books and lesson leaves were passed, Esther gave out a hymn the children knew, and which she fancied might be familiar to the Scotch people present,--"My Ain Countrie." She lifted her guitar, played a few opening chords, and sang, "I am far frae my hame, an' I'm weary aftenwhiles For the longed-for hame-bringin', an' my Faither's welcome smiles; An' I'll ne'er be fu' content, until mine een do see The gowden gates o' Heaven, an' my ain countrie." At first a few children sang with her, but finding their elders did not sing, they, too, stopped to listen. The two Scotch women, who sat side by side, listened intently. One reached out and clasped the hand of the other; and then, over the cheeks furrowed by toil, privation and heart-hunger, tears found their unaccustomed way. The singer sang to the close of the stanza, then urged all to sing with her. A sturdy Scotchman, after clearing his throat, spoke up: "Please, Miss, an' will ye sing it all through y'rsel? It reminds me o' hame." Applause followed. The singer smiled, then lifting her guitar, sang in a musical voice, the remaining stanzas. When she prayed, the room grew still. The low, tender voice was speaking as to a loving, compassionate Father. One miner lifted his head to see the Being she addressed, and whose presence seemed to fill the room. All he saw was the shining face of the teacher. Months later, he said confidentially to a companion that he would acknowledge that though he had never believed in "such rot as a God an' all them things," yet when the teacher prayed that day, he somehow felt that there was a God, and that he was right there in that room. And he added: "I felt mighty queer. I reckon I wasn't quite ready ter have Him look me through an' through." From similar testimony given by others at various times, it is clear that many that day heard themselves prayed for for the first time in their lives. And they did not resent it. The prayer ended. A hush followed. Then the lesson of the day was taught, and the school was organized. At the close, the teacher asked all who wished to help in the Bible school to remain a few moments. Many came to express their good will. One Scotch woman said, "I dinna wonder the bairns love ye. Yir talk the day was as gude as the sermons i' the Free Kirk at hame." Then another Scotch woman took both of Esther Bright's hands in her own, and assured her it was a long day since she had listened to the Word. "But," she added, "whatever Jane Carmichael can dae tae help ye, Lassie, she'll dae wi' a' her heart." The first of the two stepped forward, saying apologetically, "I forgot tae say as I am Mistress Burns, mither o' Marget an' Jamesie." "And I," added the other, "am the mither o' Donald." Mr. Clayton, elected superintendent at the organization of the Bible school, now joined the group about the teacher. At last the workers only remained, and after a brief business meeting, they went their several ways. Evidently they were thinking new thoughts. Mrs. Burns overtook Mrs. Carmichael and remarked to her, "I dinna ken why the Almighty came sae near my heart the day, for I hae wandered. God be thankit, that He has sent the lassie amang us." "Aye," responded Mrs. Carmichael, "let us be thankfu', an' come back hame tae God." Esther Bright was the last to leave the schoolhouse. As she strolled along slowly, deep in thought over the events of the day, she was arrested by the magnificence of the sunset. She stopped and stood looking into the crystal clearness of the sky, so deep, so illimitable. Across the heavens, which were suddenly aflame with crimson and gold, floated delicate, fleecy clouds. Soon, all the colors of the rainbow were caught and softened by these swift-winged messengers of the sky. Away on the mountains, the snow glowed as if on fire. Slowly the colors faded. Still she stood, with face uplifted. Then she turned, her face shining, as though she had stood in the very presence of God. Suddenly, in her path, stepped the little Indian, his arms full of goldenrod. He waited for her, saying as he offered the flowers: "_Flowers_, me teacher." She stooped, drew him to her, and kissed his dirty face, saying as she did so, "Flowers? How lovely!" He clasped her hand, and they walked on together. The life story of the little Indian had deeply touched her. It was now three years since he had been found, a baby of three, up in Line Canyon. That was just after one of the Apache raids. It was believed that he was the child of Geronimo. When the babe was discovered by the white men who pursued the Indians, he was blinking in the sun. A cowboy, one Jack Harding, had insisted upon taking the child back to the camp with them. Then the boy had found a sort of home in Keith's saloon, where he had since lived. There he had been teased and petted, and cuffed and beaten, and cursed by turns, and being a child of unusually bright mind, and the constant companion of rough men, he had learned every form of evil a child can possibly know. His naturally winsome nature had been changed by teasing and abuse until he seemed to deserve the sobriquet they gave him,--"little savage." Now at the age of perhaps six years, he had been sent to the Gila school; and there Esther Bright found him. The teacher was at once attracted to the child. Many years after, when Wathemah had become a distinguished man, he would tell how his life began when a lovely New England girl, a remarkable teacher, found him in that little school in Gila. He never failed to add that all that he was or might become, he owed entirely to her. The Indian child's devotion to the teacher began that first day at school, and was so marked it drew upon him persecution from the other children. Never could they make him ashamed. When the teacher was present, he ignored their comments and glances, and carried himself as proudly as a prince of the realm; but when she was absent, many a boy, often a boy larger than himself, staggered under his furious attacks. The child had splendid physical courage. Take him for all in all, he was no easy problem to solve. The teacher studied him, listened to him, reasoned with him, loved him; and from the first, he seemed to know intuitively that she was to be trusted and obeyed. On this day, he was especially happy as he trudged along, his hand in that of his Beloved. "Did you see how beautiful the sunset is, Wathemah?" asked the teacher, looking down at the picturesque urchin by her side. He gave a little grunt, and looked into the sky. "Flowers in sky," he said, his face full of delight. "God canyon put flowers, he Wathemah love?" "Yes, dear. God put flowers in the canyon because he loves you." They stopped, and both looked up into the sky. Then, after a moment, she continued: "You are like the flowers of the canyon, Wathemah. God put you here for me to find and love." "Love Wathemah?" "Yes." Then she stooped and gathered him into her arms. He nestled to her. "You be Wathemah's mother?" he questioned. She put her cheek against the little dirty one. The child felt tears. As he patted her cheek with his dirty hand, he repeated anxiously: "Me teacher be Wathemah mother?" "Yes," she answered, as though making a sacred covenant, "I, Wathemah's teacher, promise to be Wathemah's mother, so help me God." The child was coming into his birthright, the birthright of every child born into the world,--a mother's love. Who shall measure its power in the development of a child's life? They had reached the Clayton home. Wathemah turned reluctantly, lingering and drawing figures in the road with his bare feet, a picture one would long remember. He was a slender child, full of sinuous grace. His large, lustrous dark eyes, as well as his features, showed a strain of Spanish blood. He was dressed in cowboy fashion, but with more color than one sees in the cowboy costume. His trousers were of brown corduroy, slightly ragged. He wore a blue and white striped blouse, almost new. Around his neck, tied jauntily in front, was a red silk handkerchief, a gift from a cowboy. He smoothed it caressingly, as though he delighted in it. His straight, glossy black hair, except where cut short over the forehead, fell to his shoulders. Large loop-like ear-rings dangled from his ears; but the crowning feature of his costume, and his especial pride, was a new sombrero hat, trimmed with a scarlet ribbon and a white quill. He suddenly looked at his teacher, his face lighting with a radiant smile, and said: "Mother, _me_ mother." "Tell me, Wathemah," she said, "what you learned to-day in the Bible school." He turned and said softly: "Jesus love." Then the little child of the Open walked back to the camp, repeating softly to himself: "Jesus love! Mother love!" CHAPTER III CLAYTON RANCH Early traders knew Clayton Ranch well, for it was on the old stage route from Santa Fe to the Pacific coast. The house faced south, overlooking Gila River, and commanded a magnificent view of mountains and foothills and valleys. To the northeast, rose a distant mountain peak always streaked with snow. The ranch house, built of blocks of adobe, was of a creamy cement color resembling the soil of the surrounding foothills. The building was long and low, in the Spanish style of a rectangle, opening on a central court at the rear. The red tile roof slanted in a shallow curve from the peak of the house, out over the veranda, which extended across the front. Around the pillars that supported the roof of the veranda, vines grew luxuriantly, and hung in profusion from the strong wire stretched high from pillar to pillar. The windows and doors were spacious, giving the place an atmosphere of generous hospitality. Northeast of the house, was a picturesque windmill, which explained the abundant water supply for the ranch, and the freshness of the vines along the irrigating ditch that bordered the veranda. The dooryard was separated from the highway by a low adobe wall the color of the house. In the yard, palms and cacti gave a semi-tropical setting to this attractive old building. Port-holes on two sides of the house bore evidence of its having been built as a place of defense. Here, women and children had fled for safety when the Apache raids filled everyone with terror. Here they had remained for days, with few to protect them, while the men of the region drove off the Indians. Senor Matéo, the builder and first owner of the house, had been slain by the Apaches. On the foothills, just north of the house, ten lonely graves bore silent witness to that fatal day. Up the road to Clayton Ranch, late one November afternoon, came Esther Bright with bounding step, accompanied, as usual, by a bevy of children. She heard one gallant observe to another that their teacher was "just a daisy." Although this and similar compliments were interspersed with miners' and cowboys' slang, they were none the less respectful and hearty, and served to express the high esteem in which the new teacher was held by the little citizens of Gila. As the company neared the door of the Clayton home, one little girl suddenly burst forth: "My maw says she won't let her childern go ter Bible school ter be learned 'ligion by a Gentile. Me an' Mike an' Pat an' Brigham wanted ter go, but maw said, maw did, that she'd learn us Brigham Young's 'ligion, an' no sech trash as them Gentiles tells about; 'n' that the womern as doesn't have childern'll never go ter Heaven, maw says. My maw's got ten childern. My maw's Mormon." Here little Katie Black paused for breath. She was a stocky, pug-nosed, freckle-faced little creature, with red hair, braided in four short pugnacious pigtails, tied with white rags. "So your mother is a Mormon?" said the teacher to Katie. "Yep." "Suppose I come to see your mother, Katie, and tell her all about it. She might let you come. Shall I?" Her question was overheard by one of Katie's brothers, who said heartily: "Sure! I'll come fur yer. Maw said yer was too stuck up ter come, but I said I knowed better." "Naw," said Brigham, "she ain't stuck up; be yer?" "Not a bit." The teacher's answer seemed to give entire satisfaction to the company. The children gathered about her as they reached the door of Clayton Ranch. Esther Bright placed her hand on Brigham's head. It was a loving touch, and her "Good night, laddie," sent the child on his way happy. Within the house, all was cheer and welcome. The great living room was ablaze with light. A large open fireplace occupied the greater part of the space on one side. There, a fire of dry mesquite wood snapped and crackled, furnishing both light and heat this chill November evening. The floor of the living room was covered with an English three-ply carpet. The oak chairs were both substantial and comfortable. On the walls, hung three oil paintings of English scenes. Here and there were bookcases, filled with standard works. On a round table near the fireplace, were strewn magazines and papers. A comfortable low couch, piled with sofa pillows, occupied one side of the room near the firelight. Here, resting from a long and fatiguing journey, was stretched John Clayton, the owner of the house. As Esther Bright entered the room, he rose and greeted her cordially. His manner indicated the well-bred man of the world. He was tall and muscular, his face, bronzed from the Arizona sun. There was something very genial about the man that made him a delightful host. "Late home, Miss Bright!" he said in playful reproof. "This is a rough country, you know." "So I hear, mine host," she said, bowing low in mock gravity, "and that is why we have been scared to death at your long absence. I feared the Indians had carried you off." "I was detained unwillingly," he responded. "But, really, Miss Bright, I am not joking. It _is_ perilous for you to tramp these mountain roads as you do, and especially near nightfall. You are tempting Providence." He nodded his head warningly. "But I am not afraid," she persisted. "I know that. More's the pity. But you ought to be. Some day you may be captured and carried off, and no one in camp to rescue you." "How romantic!" she answered, a smile lurking in her eyes and about her mouth. She seated herself on a stool near the fire. "Why didn't you ask me why I was so late? I have an excellent excuse." "Why, prisoner at the bar?" "Please, y'r honor, we've been making ready for Christmas." She assumed the air of a culprit, and looked so demurely funny he laughed outright. Here Mrs. Clayton and Edith, her fifteen-year-old daughter, entered the room. "What's the fun?" questioned Edith. "Miss Bright is pleading guilty to working more hours than she should." "Oh, no, I didn't, Edith," she said merrily. "I said we had been making ready for Christmas." Edith sat on a stool at her teacher's side. She, too, was ready for a tilt. "You're not to pronounce sentence, Mr. Judge, until you see what we have been doing. It's to be a great surprise." And Edith looked wise and mysterious. Then Esther withdrew, returning a little later, gowned in an old-rose house dress of some soft wool stuff. She again sat near the fire. "Papa," said Edith, "I have been telling Miss Bright about the annual Rocky Mountain ball, and that she must surely go." John Clayton looked amused. "I'm afraid Edith couldn't do justice to that social function. I am quite sure you never saw anything like it. It is the most primitive sort of a party, made up of a motley crowd,--cowboys, cowlassies, miners and their families, and ranchmen and theirs. They come early, have a hearty supper, and dance all night; and as many of them imbibe pretty freely, they sometimes come to blows." He seemed amused at the consternation in Esther's face. "You don't mean that I shall be expected to go to such a party?" she protested. "Why not?" he asked, smiling. "It seems dreadful," she hastened to say, "and besides that, I never go to dances. I do not dance." "It's not as bad as it sounds," explained John Clayton. "You see these people are human. Their solitary lives are barren of pleasure. They crave intercourse with their kind; and so this annual party offers this opportunity." "And is this the extent of their social life? Have they nothing better?" "Nothing better," he said seriously, "but some things much worse." "I don't see how anything could be worse." "Oh, yes," he said, "it could be worse. But to return to the ball. It is unquestionably a company of publicans and sinners. If you wish to do settlement work here, to study these people in their native haunts, here they are. You will have an opportunity to meet some poor creatures you would not otherwise meet. Besides, this party is given for the benefit of the school. The proceeds of the supper help support the school." "Then I must attend?" "I believe so. With your desire to help these people, I believe it wise for you to go with us to the ball. You remember how a great Teacher long ago ate with publicans and sinners." "Yes, I was just thinking of it. Christ studied people as he found them; helped them where he found them." She sat with bent head, thoughtful. "Yes," John Clayton spoke gently, "Christ studied them as he found them, helped them where he found them." He sometimes smiled at her girlish eagerness, while more and more he marveled at her wisdom and ability. She had set him to thinking; and as he thought, he saw new duties shaping before him. It may have been an hour later, as they were reading aloud from a new book, they heard a firm, quick step on the veranda, followed by a light knock. "It's Kenneth," exclaimed John Clayton in a brisk, cheery tone, as he hastened to open the door. The newcomer was evidently a valued friend. Esther recognized in the distinguished looking visitor one of the men who had protected her the day of the organization of the Bible school. John Clayton rallied him on his prolonged absence. Mrs. Clayton told him how they had missed him, and Edith chattered merrily of what had happened since his last visit. When he was presented to Esther Bright, she rose, and at that moment, a flame leaped from the burning mesquite, and lighted up her face and form. She was lovely. The heat of the fire had brought a slight color to her cheeks, and this was accentuated by her rose-colored gown. Kenneth Hastings bowed low, lower than his wont to women. For a moment his eyes met hers. His glance was keen and searching. She met it calmly, frankly. Then her lashes swept her cheeks, and her color deepened. They gathered about the hearth. Fresh sticks of grease woods, and pine cones, thrown on the fire, sent red and yellow and violet flames leaping up the chimney. The fire grew hotter, and they were obliged to widen their circle. What better than an open fire to unlock the treasures of the mind and heart, when friend converses with friend? The glow of the embers seems to kindle the imagination, until the tongue forgets the commonplaces of daily life and grows eloquent with the thoughts that lie hidden in the deeps of the soul. Such converse as this held this group of friends in thrall. Kenneth Hastings talked well, exceedingly well. All the best stops in his nature were out. Esther listened, at first taking little part in the conversation. She was a good listener, an appreciative listener, and therein lay some of her charm. When he addressed a remark to her, she noticed that he had fine eyes, wonderful eyes, such eyes as belonged to Lincoln and Webster. One would have guessed Kenneth Hastings' age to be about thirty. He was tall, rather slender and sinewy, with broad, strong shoulders. He had a fine head, proudly poised, and an intelligent, though stern face. He was not a handsome man; there was, however, an air of distinction about him, and he had a voice of rare quality, rich and musical. Esther Bright had noticed this. The visitor began to talk to her. His power to draw other people out and make them shine was a fine art with him. His words were like a spark to tinder. Esther's mind kindled. She grew brilliant, and said things with a freshness and sparkle that fascinated everyone. And Kenneth Hastings listened with deepening interest. His call had been prolonged beyond his usual hour for leave-taking, when John Clayton brought Esther's guitar, that happened to be in the room, and begged her for a song. She blushed and hesitated. "Do sing," urged the guest. "I am not a trained musician," she protested. But her host assured his friend that she surely could sing. Then all clamored for a song. Esther sat thrumming the strings. "What shall I sing?" "'Who is Sylvia,'" suggested Mrs. Clayton. This she sang in a full, sweet voice. Her tone was true. "More, more," they insisted, clapping their hands. "Just _one_ more song," pleaded Edith. "Do you sing, 'Drink to me only with thine eyes'?" asked Kenneth. For answer, she struck the chords, and sang; then she laid down the guitar. "Please sing one of your American ballads. Sing 'Home, Sweet Home,'" he suggested. She had been homesick all day, so there was a home-sigh in her voice as she sang. Kenneth moved his chair into the shadow, and watched her. At last he rose to go; and with promises of an early return, he withdrew. Not to the saloon did he go that night, as had been his custom since coming to the mining camp. He walked on and on, out into the vast aloneness of the mountains. Once in a while he stopped, and looked down towards Clayton Ranch. At intervals he whistled softly.--The strain was "Home, Sweet Home." John Clayton and his wife sat long before the fire after Esther and Edith had retired. Mary Clayton was a gentle being, with a fair, sweet English face. And she adored her husband. They had been talking earnestly. "Any way, Mary," John Clayton was saying, "I believe Miss Bright could make an unusually fine man of Kenneth. I believe she could make him a better man, too." "That might be, John," she responded, "but you wouldn't want so rare a soul as she is to marry him to reform him, would you? She's like a snow-drop." "No, like a rose," he suggested, "all sweet at the heart. I'd really like to see her marry Kenneth. In fact, I'd like to help along a little." "Oh, my dear! How could you?" And she looked at him reproachfully. "Why not?" he asked. "Tell me honestly." He lifted her face and looked into it with lover-like tenderness. "You like Kenneth, don't you? And we are always glad to welcome him in our home." "Y-e-s," she responded hesitatingly, "but--" "But what?" "I fear he frequents the saloons, and is sometimes in company totally unworthy of him. In fact, I fear he isn't good enough for Miss Bright. I can't bear to think of her marrying any man less pure and noble than she is herself." He took his wife's hand in both of his. "You forget, Mary," he said, "that Miss Bright is a very unusual woman. There are few men, possibly, who are her peers. Don't condemn Kenneth because he isn't exactly like her. He's not perfect, I admit, any more than the rest of us. But he's a fine, manly fellow, with a good mind and noble traits of character. If the right woman gets hold of him, she'll make him a good man, and possibly a great one." "That may be," she said, "but I don't want Miss Bright to be that woman." "Suppose he were your son, would you feel he was so unworthy of her?" "Probably not," came her hesitating answer. "Mary, dear," he said, "I fear you are too severe in your judgment of men. I wish you had more compassion. You see, it is this way: many who seem evil have gone astray because they have not had the influence of a good mother or sister or wife." He bent his head and kissed her. A moment later, he leaned back and burst into a hearty laugh. "Why, what's the matter?" she asked. "I don't think it's a laughing matter." "It's so ridiculous, Mary. Here we've been concerning ourselves about the possible marriage of Kenneth and Miss Bright, when they have only just met, and it isn't likely they'll ever care for each other, anyway. Let's leave them alone." And the curtain went down on a vital introductory scene in the drama of life. CHAPTER IV THE ANGEL OF THE GILA Days came and went. The Bible school of Gila had ceased to be an experiment. It was a fact patent to all that the adobe schoolhouse had become the social center of the community, and that the soul of that center was Esther Bright. She had studied sociology in college and abroad. She had theorized, as many do, about life; now, life itself, in its bald reality, was appealing to her heart and brain. She did not stop to analyze her fitness for the work. She indulged in no morbid introspection. It was enough for her that she had found great human need. She was now to cope, almost single handed, with the forces that drag men down. She saw the need, she realized the opportunity. She worked with the quiet, unfailing patience of a great soul, leaving the fruitage to God. Sometimes the seriousness in Esther's face would deepen. Then she would go out into the Open. On one of these occasions, she strayed to her favorite haunt in the timber along the river, and seated herself on the trunk of a dead cottonwood tree, lying near the river bank. Trees, covered with green mistletoe, towered above her. Tremulous aspens sparkled in the sunshine. The air was crystal clear; the vast dome of the sky, of the deepest blue. She sat for a long time with face lifted, apparently forgetful of the open letter in her hand. At last she turned to it, and read as follows: LYNN, MASS., Tenth Month, Fifth Day, 1888. MY BELOVED GRANDDAUGHTER: Thy letter reached me Second Day. Truly thou hast found a field that needs a worker, and I do not question that the Lord's hand led thee to Gila. What thou art doing and dost plan to do, interest me deeply; but it will tax thy strength. I am thankful that thou hast felt a deepening sense of God's nearness. His world is full of Him, only men's eyes are holden that they do not know. All who gain strength to lead and inspire their fellows, learn this surely at last:--that the soul of man finds God most surely in the Open. If men would help their fellows, they must seek inspiration and strength in communion with God. To keep well, one must keep his mind calm and cheerful. So I urge thee not to allow the sorrowfulness of life about thee to depress thee. Thou canst not do thy most effective work if thy heart is always bowed down. The great sympathy of thy nature will lead thee to sorrow for others more than is well for thee. Joy is necessary to all of us. So, Beloved, cultivate joyousness, and teach others to do so. It keeps us sane, and strong and helpful. I know that the conditions thou hast found shock and distress thee, as they do all godly men and women; but I beg thee to remember, Esther, that our Lord had compassion on such as these, on the sinful as well as on the good, and that He offers salvation to all. How to have compassion! Ah, my child, men are so slow in learning that. Love,--compassion, is the key of Christ's philosophy. I am often lonely without thee; but do not think I would call thee back while the Lord hath need of thee. Thy Uncle and Aunt are well, and send their love to thee. I have just been reading John Whittier's 'Our Master.' Read it on next First Day, as my message to thee. God bless thee. Thy faithful grandfather, DAVID BRIGHT. As she read, her eyes filled. In the veins of Esther Bright flowed the blood of honorable, God-fearing people; but to none of these, had humanity's needs called more insistently than to her. Her grandfather had early recognized and fostered her passion for service; and from childhood up, he had frequently taken her with him on his errands of mercy, that she might understand the condition and the needs of the unfortunate. Between the two there existed an unusual bond. After reading the letter, Esther sat absorbed in thought. The present had slipped away, and it seemed as though her spirit had absented itself from her body and gone on a far journey. She was aroused to a consciousness of the present by a quick step. In a moment Kenneth Hastings was before her; then, seated at her side. "Well!" he began. "How fortunate I am! Here I was on my way to call on you to give you these flowers. I've been up on the mountains for them." "What beautiful mountain asters!" was her response, her face lighting with pleasure. "How exquisite in color! And how kind of you!" "Yes, they're lovely." He looked into her face with undisguised admiration. Something within her shrank from it. Three weeks had now passed since the meeting of Kenneth Hastings and Esther Bright. During this time, he had become an almost daily caller at Clayton Ranch. When he made apologies for the frequency of his calls, the Claytons always assured him of the pleasure his presence gave them, saying he was to them a younger brother, and as welcome. It was evident to them that Kenneth's transformation had begun. John Clayton knew that important changes were taking place in his daily life; that all his social life was spent in their home; that he had ceased to enter a saloon; and that he had suddenly become fastidious about his toilet. If Esther noted any changes in him, she did not express it. She was singularly reticent in regard to him. At this moment, she sat listening to him as he told her of the mountain flora. "Wait till you see the cactus blossoms in the spring and summer." He seemed very enthusiastic. "They make a glorious mass of color against the soft gray of the dry grass, or soil." "I'd love to see them." She lifted the bunch of asters admiringly. "I have some water colors of cacti I made a year ago. I'd like to show them to you, Miss Bright, if you are interested." She assured him she was. "I was out in the region of Colorado River a year ago. It is a wonderful region no white man has yet explored. Only the Indians know of its greatness. I have an idea that when that region is explored by some scientist, he will discover that canyon to be the greatest marvel of the world. What I saw was on a stupendous, magnificent scale." "How it must have impressed you!" "Wonderfully! I'll show you a sketch I made of a bit of what I found. It may suggest the magnificence of the coloring to you." "How did you happen to have sketching materials with you?" "I agreed to write a series of articles for an English magazine, and wished illustrations for one of the articles." "How accomplished you are!" she exclaimed. "A mining engineer, a painter, an author--" "Don't!" he protested, raising a deprecatory hand. Having launched on the natural wonders of Arizona, he grew more and more eloquent, till Esther's imagination made a daring leap, and she looked down the gigantic gorge he pictured to her, over great acres of massive rock formation, like the splendor of successive day-dawns hardened into stone, and saw gigantic forms chiseled by ages of erosion. "Do you ride horseback, Miss Bright?" he asked, suddenly changing the conversation. "I am sorry to say that I do not. I do not even know how to mount." "Let me teach you to ride," he said, with sudden interest. "You would find me an awkward pupil," she responded, rising. "I am willing to wager that I should not. When may I have the pleasure of giving you the first lesson?" "Any time convenient for you when I am not teaching." She began to gather up her flowers and hat. Then and there, a day was set for the first lesson in horsemanship. "Sit down, please," said Kenneth. "I want you to enlighten me. I am painfully dense." She seated herself on the tree trunk again, saying as she did so: "I had not observed any conspicuous signs of density on your part, Mr. Hastings, save that you think I could be metamorphosed into a horsewoman. Some women are born to the saddle. I was not. I am not an Englishwoman, you see." "But decidedly English," he retorted. "I wish you would tell me your story." Her face flushed. "I beg your pardon," he hastened to say. "I did not mean to be rude. You interest me deeply. Anything you think or do, anything that has made you what you are, is of deep interest to me." "There is nothing to tell," she said simply. "Just a few pages, with here and there an entry; a few birthdays; graduation from college; foreign travel; work in Gila; a life spent in companionship with a wonderfully lovely and lovable grandfather; work at his side, and life's history in the making. That is all." "All?" he repeated. "But that is rich in suggestion. I have studied you almost exclusively for three weeks, and I know you." She looked up. The expression in his eyes nettled her. Her spinal column stiffened. "Indeed! Know a woman in three weeks! You do well, better than most of your sex. Most men, I am told, find woman an unsolvable problem, and when they think they know her, they find they don't." This was interesting to him. He liked the flash in her eye. "Some life purpose brings you to Gila, to work so unselfishly for a lot of common, ignorant people." "What is that to you?" Her question sounded harsh in her own ears, and then she begged his pardon. "No apology is necessary on your part," he said, changing from banter to a tone of seriousness. "My words roused your resentment. I am at fault. The coming of a delicately nurtured girl like you into such a place of degradation is like the coming of an angel of light down to the bottomless pit. I beg forgiveness for saying this; but, Miss Bright, a mining camp, in these days, is a hotbed of vice." "All the more reason why people of intelligence and character should try to make the life here clean. I believe we can crowd out evil by cultivating the good." "You are a decided optimist," he said; "and I, by force of circumstances, have become a confirmed pessimist." "You will not continue to be a pessimist," she said, prophetically, seeing in her mind's eye what he would be in the years to come. "You will come to know deep human sympathy; you will believe in the possibility of better and better things for your fellows. You will use your strength, your intellect, your fine education, for the best service of the world about you." Somehow that prophecy went home to him. "By George!" he exclaimed, "you make a fellow feel he _must_ be just what you want him to be, and what he ought to be." The man studied the woman before him, with deep and increasing interest. She possessed a strength, he was sure, of which no one in Gila had yet dreamed. He continued: "Would you mind telling me the humanitarian notions that made you willing to bury yourself in this godless place?" She hesitated. The catechism evidently annoyed her, for it seemed to savor of impertinent curiosity. But at last she answered: "I believe my grandfather is responsible for the humanitarian notions. It is a long story." She hesitated. "I am interested in what he has done, and what you are doing. Please tell me about it." "Well, it goes back to my childhood. I was my grandfather's constant companion until I went to college. He is a well-known philanthropist of New England, interested in the poor, in convicts in prison and out, in temperance work, in the enfranchisement of woman, in education, and in everything that makes for righteousness." She paused. "And he discussed great questions with you?" "Yes, as though in counsel. He would tell me certain conditions, and ask me what I thought we had better do." "An ideal preparation for philanthropic service." He was serious now. "There awoke within me, very early, the purpose to serve my fellow men in the largest possible way. Grandfather fostered this; and when the time came for me to go to college, he helped me plan my course of study." She looked far away. "You followed it out?" "Very nearly. You see, Mr. Hastings, service is no accident with me. It dates back generations. It is in my blood." "Your blood is of the finest sort. Surely service does not mean living in close touch with immoral, disreputable people." Her eyes kindled, grew dark in color. "What _does_ it mean, then? The strong, the pure, the godly should live among men, teach by precept and example how to live, and show the loveliness of pure living just as Jesus did. I have visited prisons with grandfather, have prayed with and for criminals, and have sung in the prisons. Is it not worth while to help these wretched creatures look away from themselves to God?" "Oh, Miss Bright," he protested, "it is dreadful for a young girl like you even to hear of the wickedness of men." "Women are wicked, too," she responded seriously, "but I never lose hope for any one." "Some day hope will die out in your heart," he said discouragingly. "God forbid!" she spoke solemnly. In a moment she continued: "I am sure you do not realize how many poor creatures never have had a chance to be decent. Just think how many are born of sinful, ignorant parents, into an environment of sin and ignorance. They live in it, they die in it. I, by no will or merit of my own, received a blessed heritage. My ancestors for generations have been intelligent, godly people, many of them people of distinction. I was born into an atmosphere of love, of intelligence, of spirituality, and of refinement. I have lived in that atmosphere all my life. My good impulses have been fostered, my wrong ones checked." "I'll wager you were painfully conscientious," he said. "Why should I have been given so much," she continued, "and these poor creatures so little, unless it was that I should minister to their needs?" "You may be right." He seemed unconvinced. "But I am sure of one thing. If I had been your grandfather, and you my grandchild, I never would have let you leave me." He was smiling. "You should know my grandfather, and then you would understand." "How did you happen to come to Gila?" he asked. "I met Mr. and Mrs. Clayton in the home of one of their friends in England. We were house guests there at the same time. We returned to America on the same steamer. Mrs. Clayton knew I was to do settlement work, and urged me to come to Gila a while instead. So I came." How much her coming was beginning to mean to him, to others! Both were silent a while. Then it was Kenneth who spoke. "Do you know, Miss Bright, it never occurred to me before you came, that I had any obligations to these people? Now I know I have. I was indifferent to the fact that I had a soul myself until you came." She looked up questioningly. "Yes, I mean it," he said. "To all intents and purposes I had no soul. A man forgets he has a soul when he lives in the midst of vice, and no one cares whether he goes to the devil or not." "Is it the environment, or the feeling that no one cares?" she asked. "Both." He buried his face in his hands. "Did you feel that no one cared? I'm sure your mother cared." She had touched a sore spot. "My mother?" he said, bitterly. "My mother is a woman of the world." Here he lifted his head. "She is engrossed in society. She has no interest whatever in me, and never did have, although I am her only child." "Perhaps you are mistaken," she said softly. "I am sure you must be mistaken." "When a mother lets year after year go by without writing to her son, do you think she cares?" "You don't mean to say that you never receive a letter from your mother?" "My mother has not written to me since I came to America. Suppose your mother did not write to you. Would you think she had a very deep affection for you?" Esther's face grew wistful. "Perhaps you do not know," she answered, "I have no living mother. She died when I was born." "Forgive my thoughtless question," he said. "I did not know you had lost your mother. I was selfish." "Oh, no," she said, "not selfish. You didn't know, that was all. We sometimes make mistakes, all of us, when we do not know. I lost my father when I was a very little child." "And your grandfather reared you?" "Yes, grandfather, assisted by my uncle and auntie." "Tell me about your grandfather, I like to hear." "He was my first playfellow, and a fine one he was, too." "How I envy him!" "You mustn't interrupt me," she said demurely. "I am penitent. Do proceed." Then she told him, in brief, the story of her life, simple and sweet in the telling. She told him of the work done by her grandfather. "He preaches, you tell me." "Yes," she said, rambling on, "he is a graduate of Yale, and prepared to be a physician. But his heart drew him into the ministry, the place where he felt the Great Physician would have him be. Grandfather is a Friend, you know, a Quaker." "So I understood." "He had a liberal income, so it was possible for him to devote his entire time to the poor and distressed. He has been deeply interested in the Negro and American Indian, and in fact, in every one who is oppressed by his stronger brother." "An unusual man." "Very." "How could you leave him? Did you not feel that your first duty was to him?" "It _was_ hard to leave him," she said, while her eyes were brimming with tears; "but grandfather and I believe that opportunity to serve means obligation to serve. Besides, love is such a spiritual thing we can never be separated." "Love is such a spiritual thing--" he repeated, and again, "Spiritual." He was silent a moment, then he spoke abruptly. "You have already been the salvation of at least one soul. I owe my soul to you." "Oh, no, not to me," she protested. "That was God's gift to you from the beginning. It may have slumbered, but you had it all the while." "What did your grandfather say to your coming to Gila?" "When I told him of the call to come here, told him that within a radius of sixty miles there was no place of religious worship, he made no response, but sat with his head bowed. At last he looked up with the most beautiful smile you ever saw, and said, 'Go, my child, the Lord hath need of thee.'" Her voice trembled a little. "He was right," said Kenneth earnestly. "The Lord has need of such as you everywhere. I have need of you. The people here have need of you. Help us to make something of our lives yet, Miss Bright." There was no doubting his sincerity. She had again risen to go. "Don't go," he said. "I would like to tell you _my_ story, if you care to hear." "I shall be glad to hear your story. I know it will not be as meager as mine." "I wish," he said earnestly, "that I might measure up to your ideal of what a man should be. I cannot do that. But I can be honest and tell you the truth about myself. "I belong to a proud, high-strung race of people. My father is like his forbears. He is a graduate of Cambridge; has marked literary ability. "My mother is a society woman, once noted as a beauty at court. She craves admiration and must have it. That is all she cares for. She has never shown any affection for my father or me. "I left England when I was twenty-two,--my senior year at Cambridge. I've been in America eight years, and during that time I have received but two letters from home, and those were from my father." "You must have felt starved." "That's it," he said, "_starved_! I did feel starved. You see, Miss Bright, a fellow's home has much to do with his life and character. What is done there influences him. Wine was served on our table. My parents partook freely of it; so did our guests. I have seen some guests intoxicated. We played cards, as all society people do. We played for stakes, also. You call that gambling. My mother's men admirers were mush-headed fools." "Such conditions obtain in certain circles in this country, too. They are a menace to the American home," she said gravely. "I was sent to Cambridge," he continued, "as my father and his father, and father's father before him, had been sent. I was a natural student and always did well in my work. But my drinking and gambling finally got me into trouble. I was fired. My father was so incensed at my dismissal he told me never to darken his doors again. He gave me money, and told me to leave at once for America. "I went to my mother's room to bid her good-by. She stood before a mirror while her maid was giving the final touches to her toilet. She looked regal and beautiful as she stood there, and I felt proud of her. I told her what had happened, and that I had come to bid her good-by. She turned upon me pettishly, and asked me how I could mar her pleasure just as she was going to a ball. Her last words to me were, 'I hate to be disturbed with family matters!'" "Did she bid you good-by?" "No." "Forget it," she urged. "All women are not like that. I hope you will find some rare woman who will be as a mother to you." "Forget it!" he repeated bitterly. "I can't." "But you will sometime. You came to America. What next?" "Then I entered the School of Mines at Columbia, and took my degree the following year, after which I joined Mr. Clayton here. That was seven years ago." "Did you know him in England?" "Yes. During these intervening years I have frequented the saloons. I have drank some, gambled some, as I did at home. And I have mingled with disreputable men here, but not to lift them up. I have not cared, chiefly because I knew no one else cared." His companion was silent. "You despise me, Miss Bright," he continued. "I deserve your contempt, I know. But I would do anything in the power of man to do now, if I could undo the past, and have a life as blameless as your own." He glanced at his companion. "What a brute I have been," he exclaimed, "to pour my ugly story into your ears!" "I am glad you told me," she assured him. She looked up with new sympathy and understanding. "You are going to live down your past now, Mr. Hastings. We'll begin here and now. You will not speak of this again unless it may be a relief to you. The matter will not cross my lips." She flashed upon him a radiant smile. She believed in him. He could hardly comprehend it. "You do not despise me? You forgive my past?" He looked into her face. "It is God who forgives. Why should I despise whom God forgives?" "If ever I find my way to God," he said in a low voice, "it will be through you." She quoted softly: "'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red as crimson, they shall be as wool.'" Then she added, "I must go home now." They walked on to Clayton Ranch. After a few commonplaces, Kenneth lifted his hat, and turning, walked swiftly toward the company's headquarters. Esther stood a moment, watching the easy, graceful stride of the young engineer. His words then, and long afterwards, rang in her ears,--"Help us to make something of our lives yet." And as the words echoed in her heart, a voice aged and full of tender love, came to her like an old refrain,--"Go, my child, the Lord hath need of thee." She lifted her face and looked into the sky. Suddenly she became conscious of the beauty of the hour. The violet light of evening played about her face and form. She forgot the flowers in her arms, forgot the sunset, and stood absorbed in prayer. CHAPTER V THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN BALL It was the day of the ball. Parties of mountaineers, some on horseback, some in wagons, started for Jamison Ranch. In the early evening, a wagon load made up of the members of the Clayton household, Kenneth Hastings and some Scotch neighbors, started for the same destination. The road skirted the foothills for some distance, then followed the canyon several miles; and then, branching off, led directly to Jamison Ranch. As the twilight deepened into night, Nature took on a solemn and mysterious beauty. The rugged outline of the mountains, the valley and river below,--were all idealized in the softening light. The New England girl sat drinking in the wonder of it all. The mountains were speaking to her good tidings of great joy. In the midst of merry chatter, some one called out: "Sing us a song, Miss Bright." It was Kenneth Hastings. Hearing her name, she roused from her reverie. "A song?" "Yes, do sing," urged several. "Sing 'Oft in the Stilly Night,'" suggested Mrs. Clayton. "All sing with me," responded Esther. Then out on the stillness floated the beautiful old Irish song. Other voices joined Esther's. Kenneth Hastings was one of the singers. His voice blended with hers and enriched it. Song after song followed, all the company participating to some extent in the singing. Was it the majesty of the mountain scenery that inspired Esther, that sent such a thrill of gladness into her voice? Or was it perhaps the witchery of the moonlight? Whatever may have been the cause, a new quality appeared in her voice, and stirred the hearts of all who listened to her singing; it was deep and beautiful. What wonder if Kenneth Hastings came under the spell of the song and the singer? The New England girl was a breath of summer in the hard and wintry coldness of his life. "Who taught you to sing?" he asked abruptly. "The birds," she answered, in a joyous, laughing tone. "I can well believe that," he continued, "but who were your other instructors?" Then, in brief, she told him of her musical training. Would she sing one of his favorite arias some day? naming the aria. She hummed a snatch of it. "Go on," he urged. "Not now; some other time." "Won't you give us an evening recital soon?" asked John Clayton. And then and there the concert was arranged for. "Miss Bright," said Mrs. Carmichael, "I am wondering how we ever got on without you." Esther laughed a light-hearted, merry laugh. "That's it," Kenneth hastened to say. "We 'got on.' We simply existed. Now we live." All laughed at this. "You are not complimentary to our friends. I protest," said Esther. "You are growing chivalrous, Kenneth," said Mrs. Clayton. "I'm glad you think as we do. Miss Bright, you have certainly enriched life for all of us." "Don't embarrass me," said Esther in a tone that betrayed she was a little disconcerted. But now they were nearing their journey's end. The baying of hounds announced a human habitation. An instant later, the house was in sight, and the dogs came bounding down the road, greeting the party with vociferous barks and growls. Mr. Jamison followed, profuse in words of welcome. As Kenneth assisted Esther from the wagon, he said: "Your presence during this drive has given me real pleasure." Her simple "Thank you" was her only response. At the door they were met by daughters of the house, buxom lasses, who ushered them into an immense living room. This opened into two other rooms, one of which had been cleared for dancing. Esther noted every detail,--a new rag carpet on the floor; a bright-colored log-cabin quilt on one of the beds; on the other bed, was a quilt of white, on which was appliqued a menagerie of nondescript animals of red and green calico, capering in all directions. The particular charm of this work of art was its immaculate quilting,--quilting that would have made our great-grandmothers green with envy. Cheap yellow paper covered the walls of the room. A chromo, "Fast Asleep," framed in heavy black walnut, hung close to the ceiling. A sewing machine stood in one corner. At first, Esther did not notice the human element in the room. Suddenly a little bundle at the foot of the bed began to grunt. She lifted it, and found a speck of humanity about three months old. In his efforts to make his wants known, and so secure his rightful attention, he puckered his mouth, doubled up his fists, grew red in the face, and let forth lusty cries. As she stood trying to soothe the child, the mother rushed in, snatched it from the teacher's arms, and gave it a slap, saying as she did so, "The brat's allus screechin' when I wanter dance!" She left the babe screaming vociferously, and returned to dance. Four other infants promptly entered into the vocal contest, while their respective parents danced in the adjoining room, oblivious of everything save the pleasure of the hour. Then it was that the New England girl became a self-appointed nurse, patting and soothing first one, then another babe; but it was useless. They had been brought to the party under protest; and offended humanity would not be mollified. The teacher stepped out into the living room, which was in festive array. Its picturesqueness appealed to her. A large fire crackled on the hearth, and threw its transforming glow over the dingy adobe walls, decorated for the occasion with branches of fragrant silver spruce. Blocks of pine tree-trunks, perhaps two feet in height, stood in the corners of the room. Each of these blocks contained a dozen or more candle sockets, serving the purpose of a candelabrum. Each of the sockets bore a lighted candle, which added to the weirdness of the scene. The room was a unique background for the men and women gathered there. At least twenty of the mountaineers had already assembled. They had come at late twilight, and would stay till dawn, for their journey lay over rough mountain roads and through dangerous passes. The guests gathered rapidly, laughing and talking as they came. It was a motley crowd,--cowboys, in corduroy, high boots, spurs, slouch hats, and knives at belt, brawny specimens of human kind; cowlasses, who for the time, had discarded their masculine attire of short skirts, blouse, belt and gun, for feminine finery; Scotchmen in Highland costume; Mexicans in picturesque dress; English folk, clad in modest apparel; and Irishmen and Americans resplendent in colors galore. For a moment, Esther stood studying the novel scene. Mr. Clayton, observing her, presented her to the individuals already assembled. The last introduction was to a shambling, awkward young miner. After shaking the hand of the teacher, which he did with a vigor quite commensurate to his elephantine strength, he blurted out, "Will yez dance a polky wid me?" She asked to be excused, saying she did not dance. "Oh, but I can learn yez," he said eagerly. "Yez put one fut so, and the other _so_," illustrating the step with bovine grace as he spoke. His efforts were unavailing, so he found a partner among the cowlasses. Again Esther was alone. She seated herself near one of the improvised pine candelabra, and continued to study the people before her. Here she found primitive life indeed, life close to the soil. How to get at these people, how to learn their natures, how to understand their needs, how to help them,--all these questions pressed upon her. Of this she was sure:--she must come in touch with them to help them. Men and women older and more experienced than she might well have knit their brows over the problem. She was roused to a consciousness of present need by a piercing cry from one of the infants in the adjoining room. The helpless cry of a child could never appeal in vain to such a woman as Esther Bright. She returned to the bedroom, lifted the wailing bundle in her arms, seated herself in a rocker, and proceeded to quiet it. Kenneth Hastings stood watching her, while an occasional smile flitted across his face. As John Clayton joined him, the former said in a low tone: "Do you see Miss Bright's new occupation, John?" "Yes, by George! What will that girl do next? Who but Miss Bright would bother about other people's crying infants? But it's just like her! She is true woman to the heart. I wish there were more like her." "So do I, John. I wish I were more like her myself in unselfish interest in people." "She has done you great good already, Kenneth." "Yes, I know." Then a shadow darkened Kenneth's face. He moved toward the outer door that stood open, and looked out into the night. At last Esther's task was accomplished, the babe was asleep, and she returned to the scene of the dancing. Kenneth sought her and asked her to dance the next waltz with him. She assured him, also, that she did not dance. "Let me teach you," he urged. But she shook her head. "You do not approve of dancing?" he asked, lifting his brows. "I did not say I do not approve of dancing; I said I do not dance. By the way," she said, changing the subject of the conversation, "my lessons in riding are to begin to-morrow, are they not?" "To-morrow, if I may have the pleasure. Do you think riding wicked, too?" This he said with a sly twinkle in his eye. "Wicked, too?" she echoed. "What's the 'too' mean?" "Dancing, of course." "But I didn't say I thought dancing wicked. I said I do not dance." "Oh, well, you think it wicked, or you would dance." She looked amused. "What would you say if I should tell you I learned to dance years ago?" "That you are strait-laced obstinacy personified. Why not dance? It could do you no harm." "It is not expedient, that is all. Let me tell you I really did learn. I am not an accomplished dancer, though. I was taught to dance in a school I attended. But I have never danced in social life." "Why not put aside your scruples for once," he urged, "and dance the next waltz with me? You don't know what pleasure it would give me." But she still refused. He saw that to pursue the matter further would be useless. The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of cowboys and cowlasses, who, as they filed past, were presented to her by Kenneth Hastings. "How are ye?" asked one husky fellow, gripping Esther's hand like a vise. "Happy ter know yer acquaintance," said another. The girls snickered and looked foolish, keeping time to the music with the tapping of their feet. "You like to dance, I see," said Esther to one girl. "You bet I do!" The girl's jaws kept time to the music as she vigorously chewed gum. "Come, Jim," said another loud-voiced cowlass, "that's our set." And away they went, hand in hand, edging their way through the crowded rooms. Soon they were in the midst of the boisterous dancers. Kenneth joined the human fringe around the dance room. He stood watching as though what he saw amused him. "Swing y'r pardners," shouted the fiddler, above the din of voices. Down came the bow across the strings, that responded in shrill, piercing notes. Around flew the dancers, their cheeks growing redder and redder. The clatter of the cowboys' spurs, and the tapping of the fiddler's foot kept time to the music. While watching the dancers, Kenneth discovered Jessie Roth, a young Scotch girl, in from the range. As soon as he could do so, he presented her to Esther Bright. Jessie responded to the introduction awkwardly and shyly; but as she looked into Esther's face, she seemed to gain confidence. It was such a kindly, such a sympathetic face. Jessie was a girl Esther had long been wishing to meet, and to interest in better things. She was at heart good, and if wisely directed would undoubtedly exercise a wholesome influence over other girls. As the teacher expressed her interest in her, and what they might do together, Jessie's face beamed. "Mr. Hastings telt me aboot y'r Bible school, an' how ye wantit me tae come. Did ye?" "Indeed I did." "Dae ye want mony mair tae come?" "Yes, as many as you can bring, Jessie." Then the two took seats in the corner of the room, and Esther gave her an enthusiastic account of her plans for the Gila girls. The Scotch girl listened, with an occasional comment. "Do you like the life on the range, Jessie?" "Rael weel! Y're as free as the air!" Here the girl gave her body and arms a swing, as though ready to leap to the back of a running horse. She seemed all muscle. "My mustang's the best friend I hev. I broke 'er mysel'. My! She can gae like the wind!" "You!" said the astonished teacher. "Can you break a horse?" "Can I?" she repeated in amusement. "I'd like tae show ye. I wad like tae tak ye oot on the range wi' me. My, but ye'd like it!" "No doubt. What do you do out on the range?" "Oh, we rides an' rides an' looks after the cattle; we cooks, an' plays cards, an' joshes the boys." Here Jessie laughed. "What a dreary life this must be," thought Esther. She said aloud, "You must find the life monotonous and lonely." "Never lonely, schoolma'am. It's full o' excitement. There's somethin' doin' all the time. Sometime ye sees herds o' antelope, or ye meets a grizzly. It's better'n a dance tae bring down a grizzly." "A bear?" the teacher exclaimed in astonishment. "You don't mean to say you ever killed a bear?" The cowlass's eyes sparkled as she said proudly: "I've shot several, an' other big game too. But the greatest thing on the range is tae see a stampede o' cattle. It's as much as y'r life's worth tae be in their way." The girl, though rough, had a vitality and picturesqueness attractive to the polished New Englander. It was equally certain that Esther was attractive to the cowlass. Jessie left her for a moment, but soon returned, bringing three others with her. After presenting them, she said: "Tell 'em, schoolma'am, what ye telt me." "Tell what, Jessie?" "Oh, aboot the Bible school an' the parties, an' how ye wants tae dae somethin' fer the lasses." Then Esther briefly outlined her plans, during which they occasionally interrupted her by questions or comments. "Do you mean, schoolma'am, that y're willin' to learn us outside o' school hours?" "Yes." "Y're mighty good. I love ye already," said one lass. "But we're sae auld," said Jessie. "No, you're not. You're not old,--not too old to study." "Yes, schoolma'am, that's what mother used tae say," said Jessie in a softer tone. She turned her face aside. Another girl whispered to Esther, "Her father killed her mother when he was drunk." Esther slipped her arm around Jessie's waist, and continued to speak her plans, and how much their co-operation would mean to her. "Git y'r pardners!" shouted the fiddler. Soon the lasses were led away to the dance; and for the time, nothing more was said of their plans; but Esther Bright knew that of all the days' work she had done in Gila, this would probably count the most. The rooms were now crowded with people. The huge candles burned lower; the air grew more stifling; the noise more tiring. As she looked up, she met the gaze of a young English girl, who flushed and turned her eyes away. An instant later, Kenneth Hastings seated himself by Esther and began speaking. "I was glad to see you talking with the cowlasses, for they need the gentle, refining influence that you can bring them." He was evidently deeply in earnest. "You have no idea how full of peril their life is. You see there is something in this bold, free life of exposure that almost unsexes a woman. Some of the cowlasses are good-hearted, honest girls, but many are a hard lot. Your womanly influence would help them." As he spoke, he caught sight of the girl who, a moment before, had attracted Esther's attention. "Do you see that girl with the cameo-like face?" he asked. "Yes." "I have been hoping you could save that child. She can't be more than seventeen, if she is that. What her previous history is I do not know; but it is evident she has had gentle breeding." "What a sweet face she has!" "Yes. Lovely, isn't it? Like a flower." "What is her name?" Esther looked sympathetically at the girlish figure. "Earle--Carla Earle. She lives at Keith's. I see her often with Mark Clifton, a young Englishman here. He is a wild fellow. She is shy of everyone else." "Poor child!" said Esther, glancing toward her. "I made bold to speak to her one day, and invited her to come to your Bible school. I believe if you could meet her you would be her salvation." Esther looked up with a grave question in her eyes. "Well?" he asked. "You invite her to come to the Bible school, but do not come yourself, do not offer to help." "It does seem inconsistent, doesn't it? I will try to explain." He studied the cracks in the floor. "You see, I have felt that I would be a hypocrite if I came. I know nothing about religion; at least, I knew nothing about it until I began to find it in you." "And yet religion is the great question of life. I wonder that, with your habit of thought, you have not been attracted to the study of philosophy and religion." "Some of the most materialistic men I have known," he replied, "have been students of philosophy and religion. They seemed anything but religious. But your religion is practical. You live it. You make men believe in your religion, make them believe it is the one real thing of life. I need to be taught of you." "Please bring this young girl to me, or take me to her," she responded. Together they sought Carla Earle. As Esther was introduced, she clasped Carla's hand, and began to talk to her of England. Kenneth excused himself, and the two girls took seats in the corner where he had left them. At first Carla avoided looking into the face of her companion. When she did gain courage to look up, she saw that Esther's face was full of tenderness. What could it mean? Sympathy for her? Carla Earle? Her chest rose and fell. Suddenly she hid her face in her hands, while suppressed sobs shook her frame. Quickly, Esther slipped her arm about her, and drew her to the open door, and out into the clear night air. There, Nature seemed full of peace. Up and down, the two walked in the moonlight, talking in low, earnest tones. Often they paused and looked up into the heavens. Once the English girl bowed her head on the New England girl's shoulder, and wept bitterly. The teacher listened, listened to a story whose pathos touched her heart. Then she said gently: "You know right from wrong. Leave the wrong life. Come to me for shelter, until I can find a home for you where you will be safe, and I hope, contented." "Oh, I can't," sobbed Carla, "I am so unhappy!" "I know you can leave if you will," Esther said firmly. "You will have strength and courage given you to do right. It is wrong for you to continue in the life you are now living." Carla shuddered. She was still weeping. "God will never forgive me," she said. "He has forsaken me." She seemed utterly hopeless. "God always forgives those who come to Him penitent, Carla. He has not forsaken you; you have forsaken Him. I am glad you and I have found each other. Perhaps I can help you find your way back to God." Carla gripped her hand. When they re-entered the house, the English girl slipped into the bedroom. "Fust couple forrerd an' back!" called out the fiddler, keeping time with his foot. There were bows, differing more in quality than in kind; bows masculine, with spurred foot to rearward; bows feminine, quite indescribable. "Swing y'r pardners!" shouted the fiddler, flourishing his bow. Around flew the lasses, with skirts and ribbons flying; down came the boots of the cowboys, their spurs clanking time to the music. The room grew more stifling. Among the late-comers was a middle-aged woman, immaculately clean. Her snapping black eyes were set close to her nose, which was sharp and thin. Her lips closed firmly. Her thin black hair, drawn tightly back, was fastened in a tight wad at the back of her head. She wore an antiquated black alpaca dress, sans buttons, sans collar, sans cuffs; but the crowning glory of her costume, and her particular pride, was a breastpin of hair grapes. She was accompanied by an easy-going, stubby little Irishman, and a freckle-faced, tow-headed lad of ten. "Maw, Maw!" said the child, "there's my teacher!" "Mind y'r mannerses," said the woman, as she cuffed him on the ear. "I am mindin' my mannerses," he said sulkily. The teacher saw the shadow on the child's face, stepped forward to greet him, then extended her hand to the mother, saying: "Good evening, Mrs. Black. I am Brigham's teacher." But Mrs. Murphy was on the warpath. "I'm not Miz. Black," she snapped, assuming an air of offended dignity; "I'm Miz Murphy, the wife o' Patrick Murphy. This is my man," pointing to the stubby Irishman, with the air of a tragedy queen. The teacher thereupon shook hands with Patrick. Mrs. Murphy continued: "My first husband were a Young, my second a Thompson, my third a Wigger, my fourth a Black, and my fifth a Murphy." "I wonders who the nixt wan will be," said Patrick, grinning from ear to ear. "My woman lived wid the Mormons." Mrs. Murphy's eyes looked daggers. He continued: "An' she thought if it were good fur wan man to marry many women, it were equally good fur wan woman ter have many husbands, even if she didn't have all of thim ter onct." He chuckled. "Mind y'r bizness!" snapped the irate Mrs. Murphy. "An' so it came my turrhn, schoolma'am, an' she were that delighted wid me she have niver tried another man since. Eh, mavourneen?" Saying which, Patrick made his escape, shaking with laughter. Then Esther poured oil on the troubled waters, by telling Mrs. Murphy how interested she was in what Brigham had told her of his little sisters, Nora and Kathleen. "Won't you sit down, Mrs. Murphy?" Esther's voice and manner were very charming at that moment, as she drew a chair forward for her companion. Somewhat mollified, Mrs. Murphy seated herself. "Oh, I don't mind ef I do set down. I'm that tuckered out with scrubbin' and washin' an' cookin', I'm afeared I can't dance till mornin'." As she talked, she fanned herself with her red cotton handkerchief. "You enjoy dancing, don't you, Mrs. Murphy?" asked the teacher, with apparent interest. "Enjoy dancin'? I should say I did!" She suddenly assumed an air of great importance. "Back East where I was riz, I went ter all the barn raisin's, an' was accounted the best dancer in the county." She showed sudden interest in the fiddler, and tapped time to the music with her foot. "Then I joined the Mormons. When I lived in Utah, there was plenty o' dancin', I can tell you." "You are from New York, Mrs. Murphy, I think you said." "Yep," complacently. "I was riz in York State, near Syrycuse. My folks was way up, my folks was. Why, my aunt's husband's sister's husband kep' a confectony, an' lived on Lexity Street, York City. She were rich, she were,--an' dressed! My landy! How she dressed! Always latest style! Ye didn't know her, I s'pose. Miz Josiah Common was her name, lived at 650 somethin' Lexity Street. Wisht you'd a knowed her." Here she mopped her face again. It was not often that Mrs. Murphy found herself in society, and in society where she wished to make an impression. Her voice rose higher and shriller. "Yep," she continued, in a tone of supreme satisfaction, "I'm 'lated, as it were, to Miz Josiah Common. She gimme this here pin." Here she took off a hair grape pin, and held it up for inspection. "A bunch o' grapes, yer see, hereditaried in the family, descended from father to son, yer know, in memory of the departed." All this in a tone of one who gives information, and commiserates the ignorance of the listener. Suddenly Esther Bright lifted her handkerchief to her eyes. "Got pink eye?" asked Mrs. Murphy with sudden sympathy. But at this moment Patrick Murphy joined them, and Mrs. Murphy rose to dance with him. As the two left her, Esther saw John Clayton edging his way through the crowd. An instant later, he presented Lord Kelwin, of Dublin, Ireland. "Really," said the newcomer, "I had no idea I should meet an American lady on the frontier. I am charmed. So delighted, Mr. Clayton, to meet Mrs. Clayton and Miss Bright. I had anticipated meeting Indians, Indian princesses, don't you know, like the people we see in the shows you send us." "It is too bad you should be disappointed, Lord Kelwin," said the New Englander, smiling. "There are princesses galore in the southwest, and a little search will reward you." "Beg pardon, I did not intend to give the impression that I was disappointed; rather, I am surprised that here out of civilization, ah--ah--I should find a lady,--_two_ ladies. I count myself most fortunate." John Clayton's eyes twinkled. At the first opportunity he drew Lord Kelwin aside, and whispered in his ear. The Irishman looked astonished. "An Indian princess, did you say? By Jove!" "Yes, of the blood royal," replied John Clayton, with gravity. "And possessed of untold wealth? What was it you said?" "Of untold wealth. I'd rather have her wealth than the crown jewels of any royal house." "By George! A fortune and a pretty girl thrown in!" It was evident that this bit of information was not without effect upon Lord Kelwin, for he turned to Esther Bright effusively. "It is such a pleasure, such a great pleasure, to meet one who so charmingly represents her race." He bowed deferentially. Esther looked mystified. Before she could frame a reply, their conversation was interrupted. Lord Kelwin drew John Clayton aside. "An American princess, did you say?" "Yes, by divine right," responded the older man. The Irishman adjusted his monocle, to view Esther more critically. "She looks more like an English woman," he said meditatively. "Rather too slender to be a beauty." "She was born on the free soil of America," continued his companion, "and has some ideas of her own." The Irishman smiled cynically. "As if a pretty girl ever had ideas of her own! She usually knows just what her mamma or governess teaches her. I always find a pretty girl an easy victim. I've broken more than one innocent's heart." He twirled his moustache. "You'll not get on so well with Miss Bright. You see, she is used to meeting _men_." John Clayton looked a trifle wicked, as he continued, "She might take you for a long-headed animal with long ears." But the last remark was lost upon the Irishman, whose attention was fixed upon Esther Bright. "You say her ancestors were savages, Mr. Clayton?" "I suppose they _were_ savages, same as ours. She has the best heritage the ages can give,--a healthy body, a beautiful mind, and a heroic soul." John Clayton's voice, half ironical, had an undertone of seriousness. "A heroic soul! A heroic soul!" The Irishman raised his monocle again. "I didn't suppose savages had souls. I've always imagined this fad about souls came with civilization." "I have begun to think," answered his companion, "that with much of the so-called civilization, men and women are losing their souls. Miss Bright is a remarkable woman. She believes in the possibilities of every man and woman. It is her purpose in life to awaken the soul wherever she finds it dormant or atrophied." "Indeed!" Again the monocle was raised, and the Irishman's curious gaze was fixed upon the American girl, then engaged in conversation with a cowboy. Patrick Murphy now interrupted this dialogue. "Lord Kelwin, we wants yez ter dance an Irish jig." The lord lifted his eyebrows. "There's no one to dance an Irish jig with me unless you do it yourself, Patrick." Here there was a general laugh. "Come along wid yez," persisted Patrick, half carrying him toward the dance room. "Here," he said to Lord Kelwin, "here's light-footed Janette O'Neil will dance this wid yez." There was a stir. The center of the room was cleared, then out stepped Lord Kelwin, leading rosy, graceful Janette. She was lithe and dainty. The fiddler flourished his bow, drew it across the strings, and brought forth the strains of "Soldier's Joy,"--a melody that sets an Irishman's feet flying. Janette's short, red skirt showed her trim feet and ankles. Down the room came the two dancers, side by side, their feet fairly flying. Backward, again they danced, the length of the room, still keeping up the feathery rapidity of flying feet. Then Lord Kelwin swung his partner around and around; then facing each other, they danced apart. Expressions of admiring approval were heard. "Them's fine dancers!" "Go it, Kelwin! I'll bet on you." "Three cheers for ould Ireland!" Down again the full length of the room sped the flying feet; then back again. Then, whirling as birds in flight, they faced each other once more, and danced apart, and finished the dance amid deafening applause. As it continued, Lord Kelwin raised his hand for attention. "Give us the Highland fling. Here, Burns, you and Jessie Roth dance the Highland fling." "Highland fling! Highland fling!" echoed many voices. Again the center of the room was cleared, and Robert Burns led forth Jessie Roth. In a moment the air of "Bonnie Woods and Braes" shrieked from the fiddle. With rhythmic swing of body and limb, the graceful Scotch dancers kept time to the music. Up rose the arm of the girl, with inimitable grace; forward came one foot, daintily touching the floor. It was the very poetry of motion. At the close of this dance, the applause was again deafening. "Git y'r pardners fer Virginny reel!" shouted the weary fiddler. In the rush of the dancers, John Clayton was jostled against Esther Bright and Kenneth Hastings. "Well!" said he, "I believe we'd better go out to supper, and then start homeward." A brief search brought the other members of the party. They seated themselves at a long improvised table, covered with red tablecloths. There was but one course, and that included everything from roast venison and Irish stew, hot biscuit and honey, to New England doughnuts, hot tamales and whiskey. Near by sat an Indian half-breed, who, discovering a large plate of doughnuts, greedily devoured every one. As he had been drinking heavily, no one interfered, or made audible comments. When the Clayton party were about to withdraw, there were sounds of scuffling, oaths and cries, from the adjoining room, followed by a heavy thud. Some one had fallen. John Clayton rushed out, and finding one of his own cowboys in the fight, dragged him out into the open air. To keep him out of the mêlée, he sent him for their team, and he himself returned to the house for the members of his party. The leave-taking over, the spirited team dashed away from Jamison Ranch. The lights of the house grew fainter and fainter, then disappeared. The babble of voices, the clink of glasses, the clatter of spurs, the sound of dancing feet, were far behind. To the New England girl, the experience of the night seemed a strange dream; and the reality, the solemn hush of the midnight sky brooding over all. CHAPTER VI A SOUL'S AWAKENING The next evening, as the Claytons gathered about the fire, heavy footsteps were heard on the veranda. "The cowboys are just in from the range," explained the host. The door opened, and four cowboys entered. Abashed at the presence of a stranger, they responded awkwardly to the introduction. They were a picturesque group in the flickering firelight. All were dressed in corduroy jackets, belted with heavy leather belts, each of which held a gun and a sharp knife. Each man wore leather trousers, fringed at the bottom, high boots, with clanking spurs, and sombrero hats that no one deigned to remove on entering the room. They were brawny specimens of human kind, with faces copper-colored from exposure. The Claytons welcomed them to a place before the fire. Many a curious glance wandered toward Esther. She listened intently to their tales of hair-breadth escapes, of breaking bronchos, of stampedes of cattle, of brandings and round-ups, of encounters with Indians and wolves, and of perilous feats of mountain climbing. Noticing her interest, their tongues were loosened, and many a half-truth took on the color of whole truth. One of the cowboys had been so absorbed in watching her that he had taken no part in the conversation. His steady, persistent gaze finally attracted her attention. She was perplexed as to where she could have seen him. His face looked strangely familiar to her. Then it came to her in a flash that it was at the schoolhouse the day of the organization of the Bible school. He was one of the men who had protected her. She saw he could not be measured at a glance. His face, though strikingly handsome, was one men feared. Yet there were those who could tell of his deeds of gentleness and mercy. These were in his better moments, for he had better moments. Many tales were told of his courage and daring. Mr. Clayton sometimes expressed the belief that if this cowboy had been reared in the right kind of atmosphere, he would have achieved distinction. His eagle eye and powerful jaw indicated a forceful personality. As Esther felt his magnetic gaze, she turned and asked: "Were you not at the schoolhouse the day we organized the Bible school?" "I was there a few minutes," he responded. But he did not add that he had gone away with the ruffians to prevent their disturbing her. She expressed the wish that he would visit the Bible school. "Oh, I haven't been in a church since I was a kid," he blurted out. "Then my stepfather turned me out ter earn my livin'. I'm now twenty-eight, an' I don't know nothin' but cattle, an' bears, an' wolves an' Indians." "It is sad not to have a home, isn't it?" she said. "Oh, I don't know 'bout it's bein' sad," he answered, as though embarrassed. There was a change of expression in his face. "But then your being thrown upon your own resources has made you brave, and self-reliant, and strong." He squared his shoulders. "In some ways, you have had great opportunities, Mr. Harding,--" "Oh, don't call me 'Mr. Harding,'" he interrupted, "Call me 'Jack.'" "I'll try to remember." Her face lighted. "These opportunities have given you magnificent physical strength. I know people who would give a fortune just to have your superb strength." He straightened up. "Well, I'd be glad to give it to 'em, if I could only have a chance to know somethin'." "Know what?" "Know how a man ought ter live." There was in his voice a deep, vibrant undertone of earnestness. "It's a great thing to live, isn't it?" She spoke as though pondering some vital question. Jack Harding watched her curiously. "Some jest half live, schoolma'am." "That is probably true," she responded, "but God created us capable of something better. He has given us His world to know, and the people in it." "The people in it," he repeated contemptuously. "Some people are a bad lot, schoolma'am, an' I'm one of 'em." "You must not speak so of yourself. A man who will protect a woman, in order that she may continue her work unmolested, is not a bad lot. Now I should call you a pretty _good_ sort of a man." A luminous smile. Almost any man would have become her willing slave for that smile. As her voice gave special emphasis to the word "good," he squared his shoulders again. She continued: "A man doesn't know how good he really is until he begins to try to help some one else up. Then he finds out." "I need to be helped," he said, in a tone that seemed to be intended for her ear alone. "I am ignorant,--don't know nothin'. Can't hardly read, or write, or cipher. Could yer learn me?" She looked at the strong man before her, touched by his appeal. "What do you wish to learn?" "First readin' an' writin' an' cipherin'." "What next?" "Oh, everythin', I guess." The others had caught fragments of the conversation, and now joined in. Mike Maloney spoke first. "Do yez think yez are a kid again, Jack, that yez are sthartin' wid book learnin'?" "No, Mike, not a kid, but a dunce." Before the teacher could protest, he continued: "Ye'll find me an ignoramus, schoolma'am. A fellow out on the range, or in a minin' camp, don't git much schoolin'. But sometimes when ye're alone under the open sky, an' the stars come out, there's somethin' in here" (striking himself on the chest) "that is--is--unsatisfied. I want somethin'. I don't know what it is I want, but I believe you can help me find out." Let those scoff who will; there is such a thing as divine unrest; and when this takes possession of a man, his evolution has begun. John Harding went on with increasing earnestness. "Yer see, schoolma'am, this not knowin' is awful. Y're not all a man should measure up to. Y're in prison like, hide bound. It's come ter me ter-night, all ter onct, that an ignoramus is in bondage, an' that only education can set him free." The tide of his feeling gave him a rough eloquence. It was evident his words found a responsive echo in the other cowboys' hearts. The teacher had listened with deepening interest. John Harding had set her a task,--the greatest task, nay, the greatest pleasure man or woman can know, of leading a human soul out of bondage into freedom. One of the cowboys, Jimmie Smith by name, nudged Mike Maloney, and whispered: "Ask her to learn us, too." Mike readily assented. "Would yez be willin' ter bother wid us too?" "It would be no bother. I'd be glad to help you." There was no doubting her sincerity. In a few moments, the men were seated around the dining table, each with pencil and paper, and a lesson in penmanship had begun. "Gosh!" said Jimmie. "Ef that don't look like the rail fences back in Indianny!" As he said this, he held up to view the very best he could do after repeated efforts. He laughed uproariously at himself, the others joining from pure sympathy, for Jimmie's laugh was contagious. But Mike worked as though entered for a race. He seemed to need an astonishing amount of the teacher's attention, especially after she commended his work. "Schoolma'am," he called out, beckoning to her with his dirty hand, "would yez be showin' me the nixt?" She bent over him, naming principles, explaining slant and spacing, as she made a group of letters. "Stim letthers, did yez say? Stim? Stim?" He held up his work and looked at it critically. "Manin' no disrespict to yez, schoolma'am, I'll jist call 'em, not stim letthers, but fince posts." After the laughs and gibes had ceased, he listened to her a moment, and then remarked, "The stims should all be sthandin' the same way, did yez say?" He grinned as he viewed his writing o'er. It was clear to him, even at that early stage of the work, that he was not cut out for an expert penman. Yet his last effort that evening he seemed to regard with special pride and satisfaction, and this is what the teacher found on his paper when she returned to observe his work: klass jimme Smith mike maloney john harding bill weeks teecher the angle of the gila Night after night, these cowboys gathered for an hour or more at the Clayton home for study with Esther Bright. Reading, and arithmetic, and talks on physical geography followed. The cowboys did not suspect it, but she was fighting the degrading influences of the saloon. Days came and went. The interest in the night school increased; so did the interest in the Bible school. But for some indefinable reason, John Harding had not visited it. One Saturday morning, when Esther sought the schoolhouse to do some work there, he joined her, entered the building, and built a fire for her. While observing the decorations of the room, he saw on the walls the words, "God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." He read and reread the words. What could it mean? He was ashamed to ask. At last his great dark eyes sought the teacher's face. She saw a question in them. "What is it?" she asked. "What does it mean?" "What does what mean?" "Them words,--'God so loved the world', an' so on." "What don't you understand?" "I don't understand none of it. Yer see, us fellers uses 'God' as a cuss-word. That's all I know 'bout God." "Have you never read in the Bible about Jesus?" "Bible? I ain't seen one sence I was a kid, 'n' I never read it then, 'n' ef God is a father 'n' anythin' like my stepfather, I reckon I don't care ter make his acquaintance." "He is not like your stepfather, for Jesus never turns anyone away. He invites people to come to Him. Would you like to hear about this, John?" "Yes, mum." "Well, sit down and I'll tell you." So they sat down near the desk. Then the woman of twenty-four told the Christ-story to the man of twenty-eight as to a little child. He listened intently, with the eagerness of a man in whom the passion to know has just been born. The teacher's words thrilled her listener. She pictured Jesus a child. Jesus a young man in Nazareth, working among his fellows, tempted, victorious; Jesus healing the sick and afflicted, mingling with sinful men, and freeing them from their bondage to sin. The expression of the man's face was indescribable. As she reached the story of the Crucifixion, he asked huskily: "Why did God let the Jews kill him?" "Many have asked that question. All we know about it is what the Bible tells us. I used to wonder if there could not have been some other way of salvation than through the suffering and death of Jesus." Her look was far away, as of one thinking of things eternal. Again she read aloud: "And while they abode in Galilee, Jesus said unto them, 'The Son of Man shall be betrayed into the hands of men, and they shall kill him, and the third day he shall be raised again.' And they were exceeding sorry." "He knew it, then, that they would kill him?" "It seems so." She read on: "He taught his disciples and said unto them, 'The Son of Man is delivered into the hands of men, and they shall kill him; and after that he is killed, he shall rise the third day.'" She turned the leaves and read again: "'As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of Man be lifted up: that whosoever believeth on him should not perish, but have eternal life. For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved.'" "He died for us?" She nodded, and continued: "'I tell you the truth; it is expedient for you that I go away: for if I go not away the Comforter will not come unto you; but if I depart, I will send him unto you.'" "The Comforter!" "Listen, John. 'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.'" Then she closed the book. "Greater love hath no man than this," he repeated. She took up the words, "'that a man lay down his life for his friends.'" "He--gave--his--life--for--us!" John Harding spoke slowly. The great truth that has comforted the human heart for ages had at last reached his dormant soul. The eagle eye seemed looking inward; the iron jaw set; the strong hand clinched. In this deep inward look, the man seemed to have forgotten the presence of the teacher. At last into the hard face flashed a comprehending light, and he spoke. "I would give my life for you." "I believe you would," she said, never doubting. "Just so Jesus gave his life for all mankind." He looked up. "I begin to understand." "He taught men how to live," explained the teacher. "He taught that great and worthy love means sacrifice, and that all who would truly love and serve their fellow men must cease to think about self, and must get about doing kind, helpful things for other people." "I have never known the meaning of love or sacrifice," he said. "I don't know no more about them things than I do about God. But tell me about Jesus. What happened after they had crucified him?" He listened with intense interest as she told the story. "I want ter know more," he said. "I never knowed sech things was in the Bible. Ef I'd knowed it when I was a kid, I'd a lived a differ'nt life. I s'pose it's too late now." "No; not too late." Her voice was low and gentle. "I don't know how ter begin," he said helplessly. "Tell me how." "One way is to feel deeply sorry for anything wrong in one's past; to repent of wrong thoughts, wrong words, wrong deeds." "But, schoolma'am, my wrong deeds has been so many," and he bowed his head on his arms on the desk before him. "Not so many--" her voice was comforting--"but God will forgive them, if you are truly sorry. Pray every day, pray many times a day, that God will not only forgive you, but help you become a better man." He raised his head. "I don't know how ter pray. I'm afraid ter pray. Do you know," he said desperately, "I've committed about every crime but murder?" Again he bowed his head on his arms. His frame shook with sobs. The calm, well-poised girl had never before seen such a stirring of the deeps. A strong man in tears is not an easy thing to witness. "Will yer pray fur me?" he said at length; but he did not lift his head. Then upon his ears fell the comforting voice of the teacher. It was the first time in all his life anyone had prayed for him. Something choked him. At last he looked up into her eyes. "Learn me ter pray," he said huskily. "Say this, John, _now_: 'Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me.'" He repeated, "'Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me!'" It was the first prayer John Harding had ever prayed. He rose to go. "I wisht--." He hesitated. "What do you wish?" She reached out a delicate, expressive hand, and laid it gently on his brawny arm. It came to him, at that hour, like a benediction from God. "_What_ do you wish?" she repeated. "I wisht you'd give me a Bible." She lifted the Bible from her desk, one long used by her and carefully marked, and placing it in his open hand, she said: "Never forget, John, that Jesus, the Christ, the Son of God, has bought your soul with a great price, and that it belongs to God." He tried to thank her. Then turning, without a vocal word of thanks, he left the room; and with long, easy, rapid strides, sought the solitude of the mountains. The something within him that had long been beating to be free, now asserted itself. It _would_ have way. It seemed to be his real self, and yet a new man, risen up out of his dead and fruitless past. It seemed to sing within him, yet it sorrowed. And in the midst of the sorrow, a great hope was born. He knew it now,--this Something was his own Soul! There, on the heights of the rugged foothills, he stood alone. Only the fathomless deeps of the sky saw the struggle of that human soul. For a while he seemed to be passing through the tortures of the damned. He fought his way inch by inch. Great beads of sweat covered his forehead; then, lifting one clenched hand high in the air, as though he had burst forth from a dungeon of death into the light of day, he said: "God! God!" CHAPTER VII THE GILA CLUB The class of cowboys soon outgrew the living room at Clayton Ranch, and now occupied the schoolhouse three consecutive evenings a week. Although the class had organized as the Gila Club, for study and social life, the meetings thus far had been for the purpose of study only. From the inception of the club, it had met with popular favor. For many a day, nothing had been so much talked of, and talked of with such unqualified approval. The knowledge of the teacher, her unselfish interest in the men, her goodness and kindness, were themes upon which many a rough man grew eloquent. Had Esther Bright been a Sister of Mercy, in the sacred garb of the Church, she could hardly have been revered more than she was. It never occurred to her as she went and came among them, that she needed a protector. Before the year was over, many a one in that group would have risked his life to save hers. And yet, Esther Bright was not such an unusual woman. Such as she may be found almost anywhere in this land, sanctifying the home; rearing children to be true men and women; teaching in the schools; ministering to the sick; protecting the pure; rescuing the fallen; and exemplifying in every act of their lives, Christ's teachings of love and mercy. And the work of this great sisterhood goes quietly, unfalteringly on, making, as no other force does, for the real progress of the race. An Esther Bright is never written up in glaring headlines of yellow journalism; an Esther Bright is never offered in barter for a foreign title and a degenerate husband; such as she are never seen at the gaming table, nor among the cigarette and cocktail devotees. We find her in places where the world's needs are great, calm, well-poised, intelligent, capable, sympathetic; the greatest moral force of the age. The common man, if decent, always respects such a woman. She becomes to him a saint, an ideal; and in proportion to his respect for her, is his own moral uplift possible. So those rough men of Gila, in those days of long ago, came to look upon Esther Bright as a sort of saint, their Angel, as they called her; and with this deepening respect for her, there gradually grew up in them, faint at first, but sure at last, a wholesome respect for all womankind. Such was the atmosphere of the Gila Club. Among the first to attend the meetings, after the organization of the club, was Patrick Murphy, whom Esther had not seen since the night of the ball. He came with John Harding, and as he entered the room, he took his pipe from his mouth, jerked his slouch hat from his head, and gave a queer little duck in lieu of a bow. "I am plazed to be wid yez, Miss." He smiled broadly. She assured him of a cordial welcome from all, extending her hand as she spoke. He gripped it till she winced, and became so engrossed in hearing himself talk that he forgot to release it. "The byes has been tellin' av me as yez learn 'em ter git on. Now that's what Oi allus preach,--git on. There's no use allus bein' wid yer nose ter the grindstone." He released her hand to stuff more tobacco in his pipe. After a puff or two, he continued his remarks: "The childthren has been gittin' on so well, Oi sez to mesilf, sez Oi, p'raps the schoolma'am can learn me ter figger, an' read an' write. So here Oi am," (slapping his chest heartily, as that portion of his anatomy rose an inch higher) "here Oi am!" Just then Esther's attention was sought by a group of newcomers. Kenneth watched her attitude towards the people. She was gracious and cordial, but there was about her a fine reserve that the commonest man felt, and tacitly respected. At first, this young Englishman had been attracted to the young New England girl by the delicate loveliness of her face, and the elegance of her manner. He had felt, from the first, that in his social intercourse with her, he must rise above the empty platitudes of society. There were times when he flattered himself he had made progress in her favor. Then, when he presumed upon this, he was met by a strong wall of reserve. Here she was now, bestowing smiles and gracious words upon just common men. He was filled with disgust. Then he, gentleman as he was, man of the world, university graduate, engineer, felt his self-love wounded; and he thereupon had an acute attack of sulks. What was she to him, anyway? The stern patrician face looked coldly, cynically on at the men around him. The "vulgar herd," he called them. Just in the midst of his morbid reflections, he heard a merry, contagious laugh from Esther. He did not glance up. But, in an instant, she was at his side, telling with great glee the skit that had provoked the laughter. It was so irresistibly funny, Kenneth laughed with them, and the ice was broken. To be sure, he did not know Esther Bright as he did the alphabet, but what of that? Who could sound the deeps of such a rare woman's soul? She _was_ a rare woman. He conceded that every time he held an argument with himself, when she was the question of the argument. Always in her life, he was sure, there would be a reserve, through which no one could pass, unless it might be the ordained of God. She fascinated him more and more. One moment, in his adoration, he could have humbled himself to the dust to win one gracious word from her; at other times, his pride made him as silent and immovable as a sphinx. On this particular night at the club, Kenneth was in one of his moods. If Esther saw, she did not betray it. She came to him, telling in a straightforward way, that the work had grown so she could not do it all herself, and do justice to the men? Would he help her? There was a class in arithmetic. Would he kindly teach that for her to-night? Kenneth looked savage. "Oh, don't say no," she urged appealingly. "They are working in compound numbers and are doing so well. _Won't_ you take the class?" she urged, again. And Kenneth consented. It is but justice to say that the selection of the teacher proved wise. What this did for Kenneth himself is not the least part of the good resulting therefrom. Soon the click of pencils, and occasional questions and answers indicated that the arithmetic classes were at work. In one corner, the dignified and scholarly John Clayton sat helping a young miner learn to write. By her desk, sat Esther Bright, teaching Patrick Murphy to read. Learning to read when a man is forty-five is no easy task. Patrick Murphy did not find it so. He found it rather humiliating, but his unfailing good humor helped him out. The teacher began with script sentences, using objects to develop these. She wrote the sentences on the blackboard. Again and again the sentences were erased and then rewritten. But the pupil at last remembered. One sentence was, "I am a man." Patrick hesitated; then solemnly said, as though reading: "Oi certainly am not a woman, manin' no disrespict to women folk, Miss." She read quietly from the blackboard again, "I am a man." "Perhaps, Miss, it would be more intilligint fur me ter say, 'Oi am an Oirishman.'" "Very well," she said, smiling, "I will write the sentence that way." "You see, Miss," he continued, with droll seriousness, "it is ividint Oi am a man. Let me read the sintinces agin!" And he read them correctly. Here the classes changed, each teacher helping a group of men with a simple reading lesson. Then followed the lesson in penmanship, taught by Esther Bright, and the work of the evening was over. As the three teachers left the schoolhouse door, Mr. Clayton laid his hand on Kenneth's shoulder, and said: "Come over to see Mrs. Clayton a little while. It's still early." Kenneth hesitated. "Yes, do," urged Esther. "We have some plans to work out for the club, you know, and we need your help." Again there was an appeal in her voice. What a brute he had been! What a fool! So he strolled along with the two. As they stepped on the veranda, they heard a deep voice. "Lord Kelwin!" exclaimed John Clayton. The greetings over, the meeting of the club and its possibilities became the subject of discussion. "Why can't you join us, Lord Kelwin?" questioned the host. "Yes, why not?" said Esther, with sudden animation. Kenneth Hastings' face darkened. "Ah--I--well--" stammered Lord Kelwin. "I didn't suppose my services--ah--would--ah--would be agreeable to the _teacher_,"--and he looked first at Esther Bright, and then at Kenneth Hastings. A single, hectic flush suddenly appeared in one of Esther's cheeks. Then Mr. Clayton spoke. "You do not seem to understand, Lord Kelwin, that Miss Bright's class has grown so rapidly she has had to have assistance, and Mr. Hastings and I, for lack of better material, have been pressed into service. Come, yourself, and you'll want to help the good work on." Lord Kelwin raised his monocle. Esther spoke quickly, with more enthusiasm than usual. "The girls have been seeking the same opportunity we are giving the men. They need help just as much, and so we must plan to help them too!" "Yes, and kill yourself!" growled Kenneth Hastings. John Clayton smiled. "Not if Miss Bright has sufficient help. If she will organize the work, we can surely assist her." For a time, it seemed as though a club for girls was doomed. Then Mrs. Clayton came to Esther's rescue. "Miss Bright is already in touch with the girls, and knows something of their great need." "But they're such a tough lot," rejoined Lord Kelwin. "Then they need her influence all the more. She can help them if anyone in the world can." Again Mrs. Clayton had helped her out. The hectic flush deepened. Esther's eyes grew brilliant. Her voice, when she spoke, was low, calm, sweet, but vibrating with an earnestness the group about her had occasionally heard in her voice before. She spoke with decision: "I shall help the girls!" "That settles it!" responded Kenneth, half in admiration, half in disgust. He could not understand what it was that could make a girl of her fine and sensitive nature, a girl of her beauty and culture and great attainments, not only willing, but eager, to help a group of coarse, uncouth men and women, of doubtful reputation, and who, to his mind, were utterly incapable of appreciating her. John Clayton spoke again. "Won't you join us, Lord Kelwin?" Again the Irishman looked at the teacher, but her eyes were fixed on the glowing fire. "I--well--I suppose--I could." "Suppose we have a joint meeting of the men and women next Saturday evening," said Esther. "Have a programme that would not be very long, but interesting. Then let them have a social time, and treat them to some cake and coffee." "That is a happy thought, Miss Bright," said Mrs. Clayton in hearty approval. Now plans began to be discussed in earnest. And before the guests departed, it had been decided that the first social function ever given by the people of Gila should be given in the schoolhouse the following Saturday night. As the two men walked toward the camp, Lord Kelwin questioned his companion. "What did Clayton mean by Miss Bright's being of the 'blood royal'?" "That is what he meant." "Related to some royal house of Europe, some native ruler here, eh?" His companion stopped and laughed. "Royal by nature. It is such blood as hers that should flow in the veins of the rulers of the earth." "Then she has no vast estates coming to her?" The darkness concealed the contempt on Kenneth's face. "If there is a God, (and I begin to believe there is) she has a rich reward before her." "Poor in this world's goods, eh?" "_Rich_ as few women are." His companion whistled. Kenneth stopped. Lord Kelwin stopped too. "Deuced fine girl, isn't she?" said the Irishman. His companion made no reply. After another remark from Lord Kelwin, Kenneth said sharply: "I do not care to discuss Miss Bright." So the conversation ended. But something rankled in the heart of the Englishman. Saturday night came. Such jollity! Such overflow of spirits! The laughter was loud and frequent. People came in a steady stream until the little schoolhouse was full to overflowing. Among the first arrivals, were Patrick Murphy and his wife. He was beaming with good nature. But Mrs. Murphy had come (as she expressed it) "agin her jedgment." She viewed the company with a chilly glance. Patrick chuckled. "It's plazed Oi am wid this evint. Oi've persuaded me woman, here, as this is quoite equal ter anythin' she iver attinded in York State, not even barrin' a barrn raisin'." Mrs. Murphy's beady black eyes seemed to come closer together. Her mouth set. Her nose rose by gradual gradations into the air, and her spinal column stiffened. She delivered herself to the following effect: "I _will_ confess as I have never been at a club afore. Back in York State they was only fur men folks. But my 'lations as lives on Lexity Street, York City, knows what clubs be, an' parties too, I reckon." But here John Harding, the president of the club, called the meeting to order. He announced that the first number on the programme would be a talk on physics, by Mr. Hastings. After the applause, Patrick Murphy, in facetious mood, exclaimed: "Begorra, if yez are not commincin' wid physic fur our stomachs!" "No," responded the speaker, "but physics for your head, Patrick." When the laugh at Patrick's expense had subsided, Kenneth announced the subject of his talk as "Magnetism." He talked simply, illustrating as he talked. Occasionally he was interrupted by questions that showed a fair degree of intelligence, and a desire to know. At the close of his talk Patrick, the irrepressible, burst forth again: "Yez said that a natural magnit could magnetize a bar o' steel, makin' the steel a sthronger magnit than the iron, an' yit this natural magnit be jist as magnitic as it was before?" "Yes." "Begorra!" said Patrick, slapping his knee, "yez'll have a harrd toime makin' me belave that. The idea! that anythin' can give to another more nor it has itself, an' at the same toime have as much lift itself as it had before it gave away more nor it had!" Patrick drew himself up. He had assumed a sudden importance in the community. Did he not know? The teacher smiled indulgently. As she spoke, there was quiet, respectful attention. "You see, Mr. Murphy, the natural magnet is like a human being. The more strength a man puts forth, the more he will have. If we give of ourselves, of our talents, to help other people, we are enriched by it. So the magnet teaches us a lesson, don't you see?" Patrick scratched his head dubiously. The teacher continued: "A natural magnet may not have much power in itself, but when it shares its power with a steel bar, the bar can do vastly more than the piece of iron could. In the same way, the influence we exert, though it may not be great in itself, may enable other people to do greater things than we could possibly do." The lesson went home. Patrick shook his head approvingly. "All right, Miss, all right! Oi'll belave the sthory if yez say so. Oi foind it hard to understhand what makes a bit o' iron a natural magnit. What Oi does understhand is yez are loike the steel magnit, an' yez draws the rist av us to yez!" And having delivered himself of this compliment, which apparently met with the hearty approval of the company, he subsided. Then John Harding announced the next number on the programme,--a talk on Ireland by Lord Kelwin, illustrated by Mr. Clayton with his magic lantern. Again there was applause; and as the lights were put out, the giggling and laughter grew boisterous. In an instant, a picture flashed on the screen, and the laughter changed to quiet attention. Lord Kelwin's voice soon made itself heard. He was well-known in camp, and popular. He spoke in a bright, attractive way, with occasional flashes of Irish wit, when he provoked laughter and comment again. On one of these occasions, Patrick burst forth. Patrick was in fine spirits. He had stopped at the saloon on the way to the party. "Begorra, the ould counthry is all foine enough in a picture or lecture; but Oi loike the Imerald Oile on this soide betther. The Imerald Oile of Ameriky, bounded on the north, by the North Pole; on the east, by the Atlanthic; on the south, by the South Pole; on the wist, by the Pacific; an' on the top, by the rist o' the universe. Hoorah fur the Imerald Oile of Ameriky!" A howl went up, and a laugh from everyone, followed by much clapping. "Where did you learn so much geography?" asked one. Again there was a laugh. "And this," said the speaker, as a new picture flashed before their eyes, "is Blarney Castle. Here is where Patrick learned his blarney." But Patrick was not to be outdone. He chuckled. "The blairney stone was all roight whin Oi was at Blairney Castle in the ould counthry; but whin Oi landed in Ameriky, Oi wint to Plymouth, an' there Oi found an Oirish saint holdin' a rock. Oi sez ter him, sez Oi, 'Phat do yez call the rock where the Pilgrims landed'? An' he looks at me scornful loike, an' sez he ter me, sez he, 'Y're mishthaken', sez he, 'this is the blairney stone of Killairney. Ameriky imports all the bist things from the ould counthry." The people fairly howled. "Includin' you, eh, Patrick?" shouted an Englishman, above the uproar of laughter. The address held everyone's attention, and at its close, both Lord Kelwin and Mr. Clayton were loudly applauded. "This closes our programme," said John Harding. "We hope ye'll talk an' have a good time, an' look about the room ter see what the children of the school have been doin'. Then the women folks will feed yer cake an' coffee." This announcement, too, was applauded. Mrs. Murphy, belle of the back East barn raisings, separated herself from the company. She came upon a good-sized play house, neatly painted and papered. It was furnished tastefully with little woven rugs, wire furniture, and crocheted window curtains. Over different articles, were placed the names of the children who had made them. Mrs. Murphy stood in amazed admiration, for her own children had been among the most skilled workers. She found simple garments, neatly made, and here and there bits of sewing, clumsy, and botched in some cases, because baby fingers had been at work. The teacher joined Mrs. Murphy, who said to her: "You don't say, schoolma'am, as you learns the young uns to do sich things as this?" "Yes. Don't you like it?" "Like it! I should say! Why, fust I know, they'll be makin' their own cloes, an' their pap's an' mine!" "Perhaps." But in another part of the room, a different conversation was going on. "I tell ye," said Jessie Roth, who was talking to Bobbie Burns, "schoolma'am kens an awfu' lot." "How dae ye ken?" he asked with an air of scorn, "ye dinna ken muckle yirsel'." "Ye jist shut up, Bob Burns," she replied testily. "I may not ken muckle, neither do ye. Ye has no manners. I tell ye I want ter learn. I'm a mind ter quit the range an' go ter school." "What's the matter, Jessie?" asked the teacher, coming up at this moment, and slipping her arm about the girl's waist. "I believe Bob has been teasing you. Make up, children;" and smiling kindly, and with a reassuring grasp of Jessie's hand, she passed on. "What'd I tell ye?" asked the girl. "Oh, she's only a woman. Anyway, she don't care much for you lasses, or she'd had a club for girls." This was more than Jessie could stand. "A woman, did ye say? A woman?" Jessie's eyes flashed with anger. "An' wasna' y'r mither a woman, Bob Burns?" "I believe she was," answered the boy with a broad grin. He was enjoying himself. "An' as fur the schoolma'am's not carin' fur the girls, y're mistaken. I'm sure she will have a club fur us." "Yes," taunted the burly fellow, "to hammer things into y'r heads with." At this Jessie left him in high dudgeon. She sought Esther and asked: "_Don't_ ye like we girls as much as the boys?" "Just a little bit better, perhaps. Why, Jessie?" "Bob Burns says ye don't care fur the girls, an' he knows ye don't 'cause ye hain't made no club fur them." "Bob's mistaken, isn't he? We girls," and the teacher paused and smiled into several faces, "we girls are to have a club soon. Don't you say so?" The girls gathered about her. Bob's remark, repeated by Jessie, had been most timely, and crystallized what had been in the girls' minds,--to organize such a club for women as had been organized for the men. They talked rapidly, several at a time; but at last they listened to Esther, as she asked them to visit the school at an hour they could agree upon, on the following Monday. This they promised to do. But at this juncture, John Harding interrupted the conversation. "They want ter know as will yer tell 'em a short story, Miss Bright." "A story? Let--me--see--! What shall I tell them, Jack?" "Tell 'em about Abraham Lincoln, as didn't have no chance till he made it hisself." So she told them a story of a hero, a plain, simple man, a man of toil, a man of great heart. She pictured his faithfulness to simple duties, his rise to the highest position his countrymen could bestow upon him, his death and the nation's sorrow. As she finished, a cowboy asked, "Did yer say that Abraham Lincoln was onct president of the United States?" "Yes." "My!" he exclaimed, "I wisht I'd 'a knowed him! I wisht I could 'a fit on his side!" "It is not too late to fight on his side," she said. "Every time you try to live a more sober, honest, decent life, every time you try to be more manly and true, you are fighting on the same side he did." "Gosh!" he said. "I didn't know that. I thought fightin' meant jest killin' off the other fellers." While the refreshments were being served, John Harding extended an invitation to the men to attend the club regularly, and suggested that the girls see Miss Bright about a club for girls, adding: "I believe a club fer women is in the air." Vociferous applause. Patrick Murphy stepped forward. "John Harding, y'r honor, I jist wish ter say as this is the foinest toime Oi've had in Ameriky; an' I tells yez all this: that if any young feller wishes ter git on, he will have a chance here in this club. Schoolma'am learns us a lot (the Saints bliss her!). She's a foine lady! She believes in givin' a man a chance ter be a man. Instid o' wastin' our earnin's in the saloons Saturday nights, let's come here t' the club, an' learn how ter git on. Save y'r money, lads. Now who'll give three cheers f'r Miss Bright?" The room rang with the cheers. The festivities were over, the last guest, gone. The officers had taken their leave, and the Claytons walked on ahead, leaving Kenneth Hastings to escort Esther Bright home. "It was a great success," he said enthusiastically. When Esther spoke, there was an expression of weariness in her voice. "Tired?" he asked gently, with sudden sympathy. "A little." She looked so slight, so fragile, to shoulder a man's work in the world, he felt a sudden shame at the insignificance of what he had done. He would stand between her and the world, this he would do. "You gave an instructive and interesting talk," she was saying. He recalled his wandering thoughts. After thanking her, he said he had liked Patrick's remarks about her being a magnet. "Patrick's great fun, isn't he?" she laughed. "Yes, but he usually hits the right nail on the head. It is true, as he said, you _do_ draw people to you. You draw me to you as no one has ever done." "Don't!" she began. "You have taught me to believe in true womanhood. I used to despise women. I thought they were a vain, frivolous lot, at the bottom of all the wrong-doing of the world." "Indeed! I understand that some Englishmen have very little respect for woman; that she is regarded as the inferior of man, a little higher in the scale of intelligence than a horse or dog." "How sarcastic we are to-night!" he said ironically. "The Englishwoman trains her daughters to wait on their father and brothers." "How extensive has your acquaintance been with the English?" "Many American men grow up as their fathers have done before them, chivalrous toward the women of their families, and often chivalrous to women everywhere." "Indeed! A paragon of animals, the American man!" "England kept her universities closed to women, because English men were afraid bright English women would carry off scholastic honors, if admitted to the universities." "What remarkable wisdom you possess in the matter!" "I read the magazines." "Indeed!" "And the daily papers," she added, chuckling. "Remarkable!" "I read several English periodicals. I am interested in English politics." "The deuce!" "The--what?" she asked, with a suggestion of suppressed mirth in her voice. "The gentleman with horns." "Ah, yes," she said. "I have heard something of the gentleman. A very bad-tempered fellow, isn't he? Have you known him long?" "By George, you think you're funny, don't you?" But by this time he laughed, too. "Come in, Kenneth," called John Clayton, when they reached the veranda. "No, I thank you," said Kenneth. "Miss Bright has been abusing men, and Englishmen in particular." "Well," responded John Clayton laughingly, "you stood up for our sex, I hope." "I tried to, but Miss Bright came out ahead. Good night, Miss Bright. I hope you'll change your opinion of the Englishman, and that he will not always suffer when compared with your pink of perfection, the American man." When he had gone a short distance, she called him back. "Well?" he said, turning. "I just wished to remind you that it isn't becoming to you to be grouchy." "You wretch!" And he turned on his heel and stalked away. "What's the matter with Kenneth?" asked John Clayton. "Oh," said Esther, indifferently, "he thinks altogether too much of Mr. Kenneth Hastings. He must learn there are other people in the world besides K.H." "Don't be too hard on him," said her host warningly. "No," she said, "I won't. I'll teach him to respect the human being, irrespective of sex, color or previous condition of servitude. Good night." CHAPTER VIII THE COW LASSES It was clear that the character of the work for the Gila girls should differ from that for the men. Esther Bright had thought it all out, but she resolved to let the girls themselves determine, in large measure, what it should be. So they came to visit the school that bright December day to observe. School! Could this be school? Not school as they recalled it, hours of dull monotonous tasks, where punishment, merited or unmerited, stood out in conspicuous boldness. As they now listened, every moment seemed to open the door to knowledge, and a wonderland of surprising interest spread before them. The dull drone of the old-time reading lesson had given place to conversational tones. The children were reading aloud from a bright, vivacious story that caught and held the attention of these untutored girls. To learn to read like the teacher became the proud ambition of these seven visitors. With a simple lesson in physics the interest deepened. Then came the lesson in manual training. The deft fingers of the boys and girls were busy learning the mysteries of tailoring. How to darn a rent in cloth is no easy thing for untrained fingers to learn. Little fingers, big fingers, busily plied the needle. The boys were learning how to repair their clothing. The teacher passed from one to another, helping, encouraging, commending. She held up a beautiful piece of work for the visitors to see. When the school was dismissed for the noon hour, they gathered around Esther. "My!" said one, "I wisht I knowed as much as you do, schoolma'am." "Do you?" asked the teacher, as if to know as much as she did were the easiest thing in the world. "You bet I do!" answered the girl. "Schoolma'am," asked Jessie Roth, "do ye s'pose ye could learn us tae read as good as them kids did this mornin'?" "Oh, yes. Even better." "Better nor them?" "Indeed, yes, if you will study as hard as they do. One's progress depends upon one's interest and one's application." "Oh, we'll study all right," said Kate Keith, "if you'll give us the chance." "You bet we will!" said another. Then Esther told them the history of the Gila Club for men, how it had begun, how she had taught the men, how the class had grown until it had seemed imperative to meet in the schoolhouse, and how they organized as a club. "Did _you_ learn all them men yourself?" asked a girl just in from the range. She was a veritable Amazon. "Yes," was the answer, "until we began to meet in the schoolhouse. Then I had help." Esther stood looking into this raw girl's face as though she saw there the loveliest being on earth. What the teacher really saw there was an awakening mind and soul. The girl, rough and uncouth as she was, admired the teacher, and longed to be like her. "What can we dae?" asked Jessie Roth, eager to perfect plans for study. "That is just what I wish you girls to decide. What would you like to do?" In response to the teacher's question, all of them spoke at once. "One at a time, please, one at a time," Esther said. "Suppose, we commence with Jessie. What do you wish to do, Jessie?" "Oh, I'd like tae dae cipherin' an' readin' an' writin'. I wisht I could read like you, schoolma'am!" "Could she ever?" questioned Kate Keith, a young English girl. "Certainly." She showed such belief in them and what they might do that their enthusiasm rose still higher. Then Kate said impulsively: "I wisht ye'd learn us to sew. I've been wishin' to know how." She held up her big, coarse hands, looked at them a moment, and laughed as she said: "I don't know as I could handle such a little thing as a needle." "You wish to learn to sew? I am so glad." This was just the turn Esther had been hoping would come. "Every woman," she continued, "ought to know how to sew. I like to sew, myself. What next?" A comely maid spoke. "My name's Mandy Young. Me an' Marthy thought we'd like ter learn ter write letters an'--" Here she blushed furiously. "That's good," said the teacher. "What else?" "Me an' Marthy wanted ter learn ter sing like you do, schoolma'am." "Now, Martha, it is your turn," said the teacher with an encouraging smile. Martha was a great, brawny specimen of humankind. "My name's Miss Lieben," she said. "Lieben! Lieben! That's a good name. It means _love_." The cowlass blushed and snickered. "And Martha's a good name too. There was once a very careful housekeeper named Martha." "Oh, I ain't no housekeeper," responded the girl, "but I want ter be. I want ter learn readin' an' writin', an' cookin', too." "Cooking! Well! Next?" said Esther, looking into the face of the next girl. "My name's Mary Burns." Mary had a more modest way. "I hardly know what I dae want. I think ye could plan for us better nor we could plan for oursels. An' we'd a' be gratefu'." "Sure," said one. "That's right," added another. They all nodded their heads in approval. Then up spoke Bridget Flinn: "Shure, an' she's on the right thrack. When we can do housework, we can command a high wage, an' git on. My cousin gits five dollars a week in New York, an' she says she has mere nothin' ter do, an' dthresses as good as her misthress. Oi'd loike ter learn ter write letthers, so as ter wroite ter Pat, an' Oi'd loike ter learn housekapin', so's I could go out ter sarvice." Then a pretty Mexican girl, with a soft voice, spoke: "Martha Castello is my name. I want to learn to read an' write an' sing." The teacher stepped to the blackboard, and wrote the following: Reading Arithmetic Sewing Writing Singing Housekeeping The girls watched her intently. "An' letthers," suggested Bridget. "To be sure--letters," said Esther, writing the word. Then followed the organization of the girls' club, resulting in the election of Jessie Roth as president. It was agreed that for the present the girls should enter school, and occasionally meet with the teacher outside of school hours. That day proved a red-letter day for them. They had come in touch with an inspiring personality, and their education had begun. Years have come and gone since that day; but the people of Gila still tell how a young girl, the sweetest soul that ever lived, came and dwelt among them, and brought God into their lives. Even the roughest old men will pause, and say with reverence: "The Angel of the Gila! God bless her!" The afternoon session of the school passed quickly. Then followed a bit of kindly talk with the seven new pupils. Then Esther Bright walked homeward. She was overtaken by Brigham Murphy and Wathemah. Something mysterious seemed in the air. "Miss Bright," blurted out Brigham, "Maw says as will yer come home with us ter-morrer, ter visit. We're goin' ter have chicken an' lots o' good things ter eat, ain't we, Wathemah? An' he's comin', too, ain't yer, Wathemah?" The Indian child gave an affirmative grunt, and trudged along close to his teacher. It was a way he had of doing since she had promised to be his mother. "Will yer come?" eagerly questioned the representative of the Mormon household. "I shall be happy to if you will show me the way." "Oh, we'll 'scort yer!" And Brigham turned several somersaults, and ran like a deer along the road leading to the Murphy ranch. Such a flutter of excitement as the prospective visit brought to the Murphy household! "Maw," said Brigham in the midst of his mother's volley of directions on household arrangements, "Ain't yer goin' ter ask schoolma'am ter stay all night?" He seemed suddenly interested in social amenities. "Of course I be! Landy! Don't yer s'pose y'r maw's got no p'liteness? I told schoolma'am 'bout my 'lations as lives on Lexity Street, York City, an' keeps a confectony, an' she'll 'spect yer ter be jest as p'lite an' 'ristercratic as they be. I'll sleep on the floor, an' Kate an' Kathleen an' Wathemah kin sleep with schoolma'am. She'll think it a great come-down, Pat Murphy, fur one as is a 'lation, so ter speak, of Miz Common of Lexity Street, York City, she'll think it's a great come-down, I say, fur one with sech folks ter live in a common adobe. Y'r not ter let on y're Irish, but speak as though yer was French like." She had given emphasis to her remarks with more and more energetic movements of her arm, as she washed off the furniture. At last she paused, and her husband ventured a reply. "Begorra! An' would yez be afther changin' me mouth to the Frinch stoile?" He sidled toward the door, and grinned as he caught the reflection of himself in the dirty piece of mirror that still remained in the old black frame on the wall. There was no denying the fact that Patrick bore unmistakable evidence of his Irish origin. He realized that he had ventured his remarks as far as was consistent with peace and safety; so he walked from the house, chuckling to himself as he went, "Relations on Lexington Street! Frinch stoile! Begorra!" And he laughed outright. "Patrick Murphy," his spouse called after him. "This is the first time a friend o' my 'lations in York City (so ter speak) has visited me. Patrick Murphy, what _do_ yer s'pose Josiah Common done when my sister visited there? He took her ter a theatre an' after that he took her ter a resternt, an' treated her. That's what he done! The least yer can do is ter scrub up, comb yer har an' put on a clean shirt ter-morrer. Yer ter clean up, do yer hear?" All this in a high treble. "Frinch stoile?" inquired Patrick, with a broadening grin. But this was lost upon Mrs. Murphy, engrossed in plans for the reception of the coming guest. She smoothed down her hair with both hands. "Here, Mandy," she called abruptly, "wash out the tablecloth. Sam, you clean the winders. Jo, you run over to Miz Brown's an' say as y'r Maw's goin' ter have comp'ny ter-morrer as must have knowed her 'lations as lived on Lexity Street, York City, an' kep' a confectony. Tell her y'r Maw wants a dozen eggs ter make a cake an' custard. Jake, oh, Jake!" she called in stentorian tones, "you go ketch them two settin' hens! The only way yer kin break up a settin' hen when yer don't want her ter set is jest to make potpie o' her. Y're goin' ter have a supper that yer'll remember ter y'r dyin' day. We uster have sech suppers at barn raisin's back East." The small boys smacked their lips in anticipation. The mother turned suddenly. "My landy!" she said. "I forgot somethin'." "What?" inquired Amanda. "A napting!" "A napting? What's that?" But Mrs. Murphy had begun on the floor, and was scrubbing so vigorously she did not hear the question. When order finally evolved from chaos, Mrs. Murphy, with her hair disheveled and arms akimbo, viewed the scene. Everything was so clean it was sleek,--sleek enough to ride down hill on and never miss snow or ice. "Come 'ere, childern," said Mrs. Murphy, mopping her face with a corner of her apron. "I want yer to stan' aroun' the room, the hull ten o' yer, all but the baby. Mandy, do take the baby an' stop her cryin'. Joseph Smith, stan' at the head, 'cause y're the oldest. That's the way I uster stan' at the head o' the spellin' class when we uster spell down 'fore I graduated from deestrict school back in York State. Y'r Maw was a good speller, ef I do say it. 'Range y'rselfs in order, 'cordin' to age." A tumultuous scramble followed. Maternal cuffs, freely administered, brought a semblance of order. "Now, childern," said the mother, in a hard shrill voice, "what is y'r 'ligion? Speak up, or yer know what yer'll git!" "'Ligion o' the Latter Day Saints," answered Samuel. "An' who is the Prophet o' the Lord?" continued Mrs. Murphy. "Brigham Young," answered Amanda, assuming an air of conscious superiority. "No, he isn't neither," protested Brigham, "for my teacher said so. Jesus is the only prophet o' the Lord since Old Testament times." But the heretic was jerked from the line, to await later muscular arguments. Then the mother continued her catechism. "Who's another prophet o' the Lord as has had relevations?" "Joseph Smith," responded Kate, timidly. "That's right. What divine truth did Joseph Smith teach?" "That men should marry lots o' wives," said Jake, realizing that he had answered the most important question of the catechism. "Yes, childern," she said, with an air of great complacence, "I've obeyed the prophet o' the Lord. I've had five husbands, an' I've raised ten young uns. Now what I want yer to understan' is that yer Maw an' her childern has got all the 'ligion as they wants. Schoolma'am had better not persume to talk 'ligion to me." She drew herself up as straight as a ramrod, and her lips set firmly. "But I wanter show her I'm uster entertainin'. I'll give her the silver spoon. An' I do wisht I had a napting to put at her place." "What's that, Maw?" asked Samuel. "What's what?" "Why, what yer want ter put at schoolma'am's plate?" "Oh, a little towel, like. 'Ristercratic people uses them when they eats. They puts 'em on their laps." "Won't a dish towel do?" "Landy! No!" "Well, we ain't stylish, anyway," said Samuel, philosophically, "an' it's no use to worry." "Stylish? We're stylish when we wants to be, an' this is one o' them times." "Is it stylish ter go ter Bible school?" asked Brigham. He seemed greatly puzzled. "No, sir-ee, it ain't stylish, an' you ain't goin' thar," she said, giving him a cuff on the ear by way of emphasis. "She? What's she know 'bout _my_ 'ligion or _y'r_ 'ligion? She ain't had no relevations. But git off to bed, the hull lot o' yer." "It's only eight o'clock," said one, sullenly, dragging his feet. "Well, I don't care. The house is all red up, an' I wants it to stay red up till schoolma'am comes. Besides, y're all clean yerselfs now, an' yer won't have to wash an' comb to-morrer." At last they were driven off to bed, and gradually they quieted down, and all were asleep in the little adobe house. But Brigham tossed in terrifying dreams. The scene shifted. He was with Wathemah, who was telling him of Jesus. Then the teacher's life was in danger and he tried to save her. He felt her hand upon his head; a smile flitted across his face, his muscles relaxed; he was in heaven; the streets were like sunset skies. The teacher took him by the hand and led him to the loveliest Being he had ever beheld, who gathered him in His arms, and said, "Suffer little children to come unto Me." CHAPTER IX THE VISIT AT MURPHY RANCH The hour hand of the clock was on three. Twenty pairs of restless eyes watched the minute hand as it drew close, very close to twelve. The books had been placed in the desks; there was a hush of attention. The children sang "America," saluted the flag, and marched out of the room. As Wathemah returned to visit with his teacher, she asked him what he had learned that day. "Country love!" answered the child. As he spoke, he stepped to the flag, that hung from the staff in graceful folds, and caressed it. "Oh, Miss Bright, Miss Bright!" shouted James Burns. "Brigham's come fur yer! He's brung his horse fur yer ter ride! Golly! But he looks fine! Come see!" And James led the way to Brigham and the horse. Sure enough! There they were. The little lad, radiant with pride, the huge bay horse, lean and gaunt and hairy, bedight as never was horse before. He seemed conscious that this was a gala day, and that it behooved him to deport himself as became a respectable family horse. Numerous small bouquets, tied to white muslin strings, adorned his bridle. The animal was guiltless of saddle, but there was an improvised cinch of white cotton cloth around him. This, likewise, was adorned with butterfly-like bouquets. "Ain't he some?" said one lad, admiringly. "Gee! but I'd like ter ride him!" shouted another. "Brigham dressed old Jim up just 'cause yer wuz goin' ter ride him, Miss Bright," said Donald. To the last remark, the teacher replied: "Ride him? I never rode bareback in my life. I am afraid to try it. I might slip off." "Oh, no, yer won't," said Brigham, who stood holding the horse's bridle. The teacher pretended to be greatly scared. The company grew hilarious. "Brigham," she said, "I am sure I can't stick on. I might go sliding over the horse's head and land in a heap. Then what would you do?" "Pick yer up." This reply increased the hilarity. Donald seemed to think it would be great sport to see the teacher's maiden effort at riding bareback. "Jest git on, Miss Bright, an' see how easy 'tis," he urged. "I don't know how to mount," she hastened to say. "I haven't learned even that much." "Oh, that's easy enough," said a muscular little chap. "I'll show yer." And he leaped like a squirrel to the horse's back. "Oh, I could never do that," said Esther, joining in the laughter of the children. "I'll tell yer what," said a large Scotch boy, "ye wait a bit, Miss Bright, an' I'll bring ye y'r chair, an' then 'twill be easy enough." So the chair was brought, and the teacher seated herself on the horse's back, sideways. "Oh, ye must ride straddles," insisted Donald, "or ye'll sure fall off." "Yes, straddles," echoed another; but Esther shook her head dubiously, and pointed to her full blue flannel walking skirt. "Oh, that's all right," said the tallest boy, "everybody rides straddles here." "Try it," urged Brigham. So she tried it. But she was not the only passenger who rode astride. Michael and Patrick, the little Murphy twins, were helped to a place behind her. Wathemah then climbed up in front of her. "Is this all?" she asked, laughingly. "I should think it was enough," said Kenneth Hastings, who at that moment joined the company. As he caught Esther's eye, both laughed, and the children joined from pure sympathy. When she recovered her composure, Esther said to Kenneth, "Nothing lacking but some white muslin harness and posies on me." At last, amid shouts and cheers, the much-bedecked horse and his human load started up the mountain road. By three o'clock, the pulse of the Murphy household beat faster. The temperature rose to fever heat. Three-fifteen, three-thirty; still no visitors; and what is more, no signs of visitors. Every five minutes, one of the children would run down the mountain road, and return disappointed. "Do yer s'pose they ain't comin'?" queried Kate, who had been kept at home that day to assist in the preparations. "Oh, yes, they're comin', I think likely," answered the hostess; "but I don't see where they're keepin' theirselves." She frequently straightened the chairs; once more she dusted the furniture with her clean apron; she straightened the pictures on the walls; she brought out an old and much-prized album, sacred to Mormon prophets and elders. The broken mirror, that adorned the wall, had been cleaned and decorated with tissue paper. Mrs. Murphy stood and looked in it. She saw reflected a sharp, severe face shining like the mirror. "I wisht I had a collar," she said. "I uster wear a collar back in York State." Suddenly, she heard a shout from the road. "They're comin'! They're comin'! Schoolma'am's with 'em! Quick, Maw, quick!" There was a rush down the path, Joseph Smith leading the line. All was expectation. The approaching horse started into a jolting trot. As he neared the barn he began to buck. The inevitable followed. Over the horse's head went the passengers in a heap. The twins quickly extricated themselves, and sprang up uninjured; but the two visitors lay unconscious. "Quick, Samuel, bring water!" directed Mrs. Murphy. In a few minutes, she dashed water in the unconscious faces, and watched anxiously. The water soon restored Esther, who had been stunned by the fall. At last Wathemah opened his eyes, and saw his teacher kneeling by his side. He tried to rise, but fell back with a cry of pain. One arm lay limp by his side. It was evident that his arm was broken. "Is there a surgeon anywhere near Gila?" she asked anxiously. "There's one about fifteen miles away," responded Joseph. "Then I'll try to set Wathemah's arm myself. Several times I have helped my uncle set broken bones. Could you bring me some flat splints about this size?" she asked, showing Joseph what she wanted. "Yes, mum," answered the boy, starting on his errand. "And some strips of muslin, and some pins, Mrs. Murphy?" she continued. In a few moments the articles were ready. By this time Wathemah had recovered consciousness. "You have broken your arm, dear," she said. "I am going to set it. It'll hurt you, but I want you to be brave and keep very still." The child smiled faintly. But as she lifted his arm, he again fainted. They lifted him, and carried him into the house. Then firmly, deftly, as though experienced in such work, Esther pulled and pressed the broken bone into place. The child roused with the pain, but did not cry out again. At last the arm was bandaged, and placed on a cushion. "You must be very careful of your arm, Wathemah," she said, patting his cheek, "until the broken bone grows together." Before the child could speak, there was a knock at the door. The children rushed to open it, and there stood Kenneth Hastings. "I came to see if the cavalcade reached here safely," he said, smiling. "I followed a short distance behind you, until--" Here his comprehending glance grasped the situation. "Wathemah hurt?" he asked in quick sympathy, striding to the child's side. "I feared something might happen." "Old Jim threw 'em," explained three or four eager voices. Kenneth looked inquiringly at Esther. "Were you hurt, too?" he asked in a low voice. "I think not," she said, looking intently at Wathemah. "I believe you _were_. Was she?" he asked, turning to Mrs. Murphy. "She were stunned like from the fall, but was so busy settin' the boy's arm, she didn't think of herself." "Ah." Then turning to Esther again, he questioned her. The family observed every tone in the questions and answers. During the setting of the arm, they had watched Esther with open-mouthed astonishment. "I tell yer, schoolma'am," remarked Joseph, "I bet yer life yer'll hev all yer kin do in Gila, now." "I should think she already had enough to do," suggested Kenneth. Here Mrs. Murphy, suddenly realizing that certain amenities had been omitted, blurted out: "This is my son, Joseph Young; my daughter, Mandy Young you've knowed already; my son Samuel Young, my son Jacob Black, yer've knowed at school, 'n' my daughter Kate Black, 'n' Brigham Murphy, aged six, 'n' Kathleen, aged four, 'n' Nora, aged two." Mrs. Murphy paused. Samuel at once took the floor. "We've knowed _you_ ever sence you come. They call you the angel o' the Gila." He seemed to swell with importance. "A queer name, isn't it?" said Esther. Samuel had combed his hair, and wore a clean shirt in honor of the occasion. "Miss Bright," said Kenneth, "I am fearful lest you _have_ been injured by the fall. Let me take you home." This she would not listen to. "Then let me call for you later in the evening and take you back with me. There may be something Mrs. Clayton can do for you." But there was a chorus of protests. Mrs. Murphy gave it as her opinion that the schoolma'am knew her own feelin's best; and it wasn't often they had comp'ny, goodness knows, especially comp'ny from back East. And Mr. Hastings should leave her be. Esther poured oil on the troubled waters; and Mrs. Murphy became so mollified she pressed Kenneth to stay to supper. At this juncture Patrick Senior's step was heard. "Good avenin'," he said, heartily, making a queer little bow. "It's proud I am ter welcome yez ter me home." He did not take off his hat nor remove the pipe from his mouth. Esther rose. "Kape y'r sate, Miss, kape y'r sate," he said, making a sweeping gesture. Then he gripped her hand. "An' Mr. Hastings! It's honored Oi am ter have yez enter me humble home." "He's goin' to stay to supper, Pop," said one of the little boys. Kenneth hastened to excuse himself, but Patrick would have none of it. Mr. Hastings must stay, and share the fatted calf. Kenneth laughed. "Which is the prodigal?" asked he, smiling towards Esther. "The prodigal? the prodigal?" repeated Mrs. Murphy mystified, and half resentful at Kenneth's smiles. "Oh, that's a Bible story, Mrs. Murphy," explained Esther. "A rich man had two sons. One son spent all he had in riotous living. When he finally repented and came back home to his father's house, they were very happy to see him and made a great feast for him. For this purpose they killed their fatted calf." "I see," said Mrs. Murphy with great dignity. "An' sence we are happy to see yer and have killed our fatted hens fur yer, we'll just call yer the Prodigal." "I always knew you were prodigal of your strength and talent," Kenneth said merrily. "Prodigal. That's a good name for you. That was a happy thought of yours, Mrs. Murphy." Mrs. Murphy still looked mystified. "Oi see me little girrls are plazed ter see yez," said Patrick, beaming proudly upon the little ones. Kathleen held up for his inspection some paper dolls Esther had brought her. Then the smile on his face broadened. He laid his pipe on the shelf and examined the dolls critically. "Did yez iver see the loike on it, now? Shure, an' did yez say 'Thank yez' ter the lady?" "Yep," answered Kathleen, and "Yep," echoed Nora. "An' phwat is the matther wid Wathemah?" asked Patrick, as he approached the little Indian. "Got hurted." "Broked his arm." "Fell off old Jim." "Miss Bright mended his arm," came in quick succession. "Poor little lad. Oi'm sorry yez got hurted." And the kind-hearted man patted the child on the head. He liked Wathemah. But the little visitor was intent on the two little girls and their gay paper dolls. Esther now expressed a wish to hear some of her host's stories of pioneer life in Arizona. Patrick drew himself up. He felt his self-respect rising. "Them wuz awful toimes," he said, puffing away at his pipe again; "but Oi wuz young an' sthrong. The Apaches wuz on the warpath most av the toime, an' we fellers didn't know but we'd be kilt ony minute. We slipt wid wan oi open, an' our guns by our soides." "It must have been very exciting," said Esther, with marked interest. "It certain wuz exciting. It wuz bad, too, ter come back ter y'r shack an' foind y'r rations gone, or no shack at all." "What would you do then?" she asked. "Oh, we wint hungry till we caught fish, or shot deer." Here he lighted his pipe again, and drew long whiffs. "What were you doing in those days?" questioned Kenneth. "Me business wuz always wid cattle. Sometoimes the Apaches would go off wid some o' me cattle." "Did you ever get them back?" asked Esther. "Sometoimes." He smoked in silence a few minutes. "I understand the Apaches are still treacherous," she said. Just then she felt Wathemah's hand on her arm. "Wathemah Apache," he said. "He no bad. He good." "Yes," she acknowledged, smiling, "you _are_ getting to be a pretty good boy, dear." Her smile did more for the child than did the words. "Pop," said Samuel, "them air Apaches we seen up canyon t'other day's ben skulkin' aroun'. Yer'd better carry a gun, schoolma'am." Supper was now announced, and discussion of the Indians ceased. The younger children, joyfully anticipating the feast before them, had forgotten all their mother's preliminary instructions on etiquette at table, and there was a tumultuous scramble. "Murphy!" called Mrs. Murphy in stentorian tones as she stood with arms akimbo, "seat schoolma'am at y'r right!" With a smile that would have done credit to the proudest son of Erin, Patrick waved his hand toward the place of honor. Patrick Junior and his twin Michael insisted upon sitting in the same seat by their visitor. What is more, Michael dealt his brother a severe blow in the mouth to settle his superior claims. To add to the clamor, Kathleen pressed her right to the same seat. She screamed lustily. Mrs. Murphy, family representative of law, started towards the disturbers of the peace. They dodged. The teacher hereupon made a suggestion that seemed to satisfy everyone, and so the matter was settled. "Set right down, Mr. Hastings, set right down," urged Mrs. Murphy. He seated himself at Patrick Senior's left. They were scarcely seated before Michael exclaimed, "Ain't we got a good supper!" He sprawled on the table, looking longingly at the huge dish of chicken potpie. "One'd think yer never had nothin' ter eat," observed Samuel. He seemed to think it devolved upon him to preserve the decorum of the family. While the children were waiting impatiently for their turns, a nudge started at Mrs. Murphy's right and left. Nine pairs of elbows were resting upon the table. Nine pairs of eyes were fixed longingly upon the platter of chicken. Suddenly, as the parental nudge passed along, nine pairs of elbows moved off the table, and nine figures sat erect. The family had been instructed to observe the teacher's manners at table, "fur," observed Mrs. Murphy, "there is no better way fur yer to learn eatin' manners than to notice how folks does. Ef she sets up straight-like, yer kin do the same. Jest watch her. Ef she takes her chicken bone in her hand, y' kin; but ef she cuts her chicken off, why, y' cut yourn off." Finally, all were served. In the preparation for the reception of the teacher, the offspring of Mrs. Murphy had been duly instructed by her to hold each little finger out stiff and straight while manipulating the knife and fork. To the dismay of all, Esther did not take her chicken bone in her hand, nor did she hold her knife and fork perpendicular, nor did she hold her little fingers out at a right angle. The children struggled with their refractory chicken bones, as they watched the teacher. Patrick Murphy's eyes were twinkling. But at this juncture, a nudge from Mrs. Murphy again passed around the table. Nine pairs of eyes were upon the knife and fork of the guest. Amanda was filled with admiration as she observed Esther Bright. In talking this over afterwards, Samuel said to his sister: "Schoolma'am wuz brung up better nor we be. Yer kin see it by the way she eats. Did yer see how dainty-like she held her knife and fork?" "Yer don't know nuthin' about it, Sam," said Mandy. "I guess I seen her myself." Just as the last nudge passed around, Patrick laughed outright. "Begorra childthren," he said, "is it Frinch stoile ter eat wid y'r fingers sthuck out? Phwat ails yez?" "Pat Murphy," said his wife, "yer never seen good eatin' manners in y'r life. I hev. Back in York State where I wuz riz, the very best people in the country come to them barn raisin's." Her sharp chin tilted upward; her black eyes grew brighter. "Where I growed up, folks set great store by p'liteness. They allus had clean plates fur pie when they wuz comp'ny. Yes, Pat Murphy, I wuz well trained, ef I do say it." The visitors remained silent. Patrick grinned. When the teacher's cup was again filled with tea, she stirred it longer than usual, thinking, possibly, how she could pour oil on troubled waters. Instantly, around the table nine other spoons were describing circles in the bottom of each cup. Again Patrick's eyes laughed. Mrs. Murphy glowered. The supper over, and all housewife duties of the day performed, Mrs. Murphy turned to her offspring, standing in line,--at her suggestion,--on one side of the room. "Schoolma'am," she said with an air of conscious superiority, "the childern told me yer wanted 'em to go to Bible school. Now me an' my childern has all the 'ligion as we wants. I'll show yer." "Childern, what is y'r 'ligion?" "Latter Day Saints," answered Joseph. "An' who is the prophet o' the Lord?" "Joseph Smith," piped Kate. "An' what wuz his relevations?" "That men should marry lots o' wives, an raise lots o' childern," answered Jacob. "Shure, an' did he have rivelations that women should be marryin' lots o' husbands?" asked Mr. Murphy with a chuckle. This was an interruption Mrs. Murphy could ill brook. She was on the warpath; but Patrick, the good-natured, now took matters in his own hands, and spoke with firmness. "We'll have no more Mormon talk ter-night. Childthren, set down." They sat down. Mrs. Murphy's mouth shut like a spring trap. She was humiliated; she, a connection, so to speak, of the Commonses of "Lexity Street, York City!" "Whin me woman there," said Patrick, "was lift wid two babies, Jacob an' Kate, twelve year ago, lift 'way off in a lonesome place in Utah by her Mormon husband, Oi felt as though Oi would loike ter go wid some dacint man, an' give this Mormon who lift his wife an' babies fur the sake of goin' off wid another woman,--Oi repate it,--Oi'd 'a ben glad ter have give 'im sich a batin' as he'd remimber ter his dyin' day. He wuz kilt by the Indians. Whin Oi heerd he wuz kilt, an' knowed fur shure he wuz dead, Oi persuaded me woman here ter marry me, an' ter come let me give her an' all her childthren a dacint home in Arizony. "Oi don't want ter hear no more about Mormons. Oi know 'em root an' branch. Oi am a Catholic. Oi belave in the Holy Mither. Oi belave in good women. Oi belave as a man should have wan wife, a wife wan husband. Oi wants me childthren an' me woman's childthren too, ter come ter y'r Bible school. What's more, they shall come. Oi wants 'em ter learn about God an' the Blissed Virgin. Y're a good woman; that Oi know. An' yez are as good a Catholic as Oi want ter see. Yer kin jist count on me fur support in all the good yez are thryin' ter do in Gila." Mrs. Murphy's face was suppressed fury. The teacher spoke in a low, gentle voice: "So you are a Catholic, Mr. Murphy. Do you know, I have always admired the reverent way Catholics speak of the mother of Jesus." Then she turned to Mrs. Murphy, saying: "I know but little about the belief of the Mormons. Some day I wish you would tell me about it." "Mormons are a good sight better'n Catholics," snapped Mrs. Murphy. "Intelligent people should know about 'em, and what they've done fur the world. They are honest, they don't smoke, nor chew, nor drink. They are good moral people, they are." "Yes," said Esther, "I have heard some admirable things about them." Kenneth rose to go. "So you'll not return to Clayton Ranch with me, Miss Bright." He knew by the expression of her face that she preferred to go rather than to stay. But she spoke graciously: "I have not finished my visit yet." In a moment more Kenneth was gone. Then a new difficulty arose. Who was to sleep with the teacher? Kate, the twins, and Kathleen, all pressed their claims. After listening to the altercation, Esther suggested that it would be necessary for her to occupy the rocking chair by Wathemah, to see that he did not injure his broken arm, and asked that she be given the privilege of watching by him throughout the night. Then the family withdrew. Soon Esther pretended to be asleep. Occasionally the child reached out and touched her arm to make sure his Beloved was there. Then he fell asleep. But Esther was wakeful. Why had Kenneth come for her? Was she coming to care too much for him? How would it all end? When she at last fell asleep, her dreams were troubled. CHAPTER X CARLA EARLE School had been dismissed, and the shadows had begun to lengthen in the valley. Esther Bright sat in the doorway of the schoolhouse, leaning against the jamb of the door, her hands resting idly in her lap. At last she lifted a letter she held, and read over again the closing words, "Thy devoted grandfather, David Bright." She brushed her hand across her cheek more than once, as she sat there, looking off, miles away, to her New England home. She heard a step, and turning, saw Carla Earle approaching. Before she could rise, Carla was at her side, half shy, uncertain of herself. Without the usual preliminary of greeting, Carla said: "Are you homesick?" She had seen Esther wipe tears from her cheeks. "A little. I was thinking of my grandfather, and how I'd love to see him. I am always homesick when his letters come. One came to-day." "I am homesick, too," said Carla, "for my native land, its green turf, its stately trees, the hedges, the cottages, the gardens, the flowers and birds--and--everything!" "Sit down, Carla. Let's talk. You are homesick for your native land, and I am homesick for my grandfather." She took one of the English girl's hands in hers, and they talked long of England. At last Carla asked Esther to sing for her. For answer, Esther rose, entered the schoolroom, and returned, bringing her guitar. Then striking the chords of C Major, she sang softly, "Home, Sweet Home." As she sang, Carla watched her through tears. "An exile from home," the teacher sang; but at that moment she heard a sob. She stopped singing. "Go on, please," begged the English girl. Again the cords vibrated to the touch of Esther's fingers, and she sang the song that has comforted many a sorrowing heart. "There were ninety and nine that safely lay In the shelter of the fold; But one was out on the hills away, Far off from the gates of gold." On she sang, her voice growing more pitifully tender. "But none of the ransomed ever knew How deep were the waters crossed; Nor how dark the night that the Lord passed through, Ere He found His sheep that was lost. Out in the darkness He heard its cry,-- Sick and helpless and ready to die." Then as she sang, "And the angels echoed around the throne, 'Rejoice, for the Lord brings back His own!'" her voice thrilled with triumphant hope. Was she inspired, or was it simply that she was about her Master's business? Her voice seemed a message from God to the stricken girl who listened. Carla, looking into the face of Esther Bright, saw there a smile that was ineffably sweet; saw, too, the golden light of the setting sun playing about her face and form. Song after song was sung from one heart to the other. The guitar was laid aside. Then hand in hand, the two girls sat talking till the sunset faded, talking through falling tears, talking of ideals of life, and of how sweet and good life may be. Then Esther told of the Blessed One of Galilee whose love and compassion never fail. And at last Carla told her her whole sad story. "But you will leave the saloon, Carla, won't you? You will throw off Mr. Clifton's influence?" Esther said as they rose to go. "I can give you shelter until I can find a home for you, only leave that dreadful place." "I can't; I love him," she answered. Then, covering her face with her hands, she wept bitterly. "You _can_ leave him, I know, and you will in time. Come often to see me, as you have done to-day. Perhaps you and I together, with God's help, can find a way." They parted at the schoolhouse, Esther returning home, her heart sorrowful. She thought of One who centuries before had sought the mountains alone, the sorrow of a world upon His heart. She understood it now, understood at least something of the agony of that sorrow. She went to her room and prayed. When at last she rose from her knees, her face looked drawn. The feeling as of a heavy weight upon her heart increased. How helpless she seemed! She opened her window wider, and looked up into the fathomless blue. An overwhelming desire to save the tempted English girl had taken possession of her. What should she do? As she stood thus, she seemed conscious of a presence, and turned as though expecting to see some one; but no one was there. She heard no voice. Notwithstanding the evidence of her eyes, she could not shake off the feeling of another presence than her own. She turned again toward the window, and looked out into the crystal deeps. Then a strange peace came upon her. It seemed a foretaste of heaven. She threw herself on the lounge in her room, and fell into a refreshing sleep. But what of Carla Earle? On leaving Esther, she walked slowly toward Keith's saloon. Suddenly, she put her hand to her heart, staggered, and gave a sharp cry. Then trembling in every limb, she turned abruptly, and walked rapidly toward the canyon. She reached a place that seemed to have a fascination for her. She looked at the dark pool and wrung her hands. Her muscles gave way, and she sank on the bank, while great convulsive sobs shook her frame. She tried to rise, but her limbs refused to obey her will. Then it was that her agony of shame, and sorrow, and remorse burst forth in pitiful cries to God to let her die. She removed her hat and wrap, and crawled to the verge of the black pool. She shuddered as she looked. Then a great horror-stricken cry came from her white lips as she plunged into the seething waters. There was the sound of a human voice in answer; and a moment later, Patrick Murphy plunged after her, grasped and caught her floating skirt, pulled her by it to shore, and lifted her up the bank. He began to wring the water from her skirts. "Lass, lass," he said, kindly, "what made yez do it? What's the matter wid yez?" Great sobs were his only answer. It seemed as though the girl must die from the agony of her distress. Then he lifted her in his arms, and carried her to where he had left his horse. By the dim light, he had recognized Carla Earle, and he at once concluded that Mark Clifton was responsible for her deed. His first impulse, like all of his impulses, was a generous one. He resolved to take her to his home, and become her protector. As he was about to lift her to his horse's back, he discovered that she had fainted. He succeeded in lifting her to the saddle, mounted behind her, and rode directly to his home. A few words sufficed to explain to his wife the rescue of the girl, and the necessity of keeping her whereabouts a profound secret. Every member of the family was enjoined to strict silence about the presence of Carla Earle in their home. Mrs. Murphy undressed Carla and put her in her own bed. The helplessness of the unconscious girl appealed to her. After a time, Carla's eyes opened. She looked startled, and began to rave, writhing and twisting as one in mortal agony. Now she called on Mark Clifton to keep his promise to her; now she asked Wathemah to go for Miss Bright; now she begged God to take her; now she was on the brink of the pool, and in the dark water. So she raved, and the night passed. From time to time Mrs. Murphy laid wet cloths on Carla's head, or moistened her lips. The two faithful watchers did not close their eyes. The day dawned, and they were still watching; but at last their patient slept. When Carla finally wakened, she looked around, and seeing Mrs. Murphy, asked where she was. "With friends who are going to take good care of yer," answered her nurse. "How did I come here?" Mrs. Murphy explained that her husband had found her unconscious, and had brought her to his home. And, leaning down, she did an unprecedented thing. She kissed Carla Earle. At this Carla began to cry. "Don't cry, lass, don't cry," said Patrick, who entered just then. He turned away and blew his nose violently. "I must get up and help you," said the sick girl, trying to rise. But she did not rise that day nor for many days. Throughout her illness that followed, Mrs. Murphy's kindness was unstinted. She waited on the sick girl with unfailing patience. But Brigham was oftenest at her bedside when home, telling her of his beloved teacher and what she taught them. At last Carla begged to see her. That very day Patrick drove down for Esther, telling her on their way back to the ranch the particulars of his finding Carla Earle, and of her subsequent illness. "You dear, good people!" said Esther, deeply touched. "I feel so grateful to you." "Och! That's nothin', Miss," he responded awkwardly. "Whin Oi see the girl so near desthruction, Oi sez ter mesilf, sez Oi, what if me sisther or one of me little girrls wuz iver ter be in the clutches of a Mark Clifton? So Oi sez ter mesilf, sez Oi, Oi'll jist save her. That's all there wuz av it. My wife has taken care o' the lass. An' she has grown that fond av her! Beats all!" "God will bless you for saving her, you may be sure of that," responded Esther heartily. "She must have gone directly from me to the canyon. I had urged her to leave Mr. Clifton and come to me, but she did not seem to have decision enough to promise then. The canyon must have been an after-thought, and the result of her despair." "Poor creetur!" said Patrick, huskily. When Carla saw Esther, she began to sob, and seemed greatly disturbed. Her pulse grew more rapid. Such remorse one seldom sees. Esther placed her own cool hand on the sick girl's forehead, and spoke to her in low, soothing tones. Carla grasped her hand and held it tightly. "I have wanted to see you and tell you--" But Esther interrupted her. "Yes, dear, you shall tell me by and by. Don't try to tell me now." "I must. The distress here" (placing her hand over her heart) "will never go until I tell you. After I left you at the schoolhouse, I was filled with despair. I felt so utterly strengthless. Then I prayed. Suddenly it came to me I must never again return to the saloon or--him. I seemed to have strength given me to go on and on in the opposite direction. All I remember now is that I resolved to make it impossible to return. Then I awakened here. They have been so kind to me, especially little Brigham. He comes in to see me as soon as he returns from school, and talks to me about you, and it comforts me." "God has been leading you, Carla," said Esther. "I am sure of that. And He raised up this kind friend to save you in your dark hour. But the dark hour is past now, and we are going to help you learn how to grow happy." "Can one learn how to grow happy who has made such a blunder of life?" "Oh, yes. And it is a blessed lesson to learn." When Esther left, she promised to return on the morrow. That evening, there was a family council at Clayton Ranch, and the result of it was that Mrs. Clayton herself soon went to see Carla, and invited her to make her home with them. So it came about that Carla Earle became one of the Clayton household; and in the loving, helpful atmosphere of that home, she began to lift up her lovely head, as does an early blossoming flower in the April sunshine after it has been nipped by an untimely frost. And life, with love enfolding her every hour of each happy day, began to grow worth while to the English girl. And Carla grew into the affection of the family, for she was a refined, winsome creature. She became as a daughter to Mrs. Clayton. One day Mrs. Clayton said to her husband: "Do you notice how much Carla is growing like our Miss Bright?" "Yes," he responded. "There is something very attractive about both. Only Miss Bright is a remarkably well-poised woman, and Carla is clinging and dependent. Poor Carla! How bitterly she has been wronged! I am glad she has found love and shelter at last." "So am I, John. Why, the poor child was just starved for love." "I believe, Mary, that she will develop into a strong character. What she has suffered has been a great lesson to her." "Poor child! Sometimes when I speak appreciative words to her, she breaks down, and says she doesn't deserve all our kindness. One day when she cried, she said, 'Why does God take mothers away from their children when they need them so?'" "Well," he responded, "she has at last found a good mother. God bless the mother and the unfortunate girl!" And stooping, the husband kissed his wife, and started on a long journey to a distant mine. CHAPTER XI AN EVENTFUL DAY After Esther Bright and Wathemah returned from their visit at Murphy Ranch, he became a guest at the Clayton home, and there he remained until his arm was well. His sojourn with them strengthened his devotion to Esther Bright, and brought about several changes for the better in him. When he was allowed to run and play with the children again, he returned to school and to Keith's saloon. The men who had always called him the "little tough," now observed him with amazement. One observed: "I'll be blowed ef the Angel o' the Gila can't do anythin' she wants ter. See that kid? He used ter cuss like a pirate. Do ye hear him cuss now? No, sir! For why? 'Cause he knows she don't like it. That's why. Ef she wuz ter be turned loose among the Apaches, she'd civilize 'em. An' they're the blankedest Indians there be. I don't know what it is about her. She sort o' makes a feller want ter be somebody. I reckon God Almighty knows more about 'er nor we do, 'n' she knows more about us 'n' we do ourselves. Leastways, she do about me." Having delivered himself to this effect, he left the saloon, sober. There is no doubt Esther Bright had sown good seed broadcast, and some had fallen on good ground. The awakening of the cowlasses had been a continual joy to her. She marveled that some one had not found them before. Each successive day the little school reached out further to enrich the life of the community. One morning, while a class was in the midst of a recitation, there came a knock at the schoolhouse door. "I'm Robert Duncan," said a Scotch miner, as Esther opened the door. He held by the hand a little boy of about three years. "This is Bobbie," he continued. "I've brought me bairn tae school." Could the mother spare such a baby? Ah, could she? Esther stooped and held out her arms to the child, but he hid behind his father. "His mither died last week, Miss," he said with a choke in his voice. "I'd like tae leave him with ye." "I'm very sorry," she replied, with quick sympathy. Then she promised to receive Bobbie as a pupil, providing he would stay. "Oh, he'll stay," the father hastened to say, "if ye'll just call Donald." So Donald was called, and he succeeded in coaxing Bobbie into the schoolroom. When the child realized that his father had gone and left him, he ran to the door, crying, "Faither! Faither!" while tears rolled down his cheeks. Then the mother heart of Esther Bright asserted itself. She gathered him in her arms and soothed him, until he cuddled down contentedly and fell asleep. Soon after, Kenneth Hastings appeared at the open door, and saw Esther at her desk with the sleeping child in her arms. He heard her speaking in a soft tone to the children as she dismissed them for the morning recess; but Bobbie wakened frightened. At the moment Kenneth entered, Bobbie was carried out of the room by Donald, the other children following. "I came to see if you could go for a horseback ride this afternoon," said Kenneth. "It's a glorious day." "Just delighted! Nothing would please me better." The two stood inside the open door. As Wathemah saw Kenneth talking to his teacher, he entered the door, pushed between them, nestled close to her, and said defiantly: "Miss Bright _me_ teacher; _mine_!" "Yours, eh, sonny?" said Kenneth, smiling. Then looking into Esther's face, he said: "I wish I could feel as sure that some day you will be mine." A delicate flush swept over her face. When he went on his way, life and vigor were in every step. He seemed to walk on air. The recess over, the children returned to their seats, and Patrick Murphy entered. The school, for the hour, was transformed into a place of general merchandise, for the teacher had promised that to-day they would play store, buy and sell. Business was to be done on a strictly cash basis, and accounts kept. Several children had been busy for days, making school money. Scales for weighing, and various measures were in evidence. Patrick watched the play of the children, as they weighed and measured, bought and sold. At the close of the exercises, he turned to Esther, saying: "Oi wisht Oi wuz young agin mesilf. Yez larn the chilthren more in wan hour, 'n' many folks larns in a loife toime. It's thankful Oi am that yez came ter Gila, fur the school is gittin' on." Having delivered himself of this compliment, he withdrew, highly pleased with himself, with the teacher, with the school, and the world generally. If there was one thing that met with Patrick's unqualified approval, it was "to git on." Near the close of the midday intermission, during the absence of Wathemah, Donald Carmichael said to the teacher, "Ye love Wathemah mair nor the rest o' us, don't ye?" "Why?" asked Esther, as she smiled down at the urchin. "Oh," hanging his head, "ye say 'Wathemah' as though ye likit him mair nor anybody else." "As though I loved him?" "Yep." "Well," she acknowledged, "I do love Wathemah. I love all the other children, too. Don't you think I ought to love Wathemah a little better because he has no father or mother, as you have, to love him?" Donald thought not. "You have no idea," said Carla, who now attended school, "what brutal treatment Wathemah used to receive at the saloon. I have seen him teased and trounced and knocked around till he was frantic. And the men took delight in teaching him all the badness they knew. I used to hear them while I was helping Mrs. Keith." Carla's eyes suddenly filled. "Poor little fellow!" said Esther, in response. "I shall never forget his happiness," continued Carla, "the first day he went to school. He came to me and said he liked his teacher and wanted to go live with her." "Did he? Bless his heart!" "After that," Carla went on to say, "he came to me every morning to see if he was clean enough to go to school." "So _you_ were the good fairy, Carla, who wrought the transformation in him. He certainly was a very dirty little boy the first morning he came to school, but he has been pretty clean ever since." Donald, who had been listening, now spoke up again. "Oh, Wathemah's all right, only I thocht ye likit him mair nor the rest o' us." "No, she don't, neither," stoutly maintained Brigham. "I guess I know. She's always fair." At this moment, Wathemah himself drew near. He had been to the timber for mistletoe, and returned with his arms full of sprays of green, covered with white waxen berries. He walked proudly to his Beloved, and gave her his offering. Then he stepped back and surveyed her. "Wathemah love he teacher," he said in a tone of deep satisfaction. "She ain't yourn, ye Apache savage," cried Donald. "She don't love ye; she said so," added the child, maliciously. Like a flash, Wathemah was upon him, beating him with all his strength. He took the law into his own hands, settled his score, and laid his opponent out before Esther could interfere. When she grasped Wathemah's arm, he turned upon her like a tiger. "Donald lie!" he cried. "Yes, Donald did lie," she conceded, "but _you_ should not punish him." "Donald call savage. Wathemah kill he!" The teacher continued to hold him firmly. She tried to reason with him, but her words made no impression. The child stood resolute. He lifted a scornful finger toward Donald, and said in a tone of contempt: "Donald lie. Wathemah no lie." The teacher released him, and told him to see her after school. Then the afternoon session began. But Wathemah's place was vacant. As the hours passed, it became evident that Donald was not as happy as usual. He was in disgrace. At last his class was called. He hung his head in shame. Esther did not press him to recite. The hour for dismissal came. The little culprit sat alone in the farther corner of the room. Carla started out to find Wathemah. The loud accusing tick of the clock beat upon Donald's ear. The teacher was busy, and at first paid no attention to him. She heard a sniffling in the corner. Still no attention. At last she sat down by the lad, and said very gently: "Tell me about it, Donald." No answer. He averted his face, and rubbed his dirty fists into his eyes. "Tell me why you lied to Wathemah, Donald." Still no answer. "How could you hurt his feelings so?" No answer. Then Esther talked to him till he buried his face in his arms and sobbed. She probed down into his heart. At last she asked him what he thought he should do. Still silence. She waited. The clock ticked louder and louder in the ears of the child: "Say it! Say it! Say it!" At last he spoke. "I ought tae tell Wathemah I lied; but I dinna want tae tell him afore the lads." "Ah!" she said, "but you said your untruthful words before them; and unless you are a coward, your apology ought to be before them." "I am nae coward," he said, lifting his head. "Then you must apologize to Wathemah before the children to-morrow." "Yes, mum." Then she dismissed him, telling him to remember what he had done, when he prayed to God that night. "Did God hear me lie?" he asked. "I think so, Donald." The child looked troubled. "I didna think o' that. I'll tell Him I'm sorry," he said as he left the schoolroom. He began to search for Wathemah, that he might make peace with him. At first Carla's search was fruitless. Then she sought him in a place she knew he loved, away up the canyon. There, sure enough, she found him. He sat on a bowlder near a cascade with his back toward her. Beyond him, on the other side of the stream, rose the overhanging cliffs. He did not hear her step as he listened to the music of the waters. "Wathemah!" she called. He started, then turned toward her. She saw that he had been crying. She climbed up on the bowlder and sat down beside him. "Donald lie!" he said, angrily. "Yes, Wathemah, but he is sorry for it, and I am sure will tell you so." She saw tears roll down the dirty little face. She had the wisdom to leave him alone; and walking a short distance up the canyon, sent pebbles skipping the water. After a while this drew him to her. "Shall we go up stream?" she asked. He nodded. They jumped from bowlder to bowlder, and at last stopped where the waters go softly, making a soothing music for the ear. "Carla!" "Yes, Wathemah." "Jesus forgive?" "Yes, dear, He does." Then Carla's self-control gave way, and she sobbed out her long-suppressed grief. Instantly the child's arms were around her neck. "No cry, Carla!" he said. "No cry, Carla!" patting her cheek. Then, putting his tear-stained cheek close to hers, he said: "Jesus love Carla." She gathered the little comforter in her arms; and though her tears fell fast, they brought relief to her heart. At last she persuaded him to return to school the following day, and to do all he could to atone for leaving it without permission. On their return, they sought the teacher in the schoolhouse, but she was gone, and the door was locked; neither was she to be found at the Clayton ranch. The little penitent lingered a long time, but his Beloved did not come. At last he walked reluctantly in to camp. Away up the mountain road, Esther Bright and Kenneth Hastings drew rein. The Englishman sat his horse well; but it was evident his companion was not a horsewoman. She might shine in a drawing-room or in a home, but not on a horse's back. If she had not been riding one of the finest saddle horses in the country, she would have appeared to greater disadvantage. The canter up the mountain road had brought the color to her cheeks. It had also shaken out her hairpins; and now her wavy brown hair, with its glint of gold, tumbled about her shoulders. "You look like a gypsy," Kenneth was saying. She laughed. "The last gypsies I ever saw," she said merrily, "were encamped along the road through Beekman's Woods, as you approach Tarrytown-on-Hudson from the north. The gypsy group was picturesque, but the individuals looked villainous. I hope I do not strongly resemble them," she said still laughing; then added, "They wanted to tell our fortunes." "Did you let them tell yours?" "Yes, just for fun." "What did they tell you?" "Oh, just foolishness." "Come, tell _me_ just for fun." "Well,"--here she blushed--"the old gypsy told me that an Englishman would woo me, that I'd not know my own mind, and that I would reject him." "Interesting! Go on." "That something dreadful would happen to the suitor; that I'd help take care of him, and after that, all was cloudland." "Really, this grows more interesting. The fortune teller realized how hard-hearted you were. Didn't she ask you to join their caravan? You'd make an ideal gypsy princess." Esther touched her horse with her whip. He gave a sudden lunge, and sped onward like mad. It was all she could do to sit her horse. Before her, to her dismay, yawned a deep gulch. She could not stop her horse now, of that she was sure. She tightened her grip, and waited. She heard the sound of hoofs behind her, and Kenneth's voice shouting "Whoa!" As well shriek at a tornado to stop. She seemed to catch the spirit of the horse. The pupils of her eyes dilated. She felt the quivering of the beast when, for a moment, he reared on his haunches. Then she felt herself borne through the air, as the animal took the gulch; then she knew that he was struggling up the bank. In a moment the beast stopped, quivering all through his frame; his nostrils were dilated, and his breath came hard. In a few minutes Kenneth Hastings overtook her. It was evident he had been alarmed. "You have done a perilous thing for an inexperienced rider," he said. "It is dumb luck that you have escaped unhurt. I expected to find you injured or dead." "I was dreadfully scared when we came to the gulch. I didn't know about it, you know; but I couldn't stop the horse then." "Of course not. What made the animal run? Did you cut him with the whip?" "Yes. I thought it'd be such fun to run away from you for calling me a gypsy." He laughed. Then he looked grave. Suddenly Esther Bright grew as cold as ice, and swayed in the saddle. At last she was forced to say she was ill. Her companion dismounted and lifted her from the saddle. "Why, how you tremble!" he was saying. "How cold you are!" "Just fright," she replied, making an effort to rally. "I am ashamed of being scared. The fright has made me deathly sick." Even her lips were white. He seemed deeply concerned. After a while her color returned, and she assured him that she was able to go on. "But are you sure?" he asked, showing the deepest concern. "Quite sure," she said, positively. "Come, let us go. I have given you enough trouble already." "No trouble, I assure you." He did not add that the very fact that she had needed a service from him was sufficient recompense. Then they walked their horses homeward, talking of many things of common interest to them. Down in the valley, the soft gray of the dead gramma grass was relieved by the great beds of evergreen cacti, yucca, and the greenery of the sage and mesquite. The late afterglow in the sky mingled with the purple haze that hung like an ethereal veil over the landscape. They stopped their horses at a turn of the road commanding a fine view of the mountains. "How beautiful the world is everywhere!" Esther said, half to herself. "Especially in Arizona," said Kenneth, as he drew a deep invigorating breath. Silence again. "Miss Bright," he hesitated. "I believe the world would be beautiful to me anywhere, if you were there." "You flatter," she said, lifting her hand as if to ward off what might follow. "No flattery. Since you came, the whole world has seemed beautiful to me." "I am glad if my coming has improved your vision," she said merrily. "Come, we must hasten, or we'll be late for dinner. You are to dine with us to-night, I believe." "Yes, Mrs. Clayton was so kind as to invite me." Again her horse took the lead. Kenneth touched his with the whip, and overtook her. For some distance, the horses were neck and neck. As they came to a steep ascent, they slackened their pace. Her eyes were sparkling, and she was in excellent spirits. "If I were a better horsewoman," she said gayly, "I'd challenge you to a race." "Why not, anyway?" he suggested. "There are no more gulches." "I might not be able to stick on." "We'll try it," he responded, encouragingly, "over the next level stretch." So try it they did. They flew like the wind. The cool evening air, the excitement of the race, the rich afterglow in the heavens,--all were exhilarating. On they sped, on and on, till they turned into the canyon road. Again Esther's horse led, but Kenneth soon overtook her, and then their horses walked slowly on together the rest of the way. "I wonder if you are as happy as I am," he said, as he assisted her from the saddle. "I am in the positive degree of happiness," she said, cheerily. "I am always happy except when shadowed by someone else's sorrow." He said something to her about bearing all her future sorrows for her, adding: "That is becoming the dearest wish of my heart." "All must meet sorrow sometime," she responded gravely. "I hope to meet mine with fortitude when it comes." She stood stroking the horse's neck. "I wish I might help you to bear it when it comes. Oh, Miss Bright," he said, earnestly, "I wish I could make you realize how I honor you--and dare I say it?--how I love you! I wish you would try to understand me. I am not trifling. I am in earnest." He looked at her downcast face. "I will try," she said, looking up frankly, with no trace of coquetry in her voice or manner. There had been moments when Kenneth's love for Esther had led him to speak dearer words to her than her apparent interest in him would warrant. At such times she would retire within herself, surrounded by an impenetrable reserve. Kenneth Hastings was the only one she ever treated icily. One day he would be transported to the seventh heaven; another, he would sink to the deeps of gloom. It was several days after this ride that he chanced to meet Esther in the path along the river road. He stopped her, and asked abruptly: "Why do you treat me so frigidly sometimes?" "Do I?" she asked in surprise. He remained silent. "Do I?" she said, repeating her question. "Yes, you do. Why do you treat me so?" She looked distressed. "I didn't realize I had treated you discourteously, Mr. Hastings. If I did, it was because I am afraid of you." "Preposterous! Afraid of me!" Now he was smiling. "Perhaps--" As she hesitated, she looked up at him in an appealing manner. "Perhaps what?" "Perhaps it is because you have given me a glimpse of your own heart, and have--" "Have what?" "--asked me to reveal mine to you. I can't." "In other words, you do not love me?" "I honor you as I do several people I know. Nothing more." There was a long pause. Kenneth was the first to speak. "Your friendship! Am I to be deprived of that, too?" "My friendship is already yours," she said. "You know that." "I thank you. I need hardly tell you that your friendship is the dearest thing I know." Then Kenneth left her, and she walked on alone. But still those words kept repeating themselves in her mind like a haunting melody, "Your friendship is the dearest thing I know!" and, like Banquo's ghost, they would not down. CHAPTER XII CHRISTMAS DAY It was Christmas morning, early. Not a leaf was stirring. The stillness seemed aware. The sun rose in solemn majesty, heralded by scarlet runners of the sky. Just as it burst forth from behind the sleeping mountains, a splendor of coloring beyond the power of man to describe flooded the earth and the covering dome of the heavens. Then the snowy mountain peaks, grim sentinels of the ages, grew royal in crimson and gold. And the far-stretching valley, where the soft gray of dead gramma grass was relieved by the yellowish tint of desert soil, took on the glory of the morning. From zenith to horizon, the crystal clearness seemed for one supreme moment ashine with sifted gold. But, as if to protect the eyes of man from the too great splendor of this anniversary of Christ's natal day, a faint purple veil of haze dropped over the distant mountains. The waters of the Gila caught the glory of the morning, and became molten gold. When the Gilaites awakened, the gladness of the morning was upon them; and men and women remembered, some of them for the first time in years, that it was Christmas day, and went about with "Merry Christmas" on their lips. To the children of Gila, the day that had heretofore been as all other days, now took on new meaning. They had come to associate it with a wonderful personality they were learning to know through their teacher. Christ's birthday she had called Christmas day, Christ their elder brother, Christ the lover of children. They had seen the splendor of the morning. What wonder that some of them were touched with a feeling of awe? For the first time in the history of Gila, Christmas day was to be observed, and every child had come to feel a personal interest in the celebration. The preparations for the evening exercises to be held in the schoolhouse had all been so new, so mysteriously interesting! Expectation ran high. Word had spread to the burro camps on the mountains, and to the Mexicans tending the charcoal pits up the canyon. Rumors had reached other camps also, miles away. The Mexicans, as was their custom, had prepared immense bonfires on the mountains and foothills for firing Christmas night. But hearing of the approaching entertainment at the schoolhouse, they caught the spirit of the hour and outdid themselves. The saguaro, or giant cactus, sometimes called the sentinel of the desert, is one of the most interesting varieties of the cactus family. Sometimes it grows in the form of a fluted column, many times reaching a height of sixty feet. Often at a distance of perhaps thirty feet from the ground, this cactus throws out fleshy arms at right angles, which, after a short distance, shoot upward in columns parallel to the main column, giving the cactus the appearance of a giant candelabrum. The saguaro has a skeleton of woody ribs bound together by tough, woody fibers. In the living cactus, this framework is filled and covered with green pulp; but when the cactus dies, the pulp dries and is blown away. The ribs are covered with quantities of resinous thorns that burn like pitch. The dead saguaro, therefore, when set on fire, becomes a most effective bonfire, having frequently been used by the Indians, in early days, as a signal fire. On this special occasion, the Mexicans had found several of these dead sentinels of the desert so nearly in the shape of a Roman cross that a few blows from an ax made them perfectly so. When lighted Christmas night, the burning crosses on the mountains loomed up against the sky, no longer symbols of triumphant hate, but of triumphant love. Early that day, what the Mexicans had done began to be noised abroad; and with every bulletin that passed from mouth to mouth, interest in the approaching service at the schoolhouse deepened. It looked as though the room could not hold all who would come. The young folk had been generous helpers, and had decorated the place with spruce, pine, cedar and mistletoe. The air was heavy with spicy fragrance. Around the room were huge altar candles in improvised candlesticks of wood. Across one end of the room, was stretched a large sheet of white cotton cloth. For many a day, John Clayton, Kenneth Hastings and Esther Bright had formed a mysterious triumvirate. The two men had been seen bringing packages from the distant station. What it might mean became an absorbing topic of conversation. One thing was certain, Gila was alive. On Christmas morning, these three, accompanied by Mrs. Carmichael, met at the schoolhouse to make their final preparations. The beautiful silver spruce, selected for the Christmas tree, stood out from the dark greenery of the room. It was a beautiful tree, exquisite in color, perfect in symmetry, spicy in fragrance. They decorated this with ornaments, then began to hang gifts on its branches. At one side of the tree, Esther stacked small pasteboard boxes close and high. What these contained, only she herself knew; and she preserved a mysteriously interesting silence. As the four busied themselves at their happy task, Mrs. Carmichael suddenly uncovered a huge basket she, thus far, had managed to conceal. She looked a culprit as she said: "An' whaur would ye be wishin' the cookies put?" "Cookies!" they all exclaimed, with one accord, "Cookies!" Esther sampled one. "They're just as good as they look!" she said. "What a lot of them! How did you come to think of it? How good of you!" "It was Donald. He telt me aboot y'r birthday cakes for the wains. So I thocht bein's it was the Maister's birthday, each should hae a birthday cake. A makit one hundred." "One hundred!" Kenneth whistled. "You know how to find the way to men's hearts," he laughed. "But you found your way to mine long ago." "Fie, fie," she said smiling. "I ken ye weel." When their preparations were completed, they looked about with an air of satisfaction. It was evident the spirit of Christmas had taken possession of them. Such kindness! Such good will! Jack Harding was the last to leave the room. Before he closed and locked the door, he deposited some packages in an obscure corner. An hour before the time for the entertainment, the little adobe schoolhouse was surrounded by people, and they continued to come even after the teacher, accompanied by the Claytons, opened the door. Soon every seat was filled; then, all standing space. Then the windows were crowded with faces. Still there were as many more outside who could not hope to see, but might possibly hear. Those fortunate enough to enter the room sniffed the fragrance of cedar and spruce. The burning mesquite wood in the fireplace snapped and crackled, and the soft light from the huge candles idealized the beauty of the tree and the woodsy decorations of the room. And there was the teacher also, _their_ teacher (for did she not belong to them?) young, lovely, doing all this for them! They noted every detail of her simple gray toilet, even to the soft lace at her throat. There was something exquisite about her that night as she stood before them in the yellow candle-light. Her face was luminous. Kenneth Hastings observed it, and said in a low tone to his friend John Clayton, "See Miss Bright's face! I never saw anything more lovely. The spirit of Christmas is in it." John Clayton placed his hand on his friend's shoulder as he responded, "Yes. It's all due to her beautiful, generous soul." After several Christmas carols were sung, he told them Miss Bright would now address them. There was an approving murmur. Then she told them the old, old story, dearest story of childhood, of the little child in the khan at Bethlehem, of the star, of the song of the angels, the coming of the shepherds, and the search by the Wise Men, as they came with their rich gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh, to lay them at the Christ-child's feet. She told the story briefly and simply. Among those who listened there that night were Mexicans and half-breed Indians, Englishmen, Irishmen, Scotchmen and Americans. There were Catholics and Protestants, Mormons, and men of no faith whatever. There were four university-bred men; there were also men and women of deepest ignorance; and there were many others between these extremes. While the voice of the teacher still held their attention, John Harding and Kenneth Hastings put out the lights, and picture after picture, illustrating the early life of Christ (all copies of famous paintings), flashed upon the white screen. There were exclamations of approval such as these: "Did yez iver now?" "The Holy Mother! Bless her!" "Oh!--Oh!--Oh!" in faint whispers. When Murillo's "Holy Family" appeared, there was a hush. As it disappeared, some one asked for it again. After complying with this request, the candles were relighted, and the distribution of gifts began. There was a subdued hum of interest. These men and women, throwing aside care and toil for an hour, were as pleased as children. As gifts were passed, many began to realize what the extra meetings at the schoolhouse had meant. The children had been making things, and had made them well. They had been engaged in manual training, though the teacher had not called it that. She was in advance of the age, and was doing practical work in manual training years before the pedagogues of the land had wakened to the necessity of training the hand. The Gila children had made gingham aprons for mothers and sisters; they had crocheted lace and mats; they had made articles for domestic use, and so on. When a new blouse waist and a pair of suspenders were given to Wathemah, his delight knew no bounds. Kenneth and Jack Harding stood watching him. The child was a favorite with both. "Do you like your waist, little chap?" asked Kenneth. "Yes!--Me!--Pretty!" said the child, patting and smoothing his waist as if it were an object of affection. Then he held his suspenders up for his two friends to see. "Do you like 'em, sonny?" asked Jack Harding. "Mine! Mine!--S'penders!--Wathemah's s'penders!" The grown-ups smiled. The day had unlocked many a heart long barred and bolted against human sympathy. "Two dolls, one for Nora and one for Kathleen Murphy," called out the superintendent. "Did yez iver?" said Patrick, smiling with good humor, from the crown of his bristly head to the extremity of his bristly chin. Gifts were passed to right and left. It seemed wonderful so many should be remembered. Some received their gifts with undisguised pleasure,--pleasure so out of proportion to the intrinsic value of the gifts, it was pathetic. Esther felt her eyes brimming. More than one said to her that night that it was the first time he or she had ever received a Christmas present. As yet Brigham had received no gifts, but he sat by Wathemah, apparently enjoying what his friend had received as though it had been his own. But when his turn came, and his Beloved brought him three books about animals, he seemed embarrassed, and stammered out: "For me? All thim for me?" The teacher stood smiling. "Yes, for you, dear." In a short time he and Wathemah, with heads close together, were lost in one of these books. Esther watched them from time to time. It was evident to every one in Gila, that Brigham and Wathemah were very intimate friends of their teacher's. Brigham had confided to Kenneth that he was "intimater with her nor anybody else, 'cause she loved him, an' he loved her best of anybody in the world." He had likewise confided to Kenneth his great desire to have some animal books, as he called them. And Kenneth had seen to it that he should not be disappointed. Suddenly, to her surprise, Esther Bright was presented with a new chair, and was asked to be seated in it. The excitement of the children rose. This, to them, was the important moment of the evening. As one homely little gift after another was presented to her,--all the work of children's hands, she spoke homely, loving words out of her heart. Several coat sleeves were put to a new use, and some clean gingham aprons actually found their way to women's cheeks. A loving-hearted woman had entered their lives and found them worth while. What wonder that she became to them, more than ever, what they had called her at first in ridicule, but later in respect and affection and reverence,--the angel of the Gila? When Esther Bright's lap was full of gifts, she tried to express what she felt. Her words had vanished, and happy tears had taken their place. After her unsuccessful effort to speak, Wathemah, who could hardly comprehend her tears, ran to her, and began to wipe them away with a sleeve of his new waist. She slipped her arm about him and drew him to her. He looked up questioningly. "It's all right, Wathemah," she said, smiling. "I was so happy I couldn't help crying." "Now," said the superintendent, "you are each to receive from Miss Bright a Bible, a box of candy and a Christmas card; and from Mrs. Carmichael, some delicious Christmas cookies. Here, boys," he said, beckoning to some of them, "pass these, will you?" Esther Bright herself took a large panful of cookies to the people outside of the schoolhouse. As she approached a Mexican, she saw standing by him his wife, a blanket Indian, and on her back, a pappoose. As she passed the cakes to them, the squaw reached down and grabbed two handfuls of them, devouring them ravenously. Esther patted the child, and smiled into the squaw's face, which she could see distinctly in the light that streamed from the window. "Pappoose?" she said to the Indian. But there was no answering smile in the squaw's eyes. The "emptiness of ages" was in her face. It was a face Esther was to see again under very different circumstances; but no premonition warned her of the fiery ordeal through which she would be called to pass. Finally the multitude was fed. The boisterous laughter and the loud talk, within, seemed strangely out of harmony with the solemn stillness of the night. The moon sent a flood of silvery light over the scene before her; and, everywhere, the Christmas fires, built by the Mexicans, were leaping skyward. Esther stood watching; for on far away mountains and near by foothills, the sentinels of the desert had become gigantic burning crosses. She had heard that these were to be a unique feature of the Christmas celebration, but she was not prepared for the exceeding beauty of it all. The burning cross caught her fancy. Suddenly, she became aware of the presence of Kenneth Hastings. "Wonderfully beautiful,--the scene,--isn't it?" she said, without turning. "I think I have never seen anything more impressive." "Yes, beautiful. These Catholic Mexicans have a religious feeling that finds expression in splendor. Does the burning cross have any significance to you?" "Yes," she answered, speaking slowly, as she looked toward one of them; "the cross, once a symbol of ignominy; but now become, like the flaming cross on the mountains, a symbol of light." "Miss Bright," said John Clayton, from the doorway, "you are asked for." As she entered the room, Patrick Murphy stepped forward. He raised his hand for attention. After several gibes from the men, and witty retorts on his part, the company quieted down again. "Ladies an' gintlemin," he said, flourishing his empty pipe, as he made an elaborate gesture, "it's mesilf as feels as we have wid us a foine Christian lady. Ez Oi watched the picters av the Holy Mither this avenin', Oi sez ter mesilf, sez Oi, our teacher (the saints bliss her!) is as lovin' ter the children av this school, as is the blissid Virgin ter the child in thim picters. Oi sez ter mesilf, this lady is as good a Catholic as Oi wish ter see. An' she learns 'em all ter git on. Oi'll sind ivery child o' mine ter day school an' Bible school. Oi hope yez'll all do the same." Mrs. Murphy's face was a suppressed thunder-storm; but Patrick was oblivious of this as he talked on. "This was a godless region. Miss Bright come like a angel ter tell us av our sins. Oi belave the Lord sint her. "See what she done fur us! Her nate little talk ter us, the picters an' her prisints. All who wish ter thank our koind frind, join wid me in three cheers fur Miss Bright!" Then cheer on cheer rose from the people. As Patrick took his seat, John Clayton rose. "Now," said he, "three cheers for our good friend, Mrs. Carmichael, who made the Christmas cookies." Again the hearty cheers echoed on the still night air. But Mrs. Carmichael raised a protesting hand. She didn't deserve such a compliment, she said. Then the guests went their various ways. John Harding covered the embers of the fire and took from his teacher's hands whatever she had to carry, going directly to the Clayton home. She and Kenneth Hastings were the last to leave. Outside the door, they stood for a moment, watching the moonlit scene. In the distance, they heard a man's rich voice singing, "In the Cross of Christ I glory." They listened. Then they walked on in silence for some moments, the gaze of each fixed upon a colossal burning cross through whose yellow flames violet, and green, and red, and blue leaped and died away, then leaped again. "The cross!" he said at last. "How it has gone in the van of civilization!" She stopped and laid her hand on his arm. He, too, stopped and looked questioningly into her lifted face, which he could see but dimly. "The world for Christ!" she said, deeply moved. "It will surely be! Followers of the wonderful Nazarene, filled and actuated by His spirit of brotherhood, are reaching the uttermost parts of the earth. We shall live to see the awakening of nations. We shall live to see strong men and women enlisted on the side of Christ to bring right and justice and purity into life, God into men's lives." Again silence. "I know nothing of God," he responded, "save as I see power manifested in the physical world. I have read the Bible so little. I am not intimately familiar with the life and words of Jesus. Before meeting you, I had always thought of religion with more or less contempt. I confess my ignorance. But I am learning to know _you_. What you are and what you do convince me there is something in your religion I have not found. I am as untaught in spiritual truth as a babe. But now I want to learn." "I am glad you do. Will you study your Bible?" He did not tell her he had no Bible, but he promised to study one. "Will you pray too?" she asked, with a little choke in her voice. "Would you have me read the prayers of the church?" "No; the prayer of your own heart." Then the man became rash. "The prayer of my heart?" he repeated, with evident emotion. "The prayer of my heart? That prayer is that I may win your love, and your hand in marriage. That is my religion; you, I worship." "Don't! Don't!" she said, withdrawing her hand from his arm. "Don't; that seems blasphemous." "If you could only love me, I might begin to comprehend what you tell us of the love of God. I love _you_. That I _know_, I understand. You are the embodiment of all I hold sweet and dear. Can't you love me--sometime?" "I do not know," she responded. "What I _do_ know surely is that I do not love you now. I believe that love of the deep and abiding kind does not fall at man's feet as manna, nor does it grow like a mushroom in a night. It takes time for the mighty, resistless forces of nature to develop a single blade of grass. So love, I take it, must have time to grow." "Then I may hope to win your love?" he said eagerly. "Oh, no; don't think of love. You have my friendship; let us not spoil the friendship by dreaming of a love that I cannot give you." "Do you believe," he asked, "that you will never love any other man?" "I believe if such love ever grows in my heart, I shall walk in glory all my days. It is a sacred thing, and I could never speak of it lightly, as many do." "Good night," he said, "and God bless you." They had reached the Clayton home. The door closed, and Kenneth was alone. He turned; and before him, on the foothills, flamed the burning cross. CHAPTER XIII THE ADOPTION OF A MOTHER Bobbie had become a personality. What is more, he had adopted Esther Bright as his mother, without any formalities of the law. He had found a mother heart, and had taken his place there by the divine right of love. No one seemed to know how it had all come about; all anyone knew, positively, was that Bobbie suddenly began to call his teacher "Mither." At first the children laughed when Bobbie would call her by this new name; then the baby of the school was broken-hearted, until the teacher had mended the break with kisses and tender words. Sometimes at midday recess, the drowsy child would climb into Esther's lap; and when she would cuddle him, his great blue eyes would look up into hers with a look of content and trusting love. After a while the heavy lids would close, and the flaxen hair lie moist on the ruddy forehead. Then Bobbie would be laid on an improvised bed, to finish his siesta. Day after day went by, with increasing love on Bobbie's part, and deepening tenderness on the part of Esther Bright. He was not always good. Far from it. He was a healthy little animal, bright and attractive. His activity sometimes got him into trouble. Then to divert his mind, his teacher would tell him little stories. When she would finish, he would say coaxingly, "More." After a while, he would call for certain stories she had already told him, and interrupt her all the way along, his face alive with intelligent interest. At last he himself wanted to tell the stories to his teacher, with many interpolations and funny variations. But the funniest thing happened one day when he refused to go home, and announced that he would stay with his adopted mother. "Oh, no, Bobbie dear," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder. "What would your father do without you?" "He tan det another wain," he said, in a tone of satisfaction. "No, Bobbie," insisted the teacher; "you must go home." Still he refused. Then all his Scotch stubbornness asserted itself. He could not be driven or coaxed home. And when the older children tried to carry him, he kicked and screamed and fought, till he had freed himself. He ran to his teacher with heart-rending sobs. She sent the other children home, and took him in her arms. Gradually his sobs ceased and he fell asleep. His face was wet with tears. In his sleep, great sighs, the aftermath of the storm, seemed to come from his innermost heart. The adopted mother sat with her arms clasped about him. Such a look of tender love came into her face as one sometimes sees in the face of a young mother, bending over her sleeping babe. If ever Esther Bright was beautiful, it was at that moment. Kenneth Hastings stood a short distance away, watching her. He lifted his hat and stood with bowed head. At last he spoke her name. She turned, and nodded toward the sleeping boy in her arms. "Come sit down," she said, moving to make room for him on the doorstep. "You seem to be a good nurse, too," he responded, taking the proffered seat. "What's Bobbie doing here this time of day?" She told him of the child's decision to stay with her, and his refusal to go home, his fight, and his stormy sorrow. He listened, with an amused twinkle in his eyes. "Poor little chap," he said; "he has my sympathy in refusing to be parted from you." She flushed slightly. "Don't waste your sympathy," she replied saucily. Somehow that provoking smile of his nettled her. He had found her vulnerable. "Bigger chaps than he feel the same way towards you," he said, smiling still. He saw that she was badly teased, and the spirit of mischief led him on. "Now _I'd_ like to stay with you always, myself." She looked as though she would annihilate him. "And what is more, I'd like to change places with Bobbie this very minute." She rose suddenly, but with some effort, for the child was stout and heavy for his years. "What are you going to do?" he asked, looking admiringly upon Bobbie. "I'm going to carry him home." "How cruel to Bobbie!" he said, stepping near her and extending his arms for the child. "Let _me_ carry him, do." "I can carry him myself, thank you," she said, with a sudden air of independence. Again she saw his look of amusement, and struggled with her heavy load, knowing full well that she could not carry him far. "No, you must not carry him," he said firmly. "He is too heavy for you." And without more ado, he took Bobbie from her arms. "Come," he said amicably, "we'll both take him home--to Mrs. Carmichael's." So on they trudged. Bobbie roused a moment, but seeing a familiar face, he reached up his grimy hand and patted the bronzed cheeks, then cuddled comfortably into the strong arms. "So Bobbie wanted to stay with you," he was saying. "Yes, he calls me mither, you know." "_I'd_ like to call you 'mither' myself some day. It's a beautiful name." She felt provoked with herself. Why in the world had she made that unfortunate remark? "You love children, don't you?" He was not smiling now. "Oh, yes; from my childhood up I have loved every child I have seen." "I see." But at this juncture Bobbie again roused, rubbed his eyes and demanded to be put down. So Kenneth set him on his feet. The little lad stood in sleepy bewilderment a moment, then with an engaging smile, offered one hand to Esther, and the other to Kenneth. He began to chatter. "Bobbie loves his mither." "So do I," responded Kenneth. Esther bit her lip. She would not look up. But she felt her cheeks flush. "Mr. Kenneth love Bobbie's mither?" Kenneth laughed, a free, happy laugh. It was contagious, and the child laughed too. So did Esther in spite of herself. "Mr. Kenneth tan't love Bobbie's mither." "Can't, eh?" Again the happy laugh. "Who says I can't?" "I do, his adopted mother," said the girl, demurely. "I'll just capture you the way Bobbie did, and you can't help yourself." And again the stern eyes that seldom smiled, were filled with laughter. Esther suddenly stopped. "_I_ can take Bobbie home." "So can I," he said carelessly, with a suggestion of laughter still in his voice. "I command you, Mr. Persistency, to turn about and leave me to take Bobbie home." "I refuse to obey, Miss Obstinacy." A low chuckle. "I suppose I'll have to endure you, then," she said, with mock seriousness. "I suppose you will," he said. He seemed to enjoy the tilt. "But Miss Bright--." He stood still and faced her. "--I didn't know you were such a fighter. Here I have been trying to make you understand how I appreciate you, and you almost give me a black eye." "You had two before--ever you saw me," she said. "You have looked into them, then," he said, maliciously, "so that you know their color?" He was, provokingly confident in his manner. Suddenly she stopped again. They were almost at Mrs. Carmichael's door, and Robert Duncan's shack was not far away. "Really, Mr Hastings," she said, resuming a serious tone, "I do wish you would leave me." "No," he persisted, "I am going to see you safely home." Mrs. Carmichael met them at the door. Donald had already reached home, and had told her of Bobbie's refusal to return with him. She patted the little one on the head. He was an attractive little boy, and it was evident Mrs. Carmichael loved him. She stooped and extended her arms, and the child ran into them. "So my Bobbie was nae coming home tae his auntie? What'd I dae wi'oot him?" Bobbie hung his head and then said softly: "Bobbie hae found a mither." The call was prolonged in order to get Bobbie into a staying frame of mind. At last they spied Robert Duncan approaching his shack, when Kenneth stepped over to tell him of Bobbie's decision and afternoon experience. At first the man smiled, then the tears trickled down his face. "Puir bairn, puir bairn," he said, huskily. Kenneth laid a kindly hand on his shoulder. He knew that Duncan was disheartened, and had spent much time, lately, in the saloons. "Come," he said. "Come get the little chap. It is evident he misses his mother." "Yes, he misses her, an' I miss her. I'll gie mair time tae him." So saying, he accompanied Kenneth to the Carmichael home and soon Bobbie was in his father's arms. The call of Kenneth and Esther drew to a close. As the two walked briskly toward the camp, Esther Bright paused from time to time to draw in great breaths of air, and to drink in the glory of the world about her. "Come," her companion said, "we shall be late to dinner. Did you know I am invited to dine with the Claytons to-night?" "Really!" She tossed back the curls the stiff breeze had blown across her eyes. "Really!" he echoed, in a tone of mockery. "Miss Bright, pardon me, but you--" He paused. "Well?" she said. "What about _you_?" "You look altogether charming." She stopped. He walked on. "You are perfectly incorrigible," she called. "Unless you promise to talk sense, I'll not go a step further with you." He turned. "Sense?" he said with mock seriousness, "that's what I have been talking when in your society all these weeks past. And here you make me play second fiddle to Jack Harding, Wathemah and Bobbie." "And you prefer to be _first_ fiddle?" "Of course!" She seemed in high spirits, ready for a tilt. "Do be sensible," she said gayly. "Sensible? I was never more sensible in my life." He made a long face. "Unfortunate man!" She sighed, as though his condition were utterly hopeless. He laughed. "Miss Bright!" "Mr. Hastings!" "I have been thinking!" "Marvelous!" She seemed like some mocking sprite. "Why don't you ask what I am thinking about?" He seemed provokingly cool. "Because you are just dying to tell me." She was piquant. "I vow I'm not. I won't tell you!" "All right," she returned, quickening her pace. "Really, now, _don't_ you wish to know what I have been thinking about?" He stepped nearer to her. "I'm not the least bit concerned," she answered with airy indifference. "I wouldn't know for anything." "Then I'll tell you. I was just thinking what fun it would be to meet you in society, and have a rattling flirtation with you." "Indeed!" She lifted her head. "You'd find Greek had met Greek." "I've no doubt. That would be the fun of it." "And you might die of a broken heart." Her tone was full of laughter. "That's what I'm doing already." He looked comical. "And you take no pity on me." "You might take a dose of soothing syrup." She looked extremely solicitous. "How extremely kind of you, Miss Bright. But my malady is in the region of the heart. I suspect you think I haven't a heart. But really, Miss Skeptic, a heart happens to be a part of my anatomy." "I thought we were to talk sense," she reminded him. Just then they heard a familiar call, and turning, saw Lord Kelwin hastening towards them. "By George!" he said, breathing hard. "I have been trying to overtake you two for a half mile. You seemed to be having a mighty good time." "Good time?" echoed Kenneth. "Miss Bright has been abusing me all the way." He assumed an injured air. "I have no doubt, Miss Bright, that Mr. Kenneth enjoyed the treatment he received," remarked Lord Kelwin. "Enjoyed it?" Kenneth interjected. "I have been a perfect martyr to feminine cruelty. And would you believe it? Miss Bright has been trying to palm off on me that she is not a daughter of Eve." "You are a veritable son of Adam," she rejoined, gayly. "And to think that I shall have to endure you at dinner!" "You'll have to endure another son of Adam, too," interjected Lord Kelwin, "for I am invited also." At once new light broke in upon Esther. "I believe you are letting the cat out of the bag," she said, "for I am sure this is intended to be a surprise for me. I have a birthday to-day." "A birthday?" Kenneth said. "Let me see--" he said with comic gravity, "--you are getting to be a venerable lady. I presume you'll never see fifty again?" "Oh, I assure you that is altogether too young." Then she turned to Lord Kelwin. "Do you think it proper to suggest such frivolity as a flirtation to one of my advanced years?" "Highly improper. Highly improper," said the Irishman, "but I'd like a hand in such a flirtation myself." He seemed to enjoy the nonsense. "Then there would be two victims." "You and I?" questioned Lord Kelwin. "No; you and Mr. Kenneth." "I was just thinking--." Lord Kelwin paused, to think of something that would make him a score. "Thinking! Thinking!" as though that were quite incomprehensible. "Mr. Hastings also claimed to be thinking." "Better leave her alone, Kelwin," laughed Kenneth. "She will have the last word. She's like the woman with the scissors." "Good avenin'," said a rich brogue just at hand. "How are you, Patrick?" said Kenneth. "Well, sir. How are yez, Miss?" He gave his slouch hat a jerk. "Good avenin', Lord Kelwin." They walked on together, and the talk drifted to the Gila Club. "I'm really surprised, don't you know," said Lord Kelwin, "at the interest these fellows take in the club." "It's the first dacint thing the byes has had ter go to. Look at that saloon there!" he said, pointing to an overgrown shack, where women of the coarsest type presided. "And look at that opium den," he said, indicating a small building at their right. "And see that haythen," he said, pointing to a female who stood in the door of a saloon, her cheeks painted, and puffing away at a cigarette. "Thim is the things as has sint the byes to desthruction." Kenneth Hastings and Lord Kelwin made no reply. "If yez kape on, schoolma'am," continued Patrick, "yez'll wipe out the saloons and opium places, an' make dacint min an' women out of these poor crathers." He nodded his head. "So pitifully sad!" Esther's vivacious mood suddenly vanished. She was again grave and thoughtful. "Aye," said Patrick, "but yez kin do it, Miss, niver yez doubt it. Yez can do it! Oi used ter go ter the saloon mesilf, but Oi'll go no more, no more. That's what yez has done fur me." Just then Wathemah came running and leaping from Keith's saloon. In a moment he spied them, and ran full tilt towards them. "It makes me sick at heart," Esther said in a low tone to Patrick, "whenever I think of Wathemah living longer in the saloon." "Yez air right, Miss," answered Patrick, "but Misthress Keith is a purty dacint sort av a woman, and she has been good ter the lad." "Yes, I realize that. But I wish I could take him myself." By this time the child was trudging along beside his Beloved. Lord Kelwin liked to tease him, and said in a bantering tone, "What are you always hanging on to Miss Bright's hand for, Wathemah? She don't allow the rest of her admirers to do that." Wathemah placed his other hand over the hand he clasped. "_Me_ teacher _mine_!" he said, defiantly. The men laughed. The teacher placed one hand on the child's head. He rested his cheek against her hand, as he said softly, "Me _mother_." "Your mother, eh?" Lord Kelwin looked amused. "I wish she'd mother the rest of us." The child did not understand the laughter, and fancying himself ridiculed by Lord Kelwin, turned, ran and leaped like a squirrel to his shoulder, and struck him in the face. "You little savage," the Irishman said, angrily, as he grasped the child and shook him. "Let _me_ settle with Wathemah," said Esther, firmly. She stepped forward, and took him by the arm, and held him. "Go on," she said to the men, "I will follow." They sauntered on, leaving her with the refractory urchin. When she and the child finally overtook them, Wathemah's face was tear-stained. Nothing more was said to the child until they reached the Clayton door. "I guess you had better go back now, dear," Esther said, placing her hand on Wathemah's shoulder. "No," he said stoutly, "Mrs. Clayton ask Wathemah he Miss Bright party." "Oh, yes," she said, with sudden understanding, "you came to celebrate my birthday, didn't you?" He nodded. "You want me to wash your face and hands, don't you, Wathemah?" she asked. And off she went with the child. "By George," said Lord Kelwin, "I never saw such a woman." "Nor I," returned Kenneth. "There is no other like her." The other whistled, and Kenneth flushed. His companion went on, "I'd like to know if she really has a fortune." "Better ask her." Lord Kelwin did not observe the look of contempt on Kenneth's face. But host and hostess had entered the spacious room, and were extending gracious welcomes. "Does either of you happen to know of the whereabouts of Miss Bright?" questioned Mr. Clayton. On learning of her arrival with them, he rallied them on spiriting her off. In the midst of the raillery, Esther and Wathemah entered the room. The latter found his way at once to Mr. Clayton's side, for they were great friends. The entrance of Esther was the signal for further badinage. "John, what do you think of a young lady who tells her escort she supposes she'll have to endure him?" "Mr. Clayton," she said, with a saucy tilt of her head, "what do you think of gentlemen who tell a lady they would like to flirt with her?" "That depends," he answered, with a broad smile, "upon who the lady is. Now if I were not a staid married man--" "You do not answer my question," she said. "You introduce an altogether extraneous matter. I asked you what you thought of gentlemen who would tell a lady they would like to flirt with her." Here both Lord Kelwin and Kenneth Hastings tried to present their cases. Esther raised her hand. "Would you not consider this great frivolity, Mr. Clayton?" And she assumed a prim, shocked expression so funny that all laughed. "If you wish to know my candid opinion," he said, with the air of a judge, "I believe they were within the law; but, if they were guilty offenders, they have my sympathy." Wathemah looked from one to another with a puzzled expression as he listened to their laughter. He seemed to sense the fact that his Beloved was in some way the butt of their fun. In a moment he had slid from his place on John Clayton's knee, and was standing leaning against Esther. "That's right, Wathemah," she said, pretending to be greatly injured, "you take my part." "Look out here, young man," said Lord Kelwin, as Wathemah approached him with a threatening fist. Kenneth caught the child, and held him close in his arms, whispering to him, "We're only fooling, Wathemah." But he said aloud: "Did you know, John, that Miss Bright has become an adopted mother?" "No. Whom has she adopted? You?" "Me? No. That's a good one. She's adopted Duncan's little boy, Bobbie. And when I suggested that I'd like to change places with Bobbie, she almost annihilated me." All seemed to be enjoying the nonsense. "Really, Miss Bright," continued Lord Kelwin, "I think you should be at the head of an orphanage." "I suppose you'd like to be chief orphan," suggested John Clayton. Then the talk drifted to serious themes, until dinner was announced. A birthday cake with sixteen lighted candles, in the center of the table, was the signal for another fusillade of fun. "Sixteen! sixteen!" said Kenneth Hastings. "I accused Miss Bright, to-day, of being fifty, and she assured me she was not so young as that." "Sixteen! sweet sixteen!" said Lord Kelwin, bowing low. She, in turn, bowed _her_ head. "You see," she said, "our good prophet, Mrs. Clayton, cried out, and the shadow has turned backward on the dial of Ahaz." "It is not so much the number of years we count on the dial, after all," spoke Mrs. Clayton, who had thus far listened smilingly to the others; "it is what we live into those years. And you have lived already a long life in your few years, dear friend." "You are right," Kenneth rejoined. "Miss Bright has lived more years of service to her fellow men in the few months she has been in Gila, than I have lived in my thirty years." Then, half in jest, half in earnest, he continued, "I wish Miss Bright could have been my grandmother, then my mother, then my--" He halted in embarrassment, as he saw a deep blush sweep over Esther's face. "And then--" suggested Lord Kelwin, in a provoking tone--"and then?" "I should like her for my _friend_." "So say we all of us," rejoined John Clayton. Then observing Esther's face, he changed the drift of the conversation. "How would you good people like to make up a party to go to Box Canyon sometime in the near future?" "Delightful!" spoke several, simultaneously. And thereupon they began to describe for Esther the canyon and what she would see. Before leaving the table, every wineglass save one was filled with sherry. That glass was turned down. John Clayton rose and lifted his glass. "Here's to our dear friend, Miss Bright. May she always be sixteen at heart, with her ideals of life as true and as sweet as they are now; may the cares of life sit lightly upon her; may she be given strength to do all that she will always seek out and find to do; may the love of the true of heart enfold her; may the Heavenly Father keep her in all her ways; may the shadow ever turn backward on the dial." And lifting their glasses, they drank to this toast. Ah, little did they realize how prophetic in some ways that toast would prove to be, nor how great was the work that lay before the lovely and fragile-looking girl. All were happy and light-hearted; at least, all save Carla Earle. She sat quiet and retiring, when her duties were over. Wathemah had found refuge in her lap, and his regular breathing assured her he was fast asleep. So the evening wore on. At last all the guests except Wathemah had departed. The fire burned low. And soon all were asleep in the quiet house. CHAPTER XIV THE GREAT TRANSFORMATION John Harding seemed a new man. If ever man fought desperately the evil in his nature, he did. It would be foolish to say that he became a saint. Far from it. He was at all times very human. All the years of his life, his deeper nature had been lying fallow. No one had ever cared enough about him to suspect or discover its richness. Now some one had found him who did care, and who knew instinctively what lay below the forbidding exterior. He sought Esther Bright with all sorts of questions, many of them questions a child might have asked (for he was but a child as yet in knowledge of many things); and she poured out the richness of her own knowledge, the inspiration of her transcendent faith, until the man roused from a long sleep, and began to grapple with great questions of life. He read, he thought, and he questioned. Sometimes, when long away from Esther's influence, he yielded to the temptations of the saloon again, and drank heavily. On one of these occasions, he chanced to cross her path as he came staggering from a saloon. He tried to avoid her, but failed. "Oh, Jack," she said, laying her hand on his arm, "is this what Jesus would have you do? Come home." "'Taint no use," he answered, in a drunken drawl, "no use. I ain't nobody; never was nobody. Let me be, I say. Nobody cares a blank for me." He threw an arm out impatiently. "'Sh!" she interrupted. "Jesus cares. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton care. I care. Miss Edith cares. Come home with me, John." So saying, she led him on to the Clayton ranch. After a field has lain fallow many years, it must be turned and overturned again, in order to yield an abundant harvest. So it is with a soul. John Harding's soul was slowly but surely being prepared to receive the seeds of truth. There were days when it seemed as though a demon possessed him. Then he would mysteriously disappear, and be gone for days. He always returned worn and haggard, but gentle. Then he would seek Esther Bright, and say simply: "I have conquered!" He seemed to know intuitively that she never lost faith in him. He felt certain that he would yet become what she wished him to be,--a true man. And this conviction made every battle with himself less terrible. At last he knew that the good in him was master. All this did not come about at once. Months passed before he knew that he could feel sure of his victory. In the meantime, the church service had become established in Gila. Esther Bright preached with deepening spiritual power. The cowlasses now attended regularly. Other women, too, had come. Miners, dirt begrimed, had astonished their cronies by coming to hear the teacher talk. Even men from the charcoal pits and burro camps found their way to the crowded room. One Sunday, the atmosphere of the meeting was so remarkable it still stands out in the memory of many a Gilaite of those early days. Esther Bright had preached on the Healing of the Lepers. She had told them of the disease of leprosy, its loathsomeness, its hopelessness. Then she vividly pictured the ten lepers, the approach of Christ, and their marvelous restoration. She showed them sin, its power to degrade men and women, and to weaken the will. She urged the need of God's help, and the necessity for each one to put forth his will power. Her low, earnest, heart-searching voice seemed to move many in that audience. Again and again rough hands brushed away tears they were ashamed for others to see. Ah, could there be help for them! Could there! The speaker seemed filled with a power outside of herself, a power that was appealing to the consciences of men. Kenneth Hastings, caught in this great spiritual tide, was swept from his moorings, out, out, on and away from self, Godward. He rose and spoke with deep feeling. Then some one sang the first stanza of "Where are the Nine?" The singing ceased. The Spirit of God seemed brooding over all. The pregnant silence was followed by a succession of marvels. A Scotch miner rose and said: "I am a sinner. Jesus, Maister, hae mercy on _me_." Then voice after voice was heard confessing sin and praying for mercy. At the close of the service, there were many touching scenes as men and women long hardened and burdened, came to this young girl for words of hope and encouragement. If ever human being was an instrument in the hands of God, Esther Bright was that day. The attendance at the meetings increased so that the schoolhouse could no longer accommodate the people. It was still too cool to hold out-of-door meetings. In the midst of Esther's perplexity, she received a call from one of the saloon keepers. "I 'ave been attending the meetings," he said, "and see that you need a larger room. I 'ave come to offer you my saloon." "Your saloon, Mr. Keith?" she said, aghast. "Yes," he replied, "my saloon! I'm one of the lepers ye told about the other day. I 'ave decided to give up the saloon business." This was beyond Esther's wildest dreams. "You have decided to give up the saloon?" she said, overjoyed. "I am so glad! But how will you make your living?" "I'll go to minin' again, an' my wife'll keep boarders. She's glad to 'ave me give up the dram shop." Esther's eyes filled with happy tears. The first Sunday in February had arrived. Nearly all vestiges of a saloon had disappeared from what had been Keith's saloon. Masses of mistletoe and fragrant spruce had taken the place of indecent pictures. A cabinet organ, borrowed for the occasion, stood at one side. A small table served as the speaker's desk. The billiard tables had disappeared, and chairs now filled the room. The crowd that gathered about the door the day of this first service in the saloon was unusually large, for word had gone out that David Bright, the grandfather of their pastor, would speak at the meeting. The saving of the souls of men had come to be the vital question of the hour in Gila. As the crowd caught sight of a stately white-haired man accompanying their leader, there was a respectful hush. Men and women stepped aside, leaving a passage to the door. The two entered. The singers were already in their places. The congregation assembled, and the song service began. At its close, there followed an impressive stillness, broken only by the joyous notes of a Kentucky cardinal. The aged preacher sat with bowed head. One would hardly have been surprised to hear a voice from on high. At last he rose. Everyone looked intently into his benevolent, kindly face. Slowly and impressively he repeated: "Repent ye; for the kingdom of Heaven is at hand." He repeated the words a second time, then took his seat. Again the pregnant silence. When David Bright rose the second time, he read Matthew III., and closing his Bible spoke to them for an hour, holding their undivided attention. "Beloved," he said, "this voice is speaking to us to-day. 'Repent ye: for the kingdom of Heaven is at hand.' The kingdom comes to us individually. It comes only as men's hearts are prepared for it." Then he carried his audience with him as he preached the need of repentance, and Christ's compassionate love for every human soul. His voice rose and fell, and the roughest men listened, while down many faces flowed repentant tears. Oh miracle of miracles,--the turning from sin to righteousness! Oh greatest experience of the human heart,--the entrance of the Divine! As the godly man took his seat, Esther Bright rose, and sang, with face shining, "I Love to Tell the Story." As she sang, the notes of the Kentucky cardinal burst forth, a joyous accompaniment to her glad song. To the amazement of all, Ben Keith rose and said: "I 'ave been a sinful man. May God forgive me. I repent me of my sins. I 'ave led men and women astray in this saloon. May God forgive me. I 'ave determined to turn face about, and to lead an honest life. I 'ave sold my last drop o' whiskey. I 'ave poured all I 'ad left on the ground. I shall keep no more saloon. May God 'ave mercy on my soul, and on the souls of them as I 'ave led astray." A sob was heard. It came from the long-suffering Mrs. Keith. Then another stood, asking for prayers; then another, then another. Last of all, David Bright rose, and after speaking a few fatherly encouraging words, he dismissed them with the benediction. He was soon surrounded by men waiting for a word, a hand grasp. They asked for personal conferences with him. "Let us go down to the timber," suggested Jack Harding. So together these men strolled down to the river bank. "Thou art troubled about the unpardonable sin, thou sayest?" the preacher said to a young man walking by his side. "Yes," replied the youth addressed. "I've been a bad one, but now I really want to be a Christian. I fear I have committed the unpardonable sin. Do you suppose--" he asked in a voice that choked a little, "that God could pardon such a sinner as I am?" "With God all things are possible," reverently replied the other, laying a kindly hand on the young man's shoulder. "The only sin that seems to me to be unpardonable is that unrighteous obstinacy that forever refuses the _offer_ of salvation." And into the old man's face came an expression of sorrow. "But if the offer of salvation is forever _passed by_, what then?" asked another. "I believe the soul is lost." "You mean the soul is in a place of fire and torment, literal hell fire?" asked the first speaker. "I said I believe the soul is lost." "Then you don't believe in hell?" asked another. "No," answered David Bright; "not as some believe in it,--literal fire. Spirit or soul is, I believe, immortal. It lives on. To know God, and Jesus Christ, His Son, is eternal life; not to know them is death. To obey the laws of God here on earth means a foretaste of heaven; to disobey them, means a foretaste of hell." "And you think there can be hell on earth?" asked one. "Yes: a man's own evil mind and life make for him a constant hell." "And you believe heaven may begin on earth?" "I do. Heaven is the rightful heritage of the soul. Heaven is accord with the Divine. It is the natural environment of the soul. It is more natural to do right than wrong. It is evil environment that perverts the soul." They seated themselves on a dead tree trunk. "Here," said David Bright, laying his hand on the fallen tree, "you see an illustration of what happens to many a life. Its environment has brought a parasite that lays hold upon the life of the tree, saps its strength, and decay follows. Destructive agencies in a sinful environment lay hold of human life, sap its strength, and moral decay follows. Many a strong man has fallen as has this magnificent tree. Nothing can revitalize the tree once fallen into decay; but, thanks be to God, there _is_ a force that can revitalize the human being long after he seems dead and lost to the world, and that is the redemptive power of Jesus Christ. There is no other name under heaven given among men whereby we must be saved." The look of one who bears the sorrow of his race upon his heart came into the beautiful face. And the men watched him with deepening reverence for their kind. One who had thus far been silent spoke. "But if the soul is immortal, spiritual death cannot come." The old man looked keenly into the young man's eyes. He spoke with deepest conviction as he said: "I believe there is almost no limit to the possibilities of the mind and soul to him whose ideals are high, whose courage is great, and who holds himself to the very highest ideals of living. Christ paved the way for such a life for every young man. That sort of life is real living, for it means constructive work in the world. It means growth, immortality. "To come short of what one might be, steadily, increasingly, brings moral deterioration, atrophy;--to my mind, the saddest form of death. It is life to grow toward the Divine. My son, it will soon be too late. Turn Godward now. Shall we pray?" Then up to the throne of God went a prayer for these young men,--sons of parents who had long ago lost their grip on them. For about two weeks, religious meetings were held daily. Night after night the room was crowded. The services consisted of talks by David Bright, songs, short prayers and testimony. Sometimes several men and women would be on their feet at once, eager to voice their repentance, and to testify of God's mercy. The interest did not end here. Down in the mines, brief meetings were held daily at the noon hour. One group of miners would start a hymn; then way off, another group would catch up the refrain. On many lips the oath or unclean story died unspoken. Men sought David Bright as they would a father confessor, pouring the story of their lives into his kind and sympathetic ear. They seemed to know intuitively that he was a man of God. What mattered, if he were Catholic or Protestant? He found men evil, and left them good. And Esther Bright's influence was hardly less marked. Her deep spirituality made her a great power for righteousness. John Harding seemed scarcely less interested in saving men's souls than she. "Giving men a chance," he called it. He went from mining camp to mining camp, carrying the tidings of salvation, and urging men to repent. And those who heard him not only came to the meetings, but began to bring others also. And so the work grew. It was at the close of David Bright's second week in Gila that the most impressive meeting was held. At its close, the aged evangelist bade them farewell. Then they crowded about him, thanking him for all he had done for them, and asking him to remember them in his prayers. Kenneth Hastings was the last to speak with him. He asked for a personal interview. Then arm in arm, they strolled up the mountain road. What was said during that interview no one ever knew. But when the two returned to Clayton Ranch, David Bright walked with his hand resting on the young man's shoulder. Esther heard her grandfather say to him: "I honor thee for it, my son. I believe under the same circumstances, I should feel as thou dost. It is a serious question." Kenneth said something in reply that did not reach Esther's ears. She heard her grandfather speaking again: "Yes, she is an unusual woman, as thou sayest. She has always been a delightful character, and Christlike in her purity. She is compassionate and loving because she has always walked in the Master's steps." The two men entered the house, and John Clayton advanced to greet them. "That was a great meeting," he said. "Yes," David Bright replied, "God has touched the hearts of the people." He sat down by his granddaughter, put his arm about her, and drew her to him. "The field is white unto the harvest, Beloved," he said, looking into her upturned face. "I hadn't thought of the harvest yet, Grandfather," she said simply. "We have been getting the soil ready to sow good seed at every opportunity. We are on the verge of the growing time." "Well, well, as you will, little philosopher," he said, releasing her. It was a lovely picture to see the two side by side. The white head of the one suggested a life work near completion; while the golden brown of the other, suggested life's work at its beginning. Happy would it be if godly and beautiful age could give up its unfinished tasks to those who are content to prepare the soil, and sow good seed, intent on the growing time! The social hours in the Clayton home that day were ones to be long remembered. David Bright was a man enriched from many sources. He gave himself to his companions in intercourse as rare as it was beautiful. Conversation had never become to him a lost art; it was the flowering out of the life within. And Kenneth Hastings listened. If _he_ had only had such a father! He was beginning to see it all now,--life's great possibility. At last he was drawn into the conversation. "I hardly know," he responded to a question from David Bright. How many things he now realized he "hardly knew!" How vague a notion he had, anyhow, of many questions affecting the destiny of the human race! He thought aloud: "You see Mr. Bright, I was reared in a worldly home, and I was brought up in the Church of England. My religion is simply a beautiful ritual. But, further than that, I know nothing about it. I never felt any interest in religion until--" here his face flushed "--until your granddaughter came. She found me a heathen--" He hesitated, and glancing toward Esther, caught her glance. How lovely she was! As he hesitated, David Bright finished his sentence, smiling genially as he did so. "And made you a Christian, I hope." "I fear not. I am plagued with doubts." "You will conquer the doubts," responded David Bright, "and be stronger for the struggle. Triumphant faith is worth battling for." "Well," said Kenneth, "I feel that I am adrift on a great sea. If anyone pilots me to a safe harbor, it will be your granddaughter." "No," she said, looking into his face with a sudden radiance in her own, "but the Man of Galilee." And so the talk drifted, talk where each one could be himself and speak out of his innermost heart, and not be misunderstood. So blessed is friendship of the higher sort. The day passed and the morrow dawned. Then David Bright journeyed eastward again, to minister to the world's unfortunate ones. He left behind him in Gila an influence that men speak of to this day. But to no one, probably, did his coming mean more than to John Harding. John's transformation was now complete. He became the self-appointed evangelist to numbers of unfortunate and tempted men. He had risen in the scale of life, and had become a Man! CHAPTER XV SOME SOCIAL EXPERIENCES One evening about the middle of February, Kenneth Hastings called at the Clayton home. After a few moments of general conversation, he turned to Mrs. Clayton and begged to be excused from his engagement to accompany them to Box Canyon. "Oh, Mr. Kenneth," protested Edith. "I am sorry, Edith," he said, turning to her, "but I leave to-morrow for England." "For England!" ejaculated Esther in astonishment; for she knew that a visit to England had been remote from his thoughts the last time she had talked with him. "Nothing wrong at home, I hope, Kenneth?" said John Clayton, kindly. "My uncle cabled me that my parents were killed in an accident. It is imperative that I go at once." He paused. John Clayton reached over and laid a hand on his arm. Mrs. Clayton spoke a few words of sympathy; but Esther Bright sat silent. How she had urged him to make his parents a visit! How he had rebuffed her, saying they cared nothing for him! She remembered his saying that he had always been starved for a mother's love. Too late now to give or to receive. She felt Kenneth looking at her, expecting her to say some word. She seemed suddenly dumb. At last she heard him speak her name. He hesitated, then continued: "I wish I had gone when you suggested it, Miss Bright." He bowed his head upon his hand. "I wish you _had_ gone," she said, simply. "It might have been a comfort to you." After awhile he spoke cheerfully of his return, and of what they would do. "Don't let Miss Bright work too hard," he said, smiling gravely. "She does enough work for five men." "I shall miss your help," was all she said. But she felt a sudden longing to comfort him. Into her face flashed a look of sympathy. He knew it was for him. "It almost makes me homesick, Kenneth, to hear you talk of going home," said Mrs. Clayton. "England always will seem home to me," she added, turning to Esther. "It is a beautiful country to call home," responded the New England girl. "I love England." They talked till late, Kenneth receiving message after message from them to kindred and friends across the sea. He rose to go, taking leave of Esther last of all. Then he turned to her with both hands extended. She placed her own in his. He drew her towards him, and without a word, turned and was gone. Esther withdrew, and Edith and Carla soon followed, leaving John Clayton and his wife seated before the fireplace. "Well, John!" said the wife. "Well, my dear?" responded the husband, apparently surmising what was coming. "Kenneth _loves_ Miss Bright." "Well, is this the first time you have suspected that?" As though he had always suspected it. "No! But--" "But what?" "Is he worthy of her, John?" "Don't be foolish, Mary. Kenneth is a true and honorable man. Yes--" pausing to listen to her expostulations,--"I know he used to drink some; but I never saw him intoxicated. He played cards as we do here, and when he was in the company of men who gambled, he gambled too." "But morally, John. It's goodness that a woman cares most about. Is he all right morally?" He drew his chair close to hers. "I believe Kenneth to be clean morally. If he had been immoral here, I should have known of it. And yet he, like the other men, has been surrounded by temptation. What is gross does not appeal to him. I have never known him to speak lightly of any woman. For you and Edith he has the deepest respect; for Carla, he has the utmost compassion; and for Miss Bright, (bless her!) he has a reverence I have never seen any man show to any woman." "Then he loves her, doesn't he?" "He never told me so," he answered, smiling; "I doubt if he has told her." "But after that good-by to-night," she persisted, "I _know_ he loves her." "I hope he does, Mary, and that she cares for him. I don't see how she could help it. I'd like to see them happy,--as happy as you and I are, Mary." He leaned toward her, resting his cheek against hers. "As happy as we are, Beloved. Twenty years married. Am I right? And lovers still." "Yes, twenty happy years," she said, "twenty happy years. But, John, do you think Miss Bright would make Kenneth happy? Would she give up her philanthropic ideas to devote herself to one ordinary man?" "Oh, that's what's troubling you now, is it?" he asked, laughing outright. Then he spoke seriously: "I believe Miss Bright could and would make Kenneth supremely happy. You know she is domestic in her tastes, and I believe home would always be her first consideration. But she is such a broad, public spirited woman she would always be a public benefactor. And Kenneth is not an ordinary man. You know that well. He is superior. I do not know of any man for whom I have such a strong friendship." "I like Kenneth, too," she admitted. "But I was just thinking." He rose and covered the embers for the night. "Better leave them alone," he suggested. "Their story is so beautiful I'd not like to have it spoiled." "John!" "Yes, Mary." "I just thought of something!" "Remarkable! What did you think of?" "Kenneth will inherit a large fortune, won't he?" "Of course." "That might change his plans." "I think not. He loves America, and the woman he loves is here. He will return. Come! Let's to sleep." The going of Kenneth Hastings brought a shadow over the household. His departure was likewise the signal for frequent calls from Lord Kelwin. It grew more apparent that he felt a marked interest in the teacher. But whether she felt a corresponding interest in him, no one could have determined. A few times she went horseback riding with him. He assured her she was becoming an excellent horsewoman. Lord Kelwin now became a constant attendant at the meetings of the club, on all of which occasions he was Esther's self-appointed escort. Once he ventured a remark about how it happened that a woman of her rank and fortune and accomplishments should be teaching in a mining camp. "My rank? My fortune? My accomplishments?" she repeated, mystified. "Yes," he said, patronizingly, "a lady of rank and fortune. I have met several Americans of fortune,--great fortune,--in London and Paris--ah--I--" "But I am not a woman of rank and fortune, Lord Kelwin. I am just a plain working woman." He did not observe the amused smile about her eyes and mouth. "You are not likely to find women of rank and fortune in a mining camp." "It's wonderful how much these American heiresses think of titles, don't you know, Miss Bright. Why, a man of rank can marry almost any American girl he pleases." "Just so," she assented. "He wins a fortune to pay his debts, and squander otherwise; and she wins a title, dragged into the dust by a degenerate nobleman, plus enough unhappiness to make her miserable the rest of her life. An interesting business proposition, truly!" "Why, really, Miss Bright,--ah--I--ah--I fear you grow sarcastic." "_Really!_ Did you discern any approach to sarcasm in my remarks? I am surprised!" He was not prepared for the mockery in her voice, nor for something about her that made him feel that she was his superior. Before he could formulate a suitable reply, one quite in accord with his sentiments and feelings, she continued: "We shall doubtless live to see a social evolution. The American man of genius, and force, and character is too intent on his great task of carving out a fortune, or winning professional or artistic distinction, to give his days and nights to social life. "Now there are noblewomen of the Old World who are women of real distinction, vastly superior to many men of their class, and who have not been spoiled by too great wealth simply because their profligate brothers have squandered the family fortunes. "Now it occurs to me that it might be a great thing for the progress of the human race, if the finest noblewomen of the Old World, who are women of intellect, and culture, and character, should seek in marriage our men of brains and character. "The time has come when the American man of the highest type needs something more than a fashion plate or a tailor's model for his mate." "And have you no American women who could match your paragons, your American _tradesmen_?" he asked, contemptuously. "Oh, yes," she replied. "We have fine and noble American women. I was just thinking how the Old World could be invigorated by the infusion of fresh blood from the vital, progressive New World. Just think of a brainy, womanly Lady Somebody of England, refusing to ally herself with an inane, worthless nobleman of any country, and deliberately _choosing_ a man of the people here, a man whose achievements have made him great! Is there not a college of heraldry somewhere that places intellect and character and achievement above rank and fortune?" He could not fathom her. "How queer you are, Miss Bright! Such marriages," he continued, in a tone of disgust, "would not be tolerated." "Why not? They would be on a higher plane than the ones you boast of. You exploit the marriage of title and money. I suggest, as an advance upon that, the marriage of the highest type of the noblewoman of the Old World, with no fortune but her intellect, her character, and her fine breeding, with the highest type of noble manhood in America, a man large enough and great enough to direct the progress of the world." "Ally the daughters of our nobility with plebeian Americans?--with working men?" "Why not?" she asked. "Because we despise people in trades," he said, contemptuously. "But the tradesmen who _make_ the fortunes are quite as good as their daughters, who barter themselves and their fathers' wealth for titles. You seem to approve of such alliances." They had reached the veranda of the Clayton home. Esther Bright's hand was on the door knob, and her companion took his leave. How radical she must seem to him! As she entered her own room, she found a letter bearing a London postmark. It was the first letter she had received from Kenneth Hastings, and it was a long one. She read it through, and then reread it, and buried her face in her arms on the table. After awhile there came a knock on the door. It was Carla. She had been crying. Esther slipped an arm about her, and together they sat on the edge of the bed. "What is the matter, Carla?" she asked gently. "Oh, I am so unhappy!" "Has anyone hurt your feelings, dear?" "Oh, no. It is not that. It is the other. I wish I could die!" Esther drew Carla to her. "You still care for Mr. Clifton; is that it?" "Yes," she answered, with a sob, "that is it. I am _so_ unhappy!" "Tell me all about it, Carla," said Esther, in a soothing tone. "Perhaps it will be a relief for you to tell me. When a load is shared it grows lighter." "Well, you see, Papa and Mamma died, and I had no one but distant kindred. They gave me a home, and I became a sort of servant in the family. Mark Clifton was their nephew. He seemed to love me, and he was the only one who did. He talked often of the home we'd have when we are married, as I told you. "I was sixteen when he came to America. Then he sent me money to come to him, saying we'd be married on my arrival here. "But when I reached Gila, he said he could not disgrace his _family_ by marrying _me_." These words were followed by violent weeping. Then Esther comforted her as best she could, and tucked her in her own bed. At last Carla fell into a heavy sleep. Again Esther opened Kenneth's letter, read it, and placed it in her Bible. So days came and went,--homely days, days of simple duties, days of ministration to human need. And Esther Bright was happy. One day as she lingered late at the schoolhouse, she was startled to see a young Apache, dressed as a cowboy, standing in the doorway. For an instant, she felt a sickening fear. Then her habit of self-control asserted itself. She motioned him to a seat, but he did not seem to understand. He spied her guitar, tried the strings, shook his head, and muttered words unintelligible to her. The Indian was, apparently, about her own age, tall, muscular, and handsome. His long, glossy, black hair hung about his shoulders. On his head, was a light felt hat, similar to the ones worn by the cow-punchers. His trousers and jacket were of skins and cloth respectively. In a moment he looked up at her, from his seat on the floor, and jabbered something. Apparently, he approved of her. He touched her dress and jabbered something else. [2]"N[=e]-sh[=e]-äd-nl[)e]h´," he said, pointing southward towards the Apache reservation. [2] You be my squaw. She told him, in poor Spanish, that she could not understand; but he apparently understood her, and looked pleased. Again he repeated the same words, using much gesticulation to help convey his meaning. There was a step outside, and Robert Duncan appeared with Bobbie. After greeting the teacher, Robert looked with unbounded astonishment at her unusual visitor. Apparently the Apache was there on a friendly visit. The Scotchman was about to pass on, when the teacher asked him to stay. He entered the room, and said something to the Indian, who answered, [3]"Indä-stzän´ [=u]´-sn-b[=e]-ceng-k[)e]´." [3] The white woman is an angel. Robert seemed to catch his meaning, and answered in Spanish that the people called her the Angel of the Gila. The Apache nodded his head approvingly, and said, [4]"Indä-stzän´ [=u]´-sn-b[=e]-tse´!" [4] The white woman is the daughter of God. He stepped up to the teacher, and took hold of her arm as if to draw her away with him. She shook her head, and pointed to Robert Duncan, who made signs to him that she was his squaw. At last the Indian withdrew, turning, from time to time, to look back at the vision that, apparently, had bewitched him. Then Robert explained his own errand. He was seeking a mither for Bobbie. The bairn must have a mither. He had understood her interest in the bairn to be a corresponding interest in himself. He was muckle pleased, he said, to be singled out for any woman's favor. He was nae handsome man, he kenned that weel. He was ready tae marry her any time she telt him. Robert looked wonderfully pleased with himself, apparently confident of a successful wooing. His experience had been limited. "You wish to marry me, Mr. Duncan?" Outwardly, she was serious. "Yes, Miss, sen ye was sae willin', I thocht I maucht as weel tak ye, an' then I'd not be bothered wi' ither women. "Have they troubled you?" she asked, with a look of amusement. "Have they been attentive to you?" "Not as attentive as y'rsel'." "In what way have I been attentive to you, Mr. Duncan?" she asked, looking still more amused. "Ye've helpit me bairn, an' cleaned his claes, an' let him ca' ye mither. Ye'd no hae doon that wi'oot wishin' the faither, too." His confidence was rather startling. "But suppose I do not wish the father. What then?" "Oh, that could never be," he said, "that could never be." "You have made a mistake, Mr. Duncan," she said, quietly. "You will have to look elsewhere for a wife. Good afternoon." Saying which, she turned the key in the door, and left him standing dumb with astonishment. After she had gone some distance, he called after her: "Ye are makin' the mistak o' y'r life!" CHAPTER XVI OVER THE MOUNTAINS One Friday early in May, Edith Clayton suddenly became ill. Esther, returning from school, found Mrs. Clayton deeply distressed. "Oh," she said, "if Mr. Clayton or the boys were only here to take Edith to Carlisle, to see Dr. Brown!" "How soon will they return?" "Two days. I'm afraid to drive myself, and Edith sick." "Does she know the way there, Mrs. Clayton?" Esther seemed weighing the matter. "Yes; she has gone with her father several times." "Then if she is able to ride, and you are not afraid to trust me, I'll take her. It is Friday, and still early." "But, my dear, it is fifteen miles away, a long fatiguing journey over rough mountain roads. You'll have to ford a river, and stay all night at a ranch beyond the ford. Besides, it is a perilous drive. Oh, dear! I am so worried!" Here she broke down completely. "Don't let us waste any time, Mrs. Clayton. If you think Edith can endure the journey, I am willing to run the risk. I'll take her myself." "I believe Edith could go all right,--but--" "Never mind anything else. Give us the safe team, and we'll start." A spirited team was soon at the door, and they were placing wraps, cushions and luncheon in the carriage. Then Esther and Edith started. For a few miles, they repeatedly crossed bridges over the Gila, then their road followed the foothills for some distance. The hills were still yellow with the silky California poppies. Green alfalfa fields, in the valley below, looked like bits of Eden let down into the grimly majestic scene. Higher the travelers rode, and higher. At a sudden turn, they came upon the narrow and perilous canyon road, where they drove slowly, drinking in the grandeur of it all. The tinkling of a cowbell warned them that they were approaching a human habitation. As they rounded a sharp jag, they came upon a picturesque bridge, near the farther end of which they caught a glimpse of a pine-slab cabin, half hidden by tremulous aspens. A little Mexican child stood near the door, helping himself to the pink and white blossoms of the wild sweet pea. Near by, a white cow, with her clanking bell, browsed on the green turf that bordered that side of the stream. On and up the mountain, the travelers rode, into the heart of the Rockies. "Just look at that rose-colored sandstone," said Esther. "How exquisitely veined! See the gigantic, overhanging mass of rock beyond! And oh, the cactus blossoms! How glorious! The large scarlet blossoms! See?" "Yes. Exquisite, aren't they? But look at those cliffs over in that direction, Miss Bright," said Edith, pointing to her left, as she spoke. "Do you see anything unusual?" "Yes. Quaint figures. Indian art, isn't it? I do wish I could see it nearer by." And so they traveled on, reveling in the beauty everywhere about them. "Does it ever occur to you," asked Edith, "that God is nearer to us here, in the mountains, than anywhere else?" "Yes. Does God seem nearer to you here?" "Much nearer. When we went home to England the last time, I missed something. It seemed to me it was God. We went to the churches and heard great preachers, but they did not make me feel the presence of God as the mountains do. When I come out into the open, as you call it, and see the mountains, it seems to me I could reach my hand out and find God." "The mountains do great things for us," said Esther, looking up at the jagged cliffs. Suddenly there was a whir of wings. An enormous eagle roused from his perch on the rocks, made a bold swoop, and soared grandly above their heads. "Look, look!" cried Esther, in excitement. "An eagle, isn't it? Oh, you splendid creature! How magnificently free!" Her cheeks flushed. "Did you never see one before?" "Yes, stuffed; but this bird is alive and free." She looked at Edith. "You look pale, Edith," she said, with sudden alarm. "Are you feeling worse?" "No. Only tired. We'll soon reach the clearing, and just beyond that, the ford; and just beyond that, the house. So I can soon rest." Esther drew a deep breath, and said: "I feel as though the spirit of the eagle had entered into me." But darkness was coming on apace. To their relief they soon entered the clearing, and reached the bank of the stream, where they halted a few minutes. The horses pricked up their ears. "Do you think the ford is dangerous now, Edith?" "It is usually quite safe at this season, unless there has been a cloudburst. The horses know the ford, and are used to crossing. Papa gives them the rein, and they have always brought him safely through. We had better place our luggage on the seat," she said, "and keep our feet up. Tuck your skirts up, or you'll get a drenching." Then she leaned forward, and called each horse by name. In a moment they were in the river, with the water up to the horses' shoulders. They felt the carriage swing with the current, and felt the team struggling with the force of the waters. Then Esther called to the horses, in tones that showed no fear, "Well done, Rocket! On, Star, on!" It seemed hours to her before the faithful animals were once more on the shore, and safe. "Were you frightened, Miss Bright?" asked Edith. "Just a little. I never forded a stream before. But how nobly the horses behaved!" "Yes. It must be a hard struggle for them, though." In about five minutes, they stopped before a house, tied their team, and knocked at the door. A refined-looking young woman received them. "Why, Esther Bright!" she exclaimed, with a little shriek, clasping Esther in her arms. "Why, Grace Gale! Bless your heart! Where in the world did you come from? Grace, this is my friend, Miss Edith Clayton. She is ill, and I am taking her to see Dr. Brown in Carlisle. We are seeking the hospitality of this house overnight." Before she was through speaking, Grace Gale was half carrying Edith into the house. "Come right in, come right in!" she said. "I'm delighted! Tickled to death to see some one I know!" She ushered them into a room guiltless of carpet, meagerly furnished, but immaculately clean. Then she excused herself to send some one to attend to the horses, and to tell her landlady she would entertain two guests over night. She soon returned. "But how did _you_ happen to come so far from civilization, Esther?" she questioned. "Oh, a combination of circumstances; but chiefly through Mrs. Clayton, whom I met in England. What brought you out here?" "I came for restoration of health," she answered, laughing merrily, as though it were all a joke. "I don't look very sickly now, do I? I had had double pneumonia, and my physician ordered me to leave Boston, and go to a dry climate. So I came to Arizona. I happened to meet the superintendent of education. He needed teachers. So I came here, just for the fun of the thing." "And has it been fun?", asked Esther, joining in her friend's laughter. "Fun? There have been so many funny things I have laughed myself into stitches. For example, my landlady refuses to let me have any extra bedding for to-night." "Never mind. We have our cushions and lap-robe to help out. Who would have dreamed, Grace, when we were at Wellesley, that we should meet way out here in the wilds of Arizona? Oh, I'm _so_ glad to see you!" "So am I, to see you. Now tell me all you know about the girls of our class, Esther." They were in the midst of a vivacious conversation, when a sleek, tow-headed woman appeared at the door, and was presented to them. Then she announced supper, and disappeared. "Don't be frightened," whispered the merry hostess to her guests. "She's tame, and won't bite, and the food is clean." The landlady entered the kitchen, and after serving them, left the room. The hours sped merrily. The sick girl lay on the little bed, listening to college reminiscences, and joining occasionally in the conversation and laughter. "Esther," said Miss Gale, "let's give the Wellesley yell for Edith." "Well! Here goes!" said Esther, joining her friend. Suddenly, the tow-head appeared at the door. "Be ye sick?" inquired the surprised hostess. "No," answered Miss Gale, "only giving our college yell." "Ye don't say! Is them the kind er doin's ye has where ye goes ter school?" "A yell is a safety-valve, don't you see, Mrs. Svenson?" But Mrs. Svenson left the room mumbling to herself. At a late hour, Grace Gale made a shake down of one blanket, for Esther and herself. Then Esther proposed they use Mrs. Clayton's cushions, and shawls, and robe, to complete the preparations. Edith slept in the bed. After a while, the hostess asked: "Are your bones coming through, Esther?" "No, but I am sorry to put you to such inconvenience. I hope you won't take cold. There is a chill in the air to-night." "No more o' that, honey. I'm just glad to see you. This is the biggest lark I have had since I came to Arizona." The visitors laughed with her. "My! It is eleven o'clock, and I must not keep this sick child awake any longer. Good night, Esther." "Good night, Grace." "Good night, Edith." "Good night." A long pause. "Esther," softly, "are you asleep?" "No." "I am so glad you came. I was almost dead from homesickness." "Were you, Grace? I'm so sorry I didn't know you were so near." On the following morning, the vivacious hostess said: "I can't let you go. I'm so lonely." And to her surprise, tears rolled down her cheeks. "You dear girl!" said Esther, slipping her arm about her. "Get your hat, and go with us on our visit to Dr. Brown. We have enough luncheon to last us a week. Come right along." So off the three drove. It was a perfect May day, the kind found only in Arizona. The air was crystal clear, and the sky a deep blue. All along, there were thickets of sweet briar, and sweet peas; and cactuses, just beginning to bloom, made the way one of continual splendor. The air was exhilarating; so was the sunshine; so was Grace Gale. "Oh, you're just as good as a tonic, Miss Gale," said Edith. All three seemed to see the funny side of everything, and laughed even when there was no excuse for laughing. The gladness of the day was contagious. The physician looked grave when he saw the unnatural pallor of Edith's face, and noted her heart action. "It is well Miss Bright brought you to me at once, Edith," he said. "You need immediate medical attention. I wish you could remain with us a few days." But she insisted upon returning with her teacher. After a due amount of rest and refreshment, they started homeward, leaving Miss Gale at her boarding place. Then the two approached the ford again. The stream was higher than on the preceding day, and the waters raging. Once more the spirited team dashed forward. Once more the carriage swung with the current; only, now, it was swifter and stronger than on the day before. "Oh, this is terrible!" said Edith, grasping her companion's arm. "Keep up courage, Edith," said Esther. "I think we'll make it." But she noted the deathly whiteness of the girl's face. "Steady, Rocket! Steady, Star!" said the teacher. Her own face grew tense and white. She felt the carriage swing with a sudden lurch, and it began to dawn upon her that the horses might lose in the struggle. She lifted the reins, and called out above the roar of the waters: "On, Rocket! On, Star! Once more, my beauties! Bravo! Oh, God, give them strength! On!" She rose in her excitement, and swung the reins. The noble animals struggled madly. Could they gain the opposite bank? She was filled with sickening fear. "On, Rocket! On, Star!" she urged again. At that moment, the exhausted animals gained the mastery, sprang up the embankment, and stopped suddenly on the level beyond, quivering from their terrific struggle. Esther gave the reins to Edith, and springing from the carriage, she stepped to the horses' heads, patting and stroking them. Her voice trembled as she said: "Rocket, my brave, Star, my beauty, we owe our lives to you." They whinnied as if they understood. She put her cheek to their noses, she laughed, she cried. "I believe they understand," she said. "I feel sure they do," answered Edith. When Esther climbed back into the carriage, she found Edith had fainted. She waited till her patient regained consciousness, and then they started homeward. "Do you know," said Edith, after they had gone some distance, "we have had a very narrow escape? A little more, and we'd have been swept down the river." "I didn't realize the full danger until we were in the midst of the torrent," said Esther. "There was no choice but to go on. I thank God that your life is safe, dear," she added, drawing the girl affectionately to her. "I hope our troubles are over now, and that you'll feel no ill effects from the fright." They had covered miles of the return journey, and had reached the canyon road leading directly to Gila. Here, for a short distance, the canyon stream spreads wide, flowing over a pebbly bottom. The water sparkled in the sunlight like a stream of diamonds. In the shallows, the bed of the stream seemed jeweled with rubies and emeralds, opals and amethysts, as the pebbles below the crystal water shimmered in the late sunshine. They were within a mile of Gila when they heard the sharp, shrill cry of wolves. Esther tightened the reins, and the horses fairly flew. "Have we a gun with us, Miss Bright? We ought to have one. I always feel safer when I have a gun. You never know what you may meet on these mountain roads." "Can you shoot?" asked Esther. "Oh, yes; father trained me to shoot. Oh, those terrible wolves!" she said, as the shrill, mournful cries came nearer. "On, Rocket! On, Star!" urged Esther, again. The animals made a sudden lunge, and sped onward like mad. Around jagged turns they flew, as if inviting death; near precipitous cliffs they swung, till the driver was filled with sickening terror. On they raced, the wolves in hot pursuit. "Oh, dear!" said Edith, looking back. "One large wolf is far in advance, and close upon us." Quick as a flash, she stooped, took a great haunch of venison Dr. Brown had sent to her father, and flung it behind them. Then she watched in intense excitement. "Oh!" she exclaimed, striking her hands together, "the wolf has discovered the venison, and has stopped!" With that, she took the whip, and gave the already excited animals a stinging blow. They leaped and plunged madly forward. Esther doubled the reins around her hands, and called in low, insistent tones: "Steady, Rocket! Steady, Star!" They had gained upon their pursuers, and the horses were running at furious speed. "The she-wolf," said Edith, looking back, "is again following; but the smaller wolves are snarling over the venison." "Ow-ee-ow," came the wolf-cry, shriller, sharper, nearer. Esther shuddered. She urged the horses on. Edith grasped her arm in terror. "The wolf is just behind us!" she said. Suddenly there was the report of a gun. Esther glanced back, and saw the wolf fall in the road. She glanced ahead, and, at first, she saw no one. Then, out from the shade of a group of pines, rode Kenneth Hastings. "Whoa! Whoa!" he called, as he leaped from his own horse, and caught Rocket by the bits. With a sudden lurch, the team came to a standstill. "Whoa, Rocket! Whoa, Star!" he called soothingly, as he held and quieted the team. "Oh, thank you, thank you, Mr. Hastings!" said Esther. "When did you reach Gila?" "We're _so_ glad to see you!" said both, as he stepped to the carriage and extended a hand to each. "But how did you happen to be here?" asked Esther. "I came in this morning. Mrs. Clayton told me you had gone to Carlisle, and would be back about this time. I have felt anxious about you ever since I heard you had undertaken this journey." Again both repeated their gratitude for his timely assistance. He could see they were trembling. "Your horses were running away," he said. "They are nervous creatures, and are still frightened." After a while, he suggested that they drive on slowly, while he kept guard, in case wolves should pursue them farther. Then he mounted his horse, and rode beside their carriage. So they covered the remaining distance, talking of many things that had happened during the weeks of his absence. As they approached the Clayton residence, Mrs. Clayton and Carla came out to welcome them. "How are you, Edith?" questioned the anxious mother. "I hardly know," answered the girl. "I've been frightened nearly to death. I guess the fright cured me." "I think she is better," added Esther. "Dr. Brown's medicine has helped her." "But what frightened you?" asked the mother. Then Edith told of the peril of the ford, and of the pursuit of the wolves, dwelling on Kenneth's opportune assistance. "We owe a great deal to you, Kenneth," said Mrs. Clayton, her eyes filling with tears. "Oh, that was only a trifle, Mrs. Clayton," he said, carelessly. "Come dine with us to-night, Kenneth, won't you?" asked his friend. After thanking her, he mounted his horse, lifted his cap, and went on his way to headquarters. And Esther Bright! What was in her heart? We shall see. CHAPTER XVII THE DAY OF THE GREAT RACE It was pay-day in Gila. Miners from far and near were in camp. Cow-punchers had come from the range; cowlasses, also, were to be seen here and there, chaffing with men they knew. The one street had suddenly taken on human interest. Representatives of different nations were to be seen in all directions, some going to, and some coming from the saloons. Groups of men and women gathered to gossip. Comments on affairs of the community, and especially on the approaching race, were freely interlarded with profanity. Along the street, strolled Lord Kelwin, puffing away at a cigar. Apparently he was a good "mixer." "So you've entered your mare fur the race," said a cow-puncher, slapping him familiarly on the back. "What in blank do you expect her to do? She ain't fit fur nothin' but takin' gals hossback ridin', eh?" And he laughed uproariously at his attempt at wit. "Better cut out that part of the race. That belongs to another brand o' cattle. Come! Have a drink." Saying which, they entered the saloon where Pete Tompkins presided. The air was already stiff with smoke and profanity. Men had congregated there soon after receiving their wages. In a little room apart, sat men intent on a game of cards. Lord Kelwin joined them. One of the players, a mining engineer, was a professional gambler, who frequently raked into his pockets the hard-earned wages of many laboring men. Everyone save the engineer seemed tense. Once in a while, a smothered oath was heard. At the close of the game, the Irish lord, also, began to play. He had been drinking, and though an experienced player, he was no match for the sober gambler. He lost heavily. At the close of the game, he drank again, then staggered out of the door. Ah, how many had done the same! Pete Tompkins followed, gibing him about entering the mare in the race. "What in blank are ye enterin' her fur?" asked the aforesaid Pete. The men gathered about expectant of a fray. "What am--I--entering her--for--(staggering and hiccoughing)--entering her for? Ye blanked Americans!--I'm entering her for Miss Bright--Miss Bright, ye know--Miss Bright--" He laughed a silly laugh. "I'm going to marry her." Here, he indulged in a drunken jest that sent some of the men into fits of laughter. A few, standing outside the door, had attended the men's club and the Sunday service. Jack Harding, passing at that moment, stopped to speak with one of the men, and overheard the reference to Esther Bright. His face grew sternly white. He stepped in front of the boastful Irishman, and said in a stern, quiet voice: "Brute, say that you lied." "Blank you, you religious hypocrite," roared Lord Kelwin, "you can't bully me!" Jack Harding sprang upon him, gripped his throat like a vice, and demanded that he retract every insulting word he had said about the teacher. "What is that to you? Blank you!" gasped the Irishman. Jack Harding's grasp tightened. "Say it," he repeated, in deadly quiet tones. "Say that all you said about that pure, good woman is a lie." His tone was as inexorable as fate. The Irishman's eyes grew fixed with terror, his tongue hung from his mouth, his face grew purple. Still that calm intense voice reiterating in his ear: "Say it! Say that all you said was a lie." Seeing Lord Kelwin's extreme danger, some one attempted to interfere. Cries were heard: "Let them alone!" "It's none of your funeral!" "Jack Harding was right. Kelwin _did_ lie, and he's a blackguard for saying what he did." Then man after man took up the cry: "Kelwin, ye blanked coward, _say_ ye lied! Ye know ye lied!" At last the Irishman gave the sign. Jack Harding released him. Then, somewhat sobered, he muttered: "I did lie about a true woman. All I said was a lie." He staggered from the scene, and Jack Harding passed on his way. The race was to be on a track in the valley below. As it was Saturday, John Clayton had suggested to Esther that she and Edith take a horseback ride with him, to see the last part of the race; for, he assured her, she would see human life, as well as horse speed, there. As they approached the track from the mountain road, hoarse cries and yells could be heard. Excitement ran high. A few thoroughbreds had been entered for the race, but the greater number of entries were for horse-flesh that could boast neither registered sires nor grandsires. They were just "horses." The last race began just as the Clayton party turned and looked down on the wriggling, shoving, cursing crowd below. It is doubtful if Esther Bright had ever heard such language, in all her life, as she heard that day. She shuddered, and turning to her escort, asked why he had brought her there. "Just for you to see what animals human beings are, and how great is their need of refining, uplifting influences." "Is John Harding here?" she asked, uneasily. "We are all here," he answered, smiling, "including Jack. You need never worry about him again. You found him a sinner, and--" "And he has become a saint?" she supplemented. "Not exactly a saint," he answered, "but you have brought about a complete transformation in the man's life and character. Jack could never return to what he was, be sure of that!" "Kelwin! Kelwin's ahead!" shouted a hoarse voice, above the noise of the crowd. "Blank ye!" retorted another, "Bill Hines is ahead! I seen 'em turn fust!" "Ye lie!" continued the first. Away to the right, speeding around a curve in the race course, four horses were straining every muscle. Occasionally a cow-puncher would lift his quirt, and make it hum through the air, or lash the poor beast, already straining to its utmost speed. For a few moments, the racers were concealed from view by a mass of rocks. When they emerged again, they were greeted by yells from bystanders. A cowlass, mounted on a spirited animal, was in the lead. She swore almost constantly at her horse, occasionally cutting him with her quirt. Lord Kelwin, now somewhat sobered, made a close second; and Bill Hines and Bill Weeks were neck and neck behind the Irishman. The crowd cheered and cheered. The girl leading was as fine a specimen of the human animal as the horse she rode was of the horse kind. She sat her horse superbly. Finally, Lord Kelwin gained upon her, and the horses were neck and neck. The girl again whirled her quirt around till it cut the air with a hissing sound, and spoke to her horse. It was enough. The betting grew louder. The stakes grew heavier. "I know Kelwin'll win yet." "No, he won't. Kate Brown'll win. She's a devil to ride, that girl is!" Again the Irishman gained upon her. Again she sent her quirt singing through the air, and her horse obeyed as though horse and rider were one. He sped faster and faster, passed Lord Kelwin, then the starting point, and the race was won. "Hurrah for Kate Brown and Lightning!" shouted hoarse voices; and cowboys and cowlasses and everyone else yelled and shouted, and shouted and yelled. It seemed as though pandemonium had been let loose. Jack Harding had gone to the races chiefly to dog the steps of Lord Kelwin; so, if the Irishman had been inclined to speak lightly of Esther Bright again, he would have had to reckon with him. Kelwin felt himself shadowed by the cowboy, and a great fear took possession of him. As he dismounted, his scant clothing was wet, and clung to his person. The race had not improved his temper any. To be beaten, and beaten by a woman, and that woman an American cowlass, was the very limit of what he could endure from "raw America" that day. He swore to the right of him; he swore to the left of him. Then glancing over the crowd, he discovered the Clayton party overlooking the scene. John Clayton, ignorant of the episode at the saloon, was beckoning him to join them. Lord Kelwin was about to do so, when Jack Harding stepped up to him and said: "Don't you dare enter that woman's presence!" Lord Kelwin placed his hand on his gun, saying: "Oh, you needn't give me any of your impudent American advice, you mongrel cur!" "Never mind what I am," said Jack; "that woman is one of the truest, purest souls on earth. You are not fit to enter her presence. You have _me_ to deal with, remember." His great eyes flashed upon the Irishman, who quailed before him. "Oh, you needn't be so high and mighty," said Lord Kelwin, changing his tactics. "I don't care a blank about her, anyway. She's only an American working woman, an Indian at that." "So this is nobility," Jack said to himself. "Nobility! What is it to be _noble_?" The race was followed by a dance in one of the saloons, and the lowest of the low were there. At four o'clock in the morning, those sober enough went to their homes; the others stretched out anywhere, in a deep drunken sleep; and pay-day and its pleasuring were over. Men and women awakened to find their money gone; and for the first time in years, they felt shame. Sunday came. The hour of the service drew near. Esther Bright had thought out what she would say that day about the Race for Life. But when she rose to speak, she had a strange experience. All she had thought to say, vanished; and before her mind's eye, she saw the words, "The wages of sin is death." There were perhaps a hundred people before her in the timber (where the services were now held),--men and women among them, who, the day before, had forgotten they were created in the image of God, and who had groveled to the level of beasts. These men, these women, had come to this spot this day, why, they did not know. Why Esther Bright said the things she said that day, _she_ did not know, either. All she knew was that the words came, and that there were men and women before her whom she must help. Those who had sunken so low the day before, cried out in repentance, as they listened to her words. God's message, through Esther Bright's voice, had come to men's business and bosoms. Called of God, she said they were,--called to be true men, true women. From time to time, she quoted, "The wages of sin is death." One could almost hear his heart beat. The meeting was over, so far as Esther Bright's part in it was concerned; then it passed from her control. First one, then another rose, confessed his sins, and asked for her prayers. And what of Esther? She sat as pale as death, her face alight with a sweetness and compassion that did not seem of earth. Kenneth Hastings watched her with deepening reverence. Her words had gone to his heart, too, and he sang with deep feeling: "Just as I am, without one plea." As the song ceased, Pete Tompkins (to everyone's amazement) sprang to his feet. "Ye'll be s'prised ter hear from me, I reckon,"--Here he shoved his hand, lean and gaunt, up through his hair. "But I've been listenin' ter schoolma'am ever sence she begun preachin' in the timber, an' all I've got ter say is she ain't _our_ brand, or the Devil's brand either. When the Boss sent out his puncher ter round up folks, he cut her out an' branded her with the mark o' God. I know she's tellin' the gospel truth. She's got more courage 'n any blanked one o' yer. I done 'er a mean trick onct. I said blanked mean things about 'er. I'm sorry I done it, blanked ef I ain't! Ter show 'er an' you that I mean ter be differ'nt, I say, here an' now, that I wanter see these meetin's go on, 's long 's schoolma'am 'll be our angel an' pilot us. Ter prove I mean it, I'll plank down this hunderd dollars" (holding up a hundred-dollar bill) "toward buildin' a meetin' house; an' I'll give more, blanked ef I don't! How many wants a meetin' house in Gila? Stand up!" Many stood. "_Stand up, the hull blanked lot o' ye!_" said the self-appointed leader in forcible tones. To Esther's astonishment, the people rose, and remained standing. The notes of a thrush were caught up by a mocking bird, then a warbler joined in, and the waiting people listened. The song of the birds "came like the benediction that follows after prayer." At last the company dispersed, and Esther Bright sat alone, absorbed in silent prayer. CHAPTER XVIII NIGHT ON THE RANGE The cowboys and cowlasses had long been back on the range, and the attendance at the clubs had decreased in consequence. Many still came to the Sunday service in the timber; and the children remained in the school, notwithstanding the increasing heat. Continuous labor, and the intense heat, were beginning to tell on Esther Bright. As June approached, she occasionally spoke of going home; but whenever she did so, there was a chorus of protests, especially from Kenneth Hastings. Couldn't she spend the summer in Arizona, and they would camp on one of the forest mesas, a party of them? It would give her new life and strength. She shook her head listlessly. One idea grew and possessed her: she must go home, home to her grandfather. Into Esther's manner, when in the presence of Kenneth Hastings, had come a deepening reserve. And yet, from time to time, she spoke with feeling of her gratitude to him for rescuing Edith and herself on the day of his return. Her erstwhile gayety had departed, and in its place was a seriousness that seemed akin to sadness. Kenneth Hastings studied her, puzzled. He shared the solicitude the Claytons evidently felt for her. All knew she had drawn too lavishly upon her strength in her unselfish service for others. They also knew that warnings and protests availed nothing; that she must learn through experience the necessity of conservation of energy. Too useful a woman, Kenneth Hastings said of her, to wear herself out in service for a lot of common people. But he did not understand. He was to learn. At the close of a fatiguing day, a day of withering heat, John Clayton came home to dinner, bringing Kenneth with him. Esther Bright and Edith Clayton sat on the veranda as they approached. "Miss Bright," said the host, "I have a proposition to make:--that you and Mrs. Clayton accompany Mr. Hastings and me to Clifton to-morrow. Fortunately, to-morrow will be Friday. We can start soon after school is dismissed, and return Saturday, riding in the cool of the day." "Delightful!" she exclaimed, with evident pleasure, "How far is it?" "About twenty miles, I think," he answered. "Twenty miles? On horseback? I'm afraid I can't endure the fatigue of so long a ride. I am already so tired!" "Really!" said Kenneth, in a mocking tone. "You at last acknowledge that you are tired! I am astonished." But she was unresponsive. As the plans were discussed for the long ride, Esther gradually roused, and entered into the occasion with spirit. It was decided that the four should go in the surrey. Carla and Edith were to remain at home; and as Jack Harding was still in camp, he was to be general protector of the girls until the return of the party. As the sun began to lower, Friday afternoon, the party drove away from camp, first north, then east, toward Clifton. They crossed and recrossed the Gila River for some distance, passing many of the abandoned cliff dwellings along the canyon. Everywhere, the desert foothills, and the crevices of jagged, cliffs were ablaze with cactus blossoms. As the cool came on, the air grew delightful, and Esther seemed to awaken once more to the pure joy of living. Could they tell her anything of the cliff dwellers? They certainly could. And John Clayton told her of the Hopi Indians, and their customs. People of peace they were; keepers of sheep, lovers of the heavens, and knew the mystery of the stars as no one else did. Their men honored their women, he said. And then he laughingly told her that the Hopi Indians were women suffragists. The Hopi women, he said, were given more rights than were the women of civilization. "What rights?" she asked. Then he described his visit to Hopi land, telling her of the superior place the Hopi woman occupies in the life of the Hopi people. The talk drifted to Indians in general, Esther Bright asking many questions, indicating on her part a deep and growing interest in these native lords of the valleys and mesas. Just as they were crossing a bridge over the river, they met Lord Kelwin on horseback. It was the first time they had met him since the race. John Harding had not seen fit to tell Kenneth or the Claytons of his experiences with the Irishman, as long as he himself was in camp to protect Esther Bright. John Clayton reined in his horses to greet Lord Kelwin. The Irishman spoke to them, but looked at Esther. After learning their destination and the probable time of their return, he lifted his cap and rode on. Esther Bright was annoyed. She could hardly have told why. "Lord Kelwin is a genial fellow," John Clayton remarked, turning to speak to Esther; but, observing the expression of her face, he asked in a surprised tone: "Don't you like Lord Kelwin, Miss Bright?" "No," she answered, quietly. Kenneth laughed. Then, turning around, he said in a bantering tone: "But he told me you had gone horseback riding with him, daily, while I was away." "He's mistaken, Kenneth," responded John Clayton. "Miss Bright went riding with him about three times." "Three times too many," said Kenneth, apparently teasing, but with an undertone of seriousness. Mrs. Clayton adroitly turned the conversation. "John, tell Miss Bright about your meeting General C." Then he told how the general came to Arizona, and of his wise dealings with the red men. He explained the reason for the great unrest of the Indians after the general withdrew. He told how he was summoned from the Department of the Platte in 1882, and of the capture of Geronimo and his band. "And Geronimo is supposed to be the father of our little Wathemah!" Esther exclaimed. "Some think so," he said. "I have my doubts. He looks as though he might be a mixture of Apache, Mexican and Spanish." "Whatever he is, he is an attractive child," she said. "How did you come to meet General C.?" "He and his troops marched through Gila. I entertained the officers at the ranch over night." As he spoke, they came upon a pappoose, tied to a tree, and blinking in the afternoon sunshine. Just beyond, they found a group of Apaches. The women were cooking fish over live coals of fire. The men seemed to recognize John Clayton. He greeted them in the tongue of the Mexicans, as he drove by, while the Indians jabbered and gesticulated violently. At the bridge just beyond, they crossed the Gila for the last time before turning northward. There, they saw a young Apache catching fish. He glanced up, and Esther recognized in him the visitor who had found her at the schoolhouse. It was evident he knew her, for he started towards the surrey. "He is one of the friendly Apaches," explained John Clayton. "He's often on the range, and has adopted some of the cowboy regimentals, you see." The driver stopped his horses. The Indian came forward, offering John Clayton a number of fish strung on a withe. As he did so, he turned towards Esther, and said: "N[=e]-sh[=e]-äd-nl[)e]h´." "What does he mean?" asked Esther. "I think he wants to buy you from me with these fish," answered John Clayton, turning to her with an amused smile. Putting his hand into a tin box, he took from it a handful of cookies, gave them to the young Indian, and drove on. As they looked back, the last cake was about to disappear down the Indian's throat. "Poor things," said Esther, "they have had no chance." Then Kenneth rallied her on becoming a missionary to the Indians. "I'd be glad to help them as the early Jesuit priests did," she answered. "I cannot but feel that the Indian policy has been very faulty, and that the Indians have been the victims of grafters, some unprincipled Indian agents, and the scum of the white race. You tell me, Mr. Clayton, that the Mexican government offered a bounty of $100 for every Apache man's scalp, $50 for every Apache woman's scalp, and $25 for every Apache child's scalp? I'd fight, too," she continued, indignantly. "I know I'd fight. Poor things!" The company laughed at her championship, and told her how vicious the Apaches were, and many more matters of Indian history. The company were approaching a narrow canyon, through which they must pass for some distance. The waters dashed and boiled in eddies, where huge bowlders obstructed the way, making a pleasant murmur to the ear, soft and musical and low. And Esther Bright listened. Her heart, stirred to sudden anger by the stories of injustice and cruel wrong, was soothed into quiet by this slumber song of the ages. Oh, the music of the waters of the canyon! How, once heard, it echoes in the heart forever! In the midst of the unrest and discord of the world, how the memory of it keeps one close to the very heart of things! How it lingers! How it sings! They drove under, then around, an overhanging rock, beyond which, like ruins of ancient castles, storm-scarred, majestic, towered cliffs to a height of a thousand feet or more. The shadows had deepened in the canyon, adding to the solemn grandeur of it all. From every cleft of rock, apparently, a cactus had sprung into life, and had blossomed into flowers of exquisite beauty. All the journey was like a triumphal way, garlanded with flowers. At last they reached an open place in the canyon, and followed a track leading upward to a level plain. A short drive up a rocky way brought them to a vast mesa. Here they halted for the night. Some distance to the west, Esther spied a covered wagon with horses tethered near. There was a man busying himself about the wagon, and about the bonfire. John Clayton explained to Esther that this was the cook for the squads of cowboys, and that near where the man was working, the men would camp for the night. She watched the movements of the cook with some curiosity. The Clayton party had now stepped from the surrey, and removed from it the seats, blankets, and provisions. The two men returned to the canyon to gather dry driftwood for their fire for the night. During the ride of the afternoon, as the company had wound around the foothills, they had seen great herds of cattle, thousands of cattle, on the hills and mesas. But now, Esther was to see with her own eyes, the great event of life on the range. This vast out-of-doors was all so novel to her, so intensely interesting! She stood and drew in great breaths of air. Her eyes darkened. The pupils of her eyes had a way of dilating whenever she felt deeply. Although the cowboys and cowlasses had told Esther much about the round-ups, she felt quite ignorant of the whole matter. They had explained to her about the free range, how it was divided into imaginary sections, and how the "boss" cattleman would send groups of cow-punchers to each of these various sections to look after the cattle. John Clayton and Kenneth Hastings returned from the canyon, bringing a can of water, and dry driftwood. They at once began to build their bonfire, and to prepare their evening meal. As they worked, they talked. "If you watch from here," suggested Kenneth, "you'll see the close of the round-up, comfortably." "What do they mean by 'cutting out' the cattle?" asked Esther. "Don't you know that yet?" laughed John Clayton. "That is cowboy slang. As the cow-punchers approach (cow-punchers are cowboys, you know--)" "Yes, I know that much." "Well, as they approach you will see them weaving in and out among the cattle, lashing some with their quirts, and driving them out from the mass of cattle. This is called 'cutting out.' The cattle of different owners all run together on the range until time for the round-ups." "How often do they have these?" she asked. "There are two general round-ups, spring and fall; and others, when necessary for extra shipments of cattle." "How can they tell which belongs to which?" "By the brand," explained Kenneth. "Each cattle owner brands every one of his cattle with a certain mark, which determines whose property the animal is." The two women now placed cushions on the carriage seats, and sat down to watch the close of the round-up. The sunset was one of unusual splendor, the glory of color falling over the mesa, and the mountain peaks that loomed up far away. As they watched the sky, they spied a cloud of dust in the distance. "At last the cattle are coming!" exclaimed Mrs. Clayton. The dust cloud grew, coming nearer and nearer. It had a fascination for Esther. While they were speculating as to the probable number of cattle, and the cowboys and cowlasses who might be with them, Kenneth Hastings and John Clayton sauntered over to the mess wagon to await the closing scene. From that point, the men watched; and from their location, the women watched the on-coming herds. The dust cloud grew larger. The great mass of struggling cattle came steadily on. After a while, cowboys could be seen, and whirling of ropes. Nearer and nearer they came, the cowboys dealing stinging blows with their quirts. The bellowing of cattle, the cursing of men, and the choking fog of dust, all mingled together, came to the two women, who watched from a safe distance. In their intense interest, they forgot that the supper hour was long past, and watched. They saw cow-punchers, weaving in and out among the cattle, whirling ropes, and yelling, and cursing by turns, until each cowboy had separated the cattle in his charge from the others. It was an enormous task. The men were still cursing and lashing, when the last soft color of the afterglow faded from the sky. When the work of the round-up was finally over, and the men were free for the night, Esther heard the cook call out to them: "Grub's ready! Cut out y'r talkin'!" adding profanity, as if to whet the appetites of the hungry men. Then the cowboys, dirt begrimed, fell to, and were soon eating with a relish that would have made dyspeptics green with envy. Slowly, John Clayton and Kenneth Hastings sauntered back, finding their own repast ready for them. They, too, had found a keen edge to their appetite. Esther even went so far as to suggest that they might have done well to have accepted the Apache's fish. "Whom do you suppose we found over there?" asked Mr. Clayton. "Our boys," suggested Esther. "Yes, several who have been at the club and at the meetings. They know you are here, Miss Bright. Let's see what they'll do." Before the meal was over, the stars began to appear in the heavens. John Clayton threw great quantities of driftwood on the bonfire, and in a few moments, the flames were licking the logs. The voices of the cow-punchers came to them now and then, but the profanity had ceased. Suddenly, singing was heard. They listened. The cowboys were singing, "There were ninety and nine." From the singing, it was evident that the men were approaching the Clayton camp. In a moment more, they were there. Would they be seated? John Clayton had asked. So, around the camp fire they grouped, their faces and forms indistinct in the flickering light. They made a weird and picturesque group against the darkness of the night. "An' phwat do yez think now of a round-up?" asked Mike Maloney, of night school celebrity. Mike had been the star pupil in arithmetic. "Splendid!" said Esther, with contagious enthusiasm. "To see that host of cattle approach, the ropes swinging, the horses rearing and plunging, and the magnificent setting of the mountains at sunset,--why, it was glorious!" The men grinned their delight. Bill Weeks then grew eloquent about cattle. "We come across a herd o' antelopes to-day," interrupted another. Bill Weeks returned again to his favorite theme. Cattle were his life. In the midst of a dissertation on their good points, he was again interrupted with: "Oh, cut that out! Ye kin talk cattle any old day. We wants ter hear Miss Bright sing." "Yes, sing," all clamored. "_Do_ sing!" "What shall I sing?" "'Oft in the Stilly Night,'" one suggested. But they were not satisfied with one song, and called loudly for another. Then she sang, "Flee as a bird to Your Mountain." Esther Bright, as she stood and sang that night, was a picture one could never forget. Then around the crackling fire, story after story was told. The fire burned low. The dome above sparkled with myriads of stars. At last the cowboys rose, and returned to their camp. "Now we'll heap up the fire for the night, Kenneth," said John Clayton, "and arrange our shakedowns." "'Shakedowns,' John?" said his wife. "You don't call a blanket and cushion on a mesa a shakedown, do you?" "Why not?" Then the two men withdrew to the farther side of the fire. The women crawled into their blankets, and soon felt the warmth of the still heated earth upon which they lay. "Good night!" called the men's voices, and "Good night!" returned the women. Then silence brooded over the camp. For the first time in her life, Esther was bedded on the ground. Her face was turned upward, her eyes, fixed upon the starry deeps. Hour after hour went by. The regular breathing of her fellow-travelers assured her that all were asleep. She could not sleep. The marvelous scene above her grew upon her. She lay still, looking, looking into the infinite, that infinite around her, above her, beyond and beyond forever, who knows whither? The air, at first dark about her, grew into a weird, wonderful light. The dome grew vaster and vaster; and, with the marvelous expansion, she began to realize stars. They seemed to move from their solid ebon background, and to float in space. Stars! What do stars mean to the ordinary human? Just stars that come and go as a matter of course; just as men eat and drink, buy and sell, live and die. I say Esther Bright began to _realize_ stars. I do not mean by that that she was unfamiliar with certain astronomical facts all intelligent people are supposed to know. Far from it. She knew much of mathematical astronomy. It had a fascination for her. But she had not _realized_ stars, _felt_ stars, as she was to realize them this night. All the world was shut out from her vision, save that marvelous dome of sky, alight with myriads and myriads of stars, from zenith to horizon. She recalled Milton's description of the floor of heaven, and reveled in the thought. She gazed on one tremulous star, till it seemed a soul in space, beckoning to her to join it, in the company of the glorified. Her vision intensified. Into the Milky Way she gazed, till it seemed to her the pathway up to God. God! What was God? Then the stillness grew till it seemed the Infinite Presence. The stars, she was sure, made a shining pathway straight to her. Across the pathway, flashed shooting stars. She saw it all so clearly. Then the vast space, up to the shadowy shores of the Infinite Sea, filled with a strange, unearthly light. God! Was this _God_? Then she must be on holy ground! She felt herself lifted into the Everlasting Arms. The wind rose and whispered softly. And Esther Bright slept. Who shall say she did not sleep close to the very heart of God? CHAPTER XIX INASMUCH While the Clayton party were journeying from Clifton, John Harding was on guard, vigilant, watchful. In the Post Office that morning, he chanced to hear some one repeat a boast Lord Kelwin had made in regard to Carla Earle, whom he had heretofore treated with patronizing condescension. John Harding returned to Clayton Ranch, and invented excuses to be about the house, saying, as he went off to do some chores, that if they needed him, just to call him, adding that he'd be within hearing. Carla and Edith joked a little about his solicitude, and went about their daily tasks, planning surprises for the hungry company, on their return that night. Carla seemed happier this day than usual, and began to make a soft music in her throat like the warbling of a bird. She had been alone in the room for some time, when she heard a step. She stopped warbling when she recognized the voice of Lord Kelwin, whom she instinctively feared. He had entered the house unannounced, and now walked into the dining room. "Aha, my beauty!" he said, stepping toward her. "Aha, my bird! Caught at last!" She saw that he was intoxicated. "So you are alone at last, bird." He flung himself between her and the door. Something in his face filled her with disgust and alarm. He kept coming towards her, uttering words of insolent familiarity, and she kept backing away. Finally he lunged forward, grasped her by the arm, and tried to hold her. Evidently, he had not counted on opposition from her; and when he found his will thwarted, all the beast in him seemed roused. He struck her in the mouth, calling her vile names as he did so. In an instant, her shrieks of terror went ringing through the house. They brought Edith, in sudden alarm, and John Harding. The latter, recognizing the situation at a glance, sprang forward, and clutched the Irishman by the throat. "Let her go," he said, "you blankety blanked coward. Let her go, I say!" As he spoke, he gripped Kelwin's throat tightly, shaking him as if he were a rat. Then he grew dangerously white. The visitor, enraged at this unexpected interference, grew violent. He turned upon Jack Harding, and drew his gun; but Jack, sober and alert, knocked the gun from his hand; and, closing with him, dealt terrific blows in his face. All the brute in the drunken man roused. The sober man had the advantage. The struggle lasted but a few moments, though it seemed an eternity to the frightened girls. Finally, Jack Harding placed his knees on Kelwin's chest and arms, his hand on his throat, choking him until he gasped for mercy. Then the cowboy let him rise. As soon as he was free, he began to curse Carla Earle. Jack Harding promptly knocked him down. Partly sobered, the man rose, and staggered from the room. Carla stood trembling, her face white with fear. Harding saw her distress, and said with unusual gentleness: "Don't ye care, Miss Carla. 'Tain't so, anyway. He lied. He'll pay for it." "Oh, don't meddle with him, I beg you," she said with sudden alarm. "He might shoot you." "Shoot? Let him. But he can't insult any decent woman, while I'm near to protect her. Mark that." Carla turned to resume her duties, but fell in a limp heap on the floor. Then Edith and Jack Harding worked to bring her to. At last her eyes opened. She looked around, dazed, bewildered. When she realized what had happened, she asked: "Has that dreadful man gone?" On being assured that he was at a safe distance, she tried to rise, but her knees gave way, and she sank to the floor again. So Jack and Edith prepared the evening meal, and waited. At last they heard the sound of the returning carriage, and, a few moments later, welcomed the party at the gate. When John Clayton heard what had happened, he seemed dumfounded. "How dared he? How dared he?" he repeated, indignantly. But Kenneth's mouth set hard, and it did not augur well for Lord Kelwin. For one thing, all were thankful during the ensuing weeks,--the Irish nobleman no longer came to Clayton Ranch, socially, or otherwise. He managed to keep himself in the background, and was seldom heard of save as he figured in some drunken brawl. But Jack Harding, who understood him best of all, and who knew the venom of his tongue, hounded him day by day. And there grew up in Lord Kelwin's mind a deepening fear and hate of Jack Harding. CHAPTER XX A WOMAN'S NO Miles and miles of desert country, sometimes a dull red, sometimes almost yellow of hue; over that a dome of bluest blue; between the two, air, crystalline, and full of light; and everywhere, scattered with reckless profusion, from Nature's lavish hand, the splendor of cactus blossoms. That is Arizona in June. And in this glory of color, one June day, walked Mrs. Clayton and Esther Bright, returning from a round of neighborhood calls. As they approached Clayton Ranch, they paused to admire the cactus blossoms. The giant cactus, towering above the house, was now covered with a profusion of exquisite blossoms of deepest pink. Red blossoms, pink blossoms, white blossoms, yellow blossoms everywhere, but guarded by thousands of thorns and spines. Esther stopped and picked some yellow blossoms from the prickly pear, only to find her fingers stinging from its minute spines. "It serves me right," she said, making a wry face. "I knew better, but I love the blossoms." "Good evening," called a cheery voice from the veranda. It was Mr. Clayton. "Kenneth called to see you, Miss Bright," he continued. "He would like you to go for a drive with him this evening." "Far?" she asked. "He didn't say." The two women entered the house, and soon returned refreshed. On the spacious veranda, the family gathered in the cool of the day, to feast their eyes on the gorgeous sunsets. "Do you know," said Esther, "it refreshes me whenever I _look_ at snow-capped Mt. Graham?" She looked far away to the south. "I shall miss it all," she said, pensively, "all the grandeur of scene, miss all of you here, miss my dear children, when I go home." "Oh, I hate to think of your going," said Edith, lifting the teacher's hand to her cheek. "I'm afraid you won't come back." "What's that I hear about not coming back?" asked Kenneth Hastings, who, at that moment, joined them. "I said I was afraid Miss Bright wouldn't come back," explained Edith. "I hope you are not thinking of going East soon," said Kenneth quietly. When she announced that she should, he protested vigorously. That evening, Esther rode with him through beautiful mountain scenes. The heavens were still colored with the soft afterglow, as they sped along the upland road. Later, the moon rose, flooding the earth with its weird, transfiguring light. Once more, Kenneth told Esther his past. He wanted her to know all there was to know, he said simply. Then he poured into her ears the old, old story, sweetest story ever told, when love speaks and love listens. But Esther's eyes were haunted by a sudden fear. Kenneth paused, and waited for her to speak. Then, with a tightening of the lips, he listened to her answer. She had not thought of love and marriage. She had naturally grown into thinking that she would devote herself to philanthropic work, as her grandfather, before her, had done. "Yes," Kenneth said; "but your grandfather married; and his children married, and you, I take it, are the joy of his life. Suppose he had not married. Would his philanthropic work have been greater?" Then there was more talk, that seemed to give pain to both, for Esther said: "I will go soon, and not return; for my presence here would only make you unhappy." "No," he urged, "return to Gila. "You say you regard marriage as very solemn. So do I. You say you would feel it wrong to marry one you did not love. So should I." "I have been candid with you," she said in evident distress. To which he responded bitterly: "You think me a godless wretch. Well, I guess I am. But I had begun to grope after God, and stumbled in my darkness. I have been beset with tormenting doubts. The idea of God is so vast I cannot grasp even a fraction of it. You are right. I am godless." "No, no, not godless," she said. "Jesus of Nazareth, what of Him?" "I am coming to look upon him as a brother. I could have loved him profoundly, had I known him when he was on earth. But it all seems so far away in the past. To tell the truth, I have read the Bible very little." "Read it," she urged. "I should feel all the time that religion had placed a great gulf between you and me, and hate it in consequence. Ought religion to place a gulf between human souls?" "The lack of religion might." Silence followed. Then she continued, "If I loved you, loved you deeply enough, that would sweep away all obstacles." "And perhaps," he added, "if I had always lived up to the highest ideals of life, I might now be worthy of you. I _am_ unworthy, I confess it." "Oh, don't put it that way," she said in distress. "Let it be that I am not worthy of the love you offer me, not capable of loving enough to--to--marry." "Miss Bright, you are capable of loving, as few women are. It is my misfortune that I have not won your love. I need you to help me live my highest and best. All these months, because of your unconscious influence, I have been learning to see myself as I am, and as I might be. For the first time in my life, I have come in contact with a deeply religious soul, and have felt myself struggling towards the light. I have wrestled with doubt, again and again, bewildered. You teach us that the founder of the Christian religion had compassion on sinful men." "Yes." "But _you_ have no compassion on _me_." "You misunderstand," she said. "You see it sometimes happens that there is little real happiness, real union, where the wife is a believer in God, and the husband seeks--" "The devil," supplemented Kenneth. "I confess I have followed the devil to some extent." "Don't," she said. "It hurts me to the heart to hear you speak so. I meant to say if he had no sympathy with her spiritual life." "If I were a professing Christian, do you think you would care more for me?" "I might." "Suppose I pretended to be a Christian. Many make that pretense, and are accounted the real thing." "Dear Mr. Hastings, let me be a sincere and loyal friend to you, no more. Some day, I hope, you will win, in marriage, some rare woman who will make you happy." "Some rare woman? You are that one, Miss Bright. I want no other." "But you mustn't think of me, Mr. Hastings." "Do you know what you are, Miss Bright? You are an iceberg." She laughed. "That's fortunate. You will not long care for an iceberg. I will go soon, and you will forget me." He turned upon her. "Forget you? Do you really wish me to forget you?" Did she? She wondered. "No," she answered. Then over her face, lifted in the moonlight, he saw the color come. Their talk drifted to many subjects touching the life in Gila, and the larger world outside, to which she was soon to return. "Will you write to me?" he asked. "That would make it harder for you to forget," she said, naïvely. "I do not wish to forget," he said gloomily. "Why should I forget the happiest hours I have ever spent?" Why should he? Back at Clayton Ranch, an older pair of lovers, married lovers, walked up and down the veranda in the moonlight. "John," a soft voice was saying, "I just hope Kenneth will propose to Miss Bright to-night." He laughed. "You women! Always interested in a love story! How do you know Kenneth hasn't proposed to her already?" "I don't believe he has." Another silence. "John?" "Yes, Mary." "Does Miss Bright know what a vast fortune Kenneth has inherited?" "No. Not unless you have told her. He does not wish her to know." "But, John, that might influence Miss Bright's decision. You know these Americans care a great deal for money." "For shame, Mary, to think such a thing of her! Perhaps you do not know that her grandfather is a man of affluence. But he believes in the simple life, and lives it. She belongs to a fine old family, people of distinction, and wealth." "Is that true, John? She never told me. How can she work like a galley slave here?" "Because she is a great woman." Silence again. "With her mind, and heart, and passion for service, and Kenneth's intellect, and force of character, and vast wealth, they might be a tremendous force for the progress of the human race." "Can't you help matters on, John? I'm so afraid Miss Bright will reject Kenneth, and leave us." "Well, if she does, I shall be sorry. But we must keep hands off." On the following day, John Clayton was astounded to hear from Esther that she would not return as she had half promised to do in the fall. But Esther offered no explanations; and Kenneth's calls, from that day, grew less frequent. So the days passed, and two lives drifted apart. CHAPTER XXI THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW At the close of the religious service, the following day, Esther learned of many cases of sickness, in and about Gila, and especially along the water courses. A sort of a fever, the people told her. She resolved to make neighborhood calls the following day, and to take with her a case of medicine. She found many people sick with what seemed to be the same malady; and, thereupon, began a thorough investigation. The result was that she persuaded the people to let her call a physician. On the following day, Dr. Mishell drove into camp, and Esther made the rounds with him. As she suspected, the malady proved to be typhoid fever. "These people must have intelligent care," the physician said gruffly to her. "Do you know anything about nursing?" She told him she had nursed two patients through typhoid fever. "You know how to take respiration and temperature, then?" he said brusquely. She assured him she did. Then he wrote out directions for each patient, especially noting what to do, if certain conditions should arise. "You know the importance of sponging patients?" he asked shortly. "Yes." "Any alcohol?" "I can get it." And so Esther Bright was installed head nurse in Gila. Helpers rallied to her aid. School was dismissed at an early hour each day, so that Esther could make the rounds daily. The heat grew almost intolerable, but the delicate girl went on her way as if made of iron. Dr. Mishell looked her over with a nod of approval. "A woman of sense," he said, in speaking of her to Kenneth Hastings. The physician came again in three days, only to find many new cases. Esther Bright's task was becoming enormous. "Can you do it?" the physician had asked. And quietly she had answered: "I can do it as long as anyone needs my care." Again the physician nodded approvingly, and muttered: "Some women do have some sense." When this second visit drew to a close, he looked sharply at Esther, and said in a crusty tone: "You are working too hard." She protested. "I say you _are_!" he reiterated. "I'm going to find someone to come help you. Mr. Clayton wishes it. Are you a Catholic?" "No, a Quaker." "Quaker! Quaker!" he repeated. "No objections to a Catholic, I suppose?" "No objections to any human being who serves humanity." The old man left her abruptly. As he untied his horse, preparatory to leaving, he muttered to himself: "A very unusual woman. A _very_ unusual woman!" Late on the following day, when Esther returned from her rounds, she found the Mexican, who had come to the Christmas entertainment, awaiting her. After learning that his Indian wife was sick, she gathered up her medical outfit, and started with him up the canyon. It was a long and fatiguing tramp. The Indian woman proved to be another fever patient. She refused the medicine, but drank the beef juice the nurse offered her. After trying to make the Mexican understand what to do till she came again, Esther started down the canyon alone. It was nearly dark. After walking some distance, she heard the cry of wolves. The cries came nearer. She quickened her pace to a run, when, catching her foot, she was thrown violently forward into the stream below. She struggled to regain her footing, to climb to the bowlder from which she had fallen; but suddenly discovered that she had in some way twisted her ankle, and that she could not bear her weight on that foot. What was she to do? She was still over a mile from Clayton Ranch. If she called, no one could hear her. Oh, those wolves! Their cries sent a chill of terror through her. Again she struggled to climb up on the bank, but the bowlder above her was slippery, and there was nothing to cling to. At last she sent a loud cry for help echoing down the canyon. Then she listened. Suddenly she heard a step above her. It was the young Apache who had visited the school. His coming was about as welcome to her as the wolves would be. "N[=e]-sh[=e]-äd-nl[)e]h´," he said, beckoning her to join him. She shook her head, pointed to her ankle, and again tried to climb. Her efforts were futile. Then the Indian lifted her, carried her to a level place, and set her down. She was unable to bear her weight on the injured foot, and fell. She pointed to her ankle, then down towards Gila, hoping the Indian might make her plight known to the people in camp. As if in answer to her pantomimic request, he lifted her easily in his arms, and strode swiftly down the canyon. Could it be that he had rescued her in order to return her to her friends? It seemed so. At last it occurred to her to sing her call for help, to attract the attention of any miner, or charcoal tender who might chance to be going up or down the canyon. So with all the volume she could muster, she sang words, telling her plight. Every little while the Apache would repeat the words: "N[=e]-sh[=e]-äd-nl[)e]h´." What could he mean? About the time Esther was caring for the sick squaw, Kenneth Hastings learned from Wathemah that the teacher had gone to the Mexican's shack up the canyon. He was filled with alarm. "What's that ye are sayin', Wathemah?" asked Pete Tompkins, who, passing along, had overheard the conversation. "Me teacher up canyon. Mexican. Sick squaw," replied the child laconically. "Are you sure, Wathemah?" questioned Kenneth. The child nodded his head, and pointed toward the canyon. "Them devilish Apaches has been about camp all day," said Pete Tompkins, stopping to speak to Kenneth. "I seen some of 'em goin' up canyon jest 'fore dark." "We must go to Miss Bright's rescue at once!" said Kenneth excitedly. "I'm with ye," said Pete Tompkins. "If a blanked savage harms that air schoolma'am I'll smash his skull with the butt o' my gun. I'll jine y'r party. Let's take all the hounds. We're likely ter run across more'n one Apache. Hello, kids!" he called out. "Jine a rescue party. The schoolma'am's went up canyon ter tend sick squaw,--the Mexican's woman. Them devilish Apaches is up through the canyon, an' we're afeared they'll capture schoolma'am." Ten well-armed men, some mounted, some unmounted, started up the canyon. On their way, they met John Clayton, who joined them. His horse was neck and neck with Kenneth's. "Good God!" said the former to his companion. "What may have happened to Miss Bright? What may yet happen to her?" Kenneth made no reply, but his face was tense. These two men were in advance, closely followed by Jack Harding and Pete Tompkins, on their Mexican ponies. Suddenly, the party heard the distant cry of wolves, and--was it a human voice?--they strained their ears to hear. It was a human voice, a woman's voice. They dug their spurs into their horses' sides, and fairly flew. As they were journeying up the canyon, the savage, with his captive in his arms, was speeding down the canyon. Suddenly he turned, and took the trail leading towards the Apache reservation. Esther's song for help died on her lips. Every moment seemed eternity; every step, miles away from hope of rescue. Then with the energy born of despair, she sang again so that her song reached the ears of her rescuers: "Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide. The darkness deepens-- Lord, with me abide! When other helpers fail and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O, abide with me!" Then she listened. Could it be the baying of hounds she heard? Her heart beat faster. She was not mistaken; she had heard the hounds. And now she heard the shouts of men. She began to sing again, but the Indian pressed his hand over her mouth, and tightening his hold with his other arm, started to run with her. She struggled desperately. He held her like a vise. She screamed for help, as she continued to struggle. "Courage!" came ringing back in response to her cry. She knew the voice. It was the voice of Kenneth Hastings. Again the Apache muttered in her ear: "N[=e]-sh[=e]-äd-nl[)e]h´." She realized that the men were gaining rapidly upon them, and struggled more violently to free herself. As the Apache ran, his breath came harder. It was no easy task to carry his struggling captive, and escape his pursuers. Still he kept up a remarkable speed. A moment more, the hounds came upon him. He kicked desperately, but could not free himself from them. Then, winding his fingers around Esther's throat, he choked her, and threw her to the ground. He lifted his gun, faced his pursuers, and fired. The ball entered the chest of Kenneth Hastings, who was in hot pursuit, and nearing the Indian. Kenneth fell from his horse, and the savage escaped. "My God!" exclaimed John Clayton, as he came up. He sprang from his saddle, and knelt by Kenneth's side. A little farther on lay Esther, unconscious. Her face was ghastly in the dim light, her clothing wet. "Brandy!" he called. "Any one got brandy?" "Here," said Pete Tompkins, stepping forward; "here's a flask." "With shaking hand, John Clayton tried to staunch the wound in Kenneth's shoulder. Then he put brandy between his lips, then between Esther's. She was like ice. "The brute!" he exclaimed. "I fear he has killed her!" Then he pulled off his coat and wrapped it about the girl, saying as he did so: "If she is not dead, the warmth may do her good. Some one ride ahead and prepare Mrs. Clayton." "I'll go, sir," said a Scotch miner, mounting one of the ponies. "Thank you. Tell Mrs. Clayton that Miss Bright and Mr. Hastings have met with an accident, and both are unconscious. Tell her to have hot water and blankets ready." "Come, John," he said, turning to Jack Harding. "Just help me lift Miss Bright to my saddle." Mechanically the cowboy obeyed. "Can one of you fellows carry Hastings on his horse?" Jack Harding volunteered. Few words were spoken by any of the men, as they made their way back to camp. Pete Tompkins had noisily boasted that he would kill the Indian; but, hearing no reply from any one, he subsided. In spite of his coarseness and vulgarity, he was touched by the tragic ending of the young teacher's life, and by the evident sorrow of his companions. He looked at the still, white face, and something tugged at his heart. As they passed Keith's house, Mrs. Keith ran out. "'Ere!" she said. "Wrap 'er in this 'ere warm shawl." Wathemah ran after them, asking anxiously: "Me teacher sick?" "Yes, very sick, Wathemah," answered Clayton. Just as they reached the Clayton home, Esther roused, and said in a dazed way: "Where am I?" "You are at home," answered her host, as he carried her into the house. "Do you feel better?" he asked, as he laid her on the couch. "What has happened?" she asked, showing no sign of recognition. "We don't know," said Mrs. Clayton, bending over her. She moaned. "Don't you remember the Indian who came to the schoolhouse?" questioned Mr. Clayton anxiously. "Indian? Schoolhouse?" she repeated in a perplexed way. "Where am I?" "Here with Mrs. Clayton," said her hostess. "Mrs. Clayton? Who is _she_?" asked Esther, vacantly. The group about her exchanged troubled glances. John Harding was already on his way to the railway station to telegraph for Dr. Mishell. Kenneth Hastings, now conscious, was lying on a bed in the Clayton home. John Clayton bent over him, staunching the blood the best he could. In the midst of this, they heard a sharp cry from Esther. "What is it?" questioned Kenneth. "Miss Bright!" exclaimed John Clayton, starting towards the room where the teacher and his wife were. Returning, he explained that Esther had apparently sprained her ankle, for it was badly swollen, and probably very painful, when Mrs. Clayton attempted to remove her shoe. Kenneth made no response, but, for a while, lay with eyes closed. He started when John Clayton told him that, as yet, Esther had not recognized any of the family. It was a long and anxious night for the ones who watched. In the morning, when Esther wakened, she called her companion by name. "Carla," she said, "I dreamed something dreadful had happened." As she spoke, she attempted to rise. A twinge of pain in her foot stopped her. "What has happened?" she asked. "You sprained your ankle yesterday," Carla explained. "Yesterday?" she repeated, in a puzzled way, as if trying to think of something. "Strange, but I can't recall yesterday." "Dr. Mishell is coming to look at your ankle soon." "Dr. Mishell! Dr. Mishell!" Esther said, slowly. Then a light came into her face. "Oh, yes! Now I remember. He came to Gila to see our sick people once, didn't he? I must dress so as to make the rounds with him." So saying, she started again to rise, but sank back with a pale face. "My foot, and head, and throat are so painful. It's so queer. I feel ill, too. What has happened?" she asked again. "You were injured, somehow," explained Carla, "and were unconscious, when found. Mr. Hastings was unconscious, too." "Mr. Hastings? Is he here?" "Yes." "And sick?" "Very. Dr. Mishell and Sister Mercy, the Catholic sister, are with him now." "I must help take care of Mr. Hastings, Carla." "By and by, perhaps," said the girl, soothingly. "You must get well yourself first." Kenneth Hastings' condition proved to be more serious than they thought, and Dr. Mishell looked grave. He had removed the bullet, and Sister Mercy had assisted him. When at last the wound was dressed, Dr. Mishell visited the other patient. He examined her ankle, and pronounced it a bad sprain. He examined her head, and looking towards Mrs. Clayton, said: "It is as you surmised, concussion. Probably due to a fall." He gave a few directions to Sister Mercy, and after a few gruff, but kindly, words, departed, to look after his other patients in Gila. Now, Carla Earle began her career as a nurse, and soon her ministrations were known in every house, and shack, where fever had entered. After Esther learned the details of her rescue, and of how Kenneth Hastings had again risked his life for hers, she grew abstracted, talked little, and ate less. And after she had learned that he was critically ill, delirious, as a result of the wound received in rescuing her, her sorrow became patent to all. Could she not see him? But Sister Mercy guarded her patient, and watched, and prayed the prayers of her church. Physician and nurse both knew that Kenneth's life hung by a thread. The sick man talked in his delirium; and his heart story lodged in the heart of the nurse, who watched by him, and who nursed him back to life. When Esther was able to go about on crutches, she visited her patients who were nearest to Clayton Ranch. One day Patrick Murphy called on her. "How are Brigham and Kathleen?" she asked, as she greeted him. "I hope they are better." "No betther, Miss," he said, struggling for composure. "The docther has been lavin' av his midicine, an' Carla (I mean Miss Earle) has came each day (the saints bliss her!) but still the faver is bad. An' Brigham--" He could say no more. After a while, he continued: "An' Brigham begs me ter bring yez to him. He insists upon callin' yez his Christ teacher, ma'am. He asks ivery day has yez come, an' cries wid disappointmint, whin he foinds yez are not there. I told him I would bring yez back wid me if yez could come." "I'll go with you," she promised, "as soon as I speak to Mrs. Clayton." When Esther entered the sick room at the Murphy home, she found two critical cases of typhoid fever. Their temperature was so high she was filled with alarm. She questioned the mother closely, as to what had thus far been done for the children. "Did you follow the doctor's directions?" she asked. "No, Miss, I didn't think it worth while. Back East where I wuz riz, they didn't think it necessary ter wash sick folks with sody an' water every day, an' alkyhol besides. They jest let sick folks be in peace, an' give 'em a good washin' after they was corpses." "But you see, Mrs. Murphy, we must sponge typhoid patients with water and with alcohol, to lower their temperature. Brigham's fever is very high." "I done all I could fur him," sniffled the mother. "Yes, I know," said Esther, kindly. "What has he eaten? Did you give him the beef juice?" "No, mum. That wuz no eatin' at all. I give him meat an' potatoes an' cabbage, jest the way he liked 'em cooked," she said, wiping her eyes on her apron. "He ain't eat none sence. He jest cries an' cries fur ye, Miss." "Brigham is very sick," the teacher said, gently. "He may not recover. Shall I take care of him?" "Yes, Miss, I wisht yer would." Esther called for water and clean linen. She sponged the children, made the necessary changes, ventilated the room, and closed the door into the living room; and for the first time since their illness began, the children had quiet. The angel of Death hovered near, and the Murphy family were filled with an indefinable fear. Esther watched over the two children throughout the night. Brigham was delirious. Once he seemed terrified, and called out: "Mamma, don't hurt my teacher! Wathemah, what did my teacher tell yer about Jesus? Has my teacher come?" At daybreak, when Esther gave him his medicine, he knew her and smiled. As she bent over him, he said: "I knowed ye'd come. Is Jesus near?" "Yes, very near, dear," she answered, softly. "An' He loves little childern?" "Yes, dear, loves them dearly." "I am so glad." He closed his eyes and seemed smiling in his sleep. Rousing again, he said in a weak voice: "I am so tired. Will yer carry me ter Jesus?" "Yes, dear." Then tenderly the teacher's arms went around the little form. She said, aloud: "Dear Jesus, I have brought you little Brigham, because you love little children. He is too tired to go any farther alone, so I have brought him to you. Please carry him the rest of the way home." Gently, she drew her arm away. The child smiled as if satisfied, and dozed off again. It was late in the morning, when Dr. Mishell reached Murphy Ranch. He looked grave as he watched Brigham. "Better remain here if you can, Miss Bright. Good nursing will save the girl, and may save the boy; but it is doubtful. You realize he is in a critical condition." "Yes. I will remain, Doctor; but Miss Earle will need help with the other patients." "Oh, Miss Earle is doing finely," he assured her. "And with one exception, none of the cases are as serious as these two." "Who is the exception?" "I believe his name is Clifton. A cowboy by the name of Harding has gone to his shack, to-day, to nurse him." "Just like him," she thought. She made no reply. As the day wore on, Kathleen's fever decreased, but Brigham's increased. The boy again grew delirious. He repeatedly called Wathemah and his teacher. As night drew near, he grew worse. The parents stood near the bed, weeping. Suddenly the child cried out: "Papa, won't yer bring my teacher? She knows the way ter heaven." "She's here, lad," he said, taking one of Brigham's hands in his. Then the father repeated the prayers of his church. At dawn, Brigham lifted his arms, and smiled. He had found the Open Door. When the Murphy children knew their brother was dead, they were filled with awe, and huddled in one corner of the living room. The mother sobbed aloud, but refused to come near or touch the still little figure. The teacher, with tears rolling down her cheeks, prepared her little friend's body for burial. Then she spoke again to the father, reminding him of further preparations. He rose, and, going into the room, where the family were gathered, said: "We must have a wake. Poor Brigham." "No, yer won't have no Cath'lic doin's with Brigham," responded his wife. "Suppose," interposed the teacher, "we have a funeral service for Brigham in the schoolhouse, among the children he loved." "Shure!" responded the father, wiping his eyes, "that'd be jist the thing." "Do you approve, Mrs. Murphy?" asked the teacher. "Yes, Miss. That'd please Brigham, I know." And again she sobbed. So Brigham was carried to the schoolhouse. The teacher placed a crucifix at the head of the coffin, and lighted several candles. It was the first time religious services for the dead had ever been held in Gila. Heretofore, the dead had simply been buried. The schoolroom was filled to its uttermost. The girl preacher rose and told them of Brigham's lovely life ever since she had known him, of his interest in Jesus, and of his desire to know the way to heaven. She told of his last words, and how he asked her to carry him to Jesus. As she spoke, tears rolled quietly down the bronzed cheeks of many a man and woman whose life had been one long record of sin. Near the coffin, stood Wathemah, his eyes riveted upon the face of his little comrade. The teacher saw the child take off his string of beads and lay it in the coffin. They buried Brigham on the foothills, and left him alone;--no, not alone, for Wathemah remained standing like a sentinel beside the grave of his little friend. Wathemah did not return to Mrs. Keith's as usual for supper. Neither was he in his little bunk that night. No Wathemah appeared for breakfast. Inquiries began to be circulated. Where was Wathemah? Esther grew very uneasy, and started out to search for him herself. She returned disappointed. An hour later, Jack Harding returned with the child. He had found him keeping watch by Brigham's grave. So deep is the Apache's affection, so real his grief. Esther gathered Wathemah in her arms, and talked to him long of Brigham. Henceforth, to that little child, as to many of his race, the heavens would be full of the Great Spirit. "Can Brigham see me from the sky?" asked Wathemah. "I think so, dear. You'll want to be a good boy, won't you?" For answer, he burst into tears, and she mingled her own with his. From that time on, Wathemah loved the stars at night, and would stand watching them with deepening wonder and awe. Then began his questioning of things eternal, that upreach of the soul, that links it to the Divine. The day after Esther's return to Clayton Ranch, Dr. Mishell asked her to go with him to the shack of Mark Clifton. "He cannot recover," he said. "He realizes that. He has repeatedly asked to see you." As they approached the shack, they heard a voice. Jack Harding was reading aloud from the Bible. On the walls of the shack, were guns, hides, and coarse pictures; in one corner, were a case of whiskey bottles, and a pack of cards. The sick man seemed to be a man of about thirty. He greeted his visitors courteously, and at once turned to Esther. "I have asked to see you," he said. "I think I cannot recover. I am not prepared to die. I have attended your meetings since you have held them in the timber. I believe there is something in your religion; I believe in God." His voice was faint. "Is there any hope for me?" he asked, searching her face with his keen black eyes. She shrank from his bold gaze, then answered gently: "There is hope for every one who repents of his sins and turns to Christ." "But," he said, impatiently, "I haven't done so very much to repent of. I haven't committed any crime, don't you know? The world doesn't hold such high ideals of what a fellow ought to be as you do. I am no better nor worse than the rest of men. I came to that conclusion long ago." "Indeed!" She spoke coldly. "Is that all? Then you do not need me." She rose to go. "No, it is not all!" interrupted Jack Harding. "Miss Bright, show him his sin; show him the way of repentance, as you did me." Suddenly the cowboy knelt by the bunk, and poured forth such a heartfelt prayer for the man before him, all were touched. Clifton lay with eyes closed. Esther spoke again. "Mr. Clifton, have you done nothing to repent of? Think. You lured to this country the sixteen-year-old orphan daughter of a clergyman. You promised to marry her, if she would join you here. You placed her to board in a saloon. You refused to marry her! Thank God, the child is safe at last!" There was no mistaking her tone. "Marry _her_?" he repeated, contemptuously. "Marry _her_? I'd as soon marry a cat. I think too much of my family. I wouldn't disgrace them by marrying her, the daughter of a poverty-stricken curate." Then they saw Esther Bright's eyes flash. Her face grew as stern as the granite hills of her native state. She spoke slowly, and each word--as Dr. Mishell afterwards said--seemed to weigh a ton apiece. "Your family?" she said. "Your family?" she repeated with scorn. "Your _family_? This girl is a child of God!" And turning, she left the shack. Jack Harding remained all through the night, talking and praying, at intervals, with Clifton. At dawn, the sick man cried out again and again: "God be merciful to me a sinner!" Then, at last, he said: "Jack, I want to atone for my wrong to Miss Earle as much as I can. I see it all now. Send for a clergyman. I can't live, I know. If Miss Earle becomes my wife, it will remove the stigma, and she will inherit a fortune willed to me. Send for her. Perhaps she will forgive me, before I die." At the sunset hour, word passed throughout the village that Mark Clifton had just died, and that before his death he had been married to Carla Earle. The clergyman who attended the dying man wrote to his parents, telling them of their son's marriage and death, and of his farewell messages to them. He added: "Your son died a repentant man." CHAPTER XXII THE GREATEST OF THESE IS LOVE On her return from Murphy Ranch, Esther began to assist in the care of Kenneth Hastings. As yet, he had not recognized her. Sometimes, as she sat by him, tears would gather and roll down her cheeks. One day, Kenneth opened his eyes and asked: "Who are you? What are you doing here?" "I am Esther," she answered, "taking care of you." "No, you're not," he said, wildly. "Get out of here!" She stepped back where he could not see her. He rambled on. "Some one shot!" He tried to rise. But Sister Mercy, entering, quieted him, and he lay back, muttering. Occasionally, Esther caught the words "Esther," "gulf," "doubt." About an hour later, he awakened, quiet. She sat where she could watch his face, and learn her great lesson. "Are you an angel?" he asked, with unrecognizing eyes. She took one of his hands in hers, and rested her cheek against it. His hand grew wet with her tears. "Are you a soul in bliss?" he asked, softly. "I knew an angel when I was on earth. But a gulf yawned between us, a gulf, a gulf!" Then he seemed oblivious of the presence of anyone, and muttered: "I have lost my way--lost my way,--lost." At last he slept again. And Esther Bright, kneeling by his bedside, with one of his hands clasped in hers, prayed. Still he slept on. When he awakened, John Clayton stood looking down upon him. Kenneth looked around, puzzled. "Well, John! Where am I?" "Here in my home. Are you feeling better, Kenneth?" "Better? What do you mean?" "You've been very sick, and delirious. But now you'll recover." "What was the matter?" "An Indian blackguard shot you through the shoulder. Septic conditions set in, and you had a high fever. Keep still there," he said, as he prevented his friend from moving. "Queer, John," said Kenneth, after a moment's pause. "I can't recall anything that has happened recently but a drive with Miss Bright just before she went away. But I can't speak of that--" And Esther Bright, resting on the couch in the living room, heard every word. A long silence followed. "John," said Kenneth in a low voice, "tell her sometime for me, that I have lived a clean, honorable life. You know I have gone to the saloons here sometimes, largely because other human beings were there. You know I gambled a little to kill time. So deucedly lonely! Tell her I wasn't bad at heart." He started to say more, but suddenly stopped. And Esther, hearing in spite of herself, searched her own heart. Dr. Mishell came the next day, and finding his patient delirious again, announced that he would stay with him till danger was past. So the physician and nurse again watched together. It was the day Esther was to have left for Massachusetts. When questioned as to the time of her departure, she now assured everyone she would stay till her sick people were well. While Dr. Mishell sat by Kenneth, Mr. Clayton found Esther on the veranda, in tears. He pretended not to see. "Does Dr. Mishell give any hope of Mr. Hastings' recovery?" she asked. "Yes. There has been a decided change for the better this past hour." He slipped his hand under her arm, and, together, they walked up and down the path to the road. "My dear friend," he said to her, "Kenneth _may_ die, but I know a powerful restorative, that might help to save his life, if we could only bring it to him." He knew her heart better than Kenneth did. "Oh, let _me_ take it to him," she said eagerly. "I'd be so thankful to have a chance to help save his life. He's done so much for me, and he is such a loyal--friend." "You shall be the one to bring him the medicine if you will," he said smiling. "What is it? Where can I get it?" she asked, eager to go on her errand of mercy. "Where can you get it?" he repeated. "You can find it in your own heart. It is love that will save Kenneth, dear Miss Bright." Her tears fell fast. "I fear I have made him very unhappy," she said. "I suspect you have," he responded. "Did he tell you so?" "No. You know he has been delirious from the first. In his delirium, he has talked of you constantly." At last danger was past, and nurse and physician assured the Clayton household that Kenneth Hastings would recover. He awakened from sleep, alone. As he opened his eyes, they fell upon a copy of Tennyson's works. It was open at "The Princess." Someone had been reading, and marking passages. He at once turned to the title page, and at the top, read a name he half expected to see. Could it be possible that she was still there? He looked around the room. By his bedside, stood a small round table, on which stood a low glass dish, filled with pink cactus blossoms. Near by, was an open Bible. Here, too, was a marked passage,--"faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love," He knew the Bible was Esther's. He laid it down, as though he had trespassed upon her innermost heart. He closed his eyes, and lay in a half-dream of possible joy. Over and over, the words seemed to repeat themselves,--"the greatest of these is love." There was a quiet step, and Esther entered, looking fresh and cool in a white dimity gown. In her hands, was a bunch of cactus flowers. She laid them down, and with a joyous cry went to him, clasping his hand in hers. "You know me at last?" she asked. "I am so glad!" Kenneth did not speak. She continued, "I feared you would never know me again." She seemed to hesitate a moment, but went on. "I feared I could never tell you what I now _know_, what I want to tell you." "What do you know?" he asked. "What do you wish to tell me?" "That I love you," she answered, and stooping down, she put her cheek against his. "Look out, Kenneth!" she said, warningly, with a happy little laugh. "You mustn't forget about the wound in your shoulder." But he held her captive. "What do I care for the wound in my shoulder, when the wound in my heart is healed?" he asked of her. "I came to heal the wound I made in your heart," she said, while a pink wave swept over her face. Still he held her, drawing her closer to him. "The lips," he said, "on the lips, as a penance." "My penance is easy," she said with a happy ring in her voice. Then drawing a chair close to the side of his bed, she let him gather her hands in his. "Strange!" he said. "During my illness I dreamed it would be this way. I must have dreamed a long time. You were always with me, I thought. You were always in white, and often brought me flowers. Once, I found myself in heaven. You met me, and smiled and said, 'Come.' You brought me the most heavenly being I ever beheld, and placing my hand in his, said significantly, 'He loved much!' Then you vanished. And the heavenly being smiled upon me. And my heart grew glad. I began to understand the mysteries of life. Then I thought how you had led me to the very fountain of love, that I might know how to love you purely. I began to feel I could renounce all my hopes of your love, because there was something in that other presence that taught me that great Love asks no return. It just loves on, and on. Then I thought this heavenly being called me brother. And thousands of voices began to sing, 'Glory to God in the highest!'" "Beautiful!" she said. "Then I seemed to float in space, and I knew that you were near me. Your arms were full of flowers, and you offered up silent prayers for me that bridged the gulf between us." She kissed him again, saying softly: "Beloved, I did bridge the gulf with prayers. How stupid I was not to know sooner!" "Not to know what?" "Not to know love when it came." "But you know it now, Beloved?" he said, drawing the hands he clasped nearer to himself. "I thank God for that." He closed his eyes, and lay very still, still clasping her hands. She watched by him. At last, his hands relaxed their hold, and she knew by his regular breathing that he was asleep. John Clayton came to the door, saw how it was, and went away. So did the others who came to inquire. And Kenneth slept on, a restful, restoring sleep. And as Esther watched, she repeated to herself: "The Greatest of These is Love." CHAPTER XXIII AT SUNSET It was Dr. Mishell speaking. "My dear young lady, if Mr. Hastings must go to England, as he says he must, he should not go alone. He needs care. I have recommended you as a competent nurse." His eyes twinkled. "Is it _safe_ for him to travel now?" asked Esther. "If he makes the journey by slow stages." The physician spoke with some hesitation. "At any rate he should get out of this intense heat as soon as possible." "But the ocean voyage," she suggested. "Probably do him good." The physician had already extended his congratulations to them. Before leaving, he gripped Kenneth's hand, and said heartily: "My nurse will be a helpmate to you. She is a woman of sense." While he still gripped Kenneth's hand, he turned to Esther, and extended his other hand to her. He placed her hand in Kenneth's, and said impressively: "'What _God_ hath joined together, let not man put asunder.' Miss Bright, you are to marry a true man. Always _trust_ him." His eyes filled. He turned abruptly and was gone. Poor Dr. Mishell! The wilting heat of August was upon them. At evening, Esther, wearied with packing trunks, joined Kenneth on the veranda. As she sat there, Wathemah ran to her, and flung a bunch of flowers in her lap. "Why do you leave me?" he asked. She put her arm about him, and told him she was going home, a long, long way from there, and that Mr. Hastings was going with her. "Wathemah go, too?" he asked. Both laughed. "No, little chap," she said, drawing him closer to her, "not this time." "Wathemah go, too," he said, reproachfully, looking at Kenneth with marked disapproval. "Do you love your teacher?" asked Kenneth. He, too, liked the child. Wathemah nodded. "Would you like to be her boy, and live with her always?" Wathemah placed one arm about his teacher's neck, and said softly: "Wathemah's mother!" Kenneth laughed again, and declared he was jealous. Then Esther told the little fellow she would come back to Gila and get him, and he should then go to live with her always. "Take me now," he urged. "No, dear," she said. With that, he sprang from her, and walked proudly out of the yard, on toward the canyon, without turning, or looking back. "A nugget of gold from the Rockies," said Kenneth, looking after him. "An Arizona cactus," she replied, "lovely, but hard to handle." Wathemah trudged up the canyon, to his favorite bowlder, where he went, often, to listen to the waters. There, he threw himself down, and cried himself to sleep. He had slept a half-hour, perhaps, when he was awakened by voices. "Why, here's Wathemah," called out Jack Harding. Another spoke, "He's a queer un. He never will be civilized." The group of cowboys gathered about the child. "What's the matter, sonny?" asked his friend, Jack Harding. Then he told them of his teacher's refusal to take him with her. "Don't cry, little kid!" said Jack. "Here, boys, let's give him money ter go home with Miss Bright. I'll jest ask her ter take him along with her, an' I'll pay fur his keep. Don't cry, sonny. It's all right. Down in y'r pockets, pards, an' fork out some money fur Wathemah. We saved him, an' raised him, yer know." His own hand went down into his pockets, and into his hat went a roll of bills. He passed his hat, and soon it was full of bills and silver dollars. That evening, it began to be whispered about that Wathemah was to go with Miss Bright. But of this rumor she knew nothing. Two days later, the hands of young men and maidens were busy decorating the Clayton home for the wedding of Esther Bright and Kenneth Hastings. Cactus blossoms of exquisite form and color were used. Not only the interior of the house, but the veranda and yard as well, were one glorious mass of color. Jack Harding worked faithfully, stopping now and then to talk with Kenneth, who lay on a couch on the veranda. Carla, too, was busy, putting artistic touches here and there. She, too, came often to the sick man's side. But Esther was forbidden to work, and when she persisted, Mr. Clayton captured her and took her off for a ride. She was to be married at sunset. While they were out driving, one of John Clayton's cowboys drove up from the station, bringing David Bright and an English clergyman, a friend of Kenneth's, with him. When Esther returned, and found her grandfather, her joy knew no bounds. "I wish now, Kenneth, that we were to marry ourselves, as Friends do," she said, "but grandfather can give me away." The guests who had been bidden, gathered in the yard, just as the glory of the sunset began. There was Bobbie, with the Carmichaels; there were some of the cowboys and cowlasses, miners and ranchers who had attended the meetings; all the Clayton household; Dr. Mishell and Sister Mercy, Miss Gale, and Wathemah were there. Jack Harding kept a close watch on Wathemah, not knowing just what he might do. As the sun neared the horizon, the clergyman took his place in the yard, Kenneth stepped forward, and waited. Esther Bright, in a sheer white gown, freshly laundered,--a gown she had worn many times as she had ministered to the sick, came forward on the arm of her stately old grandfather, who gave her away. His benign face seemed to hallow the hour. The colors in the sky seemed to vie with the cactus blossoms. Yellows, and violets, and deep crimson, faint clouds with golden edges, violet, then rose-colored, all melting into the dome of the sky. The man and the woman were repeating the marriage ritual of the Church of England, while this miracle of beauty flashed through the heavens. The plaintive cry of the mourning dove rang out, followed by the cheerful piping of a cardinal. The human voices went on with the solemnest vows man and woman may speak. The exquisite notes of the cardinal, then of a thrush, accompanied their voices. The beauty of the dying day played over Esther Bright and Kenneth Hastings, as they stood in the glory of their youth, and of their love. Just as the clergyman pronounced the closing words of the marriage service, the heavens leaped into a splendor of color; a mocking bird caught up all the songs that had furnished an obligato to the marriage service; and, as if to outdo all the other feathered songsters, burst into a perfect ecstasy of song. In the midst of the congratulations and feasting, Wathemah kept close to Esther's side. The following day, Kenneth, Esther and David Bright were to begin their long journey eastward. The day dawned. All Gila gathered at the distant station to bid them God speed. "Where is Wathemah?" Esther asked. "I don't know," answered a miner. "I found him cryin' 'cause yer wouldn't take him with yer." "Poor little chap! But where's Jack?" she questioned. "There they be," said a ranchman, pointing to Jack and Wathemah, standing apart from the crowd. She stepped toward them. "I have come to say good-by," she said. "You won't forget, Jack, to follow the Christ; you won't forget to pray?" She laid her hand on his arm. He stood battling with himself. Her tender voice, her eyes filled with tears, almost unmanned him. "Is it not much, do yer think, ter let yer go, as have brought me ter know God, as have learned me ter live right, an' have been like God's angel ter me? God help me!" The strong man's face worked, and he turned from her. After a moment, he put his hand in his pocket, and drew forth the Bible she had given him. "I wisht I'd a knowed about this when I was a lad. My life'd ben differnt. I thank yer fur all yer've done fur me, and all yer've learned me. But it seems I can't let yer go. God help me!" He stood with head bent and hands clinched. At last, Esther spoke again: "Good-by, John. You have fought a good fight, and conquered. Now, help the others with all your might." Ah, how much she had helped him in his battle! He grasped her hand and held it. So they stood. Then he said: "Take the little kid with yer. Give him a chance. I'll send him money as long as I live. I ain't got nobody else ter care fur." She would help the strong man, now, if she could; but how could she? He had this battle to fight alone. "You wish _me_ to take Wathemah, John?" "Yes. Give him a chance,--differnt surroundings." He lifted a bag of money. "This 'ere holds nearly one hunderd dollars. The boys give it to Wathemah ter go home with yer." "Did they? How generous!" The child ran to her, fearful he should be left behind. She hesitated. How could she care for her convalescent husband, and this impetuous, high-strung child? She turned to Kenneth and spoke with him. Jack lifted Wathemah in his arms and kissed him, saying: "Good-by, little pard. Mind now, no more cussin'." David Bright, who had overheard the conversation, now stepped forward, and said, "Let the child go with us, Esther, if those who have reared him consent." Both Mr. and Mrs. Keith, who stood near him, signified their willingness. The party then entered the Pullman, and a few minutes later, the train drew out from the station. Esther and Wathemah went to the rear platform, and watched till a turn in the road hid their friends from their sight. After a time Kenneth joined them. "Tears, Esther?" he said, lifting her face. "But not of sorrow," she returned. He put an arm around each, and they stood looking down upon the majesty of the scene through which they were passing. One looking back to that moment, would say it had been prophetic of the future. The man of power, destined to become a determining factor in the development of the great Southwest; the woman at his side, great of heart and brain and soul; and this little prince of the Rockies, with his splendid heritage of courage, destined to be the educational leader of his race. And it was this woman of vision, who, during the years that were to come, saw clearly the great work her husband and foster son might do, and nerved them for it by her faith in the work, and their power to do it. CHAPTER XXIV AFTERMATH It was a substantial stone house, built against the mountainside, overlooking a picturesque canyon. A woman sat on the broad veranda. Occasionally, she turned her head, and looked down the mountain road, listening as though expecting some one. Then she walked down the path, and stood watching. A little five-year-old girl joined her, flitting about like a sprite. "Will father come soon, mother?" she asked. "I hope so, Edith. He said he would come to-day." There was a far away look in the mother's eyes. "Why _doesn't_ father come?" the child continued. "Oh, he has been a long way, and has traveled many days, dear. Something may have happened to detain him." "What could have happened, mother?" the little one asked. "Oh, business, or the rails might have spread, or there might have been a washout, or a landslide." The mother again looked down the road. Then she walked slowly back to the veranda and took up her sewing. The child leaned against her knee. "Mother, when you were a little girl, did you have any little girls to play with?" "No. I had just my dear grandfather." "Then you know how lonely I am, mother. It's pretty hard to be a little girl and all alone." "Do you think you are alone, little daughter, when you have father, and aunt Carla, and mother?" "But you are big, mother, don't you see? When a little girl hasn't any other little boys and girls to play with, the world's a pretty lonesome place." The mother sighed. The child rested her chin in her dainty hands, and looked up through her long lashes into her mother's eyes. "I have been thinking, mother." The child was given to confidences, especially with her mother. "What did you think, Edith?" The mother smiled encouragingly. "I thought I'd pray for a brother." A tear trembled on the mother's cheek. "A little brother?" The mother looked far away. "Oh, a _b-i-g_ brother!" said the child, stretching her arms by way of illustration. "What would you say, sweetheart, if a big brother should come to-day?" The little one clapped her hands. "A really, _truly_, big brother?" she asked, dancing about in glee. "A really, truly, big brother,--Wathemah. You have never seen him, and he has never seen you, since you were a baby. But he is coming home soon, you know." "Will he play with me?" she asked. "You and Aunt Carla just 'nopolize father and the big ladies and gentlemen when they come. But _sometimes_ father plays with me, doesn't he, mother?" "Yes, sometimes. He loves his little daughter." "I don't know." She shook her head doubtfully. "I heard father say he loved you bestest of ev'rybody in a world." She threw up her arms and gave a little jump. "Oh, I wish I had some one to play with!" "Let's go watch for father again," said the mother, rising. This time they were not disappointed. They heard the sound of wheels; then they saw the father. The little daughter ran like the wind down the road. The father stopped the horses, gave the reins to the driver, and stepped to the ground. In an instant the little sprite was in his arms, hugging him about the neck, while her ripples of laughter filled the air. The wife approached, and was folded in the man's embrace. "Father," said the child, "I am to have a big brother, mother says." "You are?" Great astonishment. The parents smiled. "An', father,"--here she coquetted with him--"you and mother are not to 'nopolize him when he comes. He's going to play with me, isn't he, mother?" "I think so." A grave smile. The child was given to saying her father "un'erstood." "When did you hear from Wathemah, Esther?" the father asked. "About ten days ago. I'll read you his letter. I shall not be surprised to see him any day, now." "Wathemah is my big brother, Father. Mother said so. She says he's always been my big brother, only _I_ didn't re'lize it, you know." The parents looked amused. "Yes, Edith, he is your brother, and a dear brother, too," said the father. When they were seated on the veranda, and the child was perched on her father's knee, Esther brought Wathemah's last letter, and read it aloud to her husband. "_Dear Mother Esther:_ "This is probably the last letter I shall write you from Harvard for some time. As soon as Commencement is over, I shall go to Carlisle again for a brief visit, and then start for Arizona, to Father Kenneth and you, my dear Mother Esther, and my little sister and Carla and Jack. Now that the time approaches for me to return to you, I can hardly wait. "I may have expressed my gratitude to you and Father Kenneth in different ways before, but I wish to do so again now. "I am deeply indebted to him for his generosity, and for his fatherly interest and counsel. But it is to you, my beloved teacher, I owe most of all. All that I am or ever may be, I owe entirely to you. You found me a little savage, you loved me and believed in me, and made it possible for me to become a useful man. As I have grown older, I have often wondered at your patience with me, and your devotion to the interests of the Indian. You have done great things already for him, and I am confident that you will do much more to bring about a true appreciation of him, his character and his needs. The Indian in transition is a problem. You know more about that problem than almost anyone else. "I never told you about my birthday, did I? Do you know the day I count my years by? My first day, and your first day at the Gila school. Then my real birth took place, for I began to be a living soul. "So, in a spiritual sense, you are my real mother. I have often wondered if the poor creature who bore me is still living, and living in savagery. All a son's affection I have given to you, my beloved foster mother. It is now nearly sixteen years since you found me a little savage. I must have been about six years of age, then; so, on the next anniversary of your first day in the Gila school, I shall be twenty-two years old. From that day till now, you have been the dearest object in the world to me. I am sure no mother could be more devotedly loved by her son than you are loved by me. I strive to find words to express the affection in my heart. "And Grandfather Bright! How tender and gentle he always was to me, from the time we had our beautiful wedding journey until his death! He came to Carlisle to see me as he might have gone to see a beloved son. He always seemed to me like God, when I was a little fellow. And as I grew older, he became to me the highest ideal of Christian manhood. I went over to Concord Cemetery not long ago, and stood with uncovered head by his grave. "And our dear little David Bright! That was a sore loss for you and Father Kenneth. "You don't know how often I wish to see little Edith. I was greatly disappointed that you and Father Kenneth did not bring her with you the last time you came to see me. You didn't realize such a lean, lanky, brawny fellow as I cared so much to see a little girl, did you? I had always wished I might have a little sister. I have shown her pictures to some of the fellows who come to my room, telling them she is my baby sister. They chaff me and say I do not look much like her. "The fellows have been very courteous to me. "Now that the time has come to leave Harvard and Cambridge and Boston, I am sorry to go. I have met such fine people. "Dr. ---- urges me to return in the fall, to continue my work for my Master's degree; but I have thought it all over, and believe it wiser, for the present, to work among my people, and get the knowledge I seek at first hand. After that, I'll return to Harvard. "Long ago, your words gave me my purpose in life,--to prepare myself to the uttermost for the uplift of my race. "Daily, I thank you in my heart, for the years I had at Carlisle. But most of all, I thank you for yourself and what you have been to me. "I must not close without telling you of a conversation I had with Col. H---- of Boston. He heard your address on 'The Indian in Transition' at the Mohonk Conference. He told me it was a masterly address, and that you presented the Indian question with a clearness and force few have done. He told me that what you said would give a new impulse to Indian legislation. He seemed to know of your conferences at Washington, too. "I hear great things of Father Kenneth, too; his increasing wealth, his power for leadership, and his upright dealings with men. "Do you remember how jealous I used to be of him when I was a little chap? Well, I am jealous no longer. He is the finest man I know. "But I must stop writing. This letter has run on into an old-fashioned visit. "I am coaching one of the fellows in mathematics. Strange work for a savage! "With love for all of you, including my dear Carla, "Your loving boy, "WATHEMAH." "He's a fine fellow, is Wathemah," said Kenneth, as he cuddled his little girl up in his arms. "Yes, he's developed wonderfully," responded Esther. "How's Carla?" the husband asked. "Carla's well, and just now deeply interested in the Y.M. and Y.W.C.A. work." Here Carla herself appeared, and joined in the welcome home. She was the picture of wholesome content. While they were talking, there was a sound of wheels again. The wagon stopped, a young man jerked out a trunk, paid the driver, and ran towards the veranda. How happy he seemed! "It's Wathemah," all cried, hastening to meet him. The sprite was in advance, with arms outstretched. "I guess you don't reco'nize me," she said. "I'm your little sister." He laughed, stooped and lifted her in his arms, and kissed her several times. Then came Esther's turn. At the same time, Kenneth enfolded Wathemah. Then came Carla, whom Wathemah kissed as he used to do in childhood days, and laughingly repeated a question he was accustomed to ask her then--"Is my face clean, Carla?" And all laughed and talked of the days when they had found one another, of the Claytons and Jack Harding, and Patrick Murphy and his family, and the Rosses and Carmichaels, and the changes that had taken place in Gila since they left there. "I was so sorry to hear of Mr. Clayton's death," said Wathemah. "What a great-hearted man he was! Such a generous friend! Do you suppose Mrs. Clayton and Edith will ever come back to America?" "No," answered Kenneth, "I fear not. Mrs. Clayton's kindred are in England, you know. She never liked America. It was a lonely life for her here, and doubly so after her husband's death." "And how's Jack? Dear old Jack! I must see him soon," said Wathemah. "I'll call him up," said Kenneth, going to the phone. "Give me 148, please." "No,--1-4-8." "Hello! Is Mr. Harding within reach?" "Gone to the store, you say? Send some one for him at once, please, and tell him Mr. Hastings wishes to talk with him. Important." He hung up the receiver and returned to his place. "Do you know, Father Kenneth, I have received a letter from Jack every week since I left Gila, except the time he was sick? He insisted upon sending me money, saying that it was he who found me, and wanted me to live." "Yes, Jack is a generous fellow," assented Kenneth. "I tried to make him understand that I was strong and able to earn my own way; but it made no difference." "Just like him! Bless him!" said Esther. "So I have invested his money for him, in his name, and it will make him very comfortable some day." Kenneth smiled. "Jack is becoming a rich man by his own work, and his own wise investments." Just then the telephone rang. "Hello! Hello! Is that you, Jack?" asked Kenneth. "That's good. "Yes, yes. "Something interesting is up. Whom would you like to see at this moment? "Mother Esther? That's good. Who next? "Wathemah? Hold the phone a minute." He turned to Wathemah. "Jack says he'd like to see you. He doesn't know you're here. Here! Talk to him yourself." So Wathemah stepped to the phone. "Hello, old Jack!" There was a happy laugh. "You'll be over to-morrow?" "What's that you say? _Your_ boy? Well, I guess!" "How happy Jack will be!" said Kenneth. "Your little pard?" There was a chuckle from the lithe, muscular young Indian. "To be sure, I'm still your 'pard,' only I'm far from little now. I'm a strapping fellow." "What's that? You feel the education has come between us? No more o' that, old fellow! You're one of the biggest-hearted friends man ever had!" "Tell him to come over as soon as he can," interrupted Kenneth. "Father Kenneth says 'Come over as soon as you can.'" "You will? Good! What a reunion we'll have! Good-by." He hung up the receiver, and the conversation drifted on. "Has Jack made a successful overseer?" questioned Wathemah. "Very. He's a fine fellow. He is still very religious, you know, and the men respect him. He has become an indefatigable reader and student of labor questions. Recently I heard him give a speech that surprised me. He grasps his subject, and has a direct way of putting things." "I should expect Jack to be a forceful speaker," commented Wathemah, "if he ever overcame his diffidence so as to speak at all. But tell me about the school at Gila. That little spot is dear to me." "You should see the building there now," said Esther. "Do you know that the people who were most lawless when we were there, are now law-abiding citizens? Gila is said to be one of the best towns in Arizona." "That seems like a miracle,--your miracle, Mother Esther." He rose from his chair and stood for a moment behind her, and said in a low voice, as in childhood, "_Me_ mother, _me_ teacher." There was a suspicious choke in his voice, and, turning, he lifted Edith, tossed her to his shoulder, and ran with her down toward the road. Kenneth overtook him, and as they strolled along, they talked of many things, but chiefly of Esther, and her great work for the Indian. "How did it all come about?" asked Wathemah. "Oh, in a roundabout way. Her magazine articles on the Indian first drew attention to her. Then her address at the Mohonk Conference brought her into further prominence. She was asked to speak before the Indian Commission. Later, she was sent by the Government to visit Indian schools, and report their condition. She certainly has shown marked ability. The more she is asked to do, the more she seems capable of doing." "A wonderful woman, isn't she?" "Yes. Vital. What she has done for the Indian, she has also done for the cause of general education in Arizona." "I fear she will break down under all this, Father Kenneth." "Never fear. Work is play to her. She thinks rapidly, speaks simply, and finds people who need her absorbingly interesting." "Yes, but she gives herself too much to others," protested the Indian youth. "Well, we must let her. She is happier so," responded Kenneth. "What about your own work, Father Kenneth? I have heard in Massachusetts that you are a great force for public good throughout this region. But tell me of the mines." "I invested much of my fortune _here_," said Kenneth, giving a broad outward sweep of his arm. "Some of the mines are paying large dividends. My fortune has more than doubled. But Arizona has been unfortunate in being infested with dishonest promoters. I am trying to bring about legislation that will protect people from this wholesale robbery." "I suspect you enjoy the fight," laughed the youth. "It has created bitter enemies," said Kenneth, gravely. So talking, they again sought the house, and found Esther and Carla on the veranda. The latter sat where Wathemah could see her delicate profile as she bent over some sewing. Quiet happiness and content had transformed her into a lovely woman. "How beautiful you are, Carla!" said Wathemah, admiringly. He enjoyed her confusion. "Do you remember the day I played truant, Carla, and you found me in the canyon, and made me ashamed of myself?" Did she? He did not notice the shadow over the winsome face. "Do you know, Wathemah," said Esther, "Carla would not remain at college, because she felt I needed her. But she has become an indefatigable student." Later, Wathemah discovered for himself that she really had become a fine student. One day he asked her how she came to study Greek. "Oh," she said, hesitatingly, "I loved Grecian literature, and history, and art. And I had often heard that my father was a fine Greek scholar. So I began by myself. Then I had Sister Esther help me. And after that, it became to me a great delight." They were a merry party that day. All were in fine spirits. In the midst of their talk and laughter, the telephone rang. "Some one for you, Esther," said Kenneth, returning to the veranda. On her return, he looked up questioningly. "The superintendent of education wishes me to give an address before the teachers at Tucson next month," she said, quietly. "And will you do it?" asked Wathemah. "Do it?" echoed Kenneth. "Of course she'll do it! She doesn't know how to say 'no.'" Esther smiled indulgently. "You see, Wathemah, the needs of the new country are great. They would not invite me to lecture so frequently, if they had enough workers. To me, the opportunity to help means obligation to help." "Our Mother Esther has just returned from a conference at Washington, and another in Montana," said Kenneth, "and here she is going off again. The truth is she has become an educational and moral force in the Southwest." "We are glad to share her with all who need her," said Carla, simply. "Yes, lad," added Kenneth, rising, "we are glad she has the power to help." The next morning, they were awakened early by John Harding, calling Wathemah to let him in. Such a meeting as that was! Jack did not seem to know how to behave. The little unkempt lad, untutored, and undisciplined, whom he had known and loved, was gone; and in his place, stood a lithe, graceful, really elegant young man. Jack stood back abashed. _His_ Wathemah, his little Wathemah, was gone. Something got in his throat. He turned aside, and brushed his hand across his cheek. But Wathemah slipped his arm around his neck, and together they tramped off up the mountain for a visit. Then Jack knew that his boy had really come back to him, but developed and disciplined into a man of character and force. That was a gala day for Jack Harding and the Hastings household. No one had ever seen Jack so happy before. Late that afternoon all stood on the veranda. "My little kid," said Jack, laying his hand on Wathemah's shoulder, "I've worked fur ye, prayed fur ye, all the years. And now you've come, now you've come," he kept saying, over and over. "Say, Jack," said Wathemah, "do you remember the time you found me asleep up the canyon, and took up a collection to send me East with Mother Esther?" Jack nodded. "Well, that money, with all that you have since sent me, has been invested for you. And now, Jack, my dear old pard, that money has made you a little fortune. You need work no more." Jack choked. He tried to speak, but turned his face away. Esther slipped her arm through his, and told him she wanted to visit with him. So the two walked up and down the road in front of the house, talking. "We are all so happy over Wathemah," she said. "I know you must be, too. He is really your boy, for you saved him, Jack." Then Jack Harding poured his heart out to her. She understood him, all his struggles, all his great unselfish love for the boy. She knew the pain of his awakening, when he found that the child whom he had loved, whom he had toiled for all these years, needed him no more. It was pathetic to her. "But, Jack dear," she was saying, "I am sure Wathemah will always be a joy to you. Only wait. My heart tells me he has some great purpose. He will tell us in time. When he does, you will want to help him carry out his plans, won't you?" Up and down the veranda, walked Kenneth and Wathemah. Kenneth's hand and arm rested on the youth's shoulder. "Yes, Wathemah," he was saying, "little David's death was a great sorrow to us. He was shot by an unfriendly Indian, you know." For a moment his face darkened. The two walked on in silence. "And Mother Esther?" Wathemah said in a husky tone; "how can she still give her life for the uplift of my people?" "Oh, you know as well as I. She serves a great Master." They talked from heart to heart, as father and son. At last all the household gathered on the veranda to watch the afterglow in the sky. Esther slipped her arm through Wathemah's, and they stood facing the west. "And so my boy is to enter the Indian service," she said. "Yes," he answered. "You know I majored in anthropology and education. My summers among various Indian tribes were to help me know the Indian. My thesis for my doctorate is to be on 'The Education of the Indian in the United States.' When I have my material ready, I'll return to Harvard and remain until I complete my work for my doctorate." "What next, Wathemah?" There was a thrill in Esther's voice. The Indian youth squared his shoulders, lifted his head, and said, as though making a solemn covenant: "The uplift of my race!" And Esther's face was shining. Transcriber's Notes Omission of punctuation and misspellings that appeared to be typesetter errors have been corrected. Slang and colloquialisms in dialogue has been left as it appeared in the original. In this Latin-1 text version, the following substitution system has been used for non-Latin-1 diacritical marks:- [=e] e with Macron [=u] u with Macron [)e] e with Breve There is a Unicode version of the text file which has all diacritical marks as per the original book. In Chapter XV, the Apache makes the statement "N[=e]-sh[=e]-äd-nl[)e]h´" "You be my squaw." This is repeated several times in Chapter XXI. In the original the diacritical marks are typeset differently in the subsequent entries. On the assumption that the first entry is more accurate, all repetitions are changed to agree with the original. In the original there is some dialogue of one sentence that has been typeset across two paragraphs. These have been closed up into the same paragraph to aid reading flow and to maintain consistency. In Chapter XXI (page 250 in the original) there is a line that appears to be out of order. The original reads:- His coming was about as welcome to her as the wolves would be. him. She shook her head, pointed to her ankle, and "N[=e]-sh[=e]-äd-nl[)e]h´," he said, beckoning her to join again tried to climb. Her efforts were futile. Then This has been rearranged as:- His coming was about as welcome to her as the wolves would be. "N[=e]-sh[=e]-äd-nl[)e]h´," he said, beckoning her to join him. She shook her head, pointed to her ankle, and again tried to climb. Her efforts were futile. Then In Chapter XXIV the sentence "The child was given to confidences, especially with her father" has been changed to "especially with her mother" as the reference to father made no contextual sense. 
32924	----	The New Mistress, by George Manville Fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ THE NEW MISTRESS, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. THE FIRST MORNING. "Remember, Hazel," said Mrs Thorne, "remember this--we may be reduced in circumstances; we may have been compelled by misfortune to come down into this wretched little town, and to live in this miserable, squeezy, poorly-furnished house or cottage, with the light kept out by the yellow glass, and scarcely a chimney that does not smoke; we may be compelled to dress shab--" "Yes, yes, mother dear--" "_Bily_," said Mrs Thorne, with indignant emphasis on account of the interruption, "but remember this, Hazel, you are a lady." "Forgive me for interrupting you, mother." "_Mamma_, Hazel," said the lady, drawing herself up with great dignity. "If we are by a cruel stroke of fate compelled to live in a state of indigence when pride has made my eldest child refuse the assistance of my relatives, I still maintain that I have a right to keep up my old and ladylike title--mamma." "But, dear, I am only a schoolmistress now--a national schoolmistress, and it would sound full of foolish assumption if I called you mamma. And are you not my dear, dear mother! There, there, good-bye, dear," cried the speaker, kissing her affectionately; "and mind the dinner is done, for I shall be,--oh, so hungry." "As you please, Hazel," said Mrs Thorne, smoothing down her dress, and looking ill-used. "Let it be mother then. My feelings have to be set aside as usual. My life is to be one slow glide down a slope of indignity to the grave. Ah, what have I done to deserve such a fate?" "Mother, dear mother, pray, pray don't grieve, and I'll strive so hard to make you and the girls happy. You will soon like this little cottage; and when we get some more furniture, and some flowers, and a bird in the window, it will look so bright and cheerful and--there, there, pray don't cry. I must go; it only wants five minutes to nine, and I must not be late the first morning." "I think it disgraceful that, in addition to six days a week, you should be compelled to go and teach on Sundays as well; and I shall make a point of speaking to Mr Lambent the first time he calls--that is, if he should ever condescend to call." "No, no, pray don't think of such a thing, dear," cried Hazel Thorne excitedly. "You forget that I have the whole of Saturday, and--there, there--dear, dear mother, I must go. Good--good-bye." Hazel Thorne kissed the stiff stately-looking lady in the stiffest of widow's weeds, and with a bright look and a cheery nod, she hurried out of the little Gothic schoolhouse, with its prim, narrow lancet windows; but as she closed the door, the bright look gave place to one of anxious care, and there was a troubled nervous twitching about her lips that told of a struggle to master some painful emotion. She had but a few yards to go, for the new school-buildings at Plumton All Saints were in one tolerably attractive architectural group, built upon a piece of land given two years before by Mr William Forth Burge, a gentleman who had left Plumton All Saints thirty--but it should be given in his own words, as he made a point of repeating them to every new-comer: "Yes, sir; I left Plumton thirty year ago, after being two year with old Marks the butcher, and went up to London to seek my fortune, and I think I found it, I did." Mr William Forth Burge's fortune was made by being a butcher's boy for some years, and then starting among some new houses near Chelsea on his own account. Fashion and the speculative builders did the rest. Mr William Forth Burge's business grew to a tremendous extent, and at forty-five he sold it and proudly returned to his native place--a gentleman, he said. Stout, red-faced, very pomatumy about his smooth, plastered-down dark hair, very much dressed in glossy broadcloth and white waistcoats, and very much scented with his favourite perfume, "mill flowers," as he called it. Mr William Forth Burge left Plumton--"Bill"; he came back writing his name in full, and everybody followed his example as soon as he had shown himself at the various land sales and bought pretty largely. For he was always looking out for "investments," and the local auctioneers addressed him with great respect as "sir." Why, upon the occasion of the dinner given at the "George," when he took the chair after the laying of the first stone of the new school-buildings by Sir Appleton Burr, the county member, whose name was down for ten pounds, the Reverend Henry Lambent, the vicar, made his chin sore with his very stiff cravat, rolling his head to give due emphasis to the very sermon-like speech, the text of which was that Mr William Forth Burge was an honour to the place of his birth; and the finale, received with vociferous cheering and stamping of feet, was the proposal of this gentleman's health. He was a very modest, mild man, this donor of a piece of land of the value of some three hundred and fifty pounds to the parish; and though an ex-butcher, had probably never slain innocent lamb, let alone sheep or ox, in his life. When he rose to respond he broke forth into a profuse perspiration--a more profuse perspiration than usual; and his application of a fiery orange silk handkerchief to his face, neck, and hands, almost suggested that its contact with his skin would scorch him, or at least make him hiss, what time he told people that he left Plumton thirty year ago, after being two year with old Marks the butcher, etc., and then went on to speak of himself as if he were an oyster, for every few moments he announced to his fellow-townsmen that he was a native, and that he was proud of being a native, and that he did not see how a native could better show his love for his native place than by giving his native place a piece of ground for the erection of the new schools; and so on, and so on. Of course, Sir Appleton Burr, M.P., said that it was a charmingly _naive_ piece of autobiography, and that Plumton All Saints ought to be very proud of such a man, and no doubt Plumton was proud of him, for where was the need of grammar to a man with fifty thousand pounds; especially as Mr William Forth Burge, besides having no grammar, had no pride. In due time, the money was found, with the help of a grant from the Committee of Council on Education, the schools being meanwhile erected-- a long red-brick semi-Gothic central building, with houses for the schoolmaster and mistress at either end, each standing in its neat garden, the central school building being so arranged that, by drawing up and pushing down sash-hung shutters, the boys and girls' schools could be thrown into one, as was always the case on Sundays. Just as Hazel Thorne left her gate to walk thirty yards to that leading to the girls' entrance, Mr Samuel Chute, master of the boys' school, left his door to walk thirty yards to the gate leading to the boys' entrance, but did not stop there, for he came right on, raising his hat, and displaying a broad white lumpy forehead, backed by fair hair that seemed to have been sown upon his head and come up in a sturdy crop, some portions being more vigorous than others, and standing up in tufts behind the lumps about his forehead; doubtless these latter being kindly arrangements made by nature to allow room for brain projections, consequent upon over-study. Mr Samuel Chute smiled, and said that it was a very fine morning, a fact that Hazel Thorne acknowledged, as the schoolmaster replaced his hat. "The handle of the door goes very stiffly," he said, still smiling rather feebly, for he was annoyed with himself for not having offered to shake hands, and it was too late now. "I thought I'd come and open it for you." Hazel thanked him. The heavy latch was twisted up by an awkward ring like a young door-knocker, and went _click_! and was let down again, and went _clack_! Then the new schoolmistress bowed and entered, and Mr Samuel Chute went back to his own entrance, looking puzzled, his forehead full of wrinkles, and so preoccupied that he nearly ran up against Mr William Forth Burge, whom he might have smelt if he had not seen, as he came to the school as usual on Sunday mornings to take his class, and impart useful and religious instruction to the twelve biggest boys. There was a mist before Hazel Thorne's eyes as she entered the large schoolroom, with its so-called gallery and rows of desks down the side, all supported upon iron pedestals like iron bars with cricks in their backs. All about the floor were semicircles marked out by shiny brass-headed nails, as if the boards had been decorated by a mad undertaker after the fashion of a coffin-lid, while between the windows, and in every other vacant place, were hung large drawing copies of a zoological character, embracing the affectionate boa-constrictor, the crafty crocodile, and the playful squirrel, all of which woodcuts had issued from the Sanctuary at Westminster, probably with the idea that some child in Plumton schools might develop into a female Landseer. This being Sunday, Hazel Thorne's duties were light, and after Mr Samuel Chute had rapped upon his desk, and read prayers for the benefit of both schools, the new mistress had little to do beyond superintending, and trying to make herself at home. She found that there were four classes in her side of the Sunday-school, each with its own teacher, certain ladies coming regularly from the town, chief of whom were the Misses Lambent--Beatrice and Rebecca, the former a pale, handsome, but rather sinister lady of seven or eight-and-twenty, the latter a pale, unhandsome, and very sinister lady of seven or eight-and-thirty, both elegantly dressed, and ready to receive the new mistress with a cold and distant bow that spoke volumes, and was as repellant as hailstones before they have touched the earth. For the Misses Lambent were the vicar's sisters, and taught in the Sunday-school from a sense of duty. Hazel Thorne was ready to forget that she was a lady by birth and education. The Misses Lambent were not; and besides, it was two minutes past nine when Hazel entered the room. It was five minutes to nine when they rustled in with their stiffest mien and downcast eyes. But they always displayed humility, even when they snubbed the girls of their classes--a humility which prompted them to give up the first class to Miss Burge--christened Betsey, a name of which she was not in the least ashamed, and which, like her brother with his William Forth, she wrote in full. The third and fourth class girls had an enmity against those of the first for no other reason than that they were under Miss Burge, who heard them say their catechism, and read, and asked questions afterwards out of a little book which she kept half hidden beneath her silk _visite_; for pleasant, little, homely, round-faced Miss Burge could hardly have invented a question of an original character to save her life. One thing, however, was patent, and that was that the first class was so far a model of good behaviour that the girls did not titter very much, nor yet pinch one another, or dig elbows into each other's ribs more than might be expected from young ladies of their station; while they never by any chance made faces at "teacher" when her back was turned, a practice that seemed to afford great pleasure to the young ladies who were submitted to a sort of cold shower-bath, iced with awkward texts by the Misses Lambent, in classes third and fourth. The second class was taken by another maiden lady--Miss Penstemon, sister of Doctor Penstemon, M.D., F.R.C.S., of the High Street. She was thinner and more graceful than the Misses Lambent, and possibly much older; but that was her secret and one which she never divulged. The Misses Lambent, as before mentioned, bowed with dignity and grave condescension to the new mistress; and, taking her cue from the vicar's sisters. Miss Penstemon bowed also, plunging her hand afterwards into her black bag for her smelling-bottle, for she thought the room was rather close. The bottle she brought out, however, she thrust back hastily, and gave a quick glance round to see if she had been observed; for, instead of its containing a piece of sponge saturated with the colourless fluid labelled in her brother's surgery, "Liq. Amm.," and afterwards scented with a few drops of an essential oil, the little stoppered bottle bore a label with the enigmatical word "Puls." thereon, and its contents were apparently a number of little sugar pills. For be it known that Maria Penstemon had a will of her own, and a strong tendency to foster crotchets. The present crotchet was homoeopathy, which, without expressing any belief for or against, the doctor had forbidden her to practise. "No, 'Ria," he said, "if you want to go doctoring, doctor the people with your moral medicines. It won't do for you to be physicking one way and me another, so let it alone." But Miss Penstemon refused to submit to coercion, and insisted in secret upon following her path while the doctor went his, Maria's being the homoeopath, while the doctor's was, of course, the allopath; and he was a long time finding out that his sister surreptitiously "exhibited" pilules, for she never did any harm. Hazel Thorne met with a different reception, however, from downright Miss Burge, who rose from her seat, looked red and "flustered," as she called it, smiled, and shook hands. "I'm very, very glad to know you, my dear," she said warmly, "and I hope you'll come and see me often as soon as you get shaken down." Shaken down! The words jarred upon the young mistress, who felt that she could never become intimate with Miss Burge, whom she left to her class, and then busied herself with the attendance register and various other little matters connected with her duties. Once she stole a glance across at the boys' school, to become aware of the fact that Mr Chute was watching her attentively, so was Mr William Forth Burge; and, to make matters worse, half the boys in the classes were following their teachers' eyes, so that it was with something like a feeling of relief that Hazel saw that the clock pointed to half-past ten, the time for closing for the morning, and marshalling the girls in order for walking two-and-two as far as the church. CHAPTER TWO. THE VICAR SEES A GENTLEMAN. Mr Chute rang a bell and said, "Sh! sh!" Books were put away, the lady teachers rose, and, with the exception of Miss Burge, moved towards the door, the latter lady glancing at the new mistress, and, apparently pitying her strangeness, seeming disposed to hang back and walk with her; but Hazel Thorne's attention was too much taken up by her task, and getting her little force of about eight-and-thirty or forty girls two-and-two, she started them for church, herself taking the smallest morsel--to wit, little Jenny Straggalls--under her wing. Now, the only ways to march forty girls two-and-two to church with anything like order are either to put the two smallest pupils in the front, and then go on rising in years till you have the two eldest in the rear, or to pair off the largest and smallest children together. If neither of these plans is adopted, discipline is liable to fail. One black sheep will corrupt a flock, and though not a black sheep but a very red-haired frisky lamb, there were qualities in Ophelia, or more commonly "Feelier," Potts sufficiently mischievous to corrupt any flock of girls. The experiences she had picked up at Whitelands were forgotten by Hazel Thorne in the flurry and excitement of this her first morning with her school. The stern looks of the lady teachers had made her feel nervous. It was tiresome, too, just at starting that Mr Chute should be holding his boys in hand at the door, with a politeness of which he had never before been guilty, to allow the girls to go on first to church; and Mr William Forth Burge was standing by him, smiling all over his round, closely-shaven face, which was so smooth that it shone in the sun, and preparing himself for the incense of forty bobs, that he would receive from the girls as they went by. This was Feelier's opportunity. As one of the biggest girls, she had been placed first with Ann Straggalls, the fair, round eyed, and fat; and as Feelier went marching on with head erect, she turned the said head slowly round towards the boys, and squinted so horribly that her eyes half disappeared beneath the bridge of her nose, and Tommy Sullins, a very wild, excitable little boy, forgot his awe of Mr Samuel Chute, and burst into a loud "Ha, ha, ha!" "Sullins!" shouted Mr Chute; and Feelier was gazing wonderingly at the boy with her eyes in their normal, position, as the little fellow became perfectly snail-like in his action, and crept back into the very stiff long pinafore he was wearing. Then bob, bob, bob, bob went the girls as they passed Mr William Forth Burge, who came out of the gate as the last pair passed and smiled his way up to his sister, who was toddling along beside Hazel Thorne, and making Mr Samuel Chute feel annoyed, for he was obliged to leave some little space before starting his boys; and then as he had always been in the habit of walking last, it would have looked peculiar to walk in front. Besides which there would have been the risk of little boys straggling behind, and perhaps not appearing in church at all; so, in spite of an intense desire, freshly developed, to keep near the new schoolmistress, he was compelled to walk at a distance of twenty-two doubled boys behind, and this made him metaphorically gnash his teeth. Mr Chute's way of gnashing his teeth was, paradoxical as it may sound, with his hands, upon which he wore a pair of brand new kid gloves, bought late on Saturday night expressly to impress the new mistress. These hands seemed to have been suddenly seized with an angry itching to seize little boys' arms and shoulders, to give them nips and shakes and pushes for not walking better than they did; and the severe drilling he gave them as he walked backwards and forwards along the semi-military column made the boys stare. But it was upon Master Sullins that the vials of his wrath threatened to be emptied. He could not forgive that laugh. What, he asked himself, would Miss Thorne think? It was terrible, and seemed to him like the first step towards blasting the hopes that had already begun to bud after seeing the new mistress only twice. The consequence was, that whenever he told himself never had the boys walked to church so badly before, he glanced at Tommy Sullins, and when he glanced at Tommy Sullins, he thought of a certain length of that thin rattan or _rotan_ cane that grows so beautifully in the Malay Peninsula, running up and down trees in festoons for two or three hundred feet. Utterly ignorant as he was of the beauty of rotan cane in its native state, Tommy had so lively a recollection of it in its cut-up or commercial form, that reading threats in Mr Chute's eyes, the boy's face began to work, and had not the master gone right to the rear, and rigidly abstained from further demonstrations, the procession would have been enlivened by a most tremendous howl. Quite disposed to be friendly. Miss Burge, then, while her fellow Sunday-school teachers sailed gracefully on to church, toddled and prattled beside the new-comer to Plumton, feeling pleased and attracted by her gentle ways. Toddled is the only word that will express Miss Burge's way of progression, for it seemed as if there were no joints to her legs, and consequently, as she walked she rolled sharply first to right and then to left, but got over the ground pretty smartly all the same. "Oh, this is my brother, Miss Thorne," she prattled pleasantly. "My brother, Mr William Forth Burge, who presented the town with the site for the new schools. Bill, dear, this is our new mistress. Miss Hazel Thorne, and a very pretty name, too, isn't it?" "A very nice name indeed," said "Bill," taking off his hat and perfuming the morning air with a whiff of pomatum scent; after which he replaced his hat and smiled, and breathed very hard, but took his place, to Mr Chute's great annoyance, on Hazel's other side, evidently with the intention of walking with her and his sister right up to church. Hazel felt more nervous than before. It was very kind and friendly of these people, but they divided her attention, and the schoolgirls wanted it all. For, having succeeded so well over the squinting, and thereby won the admiration of her fellow-pupils, girl-like, Miss Feelier must attempt something new, and this novelty was the giving vent to little mouse-like squeaks, just loud enough to be heard by Ann Straggalls, who began to titter, and of course this was communicated to others near. The long notes became so marked at last that Hazel had to apologise to her new friends, and hurry to the front and admonish, painfully conscious the while that plenty of the inhabitants were at their windows and doors, watching and commenting upon the appearance of the new mistress, some remarks being loud enough for her to hear. Order being restored, Hazel resumed her place, and Mr William Forth Burge took up his parable and said:-- "Plumton's a deal altered. Miss Thorne, since I knowed it first." "Is it?" said Hazel. "Oh, a deal. Why, when I left Plumton thirty year ago, after being two year with old Marks the butcher, and went up to London to seek my fortune--and I think I found it eh, Betsey?" "That you did indeed, dear," said little Miss Burge proudly. "Ah, I did, Miss Thorne," he continued. "Why, at that time--" "I beg your pardon," said Hazel; "the girls are not yet used to me." She had become aware just then that something else was wrong in the van of her little army, and hurrying to the front, she found fat Ann Straggalls furiously red, and choking with laughter. "For shame!" began Hazel severely. "I don't yet know your name." "Straggalls, teacher," burst out a chorus of voices. "Annie Straggalls." "Straggalls, I shall have to punish you if you do not walk properly. A great girl like you, and setting so bad an example." "Please, teacher, it wasn't me," began fat Ann Straggalls. "It was you," retorted Hazel; "I saw you laughing and behaving very badly." "But please, teacher, it was Feelier Potts kept tiddling of me--" "Oh, what a wicked story, teacher." "Silence!" cried Hazel. "Inside of my 'and, where there's a 'ole in my glove, teacher." "'Strue as goodness I didn't, teacher," cried Feelier. "Not another word. Walk quietly on to church. I will talk about it to-morrow." This was, of course, as the progression went on, and just at that moment, as she was resuming her place. Hazel Thorne felt as if she had been attacked by a severe spasm. Her heart seemed to stand still, and she turned pale; then it began to beat furiously, and there was a crimson flush in her face and temples as she became aware of the fact that a tall, well-dressed, gentlemanly-looking young man was walking on the other side of the long street leading into the town, and she saw him change his thin, closely-folded umbrella from one hand to the other, ready to raise his hat to her if she would have looked across the road again. But she let her eyes fall, and this time returned to her place between Mr and Miss Burge, feeling glad that they were there, and almost glorying in the vulgarity of their appearance as a safeguard to her from recollections of the past, and the possibility of troubles in the future. "Ah, as I was a-saying," resumed Mr William Forth Burge, "Plumton's wonderfully changed since I went to London. Do you know London, Miss Thorne?" "Oh, yes, I know London," she replied. "I used to live at Kensington." "Did you now!" cried her companion, looking at her with admiration. "Well now, that is strange!" Hazel could not see the strangeness of the fact, but she said nothing. "Why, my carts used to go all round Kensington, right to Notting Hill, and take in Chelsea and Pimlico as well." "I really must beg of you to excuse me once more," said Hazel. "Naughty child. Sh--sh--sh!" said little Miss Burge, shaking her parasol at the two first girls of the rank, as Hazel went off again. For, highly indignant at having been charged with "tiddling" her fellow pupil. Miss Ophelia Potts had snatched herself together very tightly, and keeping hold of Ann Straggalls' hand--the one that had a hole in the glove--she had begun to walk as fast as she could with so much heavy ballast as Miss Straggalls proved. The consequence was, that the girls behind followed suit not quite so fast, the next couple caught the infection, and then there was a hiatus, six girls straggling a long way ahead, and after a great gap of twenty or thirty yards there was the rest of the school. Hazel hurried after her disordered forces, and checked the advance guard till they were joined by the rest, after which she allowed the brother and sister to come up to her, when she once more took her place, looking terribly conscious of the fact that Archibald Graves was on the other side, keeping pace with them, and looking across as if begging for a glance. "Quite a stranger, Betsey. No; I never see him afore." "Why, how hot and flustered you do look, my dear!" said little Miss Burge. "The girls _is_ tiresome this morning. If that Feelier Potts don't behave herself, she sha'n't come up to the garden to tea." "You haven't seen my garden, Miss Thorne," said the ex-butcher. "No." "Ah, you'll have to come up and see my garden. My sister here will ask you to bring up some of the best girls to take them on the lawn, and eat cake." "But not a bit for that naughty Feelier Potts," cried Miss Burge, shaking her parasol at the delinquent. "Look at that now, Bill. Well, of all the aggravating hussies." Hazel was already on in front, to where Miss Feelier had turned what her mother termed "stunt;" that is to say, she behaved as a horse does that has a character for jibbing--she was not allowed to go her own pace, so she began to walk as slowly as possible, and almost stopped. It needs neither blackboard nor chalk to demonstrate the problem that follows: A, B, and C, are divisions of a column of troops on the march. Portion A forms the advance guard; B the centre; C the rear. If A marched one mile per hour, B two miles per hour, and C three miles per hour, what would be the result? Setting aside miles per hour. Hazel Thorne's column behaved as above; and in two minutes, to Feelier Potts' great delight of which, however, she did not display an inkling in her stolid face, the little column was all in confusion, while the young lady called out loudly: "Please, teacher, they're a-scrouging of us behind." There was nothing for it but for Hazel Thorne to lead the van, leaving little Miss Burge in charge of the rear, seeing which state of affairs, Mr William Forth Burge was about to leave his sister and go up to the front and continue his egotistical discourse; but here he was checked by Miss Burge. "No, no, Bill; you mus'n't," she whispered. "Mus'n't what?" "Mustn't go after her and walk like that." "Why not?" "Well, because--because she's--well, because she's so nice, and young, and pretty," whispered Miss Burge, who was at a loss for a reason. "But that's why I like to go and talk to her, Betsey," exclaimed the man of fortune heartily. "She's about the nicest young lady I think I ever did see." "But you mus'n't, Bill," said his sister in alarm, "people would talk." "Let 'em," said the ex-butcher proudly. "I can afford it. Let 'em talk." "But it might be unpleasant for Miss Thorne, dear." "Oh! Hah! I didn't think of that," said the gentleman slowly; and, taking off his hat he drew his orange silk handkerchief from his pocket, and blew such a sonorous blast that little Jenny Straggalls, who was last in the rank, started in alarm. After this Mr William Forth Burge held his hat in one hand, his orange handkerchief in the other, and looked at both in turn, scenting the morning air the while with "mill flowers," and the essential oil in the pomade he used. Custom caused this hesitation. For years past he had been in the habit of placing his handkerchief in his hat--the proper place for it, he said--but Miss Burge said that gentlemen did not carry their handkerchiefs in their 'ats. "And you are a gentleman, you know, now, Bill." So, with a sigh, Mr William Forth Burge refrained from burying the flaming orange silk in the hollow of his hat, thrust it into his pocket, and replaced his glossy head-piece, uttering another sigh the while, and looking very thoughtful the rest of the way. Oh! the relief of reaching the church door, and following the children into the cool shadows of the empty building. Not quite empty though, for the Misses Lambent were in their places in the pew near the chancel, and the Reverend Henry Lambent, cold, calm, handsome, and stern of mien, was raising his head with a reproving frown at the girls who clattered so loudly up the stairs, in spite of Hazel's efforts to keep them still. "Why, Betsey," said Mr William Forth Burge, "that chap seems to know our new mistress." "Ye-es, dear, perhaps he's her brother," whispered back Miss Burge, as they entered their richly-cushioned pew--one which used to belong to the old manor-house that was pulled down. "Beatrice, did you see a strange gentleman go up to Miss Thorne and speak to her as she came into church?" said the Reverend Henry Lambent, as he and his sisters were going back to the vicarage after the morning service. "Yes, brother Henry; we both saw it," said Miss Beatrice, "and were going to mention it to you." The incident was this:-- Just as Hazel Thorne was going to her seat in the gallery, the tall gentleman came through the porch, hesitated a moment, and then, seeing that the church was nearly empty, he went quickly up to the young mistress. "Hazel," he whispered, "I have come down on purpose. I must--I will see you after church." "I beg your pardon," she said coldly; "our acquaintance is at an end." "End! No. I have come to my senses. It must not--it shall not be." "It must and shall, Mr Graves," she said, turning away. "For Heaven's sake, why?" he whispered excitedly, as she was going. "Times are changed, sir. I am only a schoolmistress now." Just then Mr Chute entered with the boys, and he turned white as he saw the stranger there. CHAPTER THREE. HAZEL'S TROUBLES. About a year and a half before Hazel Thorne had the task of conducting her school for the first time to Plumton church, she was in her home at Kensington, leading the every-day pleasant life of the daughter of a stockbroker, who was reputed among his friends as being "warm," that being the appropriate term for a man who is said to have a pretty good store of money well invested in solid securities. "Fred Thorne will buy mining shares for you, or shares in any bubble that is popular at the time; but catch him putting his coin in anything doubtful." That is what people said; and as he had a good home at Kensington, and gave nice, quiet little dinners, he and his were pretty well courted. "Well, yes, I don't mind, Archy," said old Graves, the wholesale cork merchant of Tower Hill. "Hazel Thorne is a very nice girl--very pretty and ladylike, so I suppose we must swallow the mother for her sake." The boa-constrictor-like proposition was naturally enough taken by Archibald Graves in its slango-metaphorical sense, and slango-metaphorically Mrs Frederick Thorne was swallowed by the whole of the Graves family, and she did not agree with them. For Mrs Thorne was not a pleasant woman. Tall, handsome, and thoroughly ladylike in appearance, she was very proud of having been considered a beauty, and was not above reminding her husband of the fact that she might have married So-and-so and What's-his-name, and You-know-whom, all of which gentlemen could have placed her in a better position than that she occupied; and as she grew older these references were more frequent. Each child she had seemed to be looked upon by her as a fresh grievance--a new cause for tears, and tears she accordingly shed to an extent that might have made any one fancy this was the reason why the Thorne home generally seemed damp and chilly, till Hazel entered the room like so much sunshine, when the chill immediately passed away. Gradually growing weaker in act and speech, the unfortunate woman received a shock which completed the change that had been gradually heretofore advancing, for Fred Thorne--handsome, bright, cheery, and ever ready to laugh at mamma's doldrums, as he called them--went out as usual one morning to the City, saying that he should be back a little earlier to dinner that day, as he had stalls for the opera. "I'll come back through Covent Garden, Hazel, and bring you a bouquet," he cried merrily. "You need not bring flowers for me, Frederick," said Mrs Thorne, in an aggrieved tone. "I am growing too old for flowers now." "Too old? Ha, ha, ha!" he cried. "Why, you look younger than ever. Smithson asked me the other day if you and Hazel were my daughters." "Did he, Frederick," said Mrs Thorne, in a rather less lachrymose tone. "To be sure he did; and of course I am going to bring you a bouquet as well." He bought the two bouquets, and they were kept fresh in water, taken to pieces, and spread over his breast, as he lay cold and stern in his coffin: for as he was carefully bearing the box containing the flowers across Waterloo Place on his way home that evening, there was a cry, a shout, the rush of wheels, and the trampling of horses; a barouche came along Pall Mall at a furious rate, with two ladies therein clinging to the sides, and the coachman and footman panic-stricken on the box. One rein had broken, and the horses tore round the corner towards Regent Street as if mad with fear. It was a gallant act, and people said at the inquest that it saved the ladies and the servants, but it was at the sacrifice of his own life. For, dropping the box he was carrying, Fred Thorne, a hale strong man of five-and-forty, dashed at the horses' heads, caught one by the bit and held on, to be dragged fifty or sixty yards, and crushed against the railings of one of the houses. He stopped the horses, and was picked up by the crowd that gathered round. "Stop a moment, he wants to say something--he is only stunned--here, get some water--what say, sir!" "My--poor--darlings!" They were Fred Thorne's last words, uttered almost with his last breath. The shock was terrible. Mrs Thorne took to her bed at once, and was seriously ill for weeks, while Hazel seemed to have been changed in one moment from a merry thoughtless girl to a saddened far-seeing woman. For upon her the whole charge of the little household fell. There was the nursing of the sick mother, the care and guidance of Percy, a clever, wilful boy of sixteen, now at an expensive school, and the management of the two little girls, Cissy and Mabel. For the first time in her life she learned the meaning of real trouble, and how dark the world can look at times to those who are under its clouds. The tears had hardly ceased to flow for the affectionate indulgent father, when Hazel had to listen to business matters, a friend of her father calling one morning, and asking to see her. This was a Mr Edward Geringer, a gentleman in the same way of business as Mr Thorne, and who had been fully in his confidence. He was a thin, fair, keen-looking man of eight-and-thirty or forty, with a close, tight mouth, and a quick, impressive way of speaking; his pale-bluish eyes looking sharply at the person addressed the while. He looked, in fact, what he was--a well-dressed clear-headed man, with one thought--how to make money; and he found out how it was done. That is hardly fair, though. He had another thought, one which had come into his heart--a small one--when the late Mr Thorne had brought him home one day to dinner and to discuss some monetary scheme. That thought had been to make Hazel Thorne his wife, and he had nursed it in silence till it grew into a great plant which overshadowed his life. He had seen Hazel light and merry, and had been a witness, at the little evenings at the house in Kensington, of the attentions to her paid by Archibald Graves. He knew, too, that they pleased Hazel; and as he saw her brightened eyes and the smiles she bestowed, the hard, cold City man bit his lips and felt sting after sting in his heart. "Boy-and-girl love," he muttered though, when he was alone. "It will not last, and I can wait." So Edward Geringer waited, and in his visits he was in Hazel's eyes only her father's friend, to whom she was bright and merry, taking his presents of fruit and flowers, concert tickets, and even of a ring and locket, just as one of her little sisters might have taken a book or toy. "Oh, _thank_ you, Mr Geringer; it was so good of you!" That was all; and the cold calm, calculating man said to himself: "She's very young--a mere child yet; and I can wait." And now he had come, as soon as he felt it prudent after the funeral, to find that he had waited and that Hazel Thorne was no longer a child; and as he saw her in her plain, close-fitting mourning, and the sweet pale face full of care and trouble, he rose to meet her, took both her hands in his, and kissed them with a reverence that won her admiration and respect. "My dear Hazel," he said softly. She did not think it strange, but suffered him to lead her to a chair and saw him take one before her. He was her father's old friend, and she was ready to look up to him for help and guidance in her present strait. For some minutes they sat in silence, for she could not trust herself to speak, and Geringer waited till she should be more composed. At last he spoke. "Hazel, my dear child," he said. "My dear child!" What could have been kinder and better! It won her confidence at once. Her father's old friend would help and counsel her, for she needed the help much; and Archibald had seemed since those terrible days to be thoughtless and selfish instead of helpful. "I have come to talk to you, Hazel, on very grave matters," Geringer went on; and she bowed her head for him to continue. "I have to say things to you that ought by rights to be spoken to your mother; but I find here that in future you will be the head of this household, and that mother, brother, sisters will turn to you." "Poor mamma! she is broken-hearted," sighed Hazel. "I shall try to do my best, Mr Geringer." "I know you will, Hazel, come what may." "Yes, come what may," she replied, with another sigh. "Shall I leave what I have to say for a few weeks, and then talk it over? I can wait." "I would rather hear it now," replied Hazel. "No trouble could be greater than that we have had to bear, and I see you have bad news for us, Mr Geringer." "I regret to say I have--very bad news." "Tell me," said Hazel sadly, as she gazed in her visitor's face. "It is about the future, my dear child," he said slowly; and he watched the effect of his words. "You and your brother and sisters have been brought up here quite in luxury." "Papa was always most indulgent and kind." "Always," assented Geringer. "There, I will not hesitate--I will not go roundabout to tell you. I only ask you, my dear Hazel, to try and bear with fortitude the terrible news I have to inflict upon you, and to beg that you will not associate it in future with me." "I shall always think of you as my father's most trusted friend. But pray, pray tell me now, and--and--I will try to bear it as I should." She was choked now by her sobs, and as Geringer tenderly took one of her hands, she let him retain it while he spoke. "My dear Hazel," he said, "your late father always passed for a wealthy man, but I grieve to say that of late he had embarked in some most unfortunate speculations." "Poor papa!" "They were so bad that at last all depended upon one change in the market--a change that did not take place till after his death." Hazel sobbed. "If he had lived two days longer he would have known that he was a ruined man." Hazel's tears ceased to flow, and Geringer went on:-- "I grieve, then, to tell you, my dear child, that instead of leaving his family in a tolerably independent state, my poor friend has left you all penniless." "Penniless?" "Yes. Worse; for this house and its furniture must go to defray the debts he has left behind. It is terrible--terrible indeed." "Terrible?" "Yes, dreadful," he said, gazing in her face. "Is that all?" "All? All, my child? What do you mean?" "Is that the terrible trouble you said that you had to communicate." "Yes, my dear child," he exclaimed; "it is dreadful news." "But it is only money matters," said Hazel innocently; and her face lit up with a pleasant smile. "I thought it was some dreadful trouble--some fresh misfortune." And as she sat looking him full in the eyes, her quick imagination carried her on to the time when Archibald would ask her to be his wife. His father was rich, and they would have a nice, bright little home somewhere, and mamma and the little girls would live with them. Percy would come home during his holidays, and they would be as happy as the day was long. Certainly, she did shrink a little at the thought of mamma and Archibald; but then she knew he would be as self-denying as herself, and he would do anything for her sake, of course. She was brought back to the present by her visitor. "You do not think this so great a trouble, then!" he said. "Oh, no!" cried Hazel. "It only means going to a humbler house: and of course Percy and I will set to work to make mamma happy and comfortable." "Of course," said the visitor dryly. "And Percy is growing into a man, and he must take an office and do something in the City; and I must do something too, Mr Geringer--teach music or painting. You will help me, will you not!" "In any way. In every way I will devote myself to your service. You will allow me?" "Indeed I will," she said, placing both her hands in his. "Papa always said you were one of his best friends, and to whom could I look better than to you." "Trust me, Hazel, and you shall never repent it," he cried warmly--so warmly that he saw a half-alarmed look in the young girl's face; but he succeeded in chasing it away by his after-display of tender regret and reverence; and left her comparatively happy and at rest. CHAPTER FOUR. A PROPOSAL. All looked so easy and bright in the future that it seemed harsh on the part of Fate to crush out hope after hope. All appeared so promising when Hazel had discussed her position with Mr Geringer, and then during the next few months bit by bit the morsels of blue sky were blotted out of her horizon, till all above her seemed cold grey cloud, and her life a blank. First then was her mother's health to battle for, and to comfort her when they had to move to furnished lodgings and manage without a servant. "Yes, it will be better," said Edward Geringer to himself with a smile. "Let it work." He had thought the matter out thoroughly--for the family, save for a little consideration displayed by the creditors, were absolutely penniless; and he let them go into lodgings, and waited to be asked for help. The first appeal to him was about Percy, the son; and he responded willingly, advising sensibly and well that the lad should go into some City office and fight his way in the world. Hazel sighed, for she had hoped for more schooling and then a career at college, in spite of her talk of her brother's working. So Percy went into the office of Suthers, Rubley, and Spark, the sugar-brokers, and came home grumbling every night. It was hard to bear, for it upset poor weak Mrs Thorne, who sympathised with her son, and talked of the degradation, and sighed and petted him, calling him her noble boy, inveighing against Fate, and making the lad ten times as discontented with his position as he had been before, and so increased the load on Hazel's shoulders just at a time when she was nearly broken-hearted. For it was unmistakable: Archibald Graves, the true, the sterling, the handsome, the best of men, had been yielding to home-pressure. Old Graves said it was preposterous. The girl was right enough, but he was not going to see his son throw himself away and set up a home with a penniless girl so as to keep her mother and family as well. Archibald Graves was indignant at first, then he thought it over. Hazel was the nicest and dearest of girls, but certainly Mrs Thorne only wanted a vowel left out of her name for it to describe her exactly. He did not like Percy either, whom he thought "a spoiled young cub." Then there were more words with his father; introductions to friends of his sisters, especially to one Miss Pettifer, who was reputed rich, and so on, till Archibald Graves, in following his own likings, set it all down to his father's stern orders. He told himself that he was only doing his duty in ceasing his visits to the Thornes, and after nearly breaking her heart, pride came to Hazel Thorne's help, and she grew pale and sterner of face as the weeks passed, and no Archibald, while Edward Geringer came regularly, called her his dear child, and went away smiling and praising himself for his self-restraint. It is needless to go on describing Hazel Thorne's troubles during these months, when, in addition to the suffering produced by the falling away of one to whom she had looked for help, there was the attendance on the querulous, sick, thoughtless mother, always complaining of her fate and the fact that a lady should be brought down to such a life. There was Percy to combat when he talked of throwing up his situation, "appointment" he called it--the children--the little sisters--to teach, and, above all, the battle to fight of finding money, and lowering her pride to accept help from relatives who gave grudgingly when unwillingly appealed to. Mr Geringer had thoughtfully placed money in her hands twice. "The result of a little speculation in which I was engaged with poor Thorne, my dear child," he said; but that failed fast, and as Hazel toiled on at her task of giving lessons to three or four pupils she had got together, she looked blankly forward at the future, and wondered what they all would do. It was nearly six months since her father's death, and she could not conceal the fact from herself that they were rapidly going down-hill. Instead of Percy being a help, he was an expense; and everything depended upon her. Under the circumstances, the only prospect open to her was to start a school; but while the grass was growing the steed was starving, and she used to look with envy at the smart well-dressed mistress of the national school hard by, with her troop of girls who came pouring out at noon; and at last came like an inspiration the idea--why should not she get a post as mistress? To think was to act, and she boldly called on the mistress, who sent her away terribly dejected, with the information that at least a year's training in the system, however well educated the would-be teacher might be, was absolutely necessary. Hazel, however, obtained a good deal of information as well, ready to ponder over--how she might either go to Whitelands or to Smith Square, Westminster; what would be the cost; the probabilities of her obtaining a school afterwards; the salary; etcetera, etcetera. She went back in despair, for how could the money be obtained to pay her expenses and keep house as well, while the idea of obtaining a school at the end of a year's training, with a certain salary and a comfortable home, seemed so Eden-like a prospect that the difficulties to be surmounted appeared to grow. Like all other difficulties, however, they began to shrink when boldly attacked. Hazel wrote to two or three relatives, as a forlorn hope, and they who had before only doled out a few pounds unwillingly, jumped at the chance of getting the indigent applicant off their hands, and after a consultation, wrote to her saying they were so pleased with her efforts at self-help, that amongst them they would subscribe the funds for paying her fees, at the training institution and for maintaining Mrs Thorne and the children for a year, or such time as Hazel should get a school. "Oh, mamma, mamma, sunshine at last," cried the girl, and trembling, weeping, and laughing hysterically, in turn, so great was her joy, she read the letter, which came upon Mrs Thorne as a surprise, her child having kept her quite in ignorance of the plans to prevent disappointment. "Then, I think it very disgraceful, very disgraceful indeed, Hazel," said the poor woman indignantly. "They ought to be ashamed of themselves." "Ashamed, dear mother!" "Now, don't you turn against me in my troubles, Hazel," cried Mrs Thorne. "What have I done that my own child should begin to degrade me?" "Degrade you? Oh, my own dear mother!" "There--there again! I don't care how low we are forced by the cruelty of my relatives, and your poor dear papa's. I will never forget that I am a lady." "Surely not, dear," said Hazel soothingly. "Then why will you persist in calling me by that low, common, degrading term--Mother?" "Dear mamma, I thought it better under the circumstances." "No circumstances could excuse it, Hazel," said Mrs Thorne with dignity. "Percy never speaks to me like that; and by-the-way, my dear, Percy says he must have a new suit: his mourning is getting so shabby, he is quite ashamed of it, and I'm sure my heart bleeds every time I see the poor boy go out." "Yes, mamma, we will see what can be done," said Hazel, suppressing a sigh. "And as to that national school business," continued Mrs Thorne, "it is disgraceful. Write and tell cousin Jane and her husband that, however low we may be reduced by poverty, my daughter will never forget that she is a lady." "But, mamma dear," said Hazel gently; "it was entirely my idea, and I wrote for their help." "You--you, Hazel--my child--propose to go to a common training school, and then accept a situation to teach a pack of dirty poor people's children? Oh, what have I done--what have I done to be called upon to suffer this new--this pitiful degradation! What have I done?" It was hard work, but by degrees poor Mrs Thorne was brought round to think that perhaps--perhaps--she would go no farther--it might be less degradation to accept an honourable post and do a great duty therein of helping to make so many girls better women by careful training, than to live in indigence as a kind of respectable pauper, subsisting on the assistance of grudging friends. So the poor, weak, proud woman at last gave way, and the preliminaries being arranged, Hazel was about to leave home for the training institution full of hope, when there was a change in the state of affairs. All this had taken place unknown to Mr Geringer, who was quite startled when he heard the plans, for they ran counter to his own. It had been quite in keeping with his ideas that the Thornes should taste the bitters of poverty, and know what being impecunious really meant. The poorer they were the easier would be his task. Matters had gone on swimmingly. Their position had had its effect upon the Graves's, and his rival, as he called Archibald Graves, had left the field; six months had passed, and Hazel had grown to look upon him as a very dear friend, though not as a lover, and he had come to the conclusion that the time was now ripe for asking her to be his wife; in fact, he had had thoughts of speaking at their last meeting, but had been put off! Now he had come to find Mrs Thorne alone, and after a certain amount of preliminary, was about to speak, when the lady fired off her views and took him by surprise. "Go--to a training institution--become a schoolmistress!" he cried. "My dear Mrs Thorne, it is impossible." "Exactly my words," said the lady. "`Hazel, my dear child,' I said, `such a degradation is impossible.'" "Quite impossible," said Geringer; and then he drew nearer and talked for some time in a low voice to Mrs Thorne, who shed tears and sobbed greatly, and said that she had always looked upon him as their best and dearest friend. "I have waited, you see," he continued, "for of course if I had felt that dear Hazel really cared for this young Graves I should have said nothing, and I fully know my deficiencies, my age, and such drawbacks; but I am tolerably wealthy, and I can give her all she has lost, restore her nearest and dearest to their proper place in society--almost to the position they formerly held in the world's esteem." Mrs Thorne thought they were words of gold, and at Geringer's request she not only readily promised to prepare Hazel, but that all should be as he wished. _L'homme propose_, as the French proverb has it and things do not always turn out as he wishes. Mr Geringer, after the preparation Hazel received from Mrs Thorne, proposed and was refused. Hazel said it was impossible, and such was her obstinacy, as Mrs Thorne called it, she refused to become a rich man's wife, and insisted upon going to the Whitelands training institution, condemning her unfortunate mother to a life of poverty and degradation, her brother to toil, and blasting her young sisters' prospects, when she might have married, had her carriage, and all would have gone as merry as a marriage bell. That was Mrs Thorne's view of the case, and she kept up her protests with tears and repining, winning Percy to her side till he was always ready to reproach his sister. Hazel bore all, worked with all the energy in her nature for the year of training, was fortunate in getting a school after a few months' waiting, and was, as we found her, duly installed in the little schoolhouse, her brother being boarded with some humble friends in town. CHAPTER FIVE. DISTURBING INFLUENCES. Hazel Thorne felt giddy as she took her seat in the front of the gallery, the seat with a little square patchy cushion close to the red curtains in front of the organist's pew. Beside and behind her the school children sat in rows, with ample room for three times the number; but the seats were never filled save upon the two Sundays before the annual school feast when somehow the Wesleyan and Congregational Sunday-schools were almost empty, and the church school thronged. It was precisely the same on Mr Chute's side of the organ, with his boys beside and behind, and so situated that he could lean a little forward and get a glimpse of Hazel's profile, and also so that he could leave his seat, go round by the back of the organ, and give the new mistress the hymn-book, and the music used, with all the hymns, chants, and tunes carefully turned down. It was a pleasant little attention to a stranger, and Hazel turned and thanked him with a smile that was not at all necessary, as Miss Rebecca who played the organ, and saw this through an opening in the red curtains, afterwards said to her brother the Reverend Henry Lambent, while at the time she said:-- "Sh! sh!" For Ann Straggalls was fighting down a desire to laugh, consequent upon Feelier Potts whining sharply:-- "Oh, Goody, me!" "Like her impudence," Mr Chute said to himself, in allusion to Miss Rebecca's interference with the duties of the new mistress. "She'd better not try it on with my boys," and he went back to think of Hazel Thorne's sweet sad smile. And all the time the object of his thoughts felt giddy. Archibald Graves down there, when she had believed that he had forgotten her; and the more she thought, the more agitated and indignant she grew. At times she felt as if she must leave the church, for there, plainly in view, sat the disturber of her peace, one whom she had put behind her with the past; and when at last they stood up to sing the first hymn, to her horror she found that it was the custom in the old country church for the audience all to turn and face the organ, when Archibald Graves stood gazing up at her, and, strive how she would, she could not help once or twice meeting his eyes. "It is cruel and unmanly," she thought, as she resumed her seat, feeling half distracted by the flood of emotion that seemed to sweep away the present. Fortunately there was an audible "Sh! sh!" from behind the red curtains just then; and this drew Hazel's attention to the fact that Feelier Potts was, if not "tiddling," at all events making Ann Straggalls laugh, just when, in a high-pitched drawl, the Reverend Henry Lambent was going on with the service, as if he felt it a great act of condescension to make appeals on behalf of such a lower order of beings as the Plumtonites. What time the round smooth face of Mr William Forth Burge was looking over the edge of his pew, where he always knelt down standing up as Feelier Potts said, and always smelt his hat inside when he came into church. And while this gentleman forgot all about the prayers in his thoughtful meditation upon the face of one who he told himself had the face of an angel, Mr Chute kept forgetting the litany, and let the boys straggle in the responses, for he felt impelled to glance round the front of the organ pew at the soft white forehead he could just contrive to see. "Those girls never behaved worse," said Miss Rebecca to herself. "If this is to be the way they are kept in order she will never do." Miss Rebecca Lambent felt more sore than usual, for she was at heart aggrieved that the new schoolmistress should be so good-looking and ladylike--matters not at all in accordance with what was right for "a young person in her station in life;" and, to make matters worse, Jem Chubb, who blew the bellows, let the wind fail in the middle of the second hymn. It was fortunate, then, that the girls did behave so badly, and that Feelier Potts would keep spreading out her hands, and saying, "Oh, Goody me!" in imitation of the vicar's tones, for it took Hazel's attention, and her task of keeping the girls quiet stayed her thoughts from wandering away. There was no avoiding the meeting, and when at last--the service being over and the congregation going--the school children, evidently smelling dinner, having rushed off in spite of all efforts to detain them--Hazel slowly descended, it was to find Archibald Graves waiting at the foot of the stairs, and he stepped in front of Mr Chute, who, as he was so near a neighbour, aimed at walking with the new mistress home. "Let us go off along the road here somewhere, Hazel," said Archibald Graves abruptly, "I have come down on purpose to see you. Never mind these people; come along." What should she do? Miss Rebecca was staring--nay, glowering; the Burges were coming up, and this terrible interview, which she would have given worlds to avoid, was apparently inevitable: for, unlike some young ladies she did not feel disposed to faint. What then, should she do? The knot was untied, for just then there was a rustle of silk, and Miss Beatrice swept up over the chiselled slabs, to say, in a stern, uncompromising voice-- "Miss Thorne, my brother, the vicar, wishes to speak with you in the vestry." CHAPTER SIX. THE REVEREND HENRY LAMBENT. "I beg your pardon," said Archibald Graves, rather abruptly; "I spoke to Miss Thorne before church. I think she is engaged to me." The eyes of Beatrice Lambent opened with astonishment and she stared at this daring young man, who had the presumption to talk of interposing between the new schoolmistress and the head of the parish. She was evidently about to speak, for her lips moved, but no words came. It was Hazel who put an end to the unpleasant dilemma. "I will come at once. Miss Lambent, if you please," she said respectfully. "Miss Beatrice Lambent, if you please," said the lady haughtily; "Miss Lambent is now descending from the organ-loft." "I beg your pardon," exclaimed Hazel. Then, glancing with quiet dignity at the intruder and back to Miss Beatrice: "Mr Graves was a friend of our family a year or two back. Mr Graves, my mother is at the schoolhouse; if you wish to see me, I must ask you to call there." She followed Miss Beatrice up between the rows of pews that lady seeming to take her into moral custody; while, seeing himself the aim of several pairs of eyes, including those of Mr Chute, Mr William Forth Burge, Miss Burge, and above all, those of Miss Lambent, which literally flashed at him, Archibald Graves nodded shortly, turned upon his heel, and tried to march carelessly out of church; but his easy motions were terribly full of restraint. "I was not aware that Miss Thorne would be so soon having friends," said Miss Lambent; but her remark elicited no reply, for Mr William Forth Burge and his sister both felt troubled, the schoolmaster angry, and all too much preoccupied with the appearance of Hazel Thorne as she passed into the chancel, and through a bar of brilliant colour cast by the sun from the new stained-glass window, which had been placed in the south end of the chancel in memory of the late vicar, the effect being very strange, seeming to etherealise Hazel; though for the matter of that the same effect would have been seen, had it been noticed, in connection with Miss Beatrice, who had led the way, drawing aside the curtain that hung in front of the vestry door, and tapping softly with her knuckles. "Come in!" Very simple words, but they set Hazel's heart beating, as, in a whisper full of awe, but at the same time very distant and cold, Miss Beatrice said: "You may go in now." As she spoke she drew back, holding the curtain for Hazel to pass; and trying to master her emotion, the latter raised the latch and entered the vestry. The vicar was standing with his hat in hand, gazing out of the little window at the cheerful prospect of a piece of blank old stone wall, surmounted by a large waterspout, and though he must have heard the door open and close, he did not turn, but stood there as stiff and uncompromising of aspect as his sisters. He had seen Hazel Thorne twice before, but in a gloomy room in London; and being of rather a preoccupied turn of mind, he had paid so little heed to her personal appearance that he would hardly have recognised her again. A new mistress had been required, and the customary correspondence had taken place; he had called at the institution, asked a few questions, and there was an end of the matter, the strong recommendations of the lady-principal being sufficient for the engagement to be decided on. Hazel stood waiting for him to turn round, but the Reverend Henry Lambent remained gazing at the water-pipe for some few moments before coughing slightly to clear his throat. Then, in a voice full of haughty condescension, he began: "I am glad to find that you arrived punctually. Miss Thorne, in accordance with the arrangements that were made; and I take this opportunity of saying a few words to you at this commencement of your career in Plumton." Here he stopped, and faced slowly round, allowing his half-closed eyes to rest indifferently upon the new mistress, who was standing facing the window, and upon whose rather pale care-worn face the light fell strongly as he turned. Very plainly dressed in her well-fitting mourning, Hazel Thorne was one who could have claimed a second look from the sternest of mortals. It was not that she was surpassing beautiful, and could boast of finely-chiselled nostrils, Juno-like brow, or any of the wonderfully entrancing features with which some novelists endow their heroines; Hazel was simply a sweet-faced, thoroughly English girl, but there was an expression in her eyes, a touching look so full of appeal that it even affected the cold, unimpassioned vicar, who remained silent for some moments as if wondering, and then hastily said: "I beg your pardon. Miss Thorne, will you sit down!" He placed a chair for her, and drew another forward from where it was half hidden behind the folds of the surplice but lately hung upon its proper peg, and, astonished at himself waited till Hazel had seated herself before following suit. "That young man" seemed to have vanished from his thoughts, and the lecture he had intended to read the young schoolmistress upon the bad appearance of such meetings as those which had taken place that morning dropped from his memory, and his lips formed words that surprised him as much as his acts. "I trust that you have found everything correct at--at the schoolhouse, Miss Thorne?" "Quite, I thank you," replied Hazel, with quiet dignity, and she entirely forgot that she was addressing her superior, and left out the "sir." "Of course everything is very strange and new to you at first; but er-- er, you will soon feel quite at home with us, I hope." "Indeed, I hope so," said Hazel earnestly. "The time has been so short as yet." "Yes--of course--so very short," replied the vicar. "My sisters will call to-morrow, I have no doubt and see Mrs Thorne. I shall be down at the school in the afternoon. You saw Miss Burge, of course, this morning?" "Oh yes. Miss Burge walked up to church with me." "And Mr William Forth Burge too, if I mistake not. Most admirable people, Miss Thorne. Great patrons of our schools. I trust that you will--er--er--try to--er--that is, endeavour to meet them in little matters, connected with the management of the children." "You may rely upon my trying to thoroughly fulfil my duties, Mr Lambent," said Hazel quietly. "Of course--to be sure, Miss Thorne, no doubt," he said hastily; and as he spoke he wondered at himself more and more; "but I must not detain you, Miss Thorne. Er--allow me one moment, the curtain is rather awkward to one unaccustomed to the place." And, to the astonishment--the utter astonishment--of his sisters, who were standing as stiffly in the chancel as if they were a couple of monumental effigies, the Reverend Henry Lambent opened the door, passed out first, and then stood holding the curtain aside for Hazel to pass, which she did, bowing gravely and with quiet dignity to the two ladies before gliding along the nave and out of the door. Neither of the sisters spoke, but stood, like the vicar, watching the new mistress leave the church. At last Miss Beatrice turned. "What excuse did she make, Henry?" she said. "I--er--I beg your pardon, Beatrice?" "I say, what excuse did she make? Really, her conduct is very, strange." "Excuse? Oh, of course, about her visitor," said the vicar absently. "I er--I--on second consideration thought it would be better to ignore the matter. Perhaps she was not to blame." "Henry!" "Beatrice, my dear," said the vicar quietly, "I always abstain from having refreshments in the vestry, but the morning service is long and I feel faint. Let us go home to lunch." Miss Beatrice had the first rule over the vicarage, her elder sister the second rule, and generally speaking, the vicar let them have matters entirely their own way; still, there were times when he took the reins in his own hands, and then it was dangerous to interfere. This was one of the times when the vicar showed that he had a will of his own, and consequently the sisters exchanged glances and said no more. CHAPTER SEVEN. "WHAT DID I SEE IN THIS BOY?" Hazel was not destined to reach home without adventure, for before she had gone far she could see Mr Chute walking along very slowly, right at the bottom of the street, and evidently hoping that she would overtake him. But this was not the cause of the palpitation from which Hazel suffered, for, about halfway between the church and the schools, she saw Archibald Graves coming to meet her, walking very fast; and she had to prepare herself for the encounter that was now inevitable. "At last!" he cried, eagerly, as he came up. "My dear Hazel, I thought I was never to see you." She took no notice of the proffered hand, but walked quietly on. "Won't you take my arm, Hazel?" he exclaimed. "Oh, don't be so hard on a fellow. What have I done?" Hazel turned her large earnest eyes upon him, and seemed to look him through and through, as, instead of answering his question, she put one to herself. "What did I see in Archibald Graves, this thoughtless boy, who can come and ask me such a question after the agony I have suffered? What did I see in this boy to make me think I loved him with all my heart?" Poor Hazel! It did not occur to her that a short two years since she was a light-hearted girl; and that since then she had grown into a deep, earnest woman, who had been baptised by sorrow, and who could only share the riches of her love with one who was all that was manly and true, and to whom she could look up with respect, even with reverence; whereas now, with his petulant boyish, injured air, Archibald Graves only filled her with something akin to disgust. "I say, you know, Hazel," he went on, "don't be so hard on a fellow. The governor was dead against my keeping it up, you know, and he wanted me to give him my word not to see you any more; but at last I thought I must see you again, so I found out all about what you were doing, and where you were, and followed you down here; and 'pon my soul, when I saw you leading that string of scrubs of school children to church, I did not know whether to laugh or cry." "Then Mr Graves is not aware of your visit down here, Archibald?" said Hazel quietly. "By Jove, no! he would be in a wax if he knew." "Then why did you come?" "Why did I come? Oh, I say Hazel," he cried reproachfully, "I didn't think you could be so hard upon me. You don't know how I've been upset all about it. 'Pon my word, there were times when I felt almost ill." "Has he altered?" Hazel's heart cried out within her, "or have I become worldly and cold, and, as he says, hard?" "I say, you know, Hazel, you must give up all this wretched business. I shall tell the governor that I mean to keep to our old engagement, and he'll come round some day; but you must give up the school teaching, as he'd never stand that, for he's as proud as Lucifer. Come, I say, it's all right again, isn't it?" "What did I see in this boy?" thought Hazel, as the indignant blood flushed into her cheeks, and then flowed back painfully to her heart. "Was he always as weak and thoughtless as this?" "Oh, I say, mother, look here," cried a shrill voice as they were passing an open cottage door; "that's new teacher, and that's her young man." "There, you hear," whispered Hazel's companion, laughing; "it was vulgarly put, but very true." "Archibald Graves," said Hazel quietly, "have you not the common-sense to see that your visit here is putting me in a false position?" "I know you are in a false position here," he retorted angrily. "Who's that fellow, and why does he take off his hat to you, and glare at me?" "That is Mr Chute, the master of the boys' school, and my fellow-teacher. This is my house, and I cannot ask you to come in. Do you wish me to think with a little less pain of our old acquaintanceship?" "_Our_ old love, you mean," he cried. "Our old acquaintanceship, Archibald Graves," she replied firmly. "Love is too holy a word to be spoken of in connection with our past." "I--I don't understand you," he cried. "You will when you have grown older and more thoughtful," she replied. "Now good-bye." "Thoughtful? Older?" he blurted out. "I am old enough and thoughtful enough to know what I mean, and I won't part like this." "Your presence here is liable to be seriously misconstrued," said Hazel; "do you wish to do me a serious injury in the eyes of those with whom it is of vital importance that I should stand well?" "Why, of course not. How can you ask me?" "Then say `good-bye' at once, and leave this place." "But I tell you I have come down on purpose to--" "All that is dead," she said, in a tone that startled him. "Then you never loved me!" he cried angrily. "Heaven knows how well!" she said softly. "But you killed that love, Archibald Graves, and it can never be revived." She had held out her hand in token of farewell, but he had not taken it; now she let it fall, and before he could frame a fresh appeal she had turned, entered the little house, and the door closed behind her. Archibald Graves remained standing gazing blankly at the closed door for a few moments, till he heard the click of a latch, and, turning sharply, he saw that the schoolmaster was leisurely walking his garden some fifty yards away. He was not watching the visitor--nothing of the kind; but the flowers in the little bed required looking to, and he remained there picking off withered leaves with his new gloves, and making himself very busy, in spite of a reminder from his mother that dinner was getting cold; and it was not until he had seen the stranger stride away that he entered his own place and sat thoughtfully down. "If she thinks I am going to be thrown over like this," said Archibald Graves to himself, "she is mistaken. She shall give way, and she shall leave this wretched place, or I'll know the reason why. I wonder who that round-faced fellow was, and where I can get something to eat? By Jove, though, how she has altered! she quite touches a fellow like. Here, boy, where's the principal inn?" "Say?" "Where's the principal inn?" cried the visitor again, as the boy addressed stared at him wonderingly, his London speech being somewhat incomprehensible to juveniles at Plumton All Saints. "Dunno." "Where can I get something to eat, then?" said the visitor, feeling half amused, his difficulty with Hazel passing rapidly away. "Somut to ee-yut. Why don't yer go ho-um?" "Hang the boy! Oh, here's the round-faced chap. I beg your pardon, can you direct me to the best hotel?" "Straight past the church, sir, and round into the market-place." "Thanks; I can get some lunch or dinner there, I suppose?" "Ye-es," said Mr William Forth Burge. "I should think so." "I came down from town by the mail last night, and walked over from Burtwick this morning. Strange in the place, you see." "May I offer you a bit of dinner, sir? I know London well, though I'm a native here, and as a friend of our new schoolmistress--" "Oh, I should hardly like to intrude," cried the young man apologetically. "Pray come," said the ex-butcher eagerly, for he longed to get the young man under his roof. He did not know why: in fact he felt almost hurt at his coming there that morning; and again, he did not know why, but he knew one thing, and that was that he would have given ten pounds that moment to know why Archibald Graves had come down that day, and what he said to Miss Thorne, and--yes, he would have given twenty pounds to know what Hazel Thorne said to him. The result was, that he carried off the stranger to his handsome house, just outside the town, and soon after Archibald Graves was making himself quite at home, drinking the school-patron's sherry, smoking his cigars, and getting moment by moment more fluent of tongue, and ready to lay bare the secrets of his heart, if secrets the facts could be called that he was prepared to make known to any one who would talk. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Has he gone, Bill?" said Miss Burge, entering the drawing-room about eight o'clock that evening, and finding her brother standing before a glass and sprinkling himself with scent. "Yes, he went a good hour ago." And the speaker looked very solemn, and uttered a deep sigh. "I wouldn't disturb you, dear, at church time, as you had company; but, Bill dear--oh, how nice you smell!" and she rested her hands on his shoulders and reached up to kiss him. "Do I, Betsey?" "Lovely, dear; but do tell me what he said about Miss Thorne." Her brother's forehead seemed to have gone suddenly into the corrugated iron business, as he turned his eyes upon his sister. "He said--he said--" "Yes, dear; please go on." "He said he had been engaged to her for two or three years, and that as soon as his father left off cutting up rough--" "Cutting up rough, Bill? Did he say cutting up rough?" "Yes, Betsey. I never cut up rough in my business, never. I always made a point of having the best Sheffield knives and steels, and my steaks and chops and joints was always pictures." "Yes, dear; but tell me: Miss Thorne is engaged to be married to this gentleman?" "I suppose so," said Mr William Forth Burge drearily. "It was always so, Betsey. I could get on in trade, and I could save money, and I always dressed well, and I defy the world to say I wasn't always clean shaved; but I never did see a young lady that I thought was nice, but somebody else had seen her before and thought the same." "Oh, but we never know what might happen, Bill." "What's the good of being rich? What's the good of having a fine house? What's the good of everything, if everything's always going to turn out disappointment? Betsey," he continued fiercely, "that chap thinks of nothing but hisself. He's one of your cigar-smoking, glass-o'-sherry chaps, and he ain't got a good 'art. Why, if you'd got a young man, Betsey, and he come and sit down here and talked about you as that chap did about our young schoolmistress, I'd ha' punched his head!" Miss Burge pressed her brother softly back into a chair, and patted his face, and smoothed his hair, and kissed him first on one cheek and then upon the other. "You're tired, Bill dear," she said, "and didn't get your nap after dinner. Where's your handkerchief? Here, let me do it dear;" and taking her brother's flaming handkerchief from his pocket, she softly opened it over his head and face as if she were about to perform a conjuring trick and bring out bowls of gold fish or something of the kind from beneath, but she did not: she merely left it on his head and went away on tiptoe, saying to herself: "Poor Bill! he has got it again, and badly, too." CHAPTER EIGHT. MR CHUTE'S VISIT. It was a busy morning with Hazel Thorne as she took her place in the large schoolroom, feeling that her responsibilities had now commenced in earnest. For there were no ladies to take classes now, the assistance coming from a pupil-teacher and four or five girls as monitors, against one and all of whom Feelier Potts entertained a deadly hatred, for the simple reason that she had been passed over, and they had all been chosen in her stead. The discipline of the school had been fairly maintained, but Hazel was not long in finding out that there were plenty of young revolutionary spirits waiting their opportunity to test the strength of the new mistress, nor in seeing that Miss Feelier Potts would be one of the leaders in any small insurrectionary movement that might take place. There was plenty to do that first morning--to feel the way, as it were; to find out what had been going on; how it was done; what the girls knew, and the hundred other little difficulties that a strange mistress would have to deal with on taking possession of a new post. Monday morning too, and there were the school pence to be paid--hot, moist, sticky pennies, that had been carried generally in hot, moist, sticky hands. These had to be received and noted, and the excuses listened to as well. "Mother hadn't got no change's morning, teacher"--"Pay next week, teacher"--"Mother says, teacher, as there's four on us, she oughtn't to pay more'n thruppens"--"Mother 'll call and pay when she comes by." Then there was Sarah Ann Simms' case. Sarah Ann had not brought her penny, and the book showed that she had not brought it the week before, nor the month before; in fact, it seemed as if Sarah Ann was in debt for her schooling from the time she had commenced. Upon Sarah Ann being questioned, she didn't know nothink, only that mother--who appeared to be ready to set all school rules, regulations, and laws at defiance--said she shouldn't pay. Hazel Thorne was pondering upon this crux, when there was a tap at the door, and Mr Samuel Chute entered, smiling to say "Good morning." "I thought I'd just drop in, and see if there was anything I could do," he said, upon shaking hands, after which he wiped the hand he had used upon his fair hair. "It's very awkward coming first to a school," he went on, "and if you'll only send for me, or ask for anything, you shall have it directly. I hope you've got plenty of chalk." Hazel believed there was plenty, and promised to send and ask for assistance if any was required, wishing heartily the while that her visitor would go; but although it was evident through the thin partition that the boys were enjoying themselves in their master's absence, Mr Chute seemed in no hurry to depart. "You'll have some trouble, I daresay," he continued, rubbing his hands together, and looking contemplatively at Hazel. "Some of the girls are like their brothers in my school. The young Potts' are a terrible nuisance." "I daresay I shall be able to manage them by degrees," replied Hazel-- "Are you sure you have plenty of chalk?" "I think there is an abundance of school necessaries." "Oh, no! Oh dear, no!" said Mr Chute, with a pitying smile. "You'll find lots of things wanting. They're very stingy over them; and if it wasn't for old Burge, I don't know what we should do. You are sure you have plenty of chalk?" "Please, teacher, there's a whole boxful in the cupboard," said Miss Potts. "Silence! How dare you speak when you are not asked?" said Mr Chute fiercely; and Miss Potts began to hurry away, terribly alarmed, back to her place, but watched her opportunity to turn and squint horribly at the visitor, to the great delight of the other girls--especially of Ann Straggalls the fat, who, poor girl, seemed to suffer from an infirmity; for no sooner did she see anything mirth-provoking than she exploded loudly, no matter where she was, into a boisterous laugh--a laugh that was a constant source of trouble to her; for which she had suffered endless punishments, besides having been ordered three times out of church by Miss Rebecca Lambent, who would rise spectrally above the red curtains of the organ-loft, and stand pointing at the door till the trembling girl had gone. Ann Straggalls horrified Hazel upon this occasion by giving vent to one of her explosions, and then turning purple as she tried to hide her face. "Ah, you'll have to punish her," said Mr Chute. "Oh, by-the-way, Miss Thorne--" "If he would only go!" thought Hazel, for the girls were getting very lively and boisterous, seeing their teacher's attention taken off, and catching a little of the infection from beyond the partition shutters. "I say, you'll have a deal of trouble over the school pence"--Mr Chute was a prophet in this case, though he did not know it--"they'll try all sorts of plans to get out of paying--a few of them will; but don't you be imposed upon by their excuses. It's only a penny a week, you know. There's the Simms's never will pay, and they ought to be turned out of the schools, for it isn't fair for some children to pay and some not, is it?" "Of course not," replied Hazel. "Oh, why won't he go? Surely he must see that my time is wanted." Just then the noise in the boys' school became furious, and Mr Chute made an effort to let his rebellious subjects know that, though invisible in body, he was present with them in spirit, by going on tiptoe across the school and rapping on one of the sliding shutters sharply with his knuckles. The effect was magical, and he came back triumphant. "That's how I serve them," he said, with a self-satisfied smirk. "They know I won't stand any nonsense; and, I say, Miss Thorne, if you hear me using the cane, don't you take any notice, you know. It's good for them sometimes. You'll have to use it yourself." "I hope not," said Hazel quietly; and she glanced towards the door. "Ah, but you will," he said, laughing, and in profound ignorance of the fact that Feelier Potts was imitating his every action for the benefit of her class, even to going across and pretending to tap at the partition. "I believe in kindness and firmness combined, Mr Chute." "So do I," he said, as if lost in admiration. "That's exactly what I said to Lambent; and I say, Miss Thorne, just a friendly word, you know. You back me up and I'll back you up; don't you stand any nonsense from Lambent and those two. They're always meddling and interfering." "Those two?" said Hazel, thinking of Ophelia Potts and Ann Straggalls. "Yes; Rebecca and Beatrice, Lambent's sisters, you know. Rebel and Tricks we call them down here. They're as smooth as can be to your face, and they go and make mischief to Lambent. You must have your eyes open, for they're always telling tales. Beatrice is going to marry the young squire at Ardley, at least she wants to, and Rebecca wants old Burge, but he can't see it." "You really must excuse me now, Mr Chute," said Hazel. "I have so much to do." "Yes, so have I," he said pleasantly; but he did not stir. "You are sure you have plenty of chalk?" "Oh yes, plenty." "And slate-pencil? I believe the little wretches eat the slate-pencil, so much of it goes." "I will send for some if I want it," said Hazel; "I must go now to those classes." "Yes, of course, but one minute. My mother wants to be introduced to your mother, as we are to be neighbours, you know, and if there's anything household you want, mind you send for it." "Yes, certainly, Mr Chute."--Oh, I wish he would go! "May I bring my mother in to-night to see you?" "Not to-night, please, Mr Chute; we are hardly settled yet." "No, of course not. Well, good-bye; I _must_ go now." He held out his hand. For some time past Miss Lambent and her sister had been waiting. They had entered the boys' school to leave a message, and for a while their presence had acted as a brake upon the spirits of the young gentlemen; but waves of noise soon began to rise and fall, growing louder as the time went on. "Master's in the girls' school," one of the boys had said. "Should he fetch him?" "No, boy; go on with your lessons," said Miss Beatrice; and she exchanged glances with her sister. Then they settled themselves to wait, standing like a pair of martyrs to circumstances, listening to the increasing noise, and at last marching together out of the boys' school and towards the girls'. "Henry had better send for Mr Chute, and give him a good talking to," said Miss Lambent. "I formed my own impressions yesterday," said Miss Beatrice. "These proceedings only endorse them. She will never do for Plumton." "Never!" said Miss Rebecca; and after an inquiring look, given and taken, the sisters entered the girls' school, to find Miss Feelier Potts standing up, gazing pensively at Ann Straggalls, as she held and pressed her hand in perfect imitation of the action of Mr Samuel Chute, who was taking a farewell of the new mistress as if he were going on a long voyage--never to return. CHAPTER NINE. EXCITEMENT AT PLUMTON. "I don't know what has come to Henry," said Miss Lambent. "If I had been in his place I should have immediately called a meeting of the governors of the school, paid Miss Thorne, and let her seek for an engagement elsewhere." "I quite agree with you, Rebecca," replied Miss Beatrice. "Henry is behaving weakly and foolishly in all these matters. But we cannot be surprised. He is so profound a thinker and so deeply immersed in his studies that these little matters escape him." "I think it unpardonable. Here is a strange girl--for she is a mere girl, and far too young, in my estimation--appointed to the school, and just because she has rather a genteel appearance, everybody is paying her deference. Henry is really absurd. He says that Miss Thorne is quite a lady, and that allowances should be made. No allowances are made for me." "Don't be angry, Rebecca." "I am not angry, Beatrice. I never am angry: but in a case like this I feel bound to speak. There is that absurd Miss Burge ready to praise her to one's very face, and Mr William Forth Burge actually told me yesterday, when I went up to him to talk about the preparations, that we ought to congratulate ourselves upon having found so excellent a mistress. I haven't patience with him." "Are the Canninges coming?" said Miss Beatrice, changing the conversation; and as she spoke, standing in the vicarage drawing-room, with her eyes half-closed, a faint flush came into her cheeks, and she looked for the moment a very handsome, graceful woman. A connoisseur would have said that she was too thin, but granted that it showed breeding and refinement while her dress was in perfect taste. "Yes; Mrs Canninge told me yesterday that she should certainly drive over, and that she would persuade George Canninge to come. He ought not to want any persuasion, Beatrice," and Rebecca accompanied her words with a very meaning look. "Nonsense, dear! What attraction can a school-treat have to a gentleman like George Canninge?" "He might find pleasure in proceedings that are watched over by his friends. And now look here, Beatrice, I am never angry, I never quarrel, and I never say cruel things, but I must say that I do not think George Canninge is so attentive to you as he used to be." "Hush, Rebecca," cried Beatrice; "how can you speak like that? There is no engagement between us." "But there ought to be," said Miss Lambent tartly. "Marriage is a subject upon which I have never thought for myself." "Rebecca!" "Well, not directly," replied the lady. "I may perhaps have given such a matter a thought indirectly, but in your case I have thought about it a great deal." "Pray say no more, Rebecca." "I must say more, Beatrice, for in a case like this, your welfare is at stake, and for my part, I do not see how George Canninge could do better than by making you mistress of Ardley." "My dear Rebecca!" "It would be rather stooping on our side, for the Canninges are little better than traders; but Mrs Canninge is very nice, and I said to her, yesterday--" "Surely, Rebecca, you did not allude to--to--" "George Canninge and yourself? Indeed, I did, my dear. Mrs Canninge and I thoroughly understand one another, and I feel sure that nothing would please her better than for George Canninge to propose to you." Miss Beatrice sighed softly, and soon after the sisters went up to dress. For it was a festival day at Plumton All Saints, being that of the annual school feast. This school feast or treat was rather an ancient institution, and was coeval with the schools, but it had altered very much in its proportions since its earlier days, when the schoolmaster invested in a penny memorandum-book, and went round to all the principal inhabitants for subscriptions, which rarely exceeded a shilling, and had to be lectured by each donor upon the best way of teaching the children under his charge. Those treats first consisted of a ride in one of the farmers' waggons as far as a field, where the children were regaled with very thin milk and water, and slices of large loaves spotted with currants, which slices were duly baptised in the milk and water, and called by the children--"cake." Then there was a great advance to a real tea in a barn, and again a more generous affair through the generosity of one vicar, who had the children all up to the vicarage, and after they had done no little mischief to his flower-beds, sent them home loaded with fruity cakes, and toys. Then there was a decadence with a tendency towards thin milk and water and country buns, followed by a tremendous rise when Mr William Forth Burge came upon the scene; and the present was the second feast over which he had been presiding genius. In preparation for this festival, probably for reasons of his own, the patron had gone about smiling a great deal, and rubbing his hands. He had obtained _carte blanche_ from the vicar to do as he pleased, and it had pleased him to say to Miss Burge: "Betsy, we'll do the thing 'andsome this time, and no mistake. Money shan't stand in the way, and I want Miss Thorne--and Mr Chute," he added hastily, "to see that we know how to do things at Plumton." The result was that for a whole week the children nearly ran mad, and attention to object, or any other lessons, was a thing impossible to secure; and once every day--sometimes twice--Mr Chute was obliged to go into the girls' school and confide to Miss Thorne the fact that he should be heartily glad when it was all over. Hazel Thorne participated in his feelings, but she did not feel bound to go to the boys' school to impart her troubles, having terrible work to keep her scholars to their tasks. For to a little place like Plumton the preparations were tremendously exciting, and between school hours, and afterwards, the entrance to Mr William Forth Burge's garden was besieged with anxious sightseers, the wildest rumours getting abroad amongst the children, who were ready to believe a great deal more than they saw, though they had ocular demonstration that a large marquee was being erected, that ropes were stretched between the trees for flags, that four large swings had been made; and as for the contents of that marquee the most extravagant rumours were afloat. One thing was notable in spite of the inattention, and that was the fact that the schools were wonderfully well filled by children, who came in good time, and who duly paid their pence, many of the scholars having been absentees for months, some since the last school-treat, but who were coming "regular now, please, teacher." The morning had arrived when, after receiving strict orders to be at the schools punctually at eleven, fully half the expected number were at the gates by nine, clamouring for admittance; and at last the noise grew so loud that Mrs Thorne cast an appealing look at her daughter, and sighed. "Ah, Hazel," she murmured, "if you had only listened to poor Mr Geringer, we should have been spared this degradation." "Oh, hush, dear," whispered Hazel. "Pray say no more. Indeed I don't mind, and the poor children seem so happy." "But I mind it, Hazel," sighed Mrs Thorne. "It is a degradation indeed. Of course you will not be expected to walk with the children as far as those people's?" "Oh, yes," said Hazel, trying to speak lightly. "They are all going in procession with flags and banners." "Flags _and_ banners, Hazel?" exclaimed Mrs Thorne, with a horrified look. "Yes, dear. Mr Burge wants to give the children a great treat, and there is to be a brass band that he has engaged on purpose. I have just had a note from Miss Burge. She says her brother wished to keep it a secret to the last." "But not a regular brass band, Hazel?" "Yes, dear. It will be at the head of the procession, and the children are to be marched all round the town." "But not a brass band with a big drum, my dear? Surely not. Don't say with a big drum?" "Really, mother, dear, I don't know," replied Hazel, bending down and kissing her. "I suppose so." "Thank Heaven, that my poor husband was spared all this!" "Oh, hush, dear," whispered Hazel piteously. "But you will not stoop to walk round the town with them, Hazel? And surely you are never going to put that ridiculous bunch of cowslips in your dress?" "Mother, dear," said Hazel quietly, "I am the mistress of the girls' school, and it is my duty to walk with them. I am going to wear the bunch of spring flowers, for they were brought for me by the girls, who will all wear a bunch like it. Here is a bouquet, though, that Mr Burge has sent for the mistress out of his greenhouse. I suppose I must carry that in my hand." "Oh, my poor girl! my poor girl!" "Now, mother, dear mother, do not be so foolish," said Hazel. "Why should I be ashamed to walk with my girls? Are we not living an honourable and independent life, and is it not ten thousand times better than eating the bread of charity?" "Ah me! ah me!" sighed Mrs Thorne. "Now, dear, you will dress and come up to the treaty and I will see that you are comfortable." "I come? No, no, no!" "Yes, dear, Mr Burge begs that you will. Come, girls." This was called up the stairs to her little sisters, who came running down, dressed in white with blue sashes for the first time since their father's death. "What does this mean?" exclaimed Mrs Thorne. "They are coming with me, dear, each carrying a great bouquet." "Never! I forbid it!" cried the poor woman. "It was Mr Burge's particular request," said Hazel gently; "and, mother dear, you will nearly break their hearts if you forbid them now." "There, there, there," sobbed Mrs Thorne; "it's time I died and was taken out of your way. I'm only a nuisance and a burden to you." "Mother!" Only that one word, but the way in which it was uttered, and the graceful form that went down upon its knees before her to draw the head she kept rocking to and fro down upon her breast proved sufficient to calm the weak woman. Her sobs grew less frequent, and she at last began to wipe her eyes, after kissing Hazel again and again. "I suppose we must accept our fate, my dear," she said at last. "I'm sure I do mine. And now mind this. Cissy--Mabel!" "Yes, mamma! Oh, sister Hazel, isn't it time to go?" "I say you will mind this. Cissy--Mabel, you are to--But must they walk in procession with those terrible children, Hazel?" "Why not, dear? They will be with me, and what can be more innocent and pleasant than this treat to the poor girls? There, there, I know, for my sake, you will come up and lend your countenance to their sports." "Well, well," sighed Mrs Thorne. "I'll try. But mind me, Hazel," she exclaimed sharply, "I'm not coming up with that dreadful woman, Mrs Chute. I am coming by myself." "Yes, dear, I would," said Hazel. "And mind this. Cissy and Mabel, though you are going to walk behind the school children and carry flowers, you are not to forget that you are young ladies. Mind that." "No, mamma!" in duet. "And--Oh dear me, Hazel, there is some one at the front door, and I've only got on my old cap. I really cannot be seen; I--Good gracious _me_, Hazel, don't let any one in." Too late. Hazel had already opened the door and admitted little Miss Burge, who came trotting in with her face all smiles. "I thought I should never get through the children," she panted; "and ain't it 'ot? How well you do look, my dear! Lavender muslin suits you exactly. And how are you, my bonny little ones?" she cried, kissing the two girls. "But there, I've no time to lose. The band will be here directly, and my brother is with the boys; and, Mrs Thorne, he sends his compliments to you." Mrs Thorne had drawn herself up very stiffly in her chair, and was preserving a dignified silence, feeling offended at their visitor's want of recognition; but Mr Burge's compliments taught her that this patron of the school acknowledged her status in society, and she smiled and bowed. "And he said that he hoped you would excuse his not calling to invite you himself, but--now, bless my heart, what was the rest of it?" She looked in a perplexed way at Hazel, and then at the ceiling, as if expecting to read it there. "Oh, I know--but he had been so busy over the preparations, and he hoped you would come and look on; and the pony carriage will be here to fetch you at twelve." "I'm sure--really--I am greatly obliged to Mr Burge--" "Mr William Forth Burge," said Miss Burge correctively. "To Mr William Forth Burge for his kindness, and of course I shall be most happy." Hazel's eyes had filled with tears at the quiet unassuming kindness of these people, and she looked her gratitude at their visitor. "My brother's in such spirits, my dear, and he's next door; and he said at breakfast that he was proud to say he came to Plumton Schools himself when he was a boy, and nobody should say he was too proud to march round the town with them to-day." "And--and is he going to walk in the procession. Miss Burge?" asked Mrs Thorne. "That he is, ma'am," said the little lady. "So I said to him at breakfast, `well, Bill,' I said--you see I always call him `Bill,' Mrs Thorne, though he has grown to be such a rich and great man. It seems more natural so--`well, Bill,' I said, `if with all your money and position you're not too proud to walk with the boys, I won't be too proud to walk with the girls.'" "And--and are you going to walk with them, Miss Burge?" said Mrs Thorne, with trembling eagerness. "That I am, ma'am," cried Miss Burge, rustling her voluminous blue silk dress, "and I've come down to ask Miss Thorne if she would allow me to walk with her, and--Oh, my gracious! How it did make me jump!" The cause of Miss Burge's start was the preliminary _boom boom, boom_ of Mrs Thorne's horror, the big drum, for the band had been marched up silently to the front of the schools, and the next moment the place was echoing with the brazen strains. CHAPTER TEN. MR CANNINGE ASSISTS. Mr William Forth Burge was gorgeous in the newest of frock-coats and the whitest of waistcoats, as he stood outside the schools watching the marshalling of the little forces, and then, glossy hat in one hand, orange handkerchief in the other, he gave the signal to start; and, with the excellent brass band playing its loudest, and the children for the most part bearing flowers or flags, the long procession started, to march up the High Street, round the market-place, past the church, and in and out of Bush Lane and Padley's Road, the boys cheering, the girls firing off a shrill "hurrah" now and then; and whenever the band ceased, either the boys or the girls were started in some simple school chorus, such as poor George W. Martin or Hullah wrote, to be sung ere long through the length and breadth of the land. It was a simple affair, but well worth seeing, if only to watch the faces of the mothers and fathers of the children, ready at their doors to smile at "our Mary," or "little Jack," or "the bairns." Mr William Forth Burge was perspiring everywhere--now in the front to stimulate the band, now standing still on a doorstep, hat in one hand, orange handkerchief in the other, till the whole procession, boys and girls, had passed, with a word for every one in turn, and looking thoroughly happy in the simplicity of his heart. Mr Chute, on the contrary, was very dignified and stern, but ready to raise his best hat to Hazel whenever he had a chance. At last the vicarage was reached, a halt called, and the children gave a hearty cheer, which brought out the vicar, now ready to join Mr William Forth Burge and walk with the schools, the town being passed. There needed no fugleman to bring forth cheers from the children as they reached the gates of the garden, for here was a wonderful archway of evergreens and flowers, the work of the two gardeners, and beneath this they had hardly filed before numbers of the townspeople began to arrive. Then there was a carriage or two, and, assisted by the vicar's sisters, little Miss Burge had quite a reception on the green terrace in front of the drawing-room, the wives and daughters of the neighbouring clergy, who all wished they had a William Forth Burge in their own parishes, arriving to do honour to the event. The grounds were very pretty, and only separated by a light wire fence from a large paddock, which, having been fed off by sheep, was as smooth as a lawn; and here, for the hour before dinner, the children were marched, and sang at intervals, the band taking its turn, playing popular airs. Miss Lambent and Miss Beatrice had noticed the new schoolmistress with a couple of chilly bows, and then devoted themselves to the assistance of "dear Miss Burge;" while the giver of the feast was busy in conference with Mr Chute about certain sports that were afterwards to take place. "I don't see the Canninges carriage yet Beatrice," said Miss Lambent, in a whisper to her sister, as the ladies were strolling about the grounds and admiring the flower-beds, the conservatory, and grape-houses in turn. "Do you think they will come?" whispered Beatrice, who looked rather flushed; but certainly the day was hot. "She said they would. Dear me, how strange of Henry!" The vicar had gone into the paddock, and, after raising his hat politely, was standing talking to Hazel at intervals between saying a few words to the boys and girls--words, by the way, which they did not wish to hear, for every eye was turned as if by a magnet towards the great tent, and the man and maidservants and assistants constantly going to and fro. "Here they are at last," exclaimed Miss Lambent. "I told you so. Now, Beatrice, what do you say?" "Nothing," replied her sister quietly. "Then I say something. George Canninge wouldn't have come here to a children's school feast unless he had expected to meet some one particular." The object of their conversation had just helped a tall, handsome lady, with perfectly white hair, to descend from a phaeton drawn by a splendid pair of bays. He was a broad-shouldered, sparely-made man of about thirty, with dark, closely-cut whiskers--beards were an abomination then--and keen grey eyes, which took in the whole scene at a glance, and, what was more, to find satisfaction as he took off and replaced his grey felt hat, and then, from habit, took out a white handkerchief and dusted his glossy boots. "How absurd, mother! Thought I'd been walking," he said. "Bravo, Burge! He's doing it well. Hang it mother! I like that fellow." "It's a pity, dear, that he is so vulgar." "Oh, I don't know. He's frank and honesty and don't pretend to be anything more that what he is--a successful tradesman. Never saw a man less of a snob. Oh, there are the Lambents. I say, who's the lady talking to the parson?" "I don't know, my dear," said Mrs Canninge, "unless it is the new schoolmistress." "Nonsense: can't be. Oh, here's Burge! How are you, Burge? Glad you've got such a fine day for your treat." "So am I, Mr Canninge, so am I. Thank you for coming, sir. Thank you for coming too, ma'am. My sister is up by the house, and there's lunch in the dining-room, and you'll excuse me, won't you! I have such heaps to do." "Excuse you, of course. And I say, Burge, your going to give the youngsters some fun, I hope?" "Fun, sir? I mean to let them have a jolly good lark." "Don't let Lambent get them together and preach at the poor little beggars." Mr William Forth Burge's face expanded, and he showed all his white teeth. "That's what I like sir. That's the genuine old English squire said that." "Nonsense, Burge." "Oh, but it is, Mr Canninge. I know what's what as well as most men; and, look here, sir, I mean them to thoroughly enjoy themselves to-day." "That's right, and I'll help you." "You will, sir?" cried the giver of the feast. "To be sure I will; get up some races and that sort of thing." "I've got it all down on a piece of paper here, sir; only you wait. Now, I must go." "He is really very vulgar, George," said the lady; "but there is a bluffness about him that I do like after all. But hadn't we better go and speak to Miss Burge?" "Come along then. Oh, there are the Lambents with her now." The Canninges went up to little Miss Burge, the lady saluting her graciously, and the young squire very heartily; and then salutations were being exchanged with the Misses Lambent, Beatrice looking bright and handsome as George Canninge shook hands in a frank gentlemanly way, as a deafening clamour arose behind them, and, turning, there was the host wielding a great dinner-bell with all his might. As he ceased, the children cheered, the band struck up, and the little processions were marched past the company on the terrace, the boys to one end of the marquee, the girls to the other, Hazel now at the head of her troop, looking bright and animated, excited slightly by the scene, and being admired more than she knew by those whom she passed. As she came abreast of the group, she involuntarily raised her eyes, and they encountered a grave, earnest gaze from one whom she had never before seen; and in that brief moment she was aware that she was the object of a very scrutinising examination. The next minute she had passed between the folds of the tent door, and was busy getting her girls seated at the long table on one side, the boys occupying a second long table on the other side, both being covered with well-cooked hot joints, steaming potatoes, and, dear to all children's hearts, plenty of pies and puddings. "Well, ladies," said Mr Canninge, "shall we adjourn to the tent?" "Did you think of going in?" said Beatrice. "To be sure," he said gaily. "I am going to help." "Going to help!" said Miss Lambent. "To be sure: I promised Mr Burge. Let me take you in. Miss Lambent." Rebecca took a long breath and the squire's arm. She liked it, but she knew that Beatrice would be out of temper for hours after. There was no cause for temper, though--for the squire, as he was always called in the neighbourhood, had no sooner led the elder Miss Lambent within the canvas walls, then he coolly forsook her, and went and placed himself behind a great sirloin of beef at one end of the girls' table, facing Mr William Forth Burge, who had the twin joint before him, over which his round red face was smiling pleasantly. The vicar had gone to one end of the boys' table, the master being at the other, while several of the principal tradesmen took their places in front of other joints. "Now, boys and girls," cried the host, "are you all ready?" The chorus of "yes!" was startling. "Then silence for grace," roared the host; and then, rapidly, "What we're going to receive make us truly thankful. Amen. Lots of plates here!" Before he finished, his great carving-knife was playing a tune in that skilful way peculiar to butchers, upon a silver-mounted steel, while the vicar looked aghast and George Canninge stooped down to hide a smile. It was quite an insult when the vicar was present but in the innocency of his heart, Mr William Forth Burge was hoping the joints were done, and eager to begin. "Now, gentlemen, carve away, please," he shouted. "Other ladies and gentlemen and servants, please pass the plates and 'taters. I want the youngsters to have a good dinner to-day. Now, Thomas," he cried to his coachman, who had just set down a pile of plates, "you lay hold of that--that spoon, and do nothing but ladle out gravy to every plate." As he spoke, he was slicing off in the most skilful way prime sirloin of beef, and, smiling with delight, he said that it was done to a turn, as he called it. "I chose every joint myself," he said to one. "Pass the plates quick. See that they have plenty of 'taters, ladies. Eat away, girls." The visitors, after a few moments' awkward hesitation, turned themselves into waiters, and the carvers had a tremendous time, for quite two hundred hearty girls and boys were eating with all the enjoyment of their young healthy appetites. "More! That's right!" cried the young squire. "I beg your pardon, Miss--I really don't know your name; I'm afraid I've splashed your dress." "Pray don't mention it," said Hazel quietly, for she had been busily handing plates, looking brighter and happier than she had appeared for months. "I'm quite envious of our host," said Canninge the next time Hazel brought a plate. "He carves beautifully, and I've hacked my joint to pieces." "Send your knife up here, Mr Canninge," roared Mr W.F.B. from the other end of the table. "I'll give it a touch on my steel." "Will you allow me?" said Hazel, who was the only waiter near. "No, really, I could not think of--Well, if you will--" "There." He had paused to wipe the rather greasy handle upon his white handkerchief, and then, in passing the knife, their hands just touched-- a mere touch, and Hazel had gone. The meat had disappeared, the puddings and pies had followed, and, turned waiter now, the young squire had merrily passed along the plates, till the time for rising had nearly arrived, when accident once more placed him beside Hazel. "Your girls have thoroughly enjoyed themselves, Miss Thorne," he said, for he had learned her name now from one of the elder children--Feelier Potts, to wit. "Oh, most thoroughly," said Hazel, smiling brightly and with genuine pleasure. "It is delightful to see them so happy." "Do you see that Beatrice?" whispered Miss Lambent from the other end of the tent. "Yes." "Grace next I suppose? Oh, there is my mother beckoning to me, Miss Thorne," said the squire hastily, "it is a pity to have so pleasant an affair spoiled. Would you mind hinting to Mr Burge that he should ask the vicar to say grace!" "Oh, yes, I will," said Hazel, nodding to him. "As if he were her equal," said Miss Lambent indignantly; while, hurrying to the end of the table. Hazel was just in time to whisper to the host. "Why, of course," he said. "What a stupid! Thank you. Miss Thorne. Mr Lambent!" he cried aloud, "would you be kind enough to say grace?" Out in the field then, with the sun shining, the band playing, and plenty of enjoyment for the schools, which were separated by a rope stretched from one end to the other. Races were run for prizes of all kinds, and, full of animation, while the vicar stood with his hands behind him patronisingly looking on, the young squire was the life and soul of the affair, and ready with a dozen fresh ideas to suggest to the host. There were prizes for the fastest runners, prizes for the slowest, for the first in and the last in, for jumps and hops, and the best singers, and the worst singers, scramblings, blindfold-walking, sports galore. Hazel forgot her troubles, and with Miss Burge's help she was always the centre, of some new sport or game; Cissy and Mabel being like a pair of attendant fairies, ready to be seized upon by Mr Canninge as the bearers of the prizes that were to be won. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "I never saw George so full of spirits before," said Mrs Canninge to Rebecca Lambent as they sat in a garden-chair looking on. "I should say he will have a bad headache afterwards," replied that lady. "Oh, no, he is fond of athletics and that sort of thing. Charming young person, your new schoolmistress, Beatrice dear," she continued. "Very ladylike and well-spoken." "Yes, a very well educated person," said Beatrice coldly. "The squire's a brick, that's what he is, Betsey," said the host, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, about five o'clock. "I tell you what, I'm about tired out. Now, look here, you go in and get yourself a cup of tea, or you'll be done up, and if you're as wise as I take you to be, you'll put just a pinch of ody-wee in the cup. It'll be all over at six, and then well have a comfortable dinner." "But what are you going to do, Bill!" "To do? I'm going to fetch that girl in to have a cup of tea with you. Bless her, she's worked like a slave. No, I won't it's all right, I'll take in her mother. Poor old lady, no one seemed to speak to her. Look at that now. That's what I call a genuine English gentleman, Betsey. Here, hi! Mr Chute, that'll do; now come up to the house, let them play by themselves. I say, Betsey, this has been a day!" A day to be remembered, for Mr Chute was tightening his fists and scowling at one of the young Potts, wishing the while that he had a cane. Not that young Potts had been behaving so very badly, but his schoolmaster was annoyed, and some people when hurt look round at once for some one as a spleen-vent. He was suffering from the same pain that had sent a sting through Beatrice Lambent, and made her sister frown. For just as Mr William Forth Burge had told his sister his determination, George Canninge, the principal landholder and personage of those parts, the newly-elected magistrate on the county bench, had gone up to Hazel Thorne, raised his hat and said quietly: "Miss Thorne, you look tired out. Will you allow me to take you into the house and get you some tea?" "And she forgot herself," cried Beatrice Lambent passionately, as she paced her room that night Hazel Thorne's self-forgetfulness consisted in acting, like any unconscious girl would under the circumstances. She gave the speaker a grateful look full of innocency, and, taking his proffered arm, walked with him into Miss Burge's drawing-room, where she was received with smiles. CHAPTER ELEVEN. TOUCHING THE SENSITIVE PLANT. It was Burns who wrote his wish that some power would give us the ability to see ourselves from other people's point of view. If Hazel Thorne had received this gift she would not have remained so steeped in ignorance, but gazing at herself through Beatrice Lambent's eyes, have seen that she had been guilty of an almost deadly sin. For what could have been more heinous than for "a young person in her station in life," as Miss Beatrice afterwards said, to presume to take the squire's arm, an arm that Beatrice looked upon as sacred, and thought quite polluted by the touch of one who was only a schoolmistress, and consequently not likely to possess feelings similar to her own? All the same, though, Hazel did touch the sacred limb, and allowed herself to be taken into the drawing-room, which Mrs Canninge had just entered, and was now presiding at a tea-table. "You'll let me do that for you, Miss Burge," she had said. "You must be tired out." "Well, really and truly, Mrs Canninge, my poor legs do ache to such an extent," said Miss Burge confidentially, "that I feel a'most ready to drop." "That you must, indeed," said Mrs Canninge, smiling, as the little body toddled to a large cane arm-chair, and plumped herself down so vigorously that the cane chair uttered a loud protest, and after giving way in an elastic manner, kept on uttering little squeaks and creaks, somewhat after the fashion of Miss Feelier Potts, as it made efforts to recover itself. Meanwhile little Miss Burge sat there smiling gratefully, and enjoying her rest, as she gently rocked herself to and fro rubbing her hands in regular twin motion backwards and forwards along her aching legs. "You see, Mrs Canninge--and sugar, please--three lumps. Yes, I always take cream, it do improve the tea so--you see my brother takes so much interest in the schools, and he'd set his mind upon the boys and girls enjoying themselves, that it would have been a sin and a shame not to have done one's best to help him; but, oh my! It has been a job." "I'm sure you must have worked like a slave, Miss Burge," said Mrs Canninge, handing the tea, "and we ought all to be very grateful to you and your brother." "Oh, it isn't me, my dear," said Miss Burge (fortunately neither Miss Lambent nor Beatrice was at hand to hear Mrs Canninge addressed as "my dear")--"it is all my brother. He hasn't a bit of pride in him. He says, you know, Mrs Canninge, he first learned to read and write at Plumton School, and it's been so useful to him that--" "Excuse me. Miss Burge, I have not my best glasses with me, is not this Miss--Miss--?" "Thorne, yes, Mrs Canninge, and it's very kind of your son to bring the poor dear in to have some tea." Mrs Canninge looked rather curiously at Hazel Thorne, as her son brought her into the drawing-room. If she had been plain and ordinary looking, Mrs Canninge would have thought nothing of the incident; but then Hazel Thorne was neither plain nor ordinary, and, what was more, she did not seem in the slightest degree oppressed by the novelty of the situation, but chatted quietly to her companion, who was the more conscious of the two. "Oh, here is my mother," he said. "Mother dear, I have brought you an exhausted slave; pray feed and rest her, or she will be throwing off the Plumton chains, and escaping to some place where they will treat her better. Miss Thorne, this is my mother, Mrs Canninge." "I am very glad to know you, Miss Thorne," said Mrs Canninge quietly; and Hazel looked her full in the eyes before lowering her own, and bending slightly, for there was a something in Mrs Canninge's way that was different to her son's. George Canninge had spoken to her as if she were his equal, while his mother had smiled, spoken kindly, and hastened to pour out some tea; but Hazel felt and knew that it was not in the same way as she would have spoken and acted towards one of her own set. The shade of difference was very slight, but it was marked, and George Canninge noted it as well, though it was lost upon little Miss Burge, who turned to Hazel, and began to prattle away directly. "Ah, that's right, Mr Canninge, I am glad you have brought Miss Thorne in. She has been regularly fagged to death. I never did see any one work so." "Miss Thorne has been indefatigable," said the squire; "and, by-the-way, Miss Thorne, I think your mamma is somewhere here. I'll go and find her." Hazel was growing cold, but this little gentlemanly attention made her smile again as she bowed her thanks, and George Canninge was just leaving the room, when a familiar voice was heard, and Mr William Forth Burge appeared with Mrs Thorne, handing her in very carefully, and talking loudly all the while, as he brought her into a place where he was sure there would be no draught, and then fetched her some tea and cake. "Well, Mr Burge," cried George Canninge, for he felt conscious that his mother was freezing the current of conversation, "what are we to call it, a success or a failure?" Mr William Forth Burge opened his mouth and stared, but for a few moments no words came. "I--thought it was a big success, Mr Canninge, sir," he said at last. "I meant it to be, you know." "And so it is. It is the grandest and the jolliest school-treat I ever saw, and if the young dogs and doggesses are not--" "Har--ha--ha--ha--ha--ha!" "Why, what are you laughing at?" "That's a good one, sir. Young doggesses, sir," roared Mr William Forth Burge; but only to become preternaturally solemn directly, as he saw that no one else even smiled. "I was only going to say that if they don't feel grateful for all this kindness, they--" "Oh, there's Mr Chute outside, I told him to come in and get a cup. You won't mind for once, Mrs Canninge, and your son, will you? It's a holiday-time, and I want everybody to be pleased." "Oh, certainly not, pray ask him in, Mr Burge," said Mrs Canninge. "My son and I both wish the school people to thoroughly enjoy themselves. Miss Thorne, your cup is empty, pray let me get you some more tea." Hazel was about to decline, for Mrs Canninge's words made her heart sink. She had felt so happy during the past two hours, and a warm feeling of gratitude had sprung up in her breast towards George Canninge for his gentlemanly courtesy and attention; but Mrs Canninge was, in that quiet way that some ladies can adopt, showing her that she belonged to a different grade of society, towards whom she was acting the part of lady patroness. For the moment a feeling of resentment sprang up in her breast. She felt that Mrs Canninge was trying to give her a lesson--a lesson that she did not need. The sensation of humiliation was, however, but momentary, and smiling to herself, she quietly made up her mind to show the lady patroness that she had not forgotten her position, and did not need the lesson. The opportunity came instantly, for Mr William Forth Burge returned, bringing in poor Mr Chute, who had been gnashing his teeth, this time with the teeth themselves, and growing more and more wroth at having been neglected. He had worked as hard as any one, but he was not taken into the drawing-room by young squires, and petted and made much of. Neither of the Misses Lambent came and took his arm, for they were holding aloof altogether, and pretending to be deeply interested in the prizes won by Feelier Potts and Ann Straggalls. Taken altogether, Mr Chute was fast getting up to the point when people's indignation boils over. He was hungry, thirsty, tired, and suffering besides from a sudden attack of longing such as he had never felt before. He wanted to be beside Hazel Thorne, to talk to her, though had he been by her side not a word would have come. He wanted to look at her, and hear her talk. He wanted to breathe the same air that she was breathing, and to see her every act and look, and she had been carried off by young Mr George Canninge, while he, Samuel Chute, who was spoken of as such a clever master, and had been so strongly recommended, was left out in the cold. Mr Samuel Chute felt in that disposition of mind which comes over most young men some time in their vealy stage, when the whole world is looked upon as going dead against them, because they cannot possess some one particular object; when they rapidly run over the various courses that seem alone open to them, and which embrace enlisting, going to sea, to the dogs, or plunging into a river or canal--at a time when a man is handy with a boat-hook to fish them out. Mr Chute, then, was not happy, and although he had been asked to go up to the house to partake of some refreshment he would not go, but stalked off into the shrubbery, and gnashed his teeth for a whole minute amongst the rhododendrons, after which he went into a deeper shade where it was all laurels, and as there was no one looking, gave such a stamp upon the ground as hurt his foot in his new boot. It was in vain that the band, invigorated by Mr William Forth Burge's beer, was playing its happiest air, and the big drum had run wild, the trombone following suit to such an extent that it was cutting and slashing about in a way that was dangerous to the boys, while the leading comet was leading indeed--half a bar ahead. It was in vain that sweet music sought to woo Mr Chute back to the lawn; for a whole five minutes he would not stir, preferring to suffer in solitude. But Mr Samuel Chute was after all human, and in spite of himself he found that he was gradually drawn to the drawing-room window. Here he was seen by Mr William Forth Burge, who came out, seized and softened him; and as the schoolmaster was marched in he felt decidedly better, and began to think of condescending to live. "May I give you some tea, Mr Chute?" said Mrs Canninge politely. "If you please, ma'am," said Chute, who felt better still on noting that young Mr George Canninge was not seated at Hazel Thorne's side. "Let's see: we must find you a seat, Mr Chute," said Mr William Forth Burge heartily, as he glanced round. "There is room here, Mr Burge," said Hazel, moving a little farther along the settee, and Mr Chute's ease was complete, for the tea he drank was the most delicious he had ever tasted in his life, and he could have gone on eating bread-and-butter for an hour. He said very little, and Hazel Thorne had to make up for it by chatting pleasantly about the proceedings, till a message came by one of the boys, and Mr Chute was fetched away, leaving the new mistress to the tender mercies of the young squire--at least that is how he put it; but he felt as he told himself, quite a new man. George Canninge came to Hazel's side as soon as Chute had gone, and stood talking to her quietly, and in a way that would have satisfied the most exacting; but he had been dealing with a sensitive plant. At first she had seemed to rejoice in the warmth of his social sunshine, but Mrs Canninge had metaphorically stretched forth a rude hand and touched her leaves, with the result that they shrank and looked withered; and, try as he would, he found her quiet, distant and constrained. "But she can be different," he said to himself as at last Hazel rose, and, crossing to Miss Burge, asked her permission to go. "Oh lor', yes, my dear, go when you think best; for you must be terribly tired." Hazel assured her that she was greatly rested now, and bowing to Mrs Canninge she left the room, without disturbing her mother, who was holding Mr William Forth Burge with an eye, and recounting to him a long, true, and particular account of her early life, the position she had occupied, and the ages and dates of the various illnesses of all her children, including also the fact that her son Percy was growing wonderfully like what his father had been when she first met him at one of the Lord Mayor's balls. "And they do say," sighed Mrs Thorne, "that my daughter is growing greatly like what I used to be." Meanwhile Hazel passed out into the grounds, where she was encountered almost directly by Beatrice Lambent, who, assuming utter ignorance of where the schoolmistress had been, exclaimed-- "Oh, you are there. Miss Thorne. Pray--pray get back to the children. My brother has been astonished at your having left them for so long." People fight with different weapons to those used of old, but they are quite as sharp. CHAPTER TWELVE. TAKEN TO TASK. There was too much sheer hard work at Plumton School for Hazel Thorne to have much time for thoughts of anything but business. She had seen no more of Archibald Graves, but she was never outside the house without feeling nervous and in full expectation of meeting him; but as the days wore on she began to hope that her firm behaviour had not been without its effect. For a day or two she had felt agitated, and in the solitude of her own room she had more than once wept bitterly for her love, but they were tears such as are shed for the past and gone. There was no hope in them: they brought neither relief nor thought of the future. Hazel Thorne's sorrow was for a dead love, and she preferred to think of Archibald Graves as the ideal lover of her girlish heart, not as the real suitor who had come to her now that she was a woman, who had been tried in the fire of adversity, and been found base. Hazel Thorne's business matters were two-fold--the business of the school, and the domestic affairs. With the former she was rapidly progressing. The feeling of novelty had worn off and she no longer felt afraid of being able to maintain her position among so many girls, nor wondered what the pupil-teachers were saying whenever they whispered together; but she was afraid of Mr Samuel Chute, who would come round to the door much more often than necessary, to borrow something, or ask a question or two. The domestic affairs were harder to get over because they appealed strongly to the heart, and scarcely a day passed without some new trouble. To a young girl like Hazel, after the first pangs, there was enough elasticity to make her feel happy enough in her new home. The rooms were small, the furniture common, but there was always that pleasant feeling of seeing, so to speak, the place grow. Her woman's taste set her busily at work making little things to brighten the rooms. Now a few pence were spent in pots of musk for the windows. Next there was a large scarlet geranium in full blossom that cost the extravagant sum of sixpence; then blinds were made for the windows. A dozen such little things were done week by week, and as each triumph was achieved, and the place grew daily brighter and more tasty and refined, a feeling of satisfaction would come at times into her breast in spite of the wet-blanketism that was always being laid over everything by Mrs Thorne. "It is not that I mind the humble cottage, and the pitifully mean furniture, Hazel, my dear," sighed Mrs Thorne, "anything would do for me. I am getting an old woman now." "No, no, dear," said Hazel. "You are not old; and you are far better than you were." "You don't know, Hazel. I alone feel the worm eating away at the bud of my life; but as I was saying, I don't mind; it is for you I think and weep." "Then why think and weep, mamma dear?--there, you see I said mamma this time." "Don't say mamma to please me, Hazel I am only your poor helpless, burdensome mother, now. You say, why think and weep? I will tell you: because it breaks my heart to see my child wasting herself here, and performing the most menial duties, when she ought to be taking her place amongst the richest of the land." "I should be as happy as could be, dear, and I don't mind the work, if you would only get quite well." "Well, Hazel? Never any more. Let me only see you satisfactorily married, and I shall be ready to die in peace." "No, no, no, dear!" cried Hazel; "and pray don't say any more about such things." "I must my dear; but tell me, has Mr Graves been down again?" "No, mother." Mrs Thorne sighed, as she always did at the word "mother." "Did I--I--tell you that I had had a letter from Mr Geringer?" "No," said Hazel quickly. "Surely you are not corresponding with him?" "Oh, no, my dear; I only answered his letters." "Answered his letters?" "Yes, my dear; he said he was coming down to see us, if I would give my consent, and of course I did." "Oh, mother, dear mother, how could you be so foolish?" "Foolish, Hazel?" "Yes, dear. He must not come. I could not see him. Why can he not leave me here in peace?" "I--I--will not be spoken to like this by my own child!" cried Mrs Thorne. "It is cruel; it is wicked of you, Hazel. You not only degrade me to this terrible life, but you speak to me as if I were so much dirt under your feet. It is cruel; it is disgraceful; it is base." "Mother, dear mother," cried Hazel, whose face was aflame with mortification. "No, no, don't touch me; don't come near me; I cannot bear it. Foolish? What have I done that Heaven should have given me such a cruel child?" By this time Hazel's arms were round her mother's neck, and her cheek laid upon her bosom, but it was long before Mrs Thorne would consent to the embrace, and leave off sobbing and wringing her hands. "When you might be rolling in your carriage, and have every luxury in the land." "But I want us to be independent, dear. We might be so happy here." "Happy?" exclaimed Mrs Thorne, with a hysterical laugh. "Happy--here?" At last after similar scenes she would grow weary and forgive her child for her cruelty, and there would be a little peace, giving Hazel an opportunity to attend to some domestic work, and to devote an hour to the teaching of her little sisters; but there would be tears shed at night, and a prayer offered up for strength and patience to conquer in the end. The school affairs went steadily on, and the girls settled down and began to forget the excitement of Mr William Forth Burge's party. That gentleman called once during school-hours, shook hands very warmly, and stopped talking till Hazel thought he would never go. Miss Burge came regularly on week-days and petitioned to be allowed to take a class sometimes--a petition that was of course granted, but not with very satisfactory results, for poor little Miss Burge's discipline was of the very mildest nature, and as she preferred taking the class that held Miss Feelier Potts and Ann Straggalls, the attention of the mistress had to be very frequently called to maintain order. "I really don't know how you do it, my dear, I don't indeed," said the little lady; "the girls all like you, and yet they seem afraid of you as well. I declare I quite shrink from you when you look so stern." "I hope you like me as well, Miss Burge," said Hazel, smiling. "That I do indeed, my dear, and so does my brother. He's always talking about you. I declare, my dear, I'm quite surprised sometimes to find how much he thinks about you." "It is very kind of Mr Burge," said Hazel naively; "and as he is so proud of the schools, pray assure him that I will spare no pains to get the girls well forward by the examination day." "I needn't tell him anything of the sort," said Miss Burge; "he knows you will, and he told Mr Lambent that we ought to be very glad to have got such a mistress for our schools." "You are too partial, Miss Burge," said Hazel, smiling. "That I _am not_!" said the little lady in the most decisive of tones; "and now I must go, and I'm going to call in on your mamma, and try and cheer her up a bit, poor soul, for it must be very lonely for her while you are in the schools and, lor! if here ain't the two Misses Lambent." There was a very affectionate greeting at the door, and then Miss Burge went out, and the two Misses Lambent came in, looking very stiff and uncompromising as soon as they were alone with Hazel. "How do you do. Miss Thorne?" said Miss Lambent in a very chilling way; and Miss Beatrice echoed her words, and finished their freezing as they fell. "Are you going to take a class, Beatrice?" said Miss Lambent. "No, sister, I thought that I would say a few words to Miss Thorne, unless you would prefer speaking." "No, sister, I think you had better speak," said Miss Lambent austerely; "and--tut--tut--tut! I extremely regret this! such a thing never occurred in the school before. Miss Thorne, I will not trouble my brother by making any report of this, but I must request you to preserve better discipline in the school." "Discipline, ma'am! I thought the girls were very quiet." "I must request that you do not speak to me, the vicar's sister, in so haughty a tone, Miss Thorne." "I beg your pardon, ma'am; I wish to be respectful," said Hazel humbly. "But your ways are not respectful, and I must point out to you that both upon week-days and Sundays the behaviour of the girls has not been good. I distinctly saw that child putting out her tongue at me--that girl-- Potts, I think, is her name." "I will certainly speak to the child, ma'am," said Hazel quietly, though a feeling of indignation made the blood flush to her cheeks. "I request that you do, and also punish her severely, Miss Thorne," continued Miss Lambent who, being wound up, felt that this was a favourable opportunity for going on striking. "And now, as I am speaking, I will make a few remarks to you upon a subject that I was about to leave to my sister." "I will speak to Miss Thorne upon that matter, sister," said Miss Beatrice. "As I am speaking to Miss Thorne, I will continue, sister," replied Miss Lambent. "The fact is, Miss Thorne, my sister and I entertain the most sincere wish for your welfare." Hazel bowed. "And it is only after mature deliberation that we have come to the conclusion that it is our absolute duty as Christian ladies to speak to you--" "Upon matters that very nearly concern your position as the schoolmistress--" "Of Plumton All Saints," said Miss Lambent. "Excuse me, sister, I prefer speaking to Miss Thorne myself." Hazel looked from one to the other, wondering what was the head and front of her offending. "The fact is, Miss Thorne, my sister and I sincerely wish--most sincerely I may say--wish that you may be successful here, and in due time--say in due time--if such an affair should be in progress, marry in accordance with your station in life and--Hush, Miss Thorne! Do not speak, I insist. I see that you are growing angry, so I beg that you will be silent, and receive my words--our words--as being meant for your benefit." "I do not understand you, madam," said Hazel, in spite of the prohibition. "Then I will speak more plainly--we will speak more plainly, Miss Thorne, and tell you that your conduct since you have been here has not been marked by the discretion that should be a decided feature in the acts of a young person in your position." "Madam, I--!" "Silence, Miss Thorne!" cried Miss Beatrice; and the young mistress's cheeks were now aflame with indignation. "I will finish, sister Rebecca," she continued. "For your own sake we wish you to be more guarded, and to remember what is expected of a young person in your position. From the very first Sunday that you came. Miss Thorne, we have noted a tendency--innocent enough, no doubt--towards trying to attract the attention of the other sex." "Indeed, madam--" "Silence, Miss Thorne, and once more I beg that you will not adopt that haughty tone when addressing the vicar's sisters." Hazel remained silent, and just at that moment, as ill-luck had it, the door opened and Mr Chute stepped in, saw the ladies, and stepped out again. "You see," said Miss Beatrice with triumph in her tones, as the sisters exchanged meaning glances, while Hazel maintained an indignant silence, "such things are not seemly in any schoolmistress, and certainly not in the mistress of Plumton All Saints' School." "There was the gentleman on the first Sunday," said Miss Lambent cutting in so as to preclude her sister speaking; "Mr Chute comes in a great deal too often; we did not at all approve of your conduct when Mr Canninge spoke to you at the school treat; and, taken altogether, my sister and I felt it to be our duty to--" At that moment there was a sharp tap at the door, and two of the bigger girls rushed to open it, orders being forgotten as "teacher" was so busy, and Feelier Potts triumphed, throwing open the door, and revealing the round, smiling features of Mr William Forth Burge--features which ceased to smile as he realised the fact that the vicar's sisters were there. "Oh, isn't Miss Burge here?" he said. "No, sir, plee, sir. Miss Burge goed ever so long ago." "Oh, thank you. Good-day," said Mr William Forth Burge hastily; then raising his hat he walked on, and the door closed very slowly. Miss Feelier Potts finding an opportunity to make a face at a passing boy through the last six inches of slit between door and jamb, to which the young gentleman replied by throwing a stone with a smart rap against the panels. Miss Lambent's eyes nearly closed, and as the girls buzzed and went on with their lessons, staring hard the while. Hazel Thorne was asking herself whether this would be the last week of her stay in Plumton, for she felt that after this indignity it would be impossible for her to retain her post. Her heart beat fast, her cheeks were alternately white and scarlet with shame and mortification, and her goaded spirit rose as she longed to sharply chastise those who degraded her by their unwomanly charges with their own weapon--the tongue. But she could not speak--she dared not for fear that the anger and indignation that were choking her should find vent in hysterical sobs and tears. This she could not bear, for it would have been humiliating herself before her tormentors. No; she felt that they might say what they liked: she would not stoop to answer; and seeing that they had the poor girl at their mercy, the sisters took it in turns to deliver a lecture upon the unseemly behaviour of a young person in her position, exhorting her to remember the greatness of her charge, and the probabilities of the girls taking their cue from their mistress. Of course, Miss Lambent did not make use of the objectionable theatrical word _cue_--it is doubtful whether she had ever heard it but she managed to express the petty vindictive spite that she felt against the young mistress for her grievous sin in receiving so much attention from Mr William Forth Burge, whose vulgarity she was quite ready to forgive, should he have made her an offer; and Beatrice's eyes flashed as she felt her own pulses thrill with satisfaction at the way in which she was metaphorically trampling under foot this impertinent stranger who had dared to take Mr Canninge's arm. "And now. Miss Thorne," said Miss Lambent, in conclusion, "we will leave you to think over what we have said, and we trust that it will have due effect." "Making you see how foolishly you have behaved," put in Miss Beatrice. "And that you will take it as a warning. Here is a book that we have brought you. Take it, read it and inwardly digest its beautiful teachings. Good morning." Hazel took the book mechanically, and her eyes lit upon its title--"The Dairyman's Daughter." Then she started and coloured painfully again, beneath the searching, triumphant glances of the sisters, who seemed to glory in her humiliation, for once more there was a quiet tap at the door, the latch clicked, and Miss Lambent said to herself, "Another gentleman." She was quite right. Another gentleman stepped into the school--his mission to see Miss Thorne. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. THE VICAR'S SYMPTOMS. The Reverend Henry Lambent was born when his mother was in very bad health, and the consequence was that he had to be brought up "by hand," which in those days meant by spoon, and, as the reader is most probably in utter ignorance of the process, it shall be described, as even the wisest may have something to learn, and there is always a possibility that information, however small, may some day be of service. In bringing up by hand--i.e. by spoon--take a moderate portion of rusks, tops and bottoms, nursery biscuits, captain's biscuits, or similar highly-baked farinaceous preparation, boil soft, add milk and sugar to suit baby's taste--for babies have taste, and can appreciate sweets and show disgust at bitters as well as the best of us--then mix and beat to the consistency of cream, and by testing on the lips get it to the right heat--just moderately warm. Next, take the baby, lay it softly upon its back; coo, simmer, and talk soft broken English to it while a diaper bib is placed neatly beneath its chin, tightly, so as to confine the arms and fists as well; then take the preparation, about half a small teaspoonful at a time, make believe to eat it yourself by putting it in your mouth, and taking it out again, so as to be certain that it will not burn, and then apply it to the baby's lips. [_Note_.--This placing in the feeder's own mouth has been objected to on the plea that it will drive an observant baby frantic, making it imagine that it is about to be robbed of its rights; but the plan is to be commended on the ground of safety.] Do not be in a hurry, nor yet be appalled at the difficulty and slowness of the operation, for as a rule seven-eighths of the preparation gets spread over baby's cheeks and chin, portions even reaching to the wrinkles of the neck; for here is where a clever feeder shines in the deft management of the spoon, which is inserted here, drawn there, and all with the delicacy of a barber with a keen razor, till every moist portion has been scraped away, and has disappeared through the little pink buttonhole-like apology for a gate which leads to the road to digestion. Keep up the cooing and repeat. This is the genuine old-fashioned way, dating from a very early year after the world's creation. In fact, it seems evident from the discovery of bone spoons, roughly fashioned, in caverns, that some of the cave-dwellers practised it, the preparation used for nurturing the very early baby being most probably marrow out of an auroch's leg-bone, or, maybe, the brains of the megatherium, which may account for the wisdom that has come down from our ancestors, who knew everything, while we are ignorant in the extreme. Now we have changed all that, as the French say, and the very modern babe is supplied with somebody's patent infants' food, out of which everything noxious has been eliminated. Such preparations are advertised by the dozen, and when cooked there is no more old-fashioned spoon, but the food is placed in a peculiarly shaped bottle fitted with hose and branch like a small fire-engine, from the indiarubber tube of which baby imbibes health very seldom. For what with neglect in cleaning the apparatus, putrescent particles of milk, fermenting yeasty paste, and the like, the infant becomes an infant prodigy if it manages to escape the many disorders incidental to early childhood, and can be exhibited as a specimen brought up by the bottle, which slays as many as that effected by people of larger growth. No unwashed feeding-bottle slew the Reverend Henry Lambent, for your modern hookah-pattern food imbiber had not been invented when he was born. He was reared as aforesaid, honestly by hand, but his nurse must have made a mistake in the packets from which she obtained his supplies, and in place of biscuit, ground arrowroot, or semolina, have gone in the dark and used the starch with an effect that lasted even unto manhood. Stiffness is a mild way of expressing the rigidity of the Vicar's person. Rude boys made remarks about him, suggesting that he had swallowed the poker, that he was as stiff as a yard of pump-water, and the like. Certainly he seemed to have come of an extremely stiff-necked generation, as he stalked--he never used to walk--down the High Street towards the schools. The Reverend Henry Lambent had been taking seidlitz powders every morning since the school feast. Not that he had feasted and made himself ill, for his refreshment on that day had consisted of one cup of tea and a slice of bread-and-butter--that was all at the feast; but since then he had been nervous, hot-blooded, and strange. He had had symptoms of the ailment before the day of the school-treat, but they had been more mild; now they had assumed an aggravated form, and the seidlitz powders brought him no relief. And yet he had tried them well, telling himself that he was only a little feverish, and had been studying a little too hard. He had taken a seidlitz powder according to the direction for use as printed upon the square, flat box--that is to say, he had mixed the contents of the blue paper in a tumbler of cold spring water, waited till it dissolved, then emptied in the contents of the white paper, stirred, and drunk while in a state of effervescence. He had dissolved the contents of the blue paper in one glass of water and the contents of the white paper in another glass of water, poured one into the other, and drunk while in a state of effervescence. He had dissolved the contents of the papers again separately, and drunk first one and then the other, allowing the effervescence to take place _not_ in the tumbler. Still he was no better, and he almost felt tempted to follow the example of the Eastern potentate who took the whole of the contents of the blue papers first, and then swallowed the contents of all the white papers afterwards; but history tells that this monarch did not feel any better after the dose, so that the Reverend Henry Lambent was not encouraged to proceed. He was not seriously bad, and yet he was, if this paradoxical statement can be accepted. He was mentally ill for the first time in his life of the complaint from which he suffered, and he was trying hard to make himself believe that his ailment was bodily and of a nervo-febrile cast. The Reverend Henry Lambent's attack came on with the visible appearance of a face before his eyes. If he sat down to read, it gazed up at him from the book, like a beautiful illustration that filled every page. He turned over, and it was there; he turned over again, and it was still there. Leaf after leaf did he keep turning, and it was always before him. He set to work at his next week's sermons, and the manuscript paper became illustrated as well with the same sweet pensive face, and when he read prayers morning and evening, it seemed to him that he was making supplication for that face alone. He preached on Sundays, and the congregation seemed to consist of one--the owner of that face, and to her he addressed himself morning and afternoon. If he sat and thought it was of that face; if he went out for a constitutional, that face was with him; and when at least a dozen times he set off, as he felt in duty bound, to visit the schools, he turned off in another direction--he dared not go for fear of meeting the owner of that face. At meal-times, when he ate but little, it seemed to be that face that was opposite to him, instead of the thin, handsome features of his sister Rebecca; and if he turned his gaze to the right there was the face again instead of the pale, refined, high-bred Beatrice. He went to bed, and lay turning from side to side, with that countenance photographed upon his brain, and when at last toward morning he fell asleep, it was to dream always of that pensive countenance. The Reverend Henry Lambent grew alarmed. He could not understand it. He had never given much thought to such a matter as marriage on his own account. He knew that people were married, because he had joined them together scores of times, and he knew that generally people were well-dressed, looked very weak and foolish, and that the bride shed tears and wrote her name worse than ever she had written it before. But that had nothing to do with him. He stood on a cold, stony pedestal, which raised him high above such human weaknesses--weaknesses that belonged to his people, not to him. At last he told himself that it was his duty to resist temptation, and that by resistance it would be overcome. He realised that his ailment was really mental, and after severe examination determined to quell it by bold endeavour, for the more he fled from the cause the worse he seemed to be. It was absurd! It was ridiculous! It was a kind of madness, he told himself; and again he walked over to the schools, determined to be firm and severe. Then he told himself this feeling of enchantment would pass away, for he should see Hazel Thorne as she really was, and not through the _couleur de rose_ glasses of his imagination. He started then, and walked stiffly and severely down to the schools, his chin in the air and a condescending bow ready for any one who would touch his hat; but instead of going, as he had intended, straight to the girls, he turned in and surprised Mr Chute reading a novel at his desk while the boys were going on not quite in accordance with a clerical idea of discipline. The result was a severe snubbing to Mr Chute, and the vicar stalked across the floor to go into the girls' school; but just then he heard a sweetly modulated voice singing the first bars of a simple school ballad, and he stopped to listen. He had heard the song hundreds of times, but it had never sounded like that before, and he stood as if riveted to the spot as the sweet, dear voice gained strength, and he knew now that just at the back of Mr Chute's desk one of the shutters had been left slightly open, so that if he pleased that gentleman could peer into the girls' school. The vicar did not know how it was, but an angry pang shot through him, and a longing came over him to send Mr Chute far away and take his place, teaching the boys, and--keeping that shutter slightly down-- listening always to the singing of that sweet, simple lay. And then he stood and listened, and the boys involuntarily listened too, while their master failed to urge them on, as he too stood and forgot all but the fact that was being lyrically told of how-- "Down in a green and shady bed, A modest violet grew; Its stalk was bent, it hung its head As if to hide from view." And, as they both listened, the Reverend Henry Lambent and Samuel Chute felt that Hazel Thorne was in some way identified with that modest violet hiding from view down in shady Plumton All Saints, diffusing a sweet perfume of good works, as the song went on to tell in a way that went straight to both their hearts. Then their eyes met. Directly after the sweet tones ceased, and the tune was commenced again in chorus by the singing class, the modest violet now becoming identified with the strident voice of Miss Feelier Potts who absolutely yelled. The vicar went straight out, turning to the left as he reached the path instead of to the right, for he could not visit the girls' school then; and he walked home, telling himself that the disenchantment was complete--there was that open shutter--his strange feelings for Hazel Thorne were at an end--and he paced his study all the evening, his bedroom half the night, with the sweet air and words of that simple school song repeating themselves for ever in his ears. "Why, Henry, what is the matter?" cried Beatrice Lambent the next morning, as she came upon her brother in the dining-room, waiting for her to make his coffee. "Matter?" he said, flushing scarlet like a girl. "Matter?" "Yes! you singing? I never heard you sing before in your life." "Was I--was I singing?" he said huskily. "Yes, that stupid, hackneyed violet song, that the children shriek at the schools." "Was I? Dear me, how strange! To be sure--yes. The children were singing it while I was talking to Mr Chute yesterday. We could hear it through the partition." CHAPTER FOURTEEN. "HENRY!" That same day the Reverend Henry Lambent walked straight down to the girls' school, telling himself that he was quite disenchanted now, and that he could talk to Miss Thorne as calmly as if she were a perfect stranger. The feverish fit had passed away, and he could laugh at the little bit of folly; and hence it was that he kept on thinking of modest violets and sweet perfume, and the face of Hazel Thorne was always before him, gazing at him with her sweet pensive eyes that always seemed so full of trouble and care. And as he walked he began thinking of what joy it would be to try and soothe the trouble away from those eyes, and make them look love and tenderness; and then he started, and felt what an American would call "mighty bad," for George Canninge rode by him on horseback, looking very frank, and manly, and handsome. He did not rein in, but cantered on with a cheery "good morning," and as soon as he had passed a pang of jealousy shot through the vicar's breast, worse far than that which he had felt upon the previous day. "He has been to call at the school," he thought; and he determined on his own part not to go; but his legs appeared to take him on against his will, and he found himself making excuses for Hazel Thorne. "She could not help it, perhaps," he thought. "At any rate it is my duty to go, and I ought to check her if she is receiving such a visitor as this." Then, with heavily beating heart, he reached the entrance to the girls' school, passing through the gate slowly, and listening to the bleating noise from the boys' side, with the occasional short, sharp barks that Mr Chute was uttering like a sheepdog driving his flock along the dry and dusty roads of education towards the green and pleasant pastures of Academia. The Reverend Henry Lambent paused for a few moments to compose himself, and then, wondering at his want of confidence, he entered the schools as we have seen. The change that came over him instantly was startling. A moment before he had expected to be alone with Hazel Thorne, the girls counting for nothing--he could speak in their presence, and say all he wished--and he had felt a curious feeling of diffidence and pleasure pervade his breast. Now all was altered. He was not to be alone with Hazel Thorne, for his sisters were there, and he needed no showing that there had been a scene, while his heart told him that his sisters had been taking Miss Thorne to task for receiving a visit from George Canninge; perhaps they had come and found him there. He glanced at Hazel, who stood looking pale and indignant with the little book in her hand, and from her to his sisters, who both seemed nervous and excited, consequent upon the encounter that had taken place. "You here?" he said wonderingly. There was nothing to wonder at, for it was a matter of course that the sisters should visit the school, and there was no need for explanations; but both brother and sisters were agitated, and Rebecca broke out with: "Yes; we came down to have a little conversation with Miss Thorne upon the subject of--" "Speak lower, Rebecca," said the vicar; "we do not wish the children to hear." "Exactly, dear Henry," continued Rebecca. "We came down to advise Miss Thorne, and to--" "Tell her it was not seemly for her to receive so many gentlemen visitors," said Beatrice. "Then Mr Canninge has been here!" said the vicar involuntarily. "Indeed no, I hope not," cried Rebecca, while Beatrice turned paler than usual. "Why did you say that?" The vicar felt that he had made a false move, and he regretted it. "I met him just now. I thought he might have had a message from Mrs Canninge." "We have been speaking seriously to Miss Thorne," continued Rebecca: "and after a little show of indignation I think she has seen the folly of her ways, and is ready to take our good counsel home to her heart. I am glad that you came, for you can endorse our words. Miss Thorne, after our preparation of the soil, will be ready to hear." The Reverend Henry Lambent had turned to Hazel as these words were spoken, and their eyes met. He was not a clever reader of the human hearty but he saw the shame and humiliation which the poor girl suffered, for there was an indignant protest in her look--a look that seemed to say: "I am a helpless woman and have done no wrong. You are a gentleman; protect me from these cruel insults, or I must go." "We have also given her a book to read and study," continued Miss Lambent, "and that and our words--" "I am afraid that you have chosen a very bad time for making an appeal to Miss Thorne, Rebecca," said the vicar, interrupting, in low, grave, measured tones; "and I am not sure but that the interference was uncalled for." "Henry!" ejaculated Beatrice, as Hazel cast a grateful look at her brother. "Miss Thorne, will you allow me to look at that book?" continued the Reverend Henry, taking it from her hand. "Yes, as I thought. It is most unsuitable to a young"--he was going to say "person," but he changed it to "lady of Miss Thorne's education. It is such a book as I should have given to some very young girl just come into our service." "Henry!" ejaculated Beatrice again, for it was all she could say in her astonishment. "I think this interview must be rather painful to Miss Thorne," he continued quietly, "and we will not prolong it. I was going to question some of the girls, Miss Thorne, but--another time. Good-day." He bowed and walked to the door, waiting there for his sisters to pass, which they did with heads erect and a severe, injured expression, quite ignorant of the fact that they were being imitated by Miss Feelier Potts, for the benefit of her class. Then he looked once at Hazel, and saw that there were tears in her eyes as she gazed after him. He went out then, ready to do battle with fifty sisters, for Hazel's look had clothed him with moral armour _cap-a-pie_. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. "SHE'S MINE!" "Mr Lambent treats me with respect," reasoned Hazel one afternoon when the soreness had somewhat worn off, leaving a feeling that perhaps after all it would be possible to stay on at Plumton All Saints. She had been very low-spirited for some time, but as she recalled the quiet, gentlemanly manner of the vicar, she felt relieved, and wished she had said a few words of thanks, making up her mind to atone for the omission at the first opportunity, and then setting so busily to work that her troubles were temporarily forgotten. While she was very busy, a lad arrived with a note from Miss Burge, asking her to come up to the house to tea and talk over a proposal Mr William Forth Burge had made about the schools, and ending with a promise to drive her back in the pony-chaise. Hazel hesitated for a few moments, but she did not like to slight Miss Burge's invitation, so she wrote back saying that she would come. Then the girls had to be dismissed, and the pence counted up and placed in a canvas-bag along with the money received for the month's coal and blanket club, neither of the amounts being heavy as a sum total, but, being all in copper, of a goodly weight avoirdupois. Just as the bag was tied up and the amounts noted down, there was a light tap at the door, and Mr Chute stepped in, glancing quickly up at the slit made by the half-closed partition shutters to see if it was observable from this side. "I just came in to say, Miss Thorne--well, that is odd now, really." Hazel looked her wonder, and he went on: "It's really quite funny. I said to myself, `the pence will mount up so that they will be quite a nuisance to Miss Thorne, and I'll go and offer to get them off her hands.'" "Thank you, Mr Chute, I won't trouble you," replied Hazel. "Trouble? Oh, it's no trouble," he said, laughing in a peculiar way. "I get rid of mine at the shops, and I can just as easily put yours with them, and of course it's much easier to keep shillings than pence; and then when you've got enough you can change your silver for gold." "By-the-way," said Hazel, "when do we have to give up the school pence and club money?" "Only once a year," said Mr Chute, who was in high glee at this approach to intimacy. "You'll have to keep it till Christmas." "Keep it--till Christmas! What! all that money!" "To be sure! Oh, it isn't much. May I--send your--coppers with mine?" Hazel paused for a moment, and then accepted the offer, the schoolmaster noting in his pocket-book the exact amount, and waiting while Hazel went into the cottage to fetch the other sums she had received, the whole of which Mr Chute bore off in triumph, smiling ecstatically, and exclaiming to himself as soon as he was alone: "She's mine!--she's mine!--she's mine!" After which he performed a kind of triumphal dance around the bags of copper, rubbing his hands with satisfaction at this step towards making himself useful to Hazel Thorne, until Mrs Chute came into the room, and asked him what he meant by making such a fool of himself. Mrs Chute was a hard-looking little woman, with fair hair and a brownish skin, and one who had probably never looked pleasant in her life. She was very proud of her son, "My Samoowel," as she always persisted in calling him, in despite of large efforts upon the part of that son to correct her pronunciation; and she showed her affection by never hardly speaking to him without finding fault, snapping him up, and making herself generally unpleasant; though, if anybody had dared to insinuate that Samuel Chute was not the most handsome, the most clever, and the best son in the world, it would have been exceedingly unpleasant for that body, for Mrs Chute, relict of Mr Samuel Chute, senior, of "The Docks," possessed a tongue. What Mr Samuel Chute, senior, had been in "The Docks," no one ever knew, and it had not been to any one's interest to find out. Suffice it that, after a long course of education somewhere at a national school in East London, Mr Samuel Chute, junior, had risen to be a pupil-teacher, and thence to a scholarship, resulting in a regular training; then after a minor appointment or two, he had obtained the mastership at Plumton School, where he had proved himself to be a good son by taking his mother home to keep house for him, and she had made him miserable ever since. "Why, what are you thinking about, Samoowel, dancing round the money like a mad miser?" "Oh, nonsense, mother! I was only--only--" "Only, only making a great noodle of yourself. Money's right enough, but I'd be ashamed of myself if I cared so much for it that I was bound to dance about that how." Mr Chute did not answer, so she went on: "I don't think much of these Thornes, Samoowel." "Not think much of them, mother?" "There, bless the boy, didn't I speak plain? Don't keep repeating every word I say. I don't think much of them. That Mrs Thorne's the stuck-uppest body I ever met." "Oh no, she's an invalid." "I daresay she is! But I'd have every complaint under the sun, from tic to teething, without being so proud and stuck-up as she is. I went in this afternoon quite neighbourly like, but, oh dear me! and lor' bless you! she almost as good as ast me what I wanted." "But--but I hope you didn't say anything unpleasant mother?" "Now, am I a woman as ever did say anything unpleasant, Samoowel? The most unpleasant thing I said was that I hoped she was as proud of her daughter as I was of my son." "And did you say that mother?" "Of course I did, and then she began to talk about her girl, and grew a little more civil; but I don't like her, Samoowel. She smells of pride, 'orrid; and as for her girl--there--" Mr Samuel Chute did not stop to hear the latter part of the lady's speech, for just then he caught sight of the top of a bonnet passing the window, and he ran into the next room, so as to be able to see its wearer going along the road towards the market-place. "What is the matter, Samoowel? Is it an acciden'?" cried Mrs Chute, running after him. "No, no, nothing, mother," he replied, turning away from the window to meet the lady. "Nothing at all!" "Why, Samoowel," she cried, looking at him with an aspect full of disgust, "don't tell me that--you were staring after that girl!" "I wasn't going to tell you I was looking after her, mother," said the young man sulkily. "No, but I can see for myself," cried Mrs Chute angrily. "The idea of a boy of mine having no more pride than to be running after a stuck-up, dressy body like that, who looks at his poor mother as if she wasn't fit to be used to wipe her shoes on, and I dessey they ain't paid for." "Mother," cried the young man, "if you speak to me like that you'll drive me mad!" "And now he abuses his poor mother, who has been a slave to him all her life!" cried the lady. "Oh, Samoowel, Samoowel, when I'm dead and cold and in my grave, these words of yours'll stand out like fires of reproach, and make you repent and--There, if he hasn't gone after her," she cried furiously; for, finding that her son did not speak, she lowered the apron that she had thrown over her face, slowly and softly, till she found that she was alone, when she jumped up from the chair into which she had thrown herself, ran to the window, and was just in time to see Mr Samuel Chute walking quickly towards the town. "He don't have her if I can prevent it!" cried Mrs Chute viciously, and the expression of her face was not pleasant just then. But Samuel Chute neither heard her words nor saw her looks, as a matter of course, for he was walking steadily after Hazel, wondering whither she was bound. It was the last thing in the world that he would do--watch her, but all the same he wanted to know where she went, and if it was for a walk, why he might turn up by accident just as she was coming back; and then, of course, he could walk with her, and somehow, now that he had so far been taken into her confidence in being trusted to change the school and club money for her, it would be easy to win another step in advance. "I lay twopence she walks out with me arm-in-arm before another month's out," he said triumphantly; "and mother must get over it best way she can." All this while Hazel was some two hundred yards ahead, for the schoolmaster did not attempt to overtake her, but merely noted where she went, and followed. "She's turned off by the low road," said Samuel Chute to himself. "She's going by old Burge's. Well, that is the prettiest walk, and--of course, I could go across by the footpath, and come out in the road this side of Burge's, and meet her, and that would be better than seeming to have followed her." Acting upon this idea, Samuel Chute struck out of the main street and went swiftly along a narrow lane, and then by the footpath over the meadows to the road, a walk of a good mile and a half before he was out into the winding road that led by Mr Burge's. "She'll come upon me here, plump," he said with a laugh. "I wonder what she'll say, and whether she'll look at me again in that pretty, shy way, same as she did when I took the school pence! Hah, things are going on right for you, my boy; and what could be better?" There was no answer to his question, so Samuel Chute went on making arrangements, like the Eastern man with his basket of crockery ware. "I'll tell you what we'll do; we'll put both the old ladies together in one house, while we live in the other. Nothing could be easier. I say, isn't it time she was here?" He glanced at his watch, and it certainly seemed to be time for Hazel to have reached as far. She was not long, however, in appearing now round the bend of the road, looking brighter and more attractive than Samuel Chute had seen her yet, for there was a warm flush in her cheek, and her eyes were sparkling and full of vivacity. But in spite of this the schoolmaster drew his breath through his teeth with a spiteful hiss, and as he leaned a little forward and stared at Hazel Thorne, his countenance assumed the same ugly look, full of dislike and spite, that had been seen in his mother's face only a short time before. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. A MATCH-MAKING MAMMA. "Don't you think, George, that dear Beatrice looks rather pale and thin?" said Mrs Canninge. "Who--Beatrice Lambent?" said the young man, raising his eyes from his paper at breakfast. "Yes, dear; very thin and pale indeed." "Now you mention it yes, of course; but so she always did." "Slightly, George; and there was a delicacy in the tinting of her skin-- liliaceous, I might say, but she was not pale." "Bravo, dear! That's a capital word. Do for a Tennysonian poem--`the Lay of the Liliaceous Lady.'" "I was speaking seriously, my dear," said Mrs Canninge stiffly. "I beg that you will not make those absurd remarks." "Certainly not, dear; but liliaceous is not a serious way of speaking of a lady." "Then I will not use it, George, for I wish to speak to you very seriously about Beatrice Lambent." The young man winced a little, but said nothing. He merely rustled his newspaper and assumed an air of attention. "I don't think that dear Beatrice is well, George." "Tell Lambent to send her off to the seaside for a good blow." "To pine away and grow worse, George." "To the interior, then, mother." "To still pine away, George." "Try homeopathy, then. Like cures like. Send her into Surrey amongst the fir-trees--pine to cure pine." Mrs Canninge sipped her coffee. "Or get Miss Penstemon to give her a few pilules out of one of her bottles--the one she selected when I came down on the Czar last year at that big hedge." "When you have ended your badinage, my dear son, I shall be ready to go on." "Done. Finis!" said George Canninge promptly. "I have been noting the change in dear Beatrice for some time past." "I have not," said the young man. "She always was very thin and genteel-looking." "Extremely, George; but of late there has been a subdued sadness--a pained look in her pensive eyes, that troubles me a good deal, for it is bad." "Perhaps she has some trouble on her mind, dear. You should try and comfort her." "_I_ could not comfort her, my dear. The comfort must come from other lips than mine. Hers is a mental grief." "Why, you don't mean to say that she is in love?" said George Canninge, laughing. "I mean to say that the poor girl is suffering cruelly from a feeling of neglect, and it grieves me very, very much." "Send the swain for whom she sighs to comfort her, my dear mamma." "That is what I am seeking to do, George," said the lady, looking at him meaningly. "Don't you think it is time you threw off this indifference, and ceased to trifle? You are giving pain to a true, sweet woman." "I! I giving pain to a true, sweet woman? Absurd! My dearest mother, do you for a moment suppose that I ever thought seriously about Beatrice Lambent?" "It has been one of my cherished hopes that you did, George, and I know that she feels your cool indifference most keenly." "Nonsense, dear!" he cried, laughing; "why, what crotchet is this that you have got into your head?" "Crotchet?" "Yes, dear--crotchet." "I am speaking in all seriousness to you, my son. George, your behaviour to Beatrice Lambent is not correct." "My dear mother," said the young man firmly, "do you mean to tell me that you honestly believe Beatrice Lambent cares for me?" "Most assuredly, George." "Poor lass, then! That's all I can say." "Why, George, have you not led her on by your attentions for these many months past?" "Certainly not! I have been as civil and attentive to her as I have been to other ladies--that is all. What nonsense! Really, mother, it is absurd." "It is not absurd, George, but a very serious matter." "Well, serious enough, of course, for I should be sorry if Miss Lambent suffered under a misunderstanding." "Why let it be a misunderstanding, George? Beatrice is handsome." "Ye-es," said the young man, gazing down at his paper. "Well born." "I suppose so." "Thoroughly intellectual." "Let's see: it's Byron, isn't it, who makes `hen-pecked-you-all' rhyme to `intellectual'?" "George!" "My dear mother." "Beatrice is amiable; has a good portion from her late uncle--in fact, taken altogether, a most eligible _partie_, and I like her very much." "But, my dear mother," said the young squire, "it is a question of my marriage, is it not?" "Of course, my son." "Then it would be necessary for me to like her as well--from my commonplace point of view, to love her." "Certainly, my dear; and that I believe at heart you do." "Then, your dear, affectionate, motherly heart is slightly in error, for I may as well frankly tell you that I do not like Beatrice Lambent, and what is far more, I am sure that I should never love her enough to make her my wife." "My dear George, you give me very great pain." "I am very sorry, my dear mother, but you must allow me to think for myself in a matter of this sort. There: suppose we change the subject." He resumed, or rather seemed to resume, the reading of his paper, while the lady continued her breakfast, rather angry at what she called her son's obstinacy, but too good a diplomatist to push him home, preferring to wait till he had had time to reflect upon her words. She glanced at him now and then, and saw that he seemed intent upon his newspaper, but she did not know that he could not keep his attention to the page, for all the while his thoughts were wandering back to the tent in Mr William Forth Burge's grounds, then to the church, and again to the various occasions when he had seen Hazel Thorne's quiet, grave face, as she bent over one or other of her scholars. He thought, too, of her conversation when he chatted with her after he had taken her in to tea, and then of every turn of expression in her countenance, comparing it with that of Beatrice Lambent, but only to cease with an ejaculation full of angry contempt, "I shall not marry a woman for her pretty face." "Did you speak, my dear!" said Mrs Canninge. "I uttered a thought half aloud," he replied quietly. "Is it a secret, dear?" she said playfully. "No, mother; I have no secrets from you." "That is spoken like my own dear son," said Mrs Canninge, rising, and going behind his chair to place her hands upon his shoulders, and then raise them to his face, drawing him back, so that she could kiss his forehead. "Why, there are lines in your brow, George--lines of care. What are you thinking about!" "Beatrice Lambent." "About dear Beatrice, George? Why, that ought to bring smiles, and not such deep thought-marks as these." "Indeed, mother! Well, for my part, I should expect much of Beatrice Lambent would eat lines very deeply into a fellow's brow." "For shame, my dear! But come," cried Mrs Canninge cheerfully, "tell me what were your thoughts, or what it was you said that was no secret." "I said to myself, mother, that I should never marry a woman for the sake of a pretty face." Mrs Canninge's mind was full of Hazel Thorne, and, associating her son's remark with the countenance that had rather troubled her thoughts since the day of the school feast, her heart gave a throb of satisfaction. "I know that, George," she exclaimed, smiling. "I know my son to be too full of sound common-sense, and too ready to bear honourably his father's name, to be led away by any temporary fancy for a pleasant-looking piece of vulgar prettiness." Mrs Canninge stopped, for she knew at heart without the warning of the colour coming into her son's face, that she had gone too far; and she felt cold and bitter as she listened to her son's next words. "I do not consider Beatrice Lambent's features to be vulgarly pretty," he said. "Oh no, of course not, George; she is very refined." "I misunderstood you, then," said George Canninge coldly. "But let us understand one another, my dear mother. I find you have been thinking it probable that I should propose to Beatrice Lambent." "Yes, dear; and I am sure that she would accept you." "I daresay she would," he replied coldly; "but such an event is not likely to be brought about for Beatrice Lambent is not the style of woman I should choose for my wife." He rose and quitted the room, leaving Mrs Canninge standing by the window, looking proud and angry, with her eyes fixed upon the door. "I knew it," she cried; "I knew it. But you shall not trifle with me, George. I am neither old nor helpless yet." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. TOUCHED. George Canninge went straight into his study and threw himself into a chair, to lie back, his brows knit, and his eyes fixed upon one particular spot in the pattern of the paper of the room. Then he began to think hard, and his thoughts were like one of those glorious pieces of music, in which a great composer takes some lovely, heart-stirring melody as his theme, and then weaves it in and out through the whole composition; the ear is attracted to other beauties, and fresh subjects are constantly being evoked, but the artist never forgets the sweet enthralling air which is ever-recurring, and seems to give character to the whole. Always the same; think how he would of other matters, there was Hazel Thorne's sweet face, and her soft eyes looking up at him at every turn. "Am I in love?" he said at last, asking himself the question in a calm, matter-of-fact way. "This seems very absurd, and if any one had told me that I should be thinking of nothing but a little schoolmistress day and night, I should have asked him if he took me for a fool. "Fool! Am I a fool? Let's argue it out. Hazel Thorne. Hazel, what a peculiar name!--well. Hazel Thorne is a schoolmistress, and if I asked her to be my wife, always supposing that she would accept me, the people would say that I was mad--that I threw myself away. "Why? "Because she is a schoolmistress and works for her living, strives hard to keep her mother and sisters, and I don't suppose has money to spare for a fashionable dress. "Bah! What a creature for a man--a gentleman of birth and position to love--a girl who works hard, is self-denying and patient, and cannot dress well. I'm afraid I am very mad indeed. But that is from a society point of view. Let's take another. "Hazel Thorne is refined, sensitive, perfectly ladylike to my mind, very sweet--very beautiful with those soft appealing eyes, and that rather care-worn, troubled look; she is evidently a true woman, and one who would devote herself thoroughly to the man who won her heart. If I could win her I believe she would think more of me than of her dresses and jewellery, horses and carriages, and consider that her sole aim in life was to make me happy--if I could win her." He sat with his eyes half-closed for a time. "No, I don't believe that," he said aloud. "I don't believe that she would accept me for the sake of my position. I believe from my heart that she would refuse me, and if she does--well, I shall try." There was another long pause, during which the thought-weaving went on, with the face of Hazel Thorne ever in the pattern; and at last as if perfectly satisfied in his own mind, he rose and sighed, saying: "Yes; there's no doubt about it: I am what people call `in love.'" He went to the window and stood leaning against the side, gazing out at the pleasant park-like expanse, but seeing nothing but the face of Hazel Thorne, as in a quiet, dreamy way he recalled the past. Suddenly a pang shot through him, and his brow grew rugged, for he remembered a conversation he had heard between Beatrice Lambent and his mother, wherein the former had said, _a propos_ of the new mistress, that the vicar had been rather displeased with her for receiving the visit of some gentleman friend so soon after she had come down. "I shall hate that woman before I have done," he said angrily, and, crossing the room, he rang the bell sharply and ordered his horse. George Canninge's was no calf-love. He was a sterling, thoughtful man, quietly preparing himself to make his position in his country's legislature; and yet the coming of Hazel Thorne had changed the whole course of his life. He found himself longing to see her, eager to meet and speak, but bound by his sense of gentle deference towards the woman who occupied so high a position in his esteem to avoid doing anything likely to call forth remark to her disparagement. George Canninge mounted and rode off, leaving the care of his body to his horse, and for the next three hours he was in a kind of dream. He rode right away out into the country, and then returned, to come back to himself suddenly, for there, the living embodiment of his thoughts, was Hazel Thorne coming towards him, and in an instant all the determinations that he had made vanished into space. His horse seemed to realise his wishes, for it stopped, and the rider dismounted, threw the rein over his arm, and advanced to meet the object of his thoughts, whose colour was very slightly augmented as he raised his hat and then extended his hand. "I have not had the pleasure since the day of the school feast. Miss Thorne," he said; and then, as if it were quite natural, they stood talking of indifferent matters for a few minutes, and Hazel let fall that she was going up to Miss Burge. "I'll go with you," he said quietly. "I like those people; they are so thoroughly genuine. Money has not spoiled Burge. He's as honest as the day." Just then, somehow, Hazel began to think that if Archibald Graves had been speaking of the Burges he would have been sure to have turned them into ridicule and laughed at their vulgar ways. George Canninge had no hidden thought, no object to serve in speaking of the successful tradesman as he did; but if he had studied a speech for a month he would not have found one more suited to win favour with his companion. As they walked on, it did not occur to Hazel at first that she was being guilty of a very series lapse in the eyes of the people in Plumton All Saints. It was so natural for a gentleman to speak to her quietly and courteously, that for the time being she forgot all about her position in life, and that this act was one that would cause a grave scandal in the little community. King Cophetua loved a beggar-maid, and when the lords and ladies of the court found that she was good as she was fair, they all applauded their monarch's choice; but that took place in the land of romance. The meeting of Hazel Thorne with young Squire Canninge came about in the road leading out of Plumton All Saints, and as they walked together towards Mr Burge's handsome villa, they were seen of several people who could talk, and who did talk, about "such shameful goings on;" they were seen of Samuel Chute, who turned green as he shrank back out of sight, but followed them afterwards at a distance; and finally they were seen of Miss Burge, who suddenly shouted into her brother's private room: "Oh, Bill, do come and lookye here! Miss Thorne's coming up the drive along with young Mr Squire Canninge. Muffins and marmalade 'll do for her, but there's nothing in the house to ask him to eat but cold mutton." CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. THE REV HENRY'S TEMPTATION. Now it so happened that the Rev Henry Lambent, who had been greatly troubled in his mind of late concerning what he called parish matters, was out that very day making a few calls. The parish matters that troubled him were relative to the schools, about which he thought more than he had ever thought before. In fact if he had not allowed his thoughts to dwell upon them, they would have been directed thereto by his sisters, who had reminded him several times about the unsatisfactory state of the girls' school. "I suppose it is useless to say so now, Henry," said Miss Lambent, "since the new mistress is to be made the _protegee_ of every one in the place, but I think the sooner she is dismissed the better. If she is not sent about her business there will be a great scandal in the place, as sure as my name is Rebecca. What do you think, Beatrice?" There was a minute's pause before Beatrice replied, and then her words were uttered in an extremely reserved manner. "I prefer to say nothing upon the question, for I do not think this young person of sufficient importance for us to allow her to disturb the harmony of this peaceful home." The vicar winced a little, and Beatrice saw it Rebecca's weapon was clumsy, coarse, blunt and notched; its effect upon him was that of a dull blow. The weapon of Beatrice, on the contrary, was keen and incisive. It inflicted a sharp pang, and it was venomed with spiteful contempt, that rankled in the wound after it was made. The effect was to produce a couple of red spots on his cheeks, but he said nothing; he merely thought of "this young person" as he had thought of her a good deal of late, and by comparison his sisters seemed to be petty, narrow-minded, and spiteful. He was greatly exercised in mind, too; and had he been a Roman Catholic priest he would probably have submitted himself to fastings and other penitential exercises. As it was, he sat alone and thought and combated the strange ideas that had taken possession of him of late. He trampled them beneath his feet--he would not even give them a name; but so sure as he--he, the Reverend Henry Lambent, M.A., vicar of Plumton All Saints, went into the retirement of his study to quell the fancies that he told himself were beneath his dignity as a teacher of men and a gentleman, he thought of Hazel Thorne, and her face became to him an absolute torture. The idea was absurd, he knew it was ridiculous, and not to be thought of for a moment, and consequently he thought of it for hours every day; dreamed of it every night. It was his first waking thought in the morning; and in the quietude of the late evening, when he was seated alone, he found himself filling the chair before him with a well-known figure, and seeing the face smile upon his as the red lips parted, and sweet and pure, the simple little school song of the violet in its shady bed floated to his listening ears. He told himself that it was absurd, and laughed at it, but it was a dismal kind of mirth that echoed hollowly in his ears, startling him, for he fancied that the laughter sounded mocking, and he began to recall the old legends that he had read about holy men being tempted of the emissaries of the Evil One, and of the strange guises they had been said to assume for the better leading of their victims astray. Was he--he asked himself--being chosen for one of those terrible temptations? Was he to be the object of one of their assaults? For the moment he was ready to accept the idea; but directly after, his common-sense stepped in to point out how weak and full of vanity was such a fancy. And he then found himself thinking of how sweet and ladylike Hazel Thorne was in all her dealings with the school children-- how gentle and yet how firm! And if she could be so good a manager of these children, what would she not be as a wife! He could not bear the thought, but cast it from him, and half angrily he wished that Hazel Thorne had never come to the town; but directly after, his pale handsome face lit up with a smile, his eyelids dropped, and he began thinking of how bright his life had seemed ever since Hazel Thorne had come. "Good-day, Mr Chute. Yes, a nice day," he said, as he came suddenly upon the schoolmaster, gnashing his teeth as usual, but ceasing the operation upon finding himself suddenly face to face with his vicar, who bowed gravely after replying to his salutation, and passed on. "Why, he isn't going there too, is he?" said Chute, looking over his shoulder. "I hope he isn't. No, I don't--hope he is. Why am I not asked there too?" he exclaimed angrily, as he saw the vicar pass in at the Burges' gate. "It's a shame, that it is; and no more favour ought to be shown to the mistress than the master. But I won't have it. I won't stand it. She shan't talk to Canninge, and I'll speak to her about it to-night. I consider her as good as mine, and it's abominable for her to be going where I'm not asked, and talking to the gentry like this. Gentry, indeed! Ha, ha, ha! I don't think much of such gentry as Mr Burge: a nasty, fat, stuck-up, red-faced, common, kidney-dealing, beefsteak butcher--that's what he is!" Strange to say, Mr Chute did not feel any better for this verbal explosion, but after casting a few angry glances at the house that was tabooed to him, he turned back into the fields, and began, in a make-believe sort of manner, to botanise, collecting any of the simple plants around, and trying to recollect the orders to which they belonged, but always keeping within sight of Mr Burge's gates. "There'll be a regular row about this, and I hope Lambent will give her a few words of a sort," he muttered. "It will prepare her for what I mean to say to her to-night. I'll give her such a lesson. I shall divide my lesson into three parts," he went on, speaking mechanically. "How many parts shall I divide my lesson into!--Oh, what a fool I am!-- What's this? Oh, it's a cress. Belongs to the cruciferous family, and--Hang the cruciferous family! It's too bad. I won't stand it. There'll be a regular scandal about her talking to the young squire. I don't mind, of course; but I won't stand it for the sake of the schools. A girl who has been trained ought to know better. You wouldn't catch a master trained at Saint Mark's going on like that with girls." And then somehow, with a bunch of wild flowers in his hand, Mr Chute's thoughts ran back to certain Saturday afternoons, when three or four students somehow found themselves in the neighbourhood of Chelsea, meeting accidentally with three or four other students who did not wear coats and waistcoats; and in the walks that followed parsing was never mentioned, a blade-board and chalk never came into their heads, neither did they converse on the notes of an object lesson, or ask one another what was the price of Pinnock's Analysis, or whether they could make head or tail of Latham's Grammar. "But I was only a boy then," said Mr Chute importantly. "Now I am a man." CHAPTER NINETEEN. VISITORS TO THE BURGES. It was quite like old days, Hazel thought, as George Canninge walked beside her up the drive to Mr William Forth Burge's door. There was no assumption of gallantry, not a word but such as a gentleman would have addressed to a friend. But he chatted to her pleasantly and well; laughed about the enjoyment of the school children, their great appreciation of the feast; and introduced the general topics of the day, drawing Hazel out so that, to her surprise, she found herself answering and questioning again, as if George Canninge were some pleasant friend whom she had known for years. "Ah, Miss Burge, how are you!" he cried cheerily. "I found Miss Thorne on the way here, and I thought I ought to come and say a word as well, for I've not seen you since the feast." "I'm so glad you did come, Mr Canninge," said the little lady, shaking hands very warmly, as she led the way into the drawing-room after kissing Hazel affectionately. "You don't know how we have talked about you." "Slanders behind my back. Miss Burge!" "Bless my heart, sir, no. Why, it was all about how you did go on and help at the school feast, making such fun and games for the poor children; and it all seemed so strange." "Strange, Miss Burge!" said Canninge. "May I ask why!" "Because we'd always heard that you were so proud and 'orty like, sir, when you're really about the nicest gentleman I ever met." "Do you hear that Miss Thorne!" he cried merrily. "There, I shall go home as proud as a peacock. Oh, here's Mr Burge. What do you think your sister says!" "That we're very glad to see you, Mr Canninge, sir; and what will you take!" "Nothing but courteous words, Mr Burge, after your sister's compliment. She says that I am really about the nicest gentleman she ever met." "And she means it too, sir. She never says anything she does not mean. She's done nothing but talk ever since about the way you pleased those children, sir, at the feast." "Well, poor little things, why shouldn't we try and give them a treat now and then--a real treat! I like to see them work hard at school, and work hard when they play, not taken out to be marched up and down, and disciplined, and made miserable. Miss Thorne, you must forgive me if I am going against your views." "Indeed, you are not," replied Hazel. "I am very new and inexperienced over teaching, but I thoroughly believe in hearty, wholesome play being a necessary part of a child's education." "Hear, hear! Hee-ar!--hee-ar!--hee-ar!" cried Mr William Forth Burge, beating the drawing-room table loudly with a book. "I quite agree with Miss Thorne there," said Canninge; "and as to what I did the other day--well, really, I enjoyed it as much as the children." "So did I, Mr Canninge, sir," cried Burge. "It was a regular treat, sir; and they shall have another and a better feast next year, please God I live." "No, no, fair-play's a jewel, Burge," said Canninge heartily. "None of your haughty millionaire assumption." Burge stared. "They shall come up to Ardley next time, and I'll see if I can't beat you." "What! you'll have the schools up to your place, sir, next year!" "To be sure I will; and I've got an idea in my head that will take the shine out of your treaty for I'll have a display of fireworks." "There, Betsey, I never thought of no fireworks; and we might have had a regular show off. I never thought of them. Oh!" "You could not have made the children happier, Mr Burge, if you had remembered the fireworks," said Hazel, coming to the rescue. "They thoroughly enjoyed themselves." "Well, I meant 'em to. Miss Thorne; I meant 'em to, indeed." "I agree with Miss Thorne," said Canninge, "and my first step will be to come here for your help." "And you shall have it too, sir, hearty; that you shall." "You will come and take off your things now, my dear," said Miss Burge then. "Mr Canninge will excuse us, I'm sure; and, bless me, if here isn't Mr Lambent coming up the drive." George Canninge felt disposed to go, but thought he would stay, and waited; while the bell was heard to clang, the steps of the servant followed, and a short colloquy was heard, resulting in the vicar leaving his card, and turning away. "Why, he ain't coming in," said Mr William Forth Burge, running to the door, and then halfway down the drive. No; he would not come in, the vicar said quietly. Not to-day. He only wished to know if Miss Burge was well, and he walked away, frowningly thinking of George Canninge's horse, which he knew well by sight, as the groom was walking it slowly up and down by the entrance to the stable-yard. He had not seen it till he was close up, and he felt disposed to turn back, but it was too late. He had heard from the servant that Hazel Thorne was present as well, and he parted from the giver of school treats soon afterwards, feeling bitter at heart and low-spirited more than he could account for at the time. "He wouldn't come in," said Mr William Forth Burge, hurrying back into the drawing-room panting and looking warm. "I told him you was here." "Busy, perhaps," said George Canninge quietly, though he told himself directly after that it was an absurd remark, for if the Reverend Henry Lambent had been busy he would not have devoted the day to making calls. "Well now, you must excuse us, Mr Canninge, for brother will talk to you while we go upstairs." "I must ask you to excuse me too," said George Canninge, rising and thinking of the vicar's visit, which it was certainly strange should have been paid at the time Miss Thorne was there. "My horse is hot, and I must not leave him any longer. I met Miss Thorne on the way, and the sight of her reminded me of my want of civility in not coming sooner. Now I'll say good-day. Miss Burge, I shall never forget your compliment." "Which it was not a compliment at all, sir, but just what I honestly thought," replied Miss Burge, shaking hands. "Then I shall esteem the remark all the more," he said, smiling, and delighting the little lady by his frankness and hearty way. Then, turning to where Hazel was standing: "Good-day, Miss Thorne," he said; and there was something so frank and matter-of-fact in the way in which he shook hands that Hazel's eyes brightened; and he went away, mounting at the door, and walking his horse down to the gate, with stout Mr William Forth Burge holding on by the mane, and talking loudly the while. George Canninge's replies sounded manly and ready enough, but all the time he was thinking of Hazel Thorne's sweet ingenuous smile, and he rode away at a brisk canter, as if he meant to go over Samuel Chute, seeing only that there was some one by the side of the road, for he was picturing that smile, and more than once he repeated to himself the words: "Only a schoolmistress!" Then, after a pause, as he was well clear of the town: "Well, what of that? It is a most worthy pursuit and she is a thorough lady in every word and look." CHAPTER TWENTY. THE COMING STRUGGLE. Was there ever a young schoolmaster or mistress yet who did not view with a strange feeling of tribulation the coming of inspection day, when that awful being, Her Majesty's Inspector of Schools for such and such a district, is expected down to make his report and add to or deduct so many pounds sterling from the teacher's pay? Of course we do these things better now; but there have been cases where the appointment of school inspector has been given to a gentleman who owed his elevation, not to the fact that he was a thorough scholar, a man who had always taken great interest in the education of the masses, a student of school management, a man of quick intellect apt to seize upon the latent points, ready to suggest, to qualify, and help the master or mistress upon whose teaching for the past year he was about to report, gifted with the brain-power that would enable him to appreciate the difficulties of the task, and ready to see that the boys and girls of Pudley Claypole really had not the quickness of the _gamins_ and _gamines_ of Little Sharp Street, Whitechapel Road--but to the accident of his having friends, if not at Court, at all events with some high official--his sisters, his cousins, or his aunts--then in power. Now, no one could have found fault with the gentlemanly demeanour of Mr Slingsby Barracombe. Miss Lambent said it was a pleasure to have him at the vicarage, and quite made a break in the dulness of their life, for he discoursed of society in town, his high connections, the state of the country; and he could sip tea and talk family matters with the vicarage ladies like a woman. He was a man of excellent presence: his hair very slightly touched with grey, and in that stage when, as he parted it down the middle, you could not decidedly have said whether it was a very broad parting or a suggestion of growing bald. Sometimes your school inspector is a reverend M.A. Mr Slingsby Barracombe was not, but he dressed as much like a clergyman as he could, and his clothes were all made by one of the first clerical tailors in town. Mr Barracombe's uncle's wife's sister had married a gentleman whose brother was in the Ministry; and, somehow, Mr Slingsby Barracombe was named as likely to obtain the appointment of Inspector of Schools, did obtain it and went on afterwards merrily inspecting and reporting for his district after a fashion for which he ought to have had a patent, since it was essentially his own. "You will endeavour to have as large an attendance as you can. Miss Thorne," said the vicar. "Her Majesty's inspector will be here on Thursday, and I shall feel it deeply if you do not receive a highly commendatory report." "We hope--my sister and I--Miss Thorne," said Miss Lambent with asperity, "that the girls will acquit themselves well. Some of their needlework has of late been terribly full of gobble stitches." "And so disgustingly grubby," put in Miss Beatrice. "That it has not been fit to be seen. Pray--pray--I implore you. Miss Thorne--pray be more energetic with the girls." "Don't you bother yourself, my dear," said Miss Burge. "My brother says he hopes the girls will all show up well, for your sake as well as the school's; but don't you bother yourself, my dear. You've just worked like a slave and done no end. Now let it all slide. If the girls answer well, they do; if they don't answer well, they don't. 'Taint your fault, so don't you worry. We're both coming to the inspection, and my brother says if there's any nonsense and fault-finding with the inspector he shall give him a bit of his mind. He don't believe in inspectors, don't Bill. He says there was never any inspectors in his time that he knows of, and if all the boys turn out as well as he did, there won't be much to grumble about; so don't you fidget, but take it as coolly as you can." "I say, how are you getting on!" said Mr Chute, popping his head in at the door. "Can't stop, because I expect Lambent; and if I do come in, it will be cats. You know." "Cats? I know?" said Hazel, staring at the lumpy front of Mr Chute, and noticing that his hair seemed to have come up more than ever. "Yes, of course--cats! I mean Becky and Beatrice--Rebel and Tricksy. I call them the cats. Don't tell 'em I called 'em so; but I'm not a bit afraid of that. Don't feel nervous about the inspection, do you?" "I do feel a little nervous Mr Chute." "So does my mother. She's in a regular fidget for fear I shouldn't do well; but as I said to her, what does it matter? When a man has done his best with his school, why, he can't do any better, can he?" "No; certainly not," replied Hazel, for Mr Chute was gazing at her in his peculiarly irritating way, his head a little on one side and his nose pointing, as if he meant to have an answer out of her if it was not soon forthcoming. "I think my boys are all well up, and if they don't answer sharp they've got me to deal with afterwards, and they'll hear of it, I can tell 'em. But don't you mind. Old Barracombe isn't much account. He always asks the same questions--a lot he has got off by heart, I believe. I always call him the expector, because he expects answers to questions he couldn't answer for himself." "I hope the children will acquit themselves well," said Hazel. "Oh, I don't think I shall bother myself much about it. I shall take precious good care that they have clean hands and faces, that's about all." Just then Mr Chute popped back outside the door, as if he were part of a pantomime trick, and Hazel breathed more freely, thinking he had gone; but he popped in again, smiling and imitating his visitee more and more by assuming to take her into his confidence, and treating her as if she were combining with him in his petty little bits of deception. "There's nobody coming. I looked right up the street, and I could have seen that stalking post Lambent if he had been a mile off." If Hazel had asked him if he could see the Misses Lambent he would have been happy; but she did not, though Mr Chute waited with a smile upon his face but a goodly store of bitterness in his heart, for he kept on thinking of George Canninge, and that gentleman who came down upon the first Sunday and caused him such a pang. Hazel, however, did not speak. She stood there, not caring to be rude, but longing to ask him to go, and with that peculiar itching attacking her fingers which made her wish to lift the Testament she had in her hand to well box his too prominent ears. Just then Mr Chute popped out again, and once more Hazel's heart gave a throb of relief, for it was troubled now by the idea that Mr Chute was growing attached to her, and there was something so horrible as well as ludicrous in this, that she shrank from him whenever he appeared. But Mr Chute was not gone; he came back directly with a great bunch of flowers grasped in his two hands and held up to his breast and over which he smiled blandly. "They're not much of flowers for you to receive. Miss Hazel, but I thought you'd like a few to put in water--_and you might like to accept them for my sake_." Mr Samuel Chute did not say those last words, though it formed part of the speech he had written out when he planned making that offering of flowers, and promised the boys who had gardens at home a penny apiece for a bunch, which bunches had been rearranged by him into a whole, and carefully tied up with string. The bunch was laid down outside the door when he first entered, and at last brought in and held as has been stated. Hazel felt ready to laugh, for there was a smirk upon Mr Chute's face, and a peculiar look that reminded her of a French peasant in an opera she had once seen, as he stood presenting a large bunch of flowers to the lady of his love. There was a wonderful resemblance to the scene, which was continued upon the stage by the lady boxing the peasant's ears and making him drop the huge bouquet which she immediately kicked, so that it came undone, and the flowers were scattered round. Of course this did not take place in the real scene, for, after the first sensation relating to mirth, Hazel felt so troubled that she was ready to run away into the cottage to avoid her persecutor. For was there ever a young lady yet who could avoid looking upon an offering of flowers as having a special meaning? The pleasant fancy of the language of flowers is sentimental enough to appeal to every one who is young; and here was Mr Chute presenting her with his first bouquet, a very different affair, so she thought, to the bunches of beautiful roses brought from time to time by Miss Burge. "Just a few flowers out of our garden, my dear," the little lady said, without any allusion to the fact that her brother had selected every rose himself, cutting them with his own penknife, and afterwards carefully removing every spine from the stems. What should she do? She did not want Chute's flowers, but if she refused them the act would be looked upon almost as an insult, and it was not in Hazel's nature to willingly give pain. So she rather weakly took them, thanked the donor, and he went away smiling, after giving her a look that seemed, according to his ideas, to tell her that his heart was hers for ever, and that he was her most abject slave. Hazel saw the glance, and thought that Mr Chute looked rather silly; but directly after repented bitterly of what she had done, and wished that she had firmly refused the gift. "And yet what nonsense!" she reasoned. "Why should I look upon a present of a few flowers as having any particular meaning? They are to decorate the school for the inspection, and I will take them in that light." Acting upon this, she quietly called up Feelier Potts and another of the elder girls who were whispering together, evidently about the the gift, sent them to the cottage for some basins and jugs, and bade them divide the flowers and put some in water in each window, a proceeding afterwards dimly visible to Mr Chute, who did not feel at all pleased. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. INSPECTION DAY. "I should put on my best silk this morning, Hazel," said Mrs Thorne, unrolling the broad white strings of her widow's cap and rolling them the reverse way to make them lie flat. "Put on my best silk, dear!" said Hazel, aghast. "Now, that is what I don't like in you, Hazel," cried Mrs Thorne dictatorially. "You profess to be so economical, and grudge every little outlay for the house, but directly I propose to you anything that affects your personal vanity you are up in arms." "My dear mother, you mistake me." "Oh, dear me, no, Hazel. I may be a poor, suffering, weak woman, but I have not lived to my years through trouble and tribulation without being able to read a young girl's heart. That silk is old-fashioned now, I know, but it is quite good enough for the purpose, and yet has sufficient tone about it, having been made by a first-class dressmaker, to let the inspector see that you are a lady." "My dear mother," began Hazel. "Now, don't interrupt me, Hazel. I do not often interfere, but there are times, as I told Mr Lambent when he called last, when I feel bound to make some little corrections in your ways. You must let Her Majesty's inspector see that you are a lady, and who knows what may happen! He may be so struck by the fact that he finds a real lady in charge of this school that he will feel bound to make you an offer of marriage. Mr Lambent assured me that he was a very gentlemanly man and tolerably young. By-the-way, Hazel, have you noticed how very kind and attentive Mr Lambent is?" "Yes, mother. He is very good and considerate, and thanked me yesterday for the efforts I have made with the school." "Quite right; so he ought. But as I was saying about Her Majesty's inspector, you must let him see that you are a lady by birth and education." "My dear mother, I think the inspector must find that the majority of schoolmistresses are ladylike, and of course highly educated." "I am talking about my daughter," said Mrs Thorne, who had great difficulty in getting her cap-strings to lie flat. "I wish you to impress upon him, Hazel, that you are a lady; in fact I feel it to be my duty to speak to him myself." "My dearest mother!" "Now, pray do not be so rash and impetuous, my dear," said the lady, bridling. "The best way would be to ask him to come into the drawing-room and hand him a little refreshment--a glass of wine and a biscuit." "But you forget that we are living in a cottage now. The inspector will be staying with Mr Lambent and he will get what refreshment--" "Hazel, don't be obstinate. I know what I am saying. Oh no, I don't forget that I am living in a mean and sordid cottage with contemptible windows," she cried, with an irritating shake of the head, and a querulous ring in her voice that jarred to Hazel's heart. "I know that this room is merely what you call a parlour by construction; but the fact of your mother--_your_ mother occupying it, my child, makes it a drawing-room. You will put on your silk dress, Hazel?" "No, mother; I am going to put on the clean grasscloth," said Hazel quietly. "The other would be unsuitable for the school, and the dark silk would show the dust and chalk." "Was ever woman troubled with such a wilful girl before!" moaned Mrs Thorne. "Oh, dear me!--oh, _dea_-ar me!" She declined to be comforted, and Hazel remained obstinate absolutely refusing to go to the school in silk attire, but wearing an extremely simple, closely-fitting, grasscloth dress, with plain white collar and cuffs, and looking dreadful--so Miss Lambent afterwards said to her sister; a prejudiced statement, for if ever there was an exemplification of the proverb regarding the needlessness of foreign ornament it was in Hazel Thorne's appearance that day. As a rule she was disposed to be pale, but the excitement consequent upon the important event had brought the colour into her cheeks, and she looked brighter than she had for months. Mr Chute's flowers were on the sills of the windows, the room had been well sprinkled and swept, there was not a vestige of a cobweb to be seen, and the girls had assembled in strong force, there having been a theory in the school that an inspection meant tea and cake afterwards, a theory that Feelier Potts, basing her remarks on experience, strongly opposed; but the children mustered all the same, and in many cases suffering a good deal from hair oil, applied so that patches of their foreheads shone and invited comparison with the rest of their faces. Mr William Forth Burge was one of the first arrivals, and he paused with his sister upon the doorstep, to unfold a clean orange silk handkerchief, and have a loud blow, like a knight of old seizing the bugle at the castle-gate. "How nice you do look, Bill!" said little Miss Burge, smiling at him tenderly, as she raised her hand to the latch. "Do I, Betsey! Am I all right! Do I look well!" "Beautiful!" said Miss Burge enthusiastically. "There ain't a wrinkle about your back, nor sides, nor nowhere." "That's right!" he exclaimed. "I was rather afraid, for they're precious tight, Betsey; and the coat feels as if it would give way about the arms." "But see how it shows off your figure, Bill dear," said the little lady; "and you are getting a bit too stout." "Ye-es, I s'pose I am; but it don't matter, Betsey, so long as the 'art's in the right place. Come along." They entered, and their greeting to Hazel was very warm. Soon after there was a buzz of voices heard outside, when the colour disappeared from the cheeks of the young mistress, for she knew that the crucial time had come. There was a sharp tapping at the door directly afterwards, and one of the elder girls went to open it, Hazel continuing her work with the classes, in support of the very old fiction that the inspector would come and take school and scholars quite by surprise. Then the door was thrown open, and a little scene enacted on the threshold, the ladies drawing back to allow so important a personage as Her Majesty's inspector to enter first, and Mr Slingsby Barracombe drawing back in turn with the vicar, to allow Miss Lambent and her sister to take precedence. After a little hesitation, and a few words, the ladies entered, smiling, the gentlemen followed, and Hazel advanced to meet them, when there was the sound of wheels, a carriage stopped, steps were let down, and George Canninge handed out his mother, walked with her to the school, and entered. Salutations, introductions, and a buzz of conversation followed, during which time Hazel felt in agony. Why had Mr Canninge come? she asked herself. She did not know why, but his presence unnerved her, and she dreaded disgracing herself in his eyes. "We thought we should like to be present," said the young squire. "I hope Mr Barracombe will not consider us in the way." On the contrary, he was delighted to see present any of the patrons of the school, and said so as soon as he knew the social status of the Canninges; after which he asked to be excused, smiled, bowed, and turned to the task he had in hand. Then George Canninge shook hands warmly "with those dreadfully vulgar folks, the Burges," as Mrs Canninge said, while she kept an eye upon her son and the schoolmistress in turn. As a rule the Rev Henry Lambent was the great man at the schools, but upon this occasion he sank into a very secondary position, following the inspector with a stiff kind of deference, as Mr Slingsby Barracombe raised his glasses to his eyes, balanced them upon his nose, looked at Hazel gravely for a few moments, and then bowed formally without a word, before taking off his glasses and holding them behind him with both hands as if they were hot, while he marched about the school. National school children are at such times supposed to be all intent upon their lessons, and never to raise their eyes to look at visitors, especially such an awe-inspiring personage as an inspector; but it would be just as reasonable to expect a pinch of steel filings to refrain from turning towards a magnet plunged in their midst. Certainly the girls in Hazel Thorne's charge followed the inspector, their eyes taking in every movement and Feelier Potts's malicious features almost involuntarily moulding themselves into an excellent imitation of the peculiarities of his face. When Mr Barracombe had solemnly walked round the school once, with the Reverend Henry Lambent hat in hand, behind him, and the other visitors forming themselves into a deferential audience, who watched him as if he were going through some wonderful performance, he said, with a loud expiration of his breath-- "Hah!" an ejaculation that might mean anything, and one that committed him to naught. "Is--ah, this your first class. Miss--ah--ah--" "Thorne," said Hazel quietly. "No, sir, this is the second." "Thorne, ah--exactly. Yes, I see--ah. Yes, needlework--ah. Stand." The girls in the first class stood up smartly, and Feelier Potts's thimble flew off, went tinkling across the floor, and was flattened beneath one of Ann Straggalls's big feet. "Oh, you see if I don't serve you out for that," began Feelier loudly, her face scarlet with rage. "Hush! silence! How dare you, child?" "Well, but she's squeedged it flat." "Silence, girl!" exclaimed the inspector indignantly. "Back to your place." Hazel turned crimson as she hurriedly took Feelier Potts by the arm, and in her excitement and dread of a scene, knowing as she did the fearless nature of the girl, she said softly-- "Be a good girl, Ophelia, and I will give you a new thimble." There was quite a sensation during this little episode. Miss Lambent whispering to her sister, who nodded and shook her head, Mrs Canninge looking with raised eyebrows at the first class through her gold-rimmed glasses, and little Miss Burge furiously shaking her fat forefinger at "that naughty child." There was a hearty laugh on its way to George Canninge's lips, but, seeing the pain the chatter was causing Hazel, he checked his mirth and remained serious. Mr Barracombe seemed to be in doubt as to whether he ought not to expel Feelier Potts there and then, and as she resumed her place he frowned at her severely, the culprit looking up at him with a most mild and innocent aspect, till he turned his gaze upon another pupil, when Feelier began nodding at Ann Straggalls and uttering whispered menaces of what she would do as soon as they were out of school. Then all eyes were turned to the inspector, who unfolded some printed blue papers, and after coughing to clear his voice, searched in his waistcoat pocket, and brought out a gold pencil-case, which required a good deal of screwing about before it would condescend to mark. Having pinched his nose between his glasses, he commenced examining the needlework, of which he was evidently a good judge, and doubtless knew the difference between hemming, stitching, tacking, herring-boning, and the other mysterious processes by which cloth, calico, and other woven fabrics are held together. Then there was an entry made upon the blue paper, and the inspector looked severely through his glasses at Ann Straggalls. "Can you tell me, my good girl, how many yards of long-cloth would be required for a full-sized shirt?" Ann Straggalls allowed her jaw to drop and stood staring hard at the querist for a few moments, and then, like that certain man in the scriptural battle, she drew a bow at a venture, but she failed to hit the useful under garment in question, for she eagerly replied "twelve." "Next girl," said the inspector. "Eight." "Next girl." "Sixteen." "Next." "Twenty." "Next. How many yards of long-cloth would be required for a full-sized shirt?" The next was Feelier Potts, whose eyes were twinkling as she answered-- "Mother always makes father's of calico." "Very good, my girl; then tell me how many yards it would take." "Night shirt or day shirt?" cried Feelier sharply. "Day shirt," replied the inspector severely; and George Canninge became red in the face as the disposition to laugh grew stronger. "Wouldn't take half so much to make one for my brother Tom as it would for--" "Silence!" exclaimed the inspector, and Feelier Potts pretended to look very much alarmed, drawing her eyes together towards her nose and nearly making Ann Straggalls titter as the inspector stooped for a fresh entry. Hazel's attention was here taken up by another class, for, being left unattended, the girls began to grow restive. "Now," said the inspector, "I will ask you another question, my good girls. Can any one tell me what proportion the gusset bears to the whole shirt? The girl who knows put out her hand." Miss Rebecca had been hoping that Mr Slingsby Barracombe would enter upon some other branch of education; but he clung to the needlework, and smiled approvingly as half-a-dozen, and then two more hands were thrust out. "Well," he said, "suppose you tell me." "Three yards," said the first girl. "You do not apprehend my question, my good child," said the inspector blandly. "I asked what proportion the gusset bore to the whole of the shirt." "Please, sir, I know, sir," said Feelier Potts, who was standing with her hand pointing straight at the visitor. "Then tell us," said the inspector, smiling. "Four yards!" cried Feelier triumphantly. "I said what proportion, my good girl; do you not know what I mean by proportion?" "Yes, sir." "Well, what!" "Rule o' three sums, same as boys learn." "Tut-tut-tut! this is very sad," said the inspector, shaking his head, a motion that seemed to be infectious, for it was taken up by Miss Rebecca, communicated to Miss Beatrice, and then caught up by little Miss Burge, whose head-shaking was, however, meant to be in sympathy with Hazel. "I wish he'd let me ask the girls some queshtuns, Betsey," whispered Mr William Forth Burge, as he saw the inspector's pencil going; "I could make them answer better than that." But the visitor had no intention of choosing a deputy, and he went on asking several more questions of a similar class, relating to cutting out and making up, not one of which produced a satisfactory answer; and the vicar looked very grave as he saw entries that he knew to be unfavourable made with the gold pencil-case. Then the girls had to read, and got on better; but as soon as the inspector began to ask scriptural questions the class appeared to have run wild, and the answers were of the most astonishing nature. Simple matters of knowledge that they knew perfectly the day before, seemed to have passed entirely out of the girls' minds, and they guessed and answered at random. Sometimes a correct reply was given, but whenever it came to the turn of Feelier Potts, if she did happen to know, she managed to pervert the answer. She told the inspector in the most unblushing manner that during the plagues of Egypt the children of Israel suffered from fleas, and had rice in all their four quarters. Corrected upon this, she asserted that these same people crossed the Red Sea on a dry day. The class was asked why Moses struck the rock, and Feelier whispered an answer to Ann Straggalls, who eagerly replied--"Because it was naughty." Due to the same mischief-loving brain, another girl asserted that the ark of the covenant contained Shem, Ham, and Japhet; that it was a pillar of salt that went before the wanderers in the desert; and that it was the manna that was swallowed up during the rebellion of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram. Taken altogether, the children did not shine in Scripture history. Slates were passed round with a good deal of clatter, and then a question was propounded. "How many pounds of butter at one-and-fourpence per pound can I buy for eight shillings?" Ann Straggalls, after a great deal of staring at the ceiling and biting at her pencil, proved it to be forty. Feelier Potts rapidly dashed the pencil to her slate, screwed up her forehead, and made some figures, finishing off by carefully watching that no other girl should see, and smiling triumphantly at those who had not finished; but when it came to show slates, Feelier displayed a large pound with the figure 2 following certain other figures, which did not show how she had arrived at this result. "This is very sad," said the inspector. "My good children, you cannot properly apprehend my questions. Do you know what I mean by `apprehend'?" Out flew Feelier Potts's hand like a semaphore, and she pointed straight at the top button of the inspector's waistcoat. "I--ah, don't think, my good child, that you know," said the inspector. "You answer at random." "No, sir, plee, sir; I know, sir." "Know what? What did I ask?" "Plee, sir, what `apprehend' means. I know, sir." "Good girl; quite right," said the inspector, smiling, "Tell us, then, what `apprehend' means." "Policeman taking up tipsy man," cried Feelier excitedly. George Canninge could not resist this, but burst out into a hearty roar of laughter, and then turned his back, for Feelier Potts was at once struck with the idea that she had said something good, and joined in the mirth, till she caught the inspector's eye glaring at her balefully, when the laughter froze stiff and she began to squint so horribly that Mr Slingsby Barracombe turned away in disgust to say to the vicar-- "Most extraordinary child this!" George Canninge's laughter came to an end also very suddenly, for, as he stood wiping his eyes, he found that Hazel Thorne was looking in his direction with so much pain and annoyance expressed in her countenance that he bit his lips, and his eyes said plainly, if she could have read the glance, "Pray forgive me; it was very foolish." Just then the inspector took out another sheet of paper, and moved on to a different class, that which Hazel had been keeping in order, and here, in due rotation, he tried the children in the various subjects they had been learning with a most melancholy effect. The timid children he seemed to freeze; others he puzzled by his peculiar way of asking questions; while, again, others he made stare at him in a way that plainly indicated that they did not understand a word he said. Mr Barracombe, however, paid little heed to this, but went on putting queries, and making notes most industriously, while the sisters stood tightening their lips, till George Canninge came and joined them, when Beatrice, who had been growing more and more acid every minute, began to beam once more, and made remarks to him about the school. "I am so sorry that the children are answering in this absurd way. I take great interest in the schools, and come down and teach, so that it seems like a reflection upon me." "They don't understand him," said George Canninge impatiently. "I'm afraid they do," replied Beatrice quickly, for she could not resist the temptation to say something unpleasant, "but they are so backward." She meant to have said "badly taught," but hesitated at the last moment. "Well, what can you expect?" said Canninge. "The inspector asks too much of children of their class. Why, they could not answer his questions in a first-class school." "But this is a first-class school, Mr Canninge," cried Rebecca sharply. "Hush, dear; Mr Barracombe is asking the second class some geography questions;" and as they listened they caught the end of an inquiry about the Ouse--its source, tributaries course, and the chief towns upon its banks. "Well, hang me if I could tell him," said Canninge; "and I shall be surprised if the children do." He was not surprised, for no satisfactory answer came. The children told the inspector the capital of England readily enough, and the names of the principal rivers; but his way was so strange to them that for the most part the little things did not comprehend his questions, and Hazel's heart sank as she sighed for the apparent density that had fallen upon the different classes. Everything went badly: the writing from dictation was terrible, and the sentences made of the words read out by the inspector were horribly void of meaning. The Reverend Henry Lambent's face grew more troubled, the ladies whispered together, and the buzz of the school seemed to Hazel to make her dizzy, as she strove hard, with her nerves strained by excitement, to keep the different classes in order, while every time she thought of the ordeal that had to come, she turned sick with misery, and longed for the end of the day. "I should like to punch his 'ead, Betsey," whispered Mr William Forth Burge at last. "What's the good of asking them children a queshtun like that! They can't make out a word he says." "Hush! Don't interfere, Bill. It might make Miss Thorne more nervous. Pore dear, she do look bad." "I don't know as I shan't interfere," whispered back the great man of Plumton. "I consider that I've got a bit of a voice in this school, and I don't see no fun in this chap going away saying that everything's wrong when I know it ain't. How can he tell, just coming strange among the bairns, and asking a few queshtuns anyhow like! If they don't answer 'em he sets it down they can't, when I know all the time they can." "But you'll make it worse for Miss Thorne," whispered little Miss Burge; "and she's worried to death as it is." "Well, I don't want to do that," he said sulkily; and he held his tongue whilst class after class was examined, even those children who were tried in catechism mixing the answers up in the most absurd way, or staring helplessly in the speaker's face. "I don't care," whispered Mr William Forth Burge at last; "he don't know how to ask queshtuns, and for two pins I'd tell him so; now then." "Oh don't, Bill dear; it would not be gentlemanly. Pray do be quiet." "Look here, then; if Lambent asks me up to dinner to meet that chap, I shan't go." "Hush, Bill! She's going to give the girls, a hobject lesson." For the crucial time had come, and about forty of the elder girls had been faced and marched into the gallery to sit opposite their teacher, while the visitors rearranged themselves--the Misses Lambent with an air of long-suffering, the vicar with an air of intense trouble upon his face, while Mrs Canninge looked vexed, and the Burges disappointed and cross. The inspector seated himself at one of the desks and commenced a fresh sheet of paper, while, saving the subdued buzz in the various classes, a painful stillness was in the room, and Hazel felt her heart throb heavily, and plainly heard its beats. She took a simple subject, and began in a low, trembling voice, which sounded pained and husky, while the intensity of her nervousness was patent to all present; but after she had been going on for a minute or two, to her great relief George Canninge rose and left the schoolroom. The girls were beginning to answer better now, and Hazel felt her courage rise a little; but her heart sank and she began to tremble again as she heard the door open once more, a step crossing the floor, and coming to where she was speaking. The next moment George Canninge said-- "One moment, Miss Thorne. You are hoarse and tired." As he spoke there was the pleasant gurgle of cold water being poured into a glass, and Beatrice turned pale with the rush of blood to her heart as she saw the young squire thoughtfully hand the glass to Hazel, who took it, giving him a grateful glance as she did so, and then drank the refreshing fluid with avidity. "I will take the glass," he said in the most quiet, matter-of-fact way; and then Hazel felt as if a new spirit had been sent into her veins. It was so gentle and thoughtful an act, coming as it did when she was faint and sick with the heat and agitation; and, turning to her classes, she felt a strength within her that seemed to her astonishing. She went on with the lesson, and her faltering voice grew stronger, her questions clearer and more incisive; she described and painted in vivid colours to the children the object she had made the theme of her lesson; and in another few moments as if by a sympathetic touch, the children were _en rapport_ with her; their young cheeks flushed, their eyes were full of eagerness, and there was an excited burst of answers every time she spoke, clearer and brighter and plainer. Word-painting in the simplest and cleverest touches, simplicity and yet vivid colouring. The teacher had forgotten self, the nervousness had gone, and a quarter of an hour passed rapidly by as Hazel, in her ambition to prove that the children over whom she had worked so hard were not the dunces they had seemed, explained her subject, making it geographical, historical, and orthographical as well, till when at last, after an admirable finish, she stood there flushed, her eyes brightened and turned to the inspector as if to ask for further commands, Mr William Forth Burge "forgot himself"--so Miss Lambent afterwards put it--for he burst out with a hearty-- "Brayvo! brayvo! brayvo!" clapping his hands loudly; and this infected George Canninge, who joined in the applause. "A capital lesson," he said aloud; "a capital lesson, indeed." Mr Lambent smiled, and bowed to Hazel, saying softly-- "Very good indeed." "Ah--yes," said the inspector, rising; "I must say--a very good lesson. Miss Thorne; and I hope by the time I come again I may find the girls considerably advanced. At present--I will say no more. Good morning." There was a polite procession formed, and the visitors slowly passed through the door, the gentlemen seeing the ladies off first, but not until little Miss Burge had trotted back to whisper to Hazel-- "You did it beautiful, my dear," and then hurried away. Hazel hardly grasped her words, for George Canninge had turned to bow as he went out, and the glance he then gave set her trembling as she stood with one hand resting upon the desk; for it seemed to her that every one must have seen that look, and she began to ask herself if she was mad to let that man's presence fill her with thoughts that seemed to agitate her strangely. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. A LESSON IN TEACHING. After the plain manner in which the Reverend Henry Lambent had shown himself disposed to take the part of the young schoolmistress against his sisters, the attacks made by Rebecca and Beatrice were not so open; but they found many little ways of displaying in a petty spirit that they were by no means her friends. Ladies by birth, it was hardly to be expected that they should stoop to pettiness, but years of residence in a little country place with few people of their own class for associates, and that mutual friction which is an imperceptible popular educator in manners, had made them what they were, and disposed to grow more little of mind as the years went on. Their lives were too smooth and regular, too uneventful. A school examination, a blanket club, and a harvest festival, were the great points of their existence, and though they visited in the parish, and were supposed to make themselves acquainted with the cares and sorrows of the poor, their calls were made in a perfunctory spirit, and they did not possess that simple power of appealing to the heart which wins the confidence of rich and poor. Unfortunately, then, they grew narrower as their years became more, and, at the same time, from the want of some good, genuine, honest troubles to take them out of themselves, acidity began to cark and corrode their natures, and work a considerable change. If Rebecca Lambent had met with a man who possessed good firm qualities and been married, she would doubtless have turned out a quiet matronly body, ready to smile at trifles, and make the best of things; but unfortunately the right _he_ had never presented himself, and Rebecca had become a thorough district-visiting old maid, as narrow as could be, and ready to look upon a child who had not read "The Pilgrim's Progress" as on the high road to destruction. Beatrice Lambent's heart was still tender. Rebecca said that she quite hated men. Beatrice thought the declaration quite suitable, as far as her sister was concerned, but her own hatreds were directed at the other sex, and Hazel Thorne was made the scapegoat in her eyes to bear the sins of others. For as the days glided by, she felt a growing dislike to the young schoolmistress, who was always committing some grievous error, her last being that of accepting the glass of water offered to her by George Canninge. It would be going far to say that Beatrice Lambent would gladly have put poison in that water had she dared, but certainly she would gladly have dashed it in the recipient's face. It was terrible to her that George Canninge--the hope to which her somewhat ardent imagination was now clinging as probably the last likely to come in her way--should take so much notice of this stranger girl, finding in her an attraction that asked from him the attentions he would in an ordinary way have paid to the vicar's sister; and more than once she had shed tears on Mrs Canninge's breast, when that lady bade her be of good cheer, and not to take any notice of these acts. "It is a mere nothing, my dear Beatrice," said Mrs Canninge. "George is naturally very chivalrous, and he seems to have taken it into his head that this girl needs his help and protection." "But it is so cruel to me," sighed Beatrice. "If you could let him think it caused me pain, he might not act so again." "My dear child," replied Mrs Canninge, "you do not know my son so well as I. Poor boy, he is very headstrong, and fond of asserting himself. Depend upon it if I were to attempt to lead him towards you, the consequences would be disastrous. We should be setting him from sheer obstinacy towards this girl, who by-the-way appears to me to be either very innocent and weak, or else crafty and clever to a degree." "But surely you cannot think she dare aspire to a thought of your son wishing to be attentive to her." "Oh no, my dear child. That would be impossible. But there, do not trouble yourself about it. You will see that George has forgotten all about her in a few weeks." Beatrice promised that she would not trouble, but went on growing more exercised in spirit day by day. She took herself to task also about several little acts of pettiness in which she had detected herself, and made a vow that she would not be so contemptible again, but preserve towards Hazel Thorne a ladylike dignity of manner that would be more in keeping with her position as sister of the vicar of Plumton All Saints. Human nature is, however, very weak, and the nature of Beatrice Lambent was a little weaker. She had always her sister Rebecca at her elbow--a lady who was rapidly becoming the incarnation of old-maidish pettiness and narrow-minded local policies--and strive how she would, Rebecca's constant droppings kept wearing a nature which, though desirous of being firm, was not hardened like unto stone. The sisters attended the schools with their old readiness and every now and then, as if something within prompted her to be constantly watching for a chance of attack, Beatrice found herself making unpleasant remarks to or of Hazel Thorne and then going home angry and bitter, as she realised how ladylike and quiet the schoolmistress remained under every attack. For, calling up the whole strength of her character, Hazel had determined to persevere. She had several times been so cruelly mortified by the treatment of the sisters that she felt that she must go; but this was her first school, and she knew that she was bound to stay there a sufficient time to obtain good testimonials for a second. The vicar came down on the day following the examination, and told her that the inspector had expressed himself greatly disappointed at the state of the school. "I am sorry to say, Miss Thorne, that he casually let drop his intention of speaking rather hardly respecting our state, which--I am afraid I must tell you his exact words." "If you please, sir," said Hazel quietly; and she raised her eyes with the strange effect of making him lower his, and speak in a quick, indirect way. "He said that the state the school was the more to be deplored from the fact that we had secured a young lady of evident power of teaching. The object lesson, he said, was most masterly, and therefore--" The vicar stopped and raised his eyes for a moment to meet the dear, candid look that seemed to search his soul. "Pray tell me all, sir." "I--I hesitate. Miss Thorne," he said, "because I do not think the inspector's opinion was just." "I thank you, sir," said Hazel gravely. "He--he suggested that you could not be giving your heart to your work, and that in consequence the children were far more backward than in either of the neighbouring schools." "It must be from want of ability, sir," said Hazel; "for I cannot charge myself with neglecting my duties in the slightest degree." "Exactly. I am sure of it. I know you have not, Miss Thorne. I merely repeat the inspector's words as a kind of duty, and I leave it to you to make any alterations you may think best in the direction of your teaching, for I sincerely hope that we may have a better account to show on Mr Barracombe's next visit." He smiled gravely, bowed, and went away with a longing desire to shake hands, but this he kept down, and walked hurriedly home. The vicar's sisters were not so agreeable in their remarks upon their first visit after the inspection. They did not attack Hazel with rebuke upon the poor way in which the girls had shown up, but condoled with her in that peculiarly aggravating manner adopted by some women towards those they do not admire. "We were so sorry for you, Miss Thorne," said Rebecca; "my heart quite bled to see how badly the children answered." "And it seemed to me such a pity," said Beatrice, "that they will be so inattentive to the many orders you must have given them about their needlework. Did it not strike you as being exceedingly grubby?" That word "grubby" was brought out in a way that was absolutely wonderful. The pronunciation was decidedly Parisian in the rolling of the r, and Miss Beatrice seemed to keep the word upon her tongue, turning it about so as to thoroughly taste how nasty it was before she allowed it to pass forth into the open air. "The girls do make their work exceedingly dirty before it is done," said Hazel quietly. "I deeply regretted, too, that they should have answered so badly. I am afraid that it was often from their not understanding the questions." "Oh, I don't think that, Miss Thorne," said Rebecca, with a kind of snap. "You'll excuse me, I set it down to their ignorance." "And yet, Miss Lambent, I next day asked the girls as many of the inspector's questions as I could recall, and they answered them with the greatest ease." "Oh, really, Miss Thorne, I cannot agree with you there," said Beatrice, with an unpleasant smile. "If they could answer you, why could they not answer the inspector?" "From inability to understand him, ma'am." "I could understand every question. Rebecca, could not you!" "Every word, sister. I thought Mr Barracombe singularly clear and perspicuous. The very model of a school inspector." Hazel bowed. "I shall try very hard to make them more ready in their answers by another time," she said with humility. "I hope you will, I am sure, Miss Thorne," said Beatrice, "for it must have been very painful to you, even as it is to us, to know that you have had a bad report of your school. May we--do you object to our taking a class each for a very little while?" "Which class would you like, ma'am?" said Hazel gravely, in reply. "Oh, whichever you please, Miss Thorne; we never like interfering between the mistress and her pupils, and wish to be of help so as to get the children on--do we not, Rebecca?" "Decidedly, Beatrice. To help you. Miss Thorne: certainly not to usurp your position. I thought if we could take a class for you now and then in Scripture history it might be useful to you. Perhaps--I say it with all deference. Miss Thorne, to one who has been trained--you are not so strong in Scripture history as we are." "I feel my weakness in many subjects, Miss Lambent," replied Hazel. "Oh no, don't say that," said Beatrice, with a flash of her cold blue eyes. "You are so very clever. Miss Thorne. We were quite struck by your object lesson. But Scripture history, you know. We have been always with our brother, and we have made it so deep a study that it has come natural to us to have all these theological matters at our tongues' ends. Catechism, too--I think, Rebecca, we remarked that the girls were much behind in `Duty towards my Neighbour' and `I desire.'" "Very much so, Beatrice; and `Death unto Sin' was dreadful." "So was `To examine themselves,'" said Beatrice. "I think, Miss Thorne, we might be of some assistance there." "I shall be very glad of your help. Miss Lambent," said Hazel, who was quite unmoved. "Pray do not think I resent or should resent your coming at any time. No amount of time could be too much to spend upon the children." "That's her nasty, cunning assumption of humility," thought Beatrice. "She hates our coming, but she dare not say so." "Is there any other branch where we might assist you, Miss Thorne?" asked Rebecca. "There are so many girls, and you are--you will excuse me for saying so--you are very young, and I could not help noticing-- pray before I go any farther fully understand that we would not on any account interfere. As you must have seen, our brother the vicar objects to the proper duties of the schoolmistress being interfered with." Hazel hid her mortification, bowed, and Rebecca went on-- "I could not, I say, help noticing that the girls displayed a want of discipline." "Yes; I noticed that with sorrow," said Beatrice, giving Hazel a look of tender regret. "And I thought if we could help you to impress upon the children more of the spirit of that beautiful lesson in the Catechism--" Miss Lambent drew herself up stiffly, closed her eyes, stretched out one hand in a remarkably baggy glove, and recited loudly enough for the girls to hear-- "`To submit myself to all my governors, teachers, spiritual pastors and masters. To order myself lowly and reverently to all my betters.' Would you object, Miss Thorne, to the girls all repeating that aloud?" Hazel signed to the girls to stand, when there was a rush up like a human wave, and in all pitches of voice the familiar portion of "My duty towards my Neighbour" was repeated several times over after Miss Lambent who waved her hands like a musical conductor, and gave peculiar cadences to her voice as she went on over the sentences again and again, in happy unconsciousness that Feelier Potts was saying, "Oh, Goody me! Oh, Goody me!" in constant iteration, instead of the prescribed forms, and making Ann Straggalls laugh. "I think that will do," said Miss Lambent, smiling. "If we can make the children thoroughly take to heart, and then digest mentally the beauty of those orderly words, the discipline of the school will be greatly improved.--Sit!" The order coming from fresh lips, some of the girls sat down, while some remained standing, and, just as Miss Lambent repeated her command with a shrill intonation, Hazel made a sign with her hand, and every girl resumed her place. "Now, once more," cried Miss Lambent; "stand!" The girls rose readily, and the lady who strongly objected to any interference with the mistress, shook her head, and cried-- "Sit!" The girls resumed their seats this time pretty well, and rose at the word of command. "There, you see. Miss Thorne, it is soon done. I think you will be able to get them well in order in time. Oh, by-the-way, Beatrice, did you say anything to Miss Thorne about punishing Potts?" "No; I thought you meant to mention it. Will you do so now?" "You will speak to her upon the subject, I will go and take the juvenile class." As she spoke, Rebecca went off to the lower end of the schoolroom, while Beatrice _hemmed_ to clear her voice. "My sister thinks that Ophelia Potts ought to be severely punished, and held up as an example to the whole school, Miss Thorne. Of course you have punished her?" "No, I have not punished her, Miss Lambent; but I have talked to her a great deal." "Not punished her, Miss Thorne! Dear me, I am surprised. The girl was most rude and impertinent on the inspection day. I really wonder that you have not punished her severely. She sets a bad example to the whole school." At that very moment the young lady in question was behaving most dramatically, copying every motion of Miss Lambent, who was gesticulating and shaking her head a good deal while teaching the juvenile class; but catching Hazel's eye, the girl bent at once over her slate. "Ophelia Potts." "A most absurd name, Miss Thorne! Why could not they call her Jane or Sarah?" "Parents have curious fancies in the names they give their children, ma'am," replied Hazel. "This girl is of a singular disposition, and I cannot help thinking that punishment would harden her." "But you saw how she behaved, Miss Thorne. Why do you say that?" "The girl is of a very affectionate disposition, and I think I can win her over by kindness. She is very clever, and one of my best pupils, and I think in time she will be all I could desire." "I must beg to differ from you. Miss Thorne," said Beatrice, shaking her head. "I have known Ophelia Potts four years, and I am perfectly sure that nothing but severe castigation will ever work a change in her. But of course that is for you to decide. My sister and I could not think of interfering. We only wish, as you are so young, to offer you a few suggestions, and to be of whatever service we can." "I am very grateful. Miss Lambent--" "Miss Beatrice Lambent, if you please," said the lady in corrective tones. "My sister is Miss Lambent." "Miss Beatrice Lambent," said Hazel gravely; "and I shall always strive to avail myself in every way of your and your sister's assistance." "She is as deceitful as can be," said Beatrice spitefully, as they were walking home. "That abominable humility makes me feel as if I could box her ears, for it is all as false as false." "Henry is perfectly stupid about her," replied Rebecca. "He thinks her a prodigy; but mark my words, Beatrice, he'll find her out before long, and bitterly repent not having sent her about her business at once." "I can't imagine what Henry is thinking about," sighed Beatrice; "but he will find out his mistake." Somewhere about this time Hazel had dismissed the girls, and told Feelier Potts to stop back, an order which that young lady obeyed for a few moments and then made a rush for the door. "Ophelia!" The girl's hand was already on the latch, and in another moment she would have darted through; but Hazel Thorne's quiet voice seemed to affect her in a way that she could not understand, and letting her hand fall to her side, she hesitated and turned. "Come here, Ophelia." The girl hung back for a moment, and then, as if drawn to the speaker, she approached in a slow, half-sulky, defiant way, gazing sideways at her teacher, and seeming ready to dart off at a word. "She'd better not hit me," thought Feelier. "I won't never come no more if she do. I'll soon let her know, see if I don't." By this time she was close up to Hazel, who, instead of looking at her in a mending way, smiled at the girl's awkward approach and suspicious gaze. "You think I am going to punish you, Ophelia, do you not?" "Yes, teacher; Miss Lambent told you to." "Miss Lambent said that you deserved punishment for behaving badly in school, but I told her that there was no need, for I am going to ask you to help me, Ophelia, and not give me more work to do. There are so many girls, and if they are tiresome, my work grows very, very hard." "The girls are very tiresome, please, teacher." "Then why don't you help me in trying to keep them quiet? You do know so much better." The girl looked up at her with one eye, and a general aspect as if some progenitor had been a magpie. "I mean it, Ophelia. You are a quick, clever girl, and know so much better. It grieves me when you will play tricks, and make my work so hard." "Please, teacher, may I go now? Mother wants me." "You shall go directly, Ophelia; but I want you to promise me that you will be a better girl." "Please, teacher, mother leathers the boys if they don't get home in time for dinner, and dinner must be ready now." "You shall go directly, my child; but will you promise me?" "If I don't get home to dinner, teacher, I shan't be 'lowed to come 'safternoon." "Then you will not promise me, Ophelia?" The girl gave a half-sulky, half-cunning look at the speaker, and then, taking a weary nod of the head to mean permission, she darted away, and the schoolroom door closed after her with a loud bang. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. NOSEGAYS ARE NOT ALWAYS SWEET. "Please, teacher, I've brought you some flowers." Hazel Thorne turned round, to find that the speaker was Feelier Potts, who was holding up a goodly bunch of roses, snapdragons, rose bay, and other homely flowers tied up with some considerable amount of taste, save that the band which held the blossoms against a good background of ribbon grass was a long strip of flannel list, that made the bunch bulky and strange. There was a curious, half-defiant, half-smiling look in the girl's face, as she handed the nosegay, and Hazel hesitated for a moment, and looked severe, for it was as if the flowers were meant as a peace-offering or bribe, to act as a passport in connection with Miss Feelier Potts' evasion on the previous day. Feelier saw the look, and was drawing back the nosegay with her expressive young face full of chagrin, but she brightened directly as her teacher smiled, took the flowers, smelt them, and said-- "How sweet! Thank you, Ophelia. Will you be kind enough to go indoors for me, and ask for a jug of water to place them in?" "Yes, teacher," cried the girl excitedly, and she rushed off, to come back with the jug, into which the flowers, after being relieved of their flannel outer garment, were placed, and then stood upon the corner of the desk, while from time to time that morning Feelier's eyes twinkled as she glanced at the post of honour occupied by her present, and then gazed triumphantly round at her fellow-pupils, whispering every now and then-- "I gave teacher them flowers." Mr Samuel Chute also saw those flowers through the opening between two shutters, and he noted how from time to time Hazel went to her desk and smelt the roses. This fired him with the idea that he must make Hazel the offer of another bouquet himself, and he concluded that, by the way in which those flowers were received, he might tell how his love affairs were likely to prosper. For they did not seem to progress so well as he could wish. Time back he had determined that the last person in the world for him to marry would be a schoolmistress. His idea was to "marry money," as he termed it, a notion highly applauded by Mrs Chute, who gave it as her opinion that her son was a match for any lady in the land. But when the new mistress rose upon the horizon of his view he altered his mind, and concluded not only that he would marry a schoolmistress, but that _the_ schoolmistress he would marry was Hazel Thorne. "You do as you like, Samuel, of course," said Mrs Chute; "but to my mind she's not good enough for you. But you do as you like." Mr Chute made up his mind that he would do as he liked, and among the things he determined to do as he liked about was the giving of a bouquet, only he did not know how to compass it; for flowers of a superior kind were not plentiful at Plumton All Saints, and the only way to obtain anything at all chaste was to apply to Mr Canninge's gardeners at Ardley, or to Mr William Forth Burge's, or the rectory. This was awkward but unavoidable, and, besides, he said to himself. Hazel Thorne would never know whence they came. So Mr Chute made a mental note _re_ flowers, and then went on with his lesson-giving, while Feelier Potts, who was wonderfully quiet and well-behaved, went on dilating about her present and rejoicing in the grand position of donor of flowers to the manager of the school. How quickly passing are our greatest joys. Just as Feelier was confiding to a girl in the second class, now seated back to back, that she gave teacher them flowers, there was a loud dab at the panel of the door, and directly after a rattling of the latch, as a fierce-looking woman walked straight in, exclaiming loudly-- "Where's my gal? I want that gal of mine." Feelier Potts saw the stout fierce-looking woman, whose aspect indicated that she had been washing, enter the schoolroom, and knew perfectly well who she was and what she wanted, but Feelier sat perfectly still, and ready to disown all relationship, probably from a faint hope that she might rest unseen; but it was not to be, for, as the stout woman raised her voice and exclaimed again, "Where's my gal?" fat Ann Straggalls, with the most amiable of intentions, and prompted by a notable desire to do the best she could to oblige, exclaimed loudly-- "Please, Mrs Potts, Feelier's here. Oh--oh! Please, teacher, Feelier--oh my! oh!" Ann Straggalls was howling loudly, for, just as she finished her announcement of Feelier's whereabouts, that young lady threw out one youthful leg, and delivered a sharp kick on Ann Straggalls' shin, the kick being the sharper from the fact that the class of boot worn by the Potts family was that known as "stout" and furnished with nails. "What is the matter here?" exclaimed Hazel, hurrying to the spot. "Oh, it's that gal of mine," said Mrs Potts, also hurrying up from another direction. "You just come here, miss." "Please, teacher, Ann Straggalls's been telling tales." "Please, teacher, she ki-ki-kicked me." "You come here, miss," cried Mrs Potts, who had not the slightest veneration in her nature; and she made a grab at her daughter, who avoided it by a backward bound over the form upon which she had been seated, and keeping several girls between her young person and her irate mamma. "Mrs Potts, I presume?" said Hazel. "Yes, my name's Potts, and I'm not ashamed of it neither," said the woman. "I want my gal." "Will you have the goodness to come to the door and speak to me?" said Hazel. "I cannot have the discipline of the school interrupted like this, Mrs Potts." The irate lady was about to make an angry retort, but that word "discipline" was too much for her. Mrs Potts had a husband whose weakness it was to have "bad breakings out" at times. Not varieties of eczema, or any other skin disease, but fits of drunkenness, when he seemed to look upon the various branches of his family as large or small kinds of mats, which it was his duty to beat, and, from his wife downwards, he beat them accordingly whenever they came within his reach. The consequence was, that from time to time he was haled before the magistrates, and cautioned, and even imprisoned, the justices of the peace telling him that as he was so fond of disciplining he must receive wholesome discipline himself, and considerately upon the last occasion giving him a month. Now Mrs Potts objected to marital punishment, but it was short if not sweet, and when it was over Potts went to work. She objected, however, much more to magisterial punishment, because it fell upon her. If Potts was fined, she suffered in the housekeeping money by running short, and if on the other hand he was sent to prison, while he was lying at ease and fed on bread and water, a pleasantly lowering diet for a man of his inflammatory nature, she had to set to work and earn by the hard use of soap, soda, hot water, and much rubbing, the necessary funds to buy food for the youngsters' mouths. Discipline, then, had a very important ring to her ears, and she became amenable directly to the quiet words of authority, following Hazel meekly to the door, going through the process of wiping a pair of very crinkly, water-soaked hands upon her apron the while. "Another time, Mrs Potts, if you will knock at the door, I will come and talk to you, for, as the mother of children, you must know how necessary it is to preserve discipline amongst the young." "Which well I know it, miss; but I'm that aggravated with that limb of a gal, that if I don't take it out of her I shall be ill." "What is the matter, then!" cried Hazel. "Matter, nuss? Why, everything's the matter when that gal's got her own way. Here did I tell her, only this morning, that, as I'd got to stop at the wash-tub all day, she must stay at home and look after the little bairn, and what does she do but take my scissors and cut off every flower there was, and tie 'em up and slip off. I didn't know where she'd gone to, till all of a sudden I thought it might be to school; and here she is. And now I would like to know what she did with them flowers." "Flowers!" said Hazel, as a thought flashed across her mind. "Well, there now, if that ain't them upon your desk, nuss! That's my love-lies-bleeding, and London-tuft, and roses. Oh, just wait till I get hold on her. Did she bring 'em to you, miss?" "Yes, Mrs Potts; she brought me the nosegay. I am very sorry that she should have done such a thing without asking leave." "I ain't got much about the house that's nice to look at," said the woman, gazing wistfully at the flowers; "and she's been and cutten it all away. But only just wait till I get her home." "Don't punish the girl, Mrs Potts," said Hazel quietly. "I think it was from thoughtlessness. Ophelia knew I was fond of flowers, and brought them for me. I will talk to her about it. Indeed I am very sorry that she should do such a thing." "Well, miss, if so be as you're fond o' flowers, and will give her a good talking to, why I won't say no more about it. Ah, you bad gal!" This was accompanied by a threatening gesture from the stout lady's fist, which, however, did not seem to cause Miss Feelier Potts much alarm, that young personage only looking half defiantly at her parent, and as soon as the latter's eyes were removed, indulging herself by making a few derisive gestures. "You will take the flowers back with you, Mrs Potts. I am very sorry." "Which I just won't, miss, so now then," said the woman sharply. "If you like flowers, miss, you shall have 'em; and if you could make a better gal of that Feelier, I'm sure there ain't nothing I wouldn't do for you. And now, as my water's all getting cold, I must be off!" "But you said that you wished Ophelia to come home and help you. I don't like the girls being kept away, but of course it is her duty to help you at a time like this. Ophelia Potts." "Yes, teacher; please I wasn't talking," said Feelier sharply. "Come here." "No, no, miss, you let her 'bide, and when I'm gone just you give her a good talking to." "And you will not punish her, Mrs Potts?" "No, miss, I'll leave it all to you;" and, quite tamed down by the quiet dignity of the young mistress, Mrs Potts returned to her soap and soda, and the little "bairn" that Feelier was to attend enjoyed itself upon the doorstep, off which it fell on an average about once every quarter of an hour, and yelled till it was lifted up by its mother's wet hands, shaken, and bumped down again, when it returned to its former sport with its playthings, which consisted of four pebbles and an old shoe, the former being placed in the latter with solemn care, and shaken out again with steady persistency, the greatest gratification being obtained therefrom. Meanwhile Hazel had an interview with Feelier, who listened attentively to "teacher's" remarks anent the objectionable plan of stealing other people's goods when a present is intended in another direction, all of which Miss Feelier quietly imbibed, and, mentally quoting the words of common use with her brothers, she said, "She'd be blowed if she'd bring teacher any more flowers, so there now!" while on being allowed to go back to her place she solaced herself by giving Ann Straggalls a severe pinch on the arm, and making her utter a loud cry. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. MRS THORNE DISCOURSES. "Ah, my child, when will you grow wise?" said Mrs Thorne one day when Hazel, making an effort to master her weariness, was bustling in and out of the room with an apron on, her dress pinned up, and her sleeves drawn up over her elbows, leaving her white arms bare. "Grow wise, dear! What do you mean?" "Leave off doing work like a charwoman day after day, when you might be riding in your carriage, as I told Mrs Chute only this afternoon." "You told Mrs Chute so this afternoon, mother! Has she been here?" "Of course she has, Hazel," cried Mrs Thorne with asperity. "Do you suppose because I am humbled in my position in life I am going to give up all society? Of course I look upon it as a degradation to have to associate with a woman like Mrs Chute--a very vulgar woman indeed; but if my daughter chooses to place me in such a position as this I must be amiable and kind to my neighbours. She is a very good sort of woman in her way, but I let her know the differences in our position, and--yes, of course I did--told her that my daughter might be riding in her carriage now if she liked, instead of drudging at her school; for I'm sure, though he did not say so, Edward Geringer would have kept a brougham for you at least, if you would only consent, even now, to be his wife. Why, only last week he said--" "Mother, have you heard from Mr Geringer again?" cried Hazel, whose cheeks were crimsoning. "Of course I have, my dear child. Why should I not hear from so old a friend? He said that if you would reconsider your determination he should be very, very glad." "But you did not write back, mother?" "Indeed I did, my dear. Do you suppose I should ever forget that I am a lady? I wrote back to him, telling him that I thought adversity was softening your pride, and that, though I would promise nothing, still, if I were a man, I said, in his position, I should not banish hope." "O mother, mother! how could you write to him like that?" cried Hazel piteously. "Because I thought it to be my duty," said Mrs Thorne with dignity. "Young people do not always know their own minds." Hazel turned away to busy herself over some domestic task, so that her mother should not read the annoyance in her face. "Mrs Chute is a very weak, silly woman, Hazel, and I feel it to be my duty to warn you against her, and--and her son." Hazel could not trust herself to speak, but went on working with her fingers trembling from agitation, and the tears dimming her eyes. "She has been in here a good deal lately during school-hours, and she has got the idea into her head that you have taken a fancy to Mr Samuel Chute." The little milk jug that Hazel was wiping fell to the floor with a crash. "Oh, for goodness' sake, do be more careful, Hazel," cried Mrs Thorne angrily. "There's that broken now, and, what with your breakages and those of the children, it is quite dreadful. Of course she owned that her son was very much attached to you; but that I knew." "You knew that, mother!" said Hazel, who was very pale now; and any one but the weak woman who was speaking would have understood the conflict between anger, shame, and duty going on in her breast. "Of course I did, my dear. Do you suppose I do not know what men are, or that I am blind, I have not reached my years without being able to read men like a book," she continued with complacency. "I have seen Master Chute's looks and ways, and poppings into the girls' school; but as soon as his mother spoke I let her know that she need not expect anything of that sort, for I told her that my daughter would look far higher than to a national schoolmaster for her husband." Hazel felt that she must rush out of the room and go upstairs to give free vent to the sobs that were struggling for exit, but making an effort to master the mortification from which she suffered, she stayed and listened as her mother prattled on with a quiet assumption of dignity. "No, `my dear Mrs Chute,' I said--and I must give the poor woman credit for receiving my quiet reproof with due submission and a proper sense of respect for me--`no, my dear Mrs Chute,' I said, `you have been very kind to me, and my child is most grateful to your son for his attentions and the help he has been to her in giving her hints about the school and the children. Friends we may continue, but your son must never think of anything more. He must,' I told her, `see for himself that a young lady of my daughter's position and personal attractions might look anywhere for a husband, and that already there were several who, even if they had not spoken, evidently were upon the point of doing so. Mr William Forth Burge was certainly very much taken by your ladylike manner; and that I had noticed several peculiar little advances made by the vicar; while a little bird told me that there were more impossible things than that Mr George Canninge might propose for your hand.' I would not stoop to mention what I had seen in several of the tradespeople here, but either of those three would be an eligible match for my daughter, and therefore I said, `Mr Samuel Chute must, as a man full of common-sense, largely increased by education'--I said that, Hazel, as a stroke of diplomacy to soften the blow--`Mr Samuel Chute must see that such an alliance as he was ready to propose would be impossible.' "It is a great responsibility, a family," said Mrs Thorne, lying back in her chair and gazing meditatively at her fingertips. "Percy is a great anxiety--he is always wanting money, and I am only too glad to keep on good terms with Mr Geringer, who really does keep the boy somewhat in order. Though certainly, Hazel, you might do worse than marry Edward Geringer. Perhaps he would be wiser if he married me," she said with a simper; "but of course middle-aged men prefer young girls. Yes, Hazel, you might do worse than many Edward Geringer. He is not young; in fact, he is growing elderly. But he would leave you all his money; and a handsome young widow with a nice fortune and no incumbrances can marry again as soon as she pleases. "Ah, dear me! dear me!" she went on with a sigh, "what a different fate mine might have been if you had not been so squeamish, Hazel, and I had had better health! But there, I will not murmur and repine. I have only one thought, and that is to see my children happy. By the way, it is of no use for you to make any opposition: those two girls must have new frocks and hats--I am quite ashamed to see them go out--and Percy wants five pounds. What in the world he can want five pounds for, I'm sure I don't know; but he says I cannot understand a young fellow's wants in a busy place like London. I've had--let me see--five and seven are twelve, and five are seventeen, and ten are twenty-seven, and ten are thirty-seven--thirty-seven pounds of Edward Geringer on purpose for that boy, and I hardly like to ask him for more. Percy is a very great anxiety to me, Hazel; and if Mr George Canninge should take it into his head to propose for you, my dear, he could so easily place your brother in some good post. He might make him his private secretary, and give him charge of his estates. Who knows? And--Bless the child, what is the matter?" Matter enough: Hazel had sunk in a chair by the little side-table, her face bowed down into her hands, and she was weeping bitterly for her shame and degradation, as she silently sobbed forth an appeal to Heaven to give her strength to bear the troubles that seemed to grow thicker day by day. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE VICAR IS SYMPATHETIC. Faint, pale, and utterly prostrate after a long and wearisome day in the school, heartsick at finding how vain her efforts were in spite of everything she could do to keep the attention of her pupils, Hazel Thorne gladly closed her desk, and left the great blank room, where three of the girls were beginning to sprinkle and sweep so as to have the place tidy for the following day. The air had been hot and oppressive, and a great longing had come over the fainting mistress for that homely restorative, a cup of tea; but in spite of herself, a feeling of bitterness would creep in, reminding her that no such comfort would be ready for her, leaving her at liberty to enjoy it restfully and then go and take a pleasant walk somewhere in the fields. For she knew that the probabilities were that she would find the little fire out, and the dinner-things placed untidily upon the dresser, awaiting her busy hands to put away, after she had lit the fire and prepared the evening meal. There would be no opportunity for walking; the household drudgery would take up her time till she was glad to go to bed and prepare herself for the tasks of another day. To make matters worse, Mrs Thorne would keep up a doleful dirge of repining. "Ah, Hazel!" she would say, "it cuts me to the heart to see you compelled to go through all this degrading toil--a miserable cottage, no servant, and work--work--work like that dreadful poor woman who sewed herself to death in a bare garret. Oh, I'd give anything to be able to help you; but I'm past all that." "I don't mind it a bit, dear," Hazel would cry cheerfully, "I like to be busy;" and if ever the thought crossed her mind that her mother might at least have kept the little house tidy, and the children from mischief, or even have taught them to perform a few domestic offices for the benefit of all concerned, she crushed it down. All the same her life was one of slavery, and needed no embittering by her mother's reproaches and plaints. Of late she had grown very cold and reserved, feeling that only by such conduct could she escape the criticism of the many watchful eyes by which she was environed. There was very little vanity in her composition, but she could not help realising the truth of her mother's remarks, and this induced her to walk as circumspectly as she possibly could. Turning languidly, then, from the school on this particular afternoon, she was about to enter her own gate, when she became aware of the presence of Mr Chute who hurried up with-- "You haven't given me your pence to change for you lately. Miss Thorne. I haven't offended you, have I?" "Offended me, Mr Chute? Oh no," she replied. "I will count them up to-morrow, and send in the bag to your school." "Oh, no; don't do that," he said hastily. "Girls are honest enough, I dare say, but you shouldn't put temptation in their way. I'll come in and fetch them. I say, what a lovely afternoon it is!" "Yes, lovely indeed!" replied Hazel, "but the weather seems tiring." "Oh, no, it ain't," he said sharply. "That's because you're not well." "I'm afraid I'm not very well," said Hazel; "I so soon get tired now." "Of course you do. That's because you don't go out enough. You ought to have a good walk every day." "Yes; I believe I ought," replied Hazel. "It's going to be a lovely evening," said Mr Chute. "Is it?" said Hazel wearily. "Yes, that it is. I say--it's to do you good, you know--come and have a nice walk to-night." "Come--and have a walk!" said Hazel wonderingly. "Yes," he said excitedly, for he had been screwing himself up to this for days; "come and let's have a walk together. I--that is--you know-- I--'pon my soul, Miss Hazel, I can't hardly say what I mean, but I'm very miserable about you, and if you'd go for a walk along with me to-night, it would do me no end of good." "Mr Chute, I could not. It is impossible," cried Hazel quickly. "Oh no; it ain't impossible," he said quickly; "it's because you're so particular you won't. Look here, then--but don't go." "I must go, Mr Chute; I am tired, and I cannot stay to talk." "Look here: will you go for a walk to-night, if I take mother too!" Hazel had hard work to repress a shudder as she shook her head. "It is very kind of you," she said quietly; "but I cannot go. Good afternoon, Mr Chute." "You're going in like that because you can see Lambent coming," he said in a loud voice, and with his whole manner changing; "but don't you get setting your cap at him, for you shan't have him. I'd hang first; and, look here, you've put me up now--haven't I been ever since you came all that is patient and attentive?" "You have been very kind to me, Mr Chute," said Hazel, standing her ground now, and determined that he should not see her hurry in because the vicar was coming down the street. "Yes, I've been very kind, and you've done nothing but trifle and play with me ever since you saw how I loved you." "Mr Chute, you know this is not the truth!" cried Hazel indignantly. "I have tried to behave to you in accordance with my position as your fellow-teacher." "Then you haven't, that's all," he cried fiercely. "But you don't know me yet. I'm not one to be trifled with, and there ain't time to say more now, only this--you've led me on and made me love you, and have you I will--there now! Don't you think you're going to hook Lambent, or Canninge, or old Burge; because you won't. It's friends or enemies here, so I tell you, and I'll watch you from this day, so that you shan't stir a step without my knowing it. I'm near enough," he added with a sneer, "and when I'm off duty I'll put mother on.--Oh, I say, Hazel, I _am_ sorry I spoke like that." "Good-day. Miss Thorne," said the vicar, coming slowly up with a disturbed look in his face. "Good-day, Mr Chute." "'Day, sir," said Chute, standing his ground, while the vicar waited for him to go. "You need not wait, Mr Chute," said the vicar at last; and the schoolmaster's eyes flashed, and he was about to make an angry retort; but there was something in the cold, stern gaze of the clergyman that was too much for him, and, grinding his teeth together, he turned upon his heel and walked away. "Mr Chute is disposed to be rude, Miss Thorne," said the vicar with a grave smile, as he laid his gloved hand upon the oak fence and seemed to be deeply interested in the way in which the grain carved round one knot. "I beg that you will not think me impertinent, but I take a great interest in your welfare. Miss Thorne." "I do not think you impertinent, sir," she replied; "and I have to thank you for much kindness and consideration." "Then I may say a few words to you," he said gravely; and there was an intensity in his manner that alarmed her. "I beg--I must ask"--she began. "A few words as a friend. Miss Thorne," he said in a low, deep voice, and the grain of the oak paling seemed to attract him more than ever, for, save giving her a quick glance now and then, he did not look at her. "You are very young. Miss Thorne, and yours is a responsible position. It is my duty, as the head of this parish, to watch over the schools and those who have them in charge. In short," he continued, changing from his slow, hesitating way, "I feel bound to tell you that I could not help noticing Mr Chute's very marked attentions to you." "Mr Lambent," began Hazel imploringly. "Pray hear me out," he said. "I feel it my duty to speak, and to ask you if it is wise of you--if it is your wish--to encourage these attentions? It is quite natural, I know--I do not blame you; but--but after that which I saw as I came up, I should be grateful, Miss Thorne, if you would speak to me candidly." Hazel longed to turn and flee, but she was driven to bay, and, after a few moments' pause to command her voice, she said firmly-- "Mr Chute's attentions to me, sir, have been, I own, very marked, and have given me much anxiety." "Have given you much anxiety?" he said softly, as if to himself. "When you came up, Mr Chute had been making certain proposals to me, which, as kindly as I could, I had declined. Mr Lambent," she added hastily, "you said just now that I was very young. I am, and this avowal is very painful to me. Will you excuse me if I go in now?" He raised his eyes to hers at this, and she saw his pale handsome face light up; and then she trembled at the look of joy that darted from his eyes, as, drawing himself up in his old, stiff way, he raised his hat and saluted her gravely, drawing back and opening the gate to allow her to go in, parting from her then without another word. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. A SURPRISE. Hazel's first impulse was to hurry up to her room, but to her astonishment, she became aware of the fact that her mother had been watching both interviews, by her manner, for she was standing inside the room door, and throwing her arms round her daughter she kissed her on both cheeks. There was another surprise for Hazel though, for a loud voice exclaimed-- "Oh, I say, Hazel, ar'n't you going it? I shall tell Geringer you're going to marry the parson." "Percy! You here!" she cried, completely ignoring his words. "Looks like it, don't it? I say, how jolly white you've got." "Have you asked for a holiday, Percy!" she said, responding to his caress, and noting at the same time how tall and manly he was growing, for he was passing from the tall, thin boy into the big, bony, ill-shaped young man, with a hoarse voice and a faint trace of down upon his lip and chin. At the same time she noted a peculiarly fast, flashy style of dress that he had adopted, his trousers fitting tightly to his legs, his hair being cut short, and his throat wrapped in a common, showy-looking tie, fastened with a horseshoe pin. "Have I asked for a what?" he said, changing countenance a little--"a holiday? Well, yes, I suppose I have--a long one. Eh, ma?" He looked at Mrs Thorne as if asking for help, and she responded at once. "I wouldn't let Percy come into the school, my dear, but let him wait till you came out," she said. "The fact is, Hazel, my dear, the poor boy has been so put upon and ill-used at the place where he consented to act as clerk, that at last, in spite of his earnest desire to stay there for both our sakes, my dear--I think I am expressing your feelings, Percy?" "Right as the mail!" he replied quickly. "He felt that as a gentleman he could submit no longer, and so he has left and come down." "Left and come down?" said Hazel mechanically, as she thought of the narrowness of her present income, and the impracticability of making it feed another hearty appetite as well as those at home. "Yes; they were such a set of cads, you know," said Percy, sticking a cheap glass in one eye and holding it there by the brow. "Regular set of cads, from the foreman down to the lowest clerk." "Did you have a quarrel with your employer, Percy?" said Hazel gravely. "I don't know what you mean by having a quarrel with my employer, Hazel," replied the boy. "I told him that he was a confounded cad, and that I wouldn't stand any more of his nonsense." "What had you been doing, Percy?" "Doing?--doing? Why, nothing at all. It was impossible to get on with such a set of cads." "There must have been some reason for the quarrel," said Hazel. "Really, my dear, this is very foolish of you," cried Mrs Thorne quickly. "You do not understand these things. For my part, I think Percy has done quite right. It was bad enough for the poor boy to have to submit to the degradation of going to work, without putting up with the insults of a--of a--a--" "Set of cads, ma," said the lad. "Yes, my boy--cads," said Mrs Thorne, getting rid of the word with no little show of distaste. "I think, mamma, that out of respect to Mr Geringer, who has been so kind to us, you ought to write to Percy's employer." "Haven't got an employer now, so you can't write to him," said the boy sharply. "Nice sort of a welcome, this, from one's own sister. If I'd known it was coming to this, I'd have jolly soon gone down Charles Street." "Charles Street! Oh, my dear Percy, pray, pray don't think of going there!" cried Mrs Thorne. "What is going down Charles Street?" "Going to enlist, mamma--taking the shilling." "Oh, my boy!--oh, Percy!" "Well, what's the good of coming down here to have your own sister turn dead against you, like the confounded cads at the office." "I do not turn against you, Percy," said Hazel; "but I cannot help thinking there is something wrong." "That's right; go it. Nice opinion you've got of your brother. Something wrong, indeed! Why, what do you suppose is wrong?" "For shame, Hazel! How dare you!" cried Mrs Thorne. "It is cruel to him, and an insult to me. Why do you think such things of your poor orphaned brother? If your father had been alive, you would never have dared to speak so harshly. Oh, Hazel, Hazel, you make my life a burden to me, indeed, indeed." "My dear mother, those words are uncalled for. I only asked Percy for some explanation of his conduct. We have had no warning of this; not one of his letters has hinted at the possibility of his leaving his situation; but we do know that he has been extravagant." "Go it," cried Percy sulkily; and he began to rummage in his pockets. "Really, Hazel, I think he has managed on very little," said Mrs Thorne indignantly. "I differ from you, mother; for I had hoped that my brother would have striven to help us, and not found himself compelled to drain our resources more and more." "Look here," cried Percy, "I sha'n't stand this. There's plenty more posts to be obtained, I dare say, and then I shall be a burden to no one." "Don't talk like that, my dear," cried Mrs Thorne. "Hazel is only a little tired and cross, and she'll be as different as can be, when she has had her meal. There, I won't be angry with you, my dear; sit down and have some tea. Poor Percy was nearly starved, and I got some ready for him myself. I was afraid you would not like to be called out of the school." Hazel glanced at the little table where the remains of the tea were standing, with empty egg-shells, a fragment of bacon, the dirty cups, and a large array of crumbs. "I made him a good cup, poor fellow! he was so worn out; so if you fill up the pot, my dear, I dare say you'll find it all right." This was the first time that Mrs Thorne had attempted to prepare the tea, and when she had performed her task it was in an untidy way. Now that the meal was over, everything looked wretchedly untempting to a weary person seeking to be refreshed. Hazel looked at Percy, but he avoided her eye, and sitting down with his back to her, he began to fill a little cutty pipe from an indiarubber pouch. "My dear Percy, what are you about?" cried Mrs Thorne. "Only going to have a pipe," he said, striking a vesuvian and holding it to the bowl; "a fellow can't get on without his weed." Hazel's eyes flashed as she saw the thick puffs of smoke emitted from her brother's lips, but she did not speak; she waited for her mother, whose forehead looked troubled, but who made no remark. "If I speak now," thought Hazel, "it will only make more unpleasantness." So she filled up the teapot which was half full of leaves, and then sat down to her comfortless meal. Finding that she was silent, Percy took it that she had repented, so he assumed the offensive as he sat and smoked, showing himself an adept at the practice, and soon half-filling the little room with the pungent vapour. "Precious mean little place this for you to have to live in, mamma," he said contemptuously. "Yes, it is, my boy, and I feel it very deeply," said Mrs Thorne in a lachrymose tone. "Ah, just you wait a bit," he said. "I've left that old office, but don't you be afraid. A fellow I know has put me up to a few things, and perhaps I shall astonish you one of these days." "You mean you will get on well, my dear?" "That's it. Only you wait. There's plenty of money to be picked up by any one with _nous_. Ten times as much as any one can get by keeping his nose to a desk and trying to please a set of cads." "Yes, dear, I suppose so." "Some people have no more spirit than a fly," continued Percy. "Fancy a girl like our Hazel settling down in a bit of a hut like this, when she might have been the making of us all." "Ah, yes, my dear," sighed Mrs Thorne, "that is what I often tell your sister, who might, if she had liked, have married--" "My dear mother, will you kindly discuss that with Percy when I am not here!" "Oh, of course, if you wish it, Hazel," cried Mrs Thorne. "I am not mistress here, Percy. This is Hazel's home, where I and your poor little sisters are allowed to live on sufferance and--" _Sob_--_sob_--_sob_. "Oh, I say, Hazy, it's too bad," cried Percy. "You know how weak and ill poor mamma has been, and yet you treat her like this." "Yes, my boy; I'm a mere nonentity now, and the sooner I am dead and put beneath the sod the better. I'm only a useless burden to my children now." "Don't talk like that, ma dear," cried the lad. "You only wait a bit, and as soon as I've got my plans in order I'll make you a regular jolly home." "That you will, I know, my dear boy," cried Mrs Thorne; "and I hope you will try hard to do something to redeem our lost position." "What are your plans, Percy?" said Hazel suddenly. "Oh, nothing that you could understand," he said haughtily. "I don't wonder at poor ma being miserable, if you treat her as you are treating me!" "Percy," said Hazel gently, "only a few months ago you had no secrets from me, and we planned together how we would work and make mamma a happy home." "And nicely you've done it," cried the lad ungraciously. "You declared, upon your honour as a gentleman, that you would never turn from me, but that you would strive to take poor papa's place, and be a help and protector to your mother and sisters. I ask you, how are you keeping your word?" Percy fidgeted about in his chair, glanced at his mother, and then began playing with his pipe. "If you have made some grievous mistake, dear, tell us at once, so that we may join with you in trying to repair it; but do not weakly take umbrage at my asking you rather searchingly what you have been doing." "I don't know what you mean," said the boy sulkily. "Tell me exactly how you came to leave your office?" "I did tell you. A set of cads!" "Then I shall write to Mr Geringer, and ask him to send me the full particulars. Perhaps we can make peace for you so that you can go back." "Go back, Hazy?" "Yes: go back. I do not wish to seem unkind, Percy, but you will not be able to stop here." "And why not, pray?" cried the lad defiantly. "There is one reason why not," said Hazel, pointing to the pipe. "You ought not to have lit that here, Percy. This is not my house, but the cottage attached to the school, in which, while I teach the children, I am allowed to live." "Now you're beginning about my bit of tobacco," cried the lad. "You're as bad as old Geringer!" "Really, Hazel, you are in a very, very cruel frame of mind to-night," said Mrs Thorne, whimpering; "but never mind, my boy, you shall share my home as long as your poor mamma has one. Perhaps Hazel will give us a refuge here to-night--to-morrow we will seek one elsewhere." "You will do no such foolish thing, mamma," said Hazel with spirit; "and as for you, Percy, I insist upon knowing the whole truth." The boy flushed and threw up his head defiantly; but Hazel rose from her place, crossed to him, and laid her hands upon his shoulders. Then, bending down, she kissed him, and stood by him with her arm round his neck. "Tell me everything, dear," she said; "it is your sister who asks." For answer Percy dashed his pipe beneath the grate, laid his arms upon the table, his head went down, and he began to cry like a great girl. "Oh, Hazel, Hazel, what have you done?" cried Mrs Thorne. "Percy, Percy, my boy, come here." "Hush, mother!" said Hazel sternly; and, kneeling down, she drew the boy's unresisting head upon her shoulder, and held it there, smoothing his hair the while. "Oh, Hazy, Hazy," he sobbed at last. "I'm a beast--a brute--a wretch; and I wish I was dead." "There--there! Hazel, see what you have done!" cried Mrs Thorne angrily. "Oh, my boy, my boy! Come here to me, Percy; I will stand by you whatever comes." But Percy seemed to be quite satisfied to stay where he was, for he made no movement beyond that of yielding himself more and more to his sister's embrace. "Hush, dear!" she said tenderly. "If you have done wrong, be frank and outspoken. Let us hear the truth." For answer, the lad, approaching manhood in stature, but with his child-nature still greatly in the ascendant, wept more bitterly; but at last, perfectly heedless of his mother's plaints and appeals, he raised his head, wiped his eyes, and, flinging his arms round his sister, kissed her passionately again and again. "There; now you will tell us all, Percy," said Hazel, responding to his caresses. "You'll turn your back on me if I do," he groaned. "Is it likely that I should, Percy! There, speak out frankly--is it something about money!" "Yes," said the lad, hanging his head. "You have been getting in debt!" "Well, not much. Hazy--not more than I could soon pay off," said the boy, looking timidly in her face, and then shrinking from her searching eyes. "There is something more?" "Ye-es," he faltered; and then, desperately, after a few moments' hesitation, "It was all Tom Short's fault." "Who is Tom Short?" asked Hazel. "A fellow in our office. He won seventy pounds by putting money on horses, and it seemed so easy; and I thought it would be so nice to get some money together so as to be able to help poor mamma." "There, Hazel, you hear!" cried Mrs Thorne triumphantly. "And so you began betting on horse-races, Percy--a habit poor papa used to say was one of the greatest follies under the sun." "Well, no, dear, it wasn't exactly betting, but going to a bookmaker and putting money on any horse you chose. He did the betting. You only give him your money and wait." "Till you know it is lost, Percy!" "Well, yes; it was so with me, because I was so terribly unlucky. Some fellows win no end that way." "And you have always lost, Percy?" "Yes, Hazy; and it does lead you on so," he cried earnestly, "you lose, and then you think your luck must turn, and you try again, because one winning means making up for no end of losses." "Yes, I suppose so," said Hazel sadly. "And so I kept on and kept on, trying so hard; but the luck hasn't turned yet. I'm sure it would, though, if I had been able to keep on." "That is what all gamblers think, Percy." "Don't call me a gambler, Hazel, because I'm not that." "And that is where the money went that poor mamma borrowed for you, Percy?" "Yes," he said despondently; "but I mean to get it all back again some day, and to pay it, and interest too." "That is quite right, Percy; but not by betting." "I don't see why not," he said. "Other fellows do." "Let them," replied Hazel; "but it is not a course to be followed by my brother. Tell me, did your employers find out that you were engaged in betting?" "Ye-es," faltered Percy; "and it was all through that sneak, Tom Short." "And they dismissed you?" "Well, I think I dismissed myself; I resigned, you know." "Call things by their right names, Percy. Well, I am glad you have told us. We will say no more now. But to-morrow we must begin to take steps to get you another engagement." "But look here, Hazel," cried the lad, "if you and mamma could knock together twenty pounds for me to start with, I feel as sure as sure that I could make no end by putting it on horses at some of the big races. You've no idea what a pot of money some fellows handle that way. Ah, you may smile, but you are only a girl, and very ignorant of such things. You wouldn't laugh if I was to turn twenty pounds into a thousand." "No, Percy, I should not laugh if you turned twenty pounds into a thousand," said Hazel. "But there, we will say no more now; only promise me this,--that you will not smoke again in this cottage, nor yet make any more bets." "Yes, I'll promise," said the boy sulkily. "I suppose I must." "I'm sure no one could have behaved better than Percy has, my dear," said Mrs Thorne. "He has been perfectly open and frank. All that you can find against him is that he has been unlucky. Poor boy! If your father had been alive!" Here Mrs Thorne entered into the performance of a prose dirge upon her sufferings, and the cruelty of fate--of what would have happened if Mr Thorne had lived, and finished up during a _resume_ of her prospects when she was Hazel's age by finding that Percy had gone fast asleep, Hazel being upstairs, making arrangements for the accommodation of this addition to their family, a task of no small difficulty to people with their limited means. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FACTS. Several things interfered with Hazel's obtaining a good night's rest. She had given up her bedroom to Percy, and the little sofa was cramped and hard. But had she been in the most luxurious of beds, Hazel Thorne would not have slept well, for she was haunted by the angry, vindictive look of Mr Samuel Chute, and troubled by his threats. Next there was the shame and mortification of knowing that her mother's weak words had gone home, and were being used against her. Then the quiet deference of the vicar and his peculiar way made her uneasy as she went over and over her interview with him, and recalled the smallest matters of his reference to Mr Chute. Lastly there was Percy's sudden arrival, and the battle she found herself having with the idea that, in spite of his apparent frankness, the boy had not told her all. At last, towards morning, she dropped into an uneasy sleep, in which she dreamed that Mr William Forth Burge had told her he loved her, and that he would provide for Percy and make her mother a comfortable home, if she would be his wife. In her trouble she awoke suddenly, to find that it was morning; and, unwilling to tempt sleep again, she rose, dressed, and prepared the kitchen and sitting-room for the breakfast before going upstairs and softly awakening the two little girls, who, under her tuition, had become adepts at dressing each other in turns. Whispering to them to be silent and not awaken their mother, Hazel stole down again, and went to the door to glance up the street, for it was nearly half-past seven, and she had a strange fancy that a letter would arrive that morning. Sure enough, before another ten minutes had passed away she saw the postman coming down the last row of houses towards the schools, and she was about to hurry out and meet him, when, through the wire window-blind, she caught sight of Mr Chute, who stepped out and received a letter from the postman, with whom he at once entered into conversation. Hazel, from where she stood, could see everything that passed, and that Chute stretched out his hand to take a large blue envelope from the postman's hand; but this the rustic official refused to allow. He, however, permitted the schoolmaster to peruse the address, and that of another letter, before going on with his delivery. Hazel felt that he was coming there, and she opened the door in time to stop his heavy thump. "Two letters, miss--big 'un and little 'un," he said, thrusting the missives into her hand. The next moment Hazel was reading the directions, both of which were to her mother. One was from Mr Geringer--she knew his hand well. The other, the large blue envelope, was probably from Percy's employer. She had expected that letter; and, yes, there were the names on the back, stamped in blue letters in an oval, "Suthers, Rubley, and Spark." Hazel stood hesitating as to what course she should pursue. She held in her hands, she knew, the explanation of Percy's return home. If the letters contained painful revelations her mother would suffer terribly. Ought she to let her see the news without reading it first? Of late all the correspondence had fallen to her share, and Mrs Thorne, when a letter had arrived, had been in the habit of saying, "Open that, Hazel, and see what it is." She hesitated a few minutes, and then opened the blue envelope. The letter was short and stern in its diction, saying that knowing Mrs Thorne to be a lady of good family, and one who had suffered much trouble, the firm had felt it to be their duty to write to her before taking further proceedings with respect to her son, who had, they regretted to say, abused the confidence placed in him, and been guilty of embezzlement, to what amount they were not prepared to state. Hazel stood with her brow wrinkled, gazing straight before her for some minutes before, with a weary sigh, she opened the second letter--Mr Geringer's--which endorsed the information contained in the first, and finished as follows:-- "It is very terrible, my dear Mrs Thorne; and, for my poor friend's sake, I deeply regret that his son should so soon have shown a disposition to go wrong. It comes the harder on me because I was the cause of his going to these people, who took him entirely upon my recommendation. I regret your position, of course, and beg to assure you of my deep sympathy. Had we been related by marriage, I should have felt it my duty to see the lad through his difficulty, the result, I find, of folly, he having entered upon a course of betting upon horses. As it is, you must excuse me for saying that my credit will not allow of my having my name mixed up with the transaction." He remained, as a matter of course, Mrs Thorne's very sincere and attached friend; but, all the same, he had given Hazel a severe stab in the course of the letter, which again placed her conduct in an unsatisfactory light. Was she always to be accused of standing in the way of her mother's and brother's prospects? And as she asked herself that question, quietly folding the letters the while, she could not help seeing Mr Geringer's selfishness showing through all. But what was to be done? The people evidently meant to prosecute Percy, and at any moment he might be taken into custody. She knew enough of the law to see that he was in a very perilous position, and if her mother knew, she trembled for the consequences. "I am glad I opened the letters," she thought; "but now I know, what shall I do?" A host of ideas passed through her brain, for the most part wild, impossible notions, that could not be carried out. Percy must escape--go away somewhere; but how, and to what place? This was unanswerable; and besides, she knew that sooner or later, the police, if in search, would be sure to find him. No; he must stop and face it out--it would be the most honourable proceeding. But she wanted help--she wanted some one to cling to in this hour of difficulty; and to all intents and purposes she was alone, for it was impossible to ask her mother's aid and guidance at a time like this. What should she do? Mr Geringer? No; his letter showed how her refusal rankled in his breast, and if she appealed to him he might wish to make some bargain with her to act as a payment. Mr Lambent? No; she could not ask him. He was most kind, but she shrank from appealing to him. She dared hardly think of him, and dismissed him at once; for, set aside the exposure and the lowering of her position in his eyes, he frightened her. And then there were his sisters, who would be sure to know. Archibald Grave's father? No; she dared not appeal to him. And when she began to run over the list of her relatives, there did not seem one likely to take a step to help her in this terrible strait--help her, for everything seemed to fall upon her shoulders. "What shall I do? Whom shall I ask?" she said half aloud; and, as half prayerfully she asked the question, there rose up before her the round, simple, honest face of Mr William Forth Burge, smiling at her as was his wont and seeming to invite her to ask his help. "Oh no; it is impossible," she said half aloud, as Mr Chute's words of the previous evening came back to her mind. "I could not ask him. What would he say?" But all the same, she could not help thinking of his amiability, the interest he had taken in her and hers, and that even if she dared not herself ask him, there was a mediator in the person of Miss Burge, who, gentle, amiable little body that she was, would readily espouse her cause. "But what are they to me? It would not be right to ask them. I dare not--I cannot do it." Just then the two children came dancing down to leap up at her and kiss her, making her sorry for their sakes that her face wore so dismal a look. But it did not trouble them. It was, "How long will breakfast be, sis?" and then they were off out to look at their little gardens, to see how much the plants and seeds had progressed during the night. Hazel went through another phase of troublous thought while the children were in the garden, and the kettle was singing its homely song; and as she thought she stood waiting to make the tea so as to carry up Mrs Thorne's cup, which was always partaken of before that lady attempted to rise in the morning. Just as the tea was made there was a step on the stairs and, looking very sleepy and red-eyed, Percy came into the kitchen. "Morning, Hazel," he said rather sheepishly, as he looked at her in a half-penitent curious way; but he made no offer to kiss her, nor she him. "I say, what time does the post come in here?" "The post Percy?" said Hazel quietly, as she went on preparing Mrs Thorne's tea. "Do you expect a letter?" "Yes," he said. "I'll go out and meet the postman, and see what the place is like. Letters'll be here soon, I suppose?" "Not till to-morrow morning," said Hazel, watching his changing countenance. "Not till to-morrow morning!" he cried wonderingly. "No; there is only one delivery here a day. The postman has been." Percy was taken aback, and he stood staring, unable to find words and to meet his sister's stern, angry look. "Percy," she said at last, "are you trying to be a man?" "Of course I am," he said quickly. "Every fellow at my time of life tries to be one." "Would it not have been more manly, then, when I invited your confidence last night, if you had told me frankly the whole truth?" Percy's jaw dropped and he stood gazing at her with a vacant, pitiful expression. "Then a letter has come this morning," he said. "Two letters have come this morning," she replied, "and I know everything. Stop! What are you going to do?" "Cut," he said sulkily. "It is of no use to stay here." "Do you think the police would not find you if you went away?" "Police!" he cried, turning pale. "Yes. Your employers warned us in the letter that they had not settled yet what they should do since--since--oh, heavens! is it true?--they found out that my brother was a thief." "No, no--not a thief, Hazy! 'Pon my soul, I only borrowed the money. I meant to pay back every shilling. I made sure that I should win, and I never meant to steal." "You committed theft of the worst kind, Percy. A common thief breaks in and steals; he has not been trusted with that which he takes. You had been; and you not only broke your trust but stooped to the basest ingratitude as well." "Yes, I know, Hazy," he cried hoarsely, and with his lips white; "but tell me, does my mother know? Oh, for pity's sake, don't tell poor ma!" "Do you think it will pain her more than this discovery has pained me?" "Is that why she isn't down? Has it made her ill? I meant to have been first and got the letters; but I was so dog-tired last night I overslept myself. I say, Hazel, does she know?" "She does not know yet; but she must know." "No, no! pray don't tell her! You mustn't--you shan't tell her!" he cried. "It would only be making bad worse." "And how am I to account for your absence when you are fetched away?" "I say, Hazel, is it so bad as that?" he cried piteously. "Yes; I am afraid so. There is no knowing what steps your late employers may take." "Set of beastly cads!" muttered Percy. "For objecting to their clerk's dishonesty! Shame on you, if you have any shame left." "And now you turn against me, Hazy!" cried the lad. "I did think last night that you were sorry for me and meant to help me." "I am sorry for you,--sorry that you could have disgraced yourself and us to this terrible extent I feel it bitterly that you should have kept back what you did last night; but that cannot be changed now, and--" "Isn't breakfast ready?" cried Cissy, coming to the door. "We are so hungry." "Yes, dears, come in," cried Hazel cheerfully. And the little party, after Mrs Thorne had been diligently attended to, sat down to the homely breakfast, Percy making a pretence of being too much troubled to taste anything, but ending by eating with all the heartiness of a growing lad; while it was Hazel who just managed one scrap of bread and a cup of tea, as she sat thinking of what proceedings she had better take. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. ANN STRAGGALLS TURNS MESSENGER. It was soon school-time, and leaving her brother, who needed no instructions to send for her should any one call, Hazel Thorne hurried to her duties, read prayers with wandering mind, and then, fully resolved upon what course to pursue, she started the children at their various lessons, and at last, in the midst of the noisy buzz, went to her desk and, quite in a fit of desperation, wrote to Mr William Forth Burge, simply saying that she was in great trouble, and would he as a friend come and give her his help and counsel? As soon as she had finished and folded the letter she began to hesitate, asking herself whether she ought not first to have written to Miss Burge; but she came to the conclusion that she had done right and picking out the most trustworthy girl she could think of at the time, she bade her take the letter up to Mr Burge's house. Hazel Thorne was excited enough during all these proceedings but her excitement would have increased had she been aware of the fact that one of the partition shutters was slightly lowered, and from this point of vantage Mr Samuel Chute was from time to time inspecting her every act. For Mr Chute was a good deal exercised in his spirit. "If it isn't to be friends it shall be enemies," he said; and he not only set himself to watch, but told his mother--to use his own words--to have an eye on the next-door people, a commission which Mrs Chute seized upon with avidity, it being one greatly to her taste. Samuel Chute, then, knew of Percy Thorne's coming before Hazel, and also who the tall, overgrown lad was. He knew of the arrival of the business letters that morning, and after due debate in his own mind, he came to the conclusion that there was something wrong. "They won't get over me in a hurry," he muttered; and taking it that there was a conspiracy of some kind afloat, he went quite early into the school and lowered the shutter, ready to keep a watch upon Hazel's movements, and to be ready--he only knew why--with movements of his own. So it was there that he saw Hazel looked agitated and ill at ease, and also saw her write a letter and call up one of the girls, fat Ann Straggalls--the slow, innocent and sure--being selected for the task. Mr Chute thrust his hands through his hair and made it stick up fiercely as he left his desk, frowned all round the room, said "Sh! sh!" in several classes, and then walked quickly to the door, turned and gave a glance round to find every eye in the school directed at him, and then stepped out into the front just in time to find Ann Straggalls engaged in a struggle with Hazel's missive, which refused to be tucked down into the bosom of the stout young maiden's dress, consequent upon the tightness of certain strings. "Here! Hi! Straggalls!" cried Chute, and the girl crawled shrinkingly to him in the same way as the boys would have turned, a sharp, quick call from Mr Chute always suggesting impending punishment to the youthful mind. "How is it you are not in school, Ann Straggalls?" said the schoolmaster importantly. "Plee, sir, teacher, sir, sent me with this letter, sir. I've got to take it, sir." "What letter, Straggalls?" "This letter, sir," said the girl, holding out the crumpled missive. "Letter? Ah, a letter for you to take, eh?" he said, after a glance at the direction; and his teeth gritted together as he thought that Hazel had never written to him. He would have detained the missive, but he dared not, and half turning upon his heel, he saw that the vicar's sisters were coming down the street, an observation which impelled him to make a quick retreat. "There, go on," he said; "and mind and make haste back." "Yes, sir, plee, sir, that's what teacher told me to do." "Writing to Burge, eh?" said Mr Chute as he re-entered his school. "That's to tell him that I spoke out to her yesterday. Ah! just let him take her part and I'll soon give him a bit of my mind. She's carrying on with him, is she? I know it as well as if I'd been told; but perhaps I shall be one too many with all of them yet." The next minute he was bitterly regretting that he had not detained and read the letter, though he knew all the time that he dared not, and he finished up for the present by having another peep at Hazel through the slit above the shutter, expecting, as his brain suggested, that she would be writing another letter, but only finding her busy with one of the classes. Meanwhile, with her cheeks flushed and eyes brightened at the escape she had just had, Ann Straggalls stumped eagerly along to perform her commission, but only to encounter the Lambent sisters, before whom she stopped short compelling them also to stop or else turn off to right or left, unless they were willing to fall over her. For, according to traditional instruction at Plumton Schools, it was the proper thing for every schoolgirl who met the vicar's sisters to make a bob to each, and these two bobs Ann Straggalls diligently performed. "Not in school, Straggalls?" said Rebecca, in a stern, inquisitorial tone of voice. "No, 'm, please, 'm. Teacher's sent me with a letter, 'm." "Indeed!" cried Beatrice, thrown by excitement off her guard. "To Mr Canninge?" "No, 'm, please 'm; to Mr William Forth Burge, 'm." "To Mr William Forth Burge!" cried Rebecca, excited in her turn. "What is Miss Thorne writing to him for?" "Please 'm, I don't know, 'm. Teacher said I was to take this letter, 'm, and I don't know any more." "It is very strange, Beatrice," said Rebecca querulously. "Strange indeed," replied her sister, who felt better on finding that her suspicions were incorrect, and worse at having betrayed the bent of her own thoughts, and not troubling herself about her sister's feelings in the least. "Ought we to do anything, Beatrice?" said Rebecca, whose fingers itched to get hold of the letter. "Do anything?" said Beatrice. "Yes," said Rebecca in a low tone, unheard by Ann Straggalls, whose large moist lips were some distance apart to match her eyelids, as she stared at the vicar's sisters; "ought we to let that note go?" "Oh, I could not think of interfering," said Beatrice, shaking her head. "Besides, it would be impossible. Henry gives the new mistress great latitude, and possibly he might approve of her corresponding with Mr Burge." "I--I don't like letting her go," said Rebecca, hesitating, a fact of which her sister was well aware. "I don't think it is proper, and it seems to me to be our duty to take some steps in such matters as these." "I shall not interfere with Miss Thorne in any way," replied Beatrice. "Henry is, I dare say, quite correct in his views respecting the mistress's behaviour, and I certainly shall not expose myself to the risk of being taken to task again by my brother for interfering, as he called it at the schools. You had better make haste, Straggalls, and deliver your message." "Please, 'm, it's a letter, 'm," said Ann Straggalls in open eyed delight at catching the speaker tripping. "Make haste on and deliver your letter, child," said the lady with dignity; and the girl made two more bobs and hurried away. "It was quite impossible, Rebecca," said Beatrice reprovingly. "The letter is no business of ours." "Are we going down to the school to-day?" asked Rebecca. "Not now," replied her sister; "but we might call upon Mrs Thorne. I wonder what Mr Chute has had to do with that letter to Mr Burge." "Yes, I was wondering too. He was certainly talking to the girl Straggalls as we came into sight." And then, itching with curiosity, the sisters walked on. Ann Straggalls held her head a little higher as she went on up the street through the market-place. She felt that she was an ambassadress of no little importance, as she had been stopped twice on her way. As luck had it, she came upon the Reverend Henry Lambent as he was leaving the Vicarage gates, looking very quiet and thoughtful, and he would have passed Straggalls unnoticed, had not that young lady been ready to recognise him, which, nerved as she was by her pleasant feeling of self-satisfied importance, she did by first nearly causing him to tumble over her, as she made the customary bob by way of incense, and then saying aloud-- "Plee, sir, I've got a letter." "A letter, child! Let me see--oh, it is Straggalls." "Yes, sir--Annie Straggalls, sir, plee, sir." "Then why don't you give me the letter, child? Who is it from?" "Teacher, plee, sir." A flush came into the vicar's pale cheeks, and he raised his drooping lids as he impatiently held out his hand and waited while Ann Straggalls struggled to produce the letter. She had had some difficulty in placing it in what she considered to be a safe receptacle, forcing it down below the string that ran round the top of her frock. That struggle, however, was nothing to the one which now took place to release the missive, for the note had crept down to somewhere about Ann Straggalls' waist where it was lying so comfortable and warm that it refused to be dislodged, in spite of the pushing of one hand, and the thrustings down of the other. The young lady posed herself in a variety of attitudes, reaching up, bending down, leaning first on one side, then upon the other, but all in vain. She grew red in the face, her hands were hot, and the vicar became more and more impatient; but the letter was not forthcoming, and at last she exclaimed, with a doleful expression of countenance-- "Plee, sir, I can't get it out." "You've lost it," cried the vicar angrily. "No, sir, I ain't, plee, sir. I can feel it quite plain, but it's slithered down to my waist." "You tiresome girl!" cried the vicar impatiently, for it was an awkward dilemma, and he was beginning to think of the penknife in his vest pocket, and the possibility of cutting the note free without injury to the young lady's skin, when she solved the difficulty herself by running off to where she saw a little girl standing, and the result of the companion's efforts was so successful that Ann Straggalls came running back beaming with pleasure, the letter in her hand. "Good girl!" exclaimed the vicar, thrusting a sixpence into her palm, as he eagerly snatched the letter, devoured the address with his eyes, and the flush died out of his cheeks. "Why, the letter is for Mr Burge," he said excitedly. "Yes, sir; for Mr William Forth Burge, plee, sir." "Take it," exclaimed the vicar huskily, and thrusting the note hastily into the girl's hands, he turned sharply round and walked back into the house, thoroughly unnerved by the incident, trifling as it may seem. "He's give me sixpence!" said Ann Straggalls wonderingly; and then--"Didn't he seem cross!" At last, after these interruptions, which duly published the fact that Hazel Thorne openly wrote to Mr William Forth Burge, the note came to that gentleman's hand, for Ann Straggalls reached the gate, pushed it wide open, and knowing from experience what a splendid gate it was, she passed through, and stopped to watch it as it swung back past the post, with the latch giving a loud click, and away ever so far in the other direction; then back again with another click; away again with another, and then to and fro, quicker and quicker, click--click--click--click-- clack, when the latch caught in its proper notch, and Ann Straggalls smiled with satisfaction, and wished that she had such a gate for her own. The clicking of the gate took the attention of Mr William Forth Burge, who was busy amongst his standard rose-trees, with a quill-pen and a saucer, using the former to brush off the abundant aphides from the buds into the latter. He smiled with satisfaction as he released from its insect burden some favourite rose, whose name was hanging from it upon a label like that used for the old-fashioned medicine bottles--"one tablespoonful every four hours"--but, all the same, it was undoubtedly unpleasant for the aphides that were being slaughtered by the thousand. Miss Burge had her work and a garden-seat, and she was looking up from time to time, and smiling her satisfaction at seeing her brother so happy, for of late he had been dull and overclouded, and did not take to his dinners and his cigars so heartily as of old. She too looked up as the gate clicked, and together the brother and sister watched the coming girl, who had not seen them yet, but was staring, open-mouthed, at the various flowers. First she made a pause before one, and her fingers twitched with the intense desire she felt to pick it; then before another which she bent down to smell, and so on and on slowly, fighting hard and successfully against temptation, till she came to a rose in full bloom, before which she came to a complete standstill. "Oh, you beauty!" she cried aloud as she bent down and began sniffing with all her might. "Oh, don't I wish Feelier Potts was here!" But Feelier Potts was not there, fortunately for Mr William Forth Burge's _Gloire de Bordeaux_, for that young lady would have felt no more scruple in ravaging the bush than in picking the buttercups and daisies of the fields; so at last Ann Straggalls turned with a sigh of regret, to find herself face to face, with the owner of the garden, who was smiling at her blandly. "Plee, sir, I've brought a letter, sir, from teacher, sir." Little Miss Burge felt startled as she saw the change that came over her brother's face, for, in place of its customary ruddiness, it grew mottled, and he stood gazing at the girl as if her words could not be true. "A letter? For me?" "Yes, sir, plee, sir; teacher sent it." "Take her in, Betsey; give her some cake or biscuits," he said hastily, as he almost snatched the missive. Little Miss Burge sighed as she took the girl by the hand and led her away, Mr William Forth Burge following directly after with the letter, which he took into his study, for it was too sacred to be read out in the open air. It only took a minute to seat Ann Straggalls in the hall with a big lump of cake in her hand, portions of which she transferred to her mouth and worked at with machine-like regularity, and then Miss Burge hurried to the study, to find her brother walking up and down in a great state of excitement. "Betsey," he cried hoarsely, "she's written to me--she's sent for me!" "Oh, Bill, has she?" cried the little woman sadly. "Yes; she's written to me--she's sent for me." "Bill dear, I don't like that." "What?" "It don't--please don't be angry with me--but it don't seem nice." "Not nice--not nice!" he cried almost fiercely. "Why, read here. Poor gal! she's in trouble. There's something wrong. Here, where's my best coat. I'll go down." "Oh! that's different," cried little Miss Burge, who seemed greatly relieved. "Poor girl! Why, whatever can be the matter?" "I don't know. You mustn't stop me, Betsey," he cried. "I must go directly--I must." "Oh, Bill! Bill! Bill!" sobbed the little lady, throwing her arms round his neck and bursting into tears. "I can't help it, Betsey," he cried; "I can't help it. I never had it before, but I've got it badly now, dear; and I ain't a bit ashamed to own it to you." "Oh, Bill!" "Don't try to stop me, Betsey." "But you won't do anything foolish, dear?" "It wouldn't be foolish if it was her," he said excitedly. "No, Bill, I suppose not; but I don't like her sending for you to come." "There, there," he cried, "I won't hear another word." And he proved it by hurriedly taking his hat and going down straight to the school, leaving his sister in tears, and Ann Straggalls deep in cake. Mr Chute was on the look-out, and saw him pass, and directly after the schoolmaster took up a slate and a pencil, and placing the slate against the partition, began to write thereon, with his back to the boys, but with his eager eyes gazing through the slit at where Hazel was busy with her pupils. A minute later he saw Mr William Forth Burge enter the schoolroom and shake hands. Hazel spoke to him, but the words did not reach Chute's ears; and soon after, as the hands pointed to twelve, the children were dismissed, and Hazel and Mr William Forth Burge were alone, but, to Chute's great disgust they went out and into the cottage. "Well, of all the shabby--Oh, I can't stand this!" cried the schoolmaster, stamping his feet. "It's too bad." But, bad or good, he had to submit to it for his chance of overhearing the conversation was gone. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. "I'M VERY GLAD YOU'RE IN TROUBLE." "I'm very glad you're in trouble, Miss Thorne," said Mr William Forth Burge, as he took the chair in the little parlour which Hazel placed for him, Mrs Thorne, not being dressed to her own satisfaction, having escaped into the kitchen, where her son was seated, sulky, and with his countenance full of gloom. "Are you?" said Hazel, smiling sadly. "No; not glad you're in trouble, but that you've felt that I could help you," said the visitor, suddenly recollecting that Hazel was standing, and rising to put a chair for her in turn. "I am so lonely here--so helpless," said Hazel after a pause, for she hesitated to begin and lay bare the trouble that was at her breast. "Well, don't say lonely, Miss Thorne," said the great man. "I'm sure my sister and me has always felt a sort of longing to be neighbours, and to be friendly. For don't you think because I'm a rich man that it's made a bit of difference in me." "I felt your kindness so much, Mr Burge," she replied earnestly, "that I ventured to ask for your advice and help in this very great trouble." "That's right," he exclaimed, his admiration and respect for the speaker shining out of his honest eyes. "I'm a very plain, common sort of man, my dear, but I've had lots of business experience, and p'r'aps I can help you better than some people would think." There was a pause here, for Hazel's tongue seemed to refuse its office. Her visitor's manner was so tender and kind, as well as respectful, that it touched her to the heart, and she looked at him piteously, as if imploring him to give her time. "It's a good big bit of trouble, I can see, my dear," he said quietly. "Give yourself time and speak out; and if William Forth Burge can help you through with it, you may feel that it's as good as done. Suppose I try a bit of a guess--just to help you like. Now, is it money? Don't be offended at my saying so, but is it money, now?" "It is about money," faltered Hazel, making an effort. "I thought so," he said, brightening up and rubbing his hands softly. "Then don't you worry a bit more, my dear; for my sister Betsey's got lots of money saved up, and there's nothing wouldn't please her better than putting your bit of trouble all right for you." "I must explain to you, Mr Burge," said Hazel. "Oh, I don't know," he said gently. "It might hurt you, perhaps; and, dear heart alive! why should you make yourself miserable about such a thing as money! Now, just you look here, my dear Miss Thorne. I'm going straight home, and I'll send down my sister Betsey, and you just say offhand to her what will put it straight--fifty, or a hundred, or two hundred, or whatever it is--and she'll have it in her ridicule, and the job's done. There, I shall make you cry if I stay, and I don't want to do that, you know. Good-bye. God bless you!" He had started up, and was standing, hat in hand, holding out his hand to her, which she took and held while she tried to speak. "No, no, Mr Burge," she said at last. "Let me tell you all." "To be sure you shall," he said soothingly. "There, there! don't be afraid to speak to me, my dear.--Just you say to yourself, `William Forth Burge is an old friend of mine, and I'd trust him with anything, and he's just the man to go to when I'm in trouble.'" "You are very kind," faltered Hazel, fighting hard to be brave. And at last she told him the story of her brother's lapse. "The young dog!" he cried angrily; and his voice was raised. "How dare he do such a thing, and disgrace you and his mamma? I--I could thrash him well." "It is so terrible--so shocking a thing. I don't know what to do, Mr Burge. I feel so helpless: for the people, his employers--seemed to hint at prosecution." "Is--is he in there?" whispered Mr William Forth Burge, winking one eye and pointing with his thumb at the door. "Yes; he is in the next room," replied Hazel. "I shouldn't wonder a bit," said the visitor very loudly. "I should say they are sure to prosecute and put him in prison." The moment after he nodded and frowned and winked at Hazel. "Let's frighten him a bit," he whispered. "Let him think he is going to be in great trouble, and it will make him remember. But you give me the people's names, my dear, and I'll set my lawyer on to 'em; and don't you worry yourself any more. I'll square it all for you, and make it right." "But the shame--the disgrace!" cried Hazel. "It's no shame or disgrace of yours, my dear," he said. "You couldn't help it. I had three boys in my place at different times as was bitten that way. Lots of 'em are. A silly young dog! He deserves to be well flogged. But just you leave the thing to me, and I'll put it right. But what are you going to do with him afterwards? You can't keep him here!" It was a question Hazel could not answer, for like a blow the idea came to her that by his act of dishonest folly her brother had lost his character, and that the chances were greatly against his obtaining further employment. "Ah! You don't know," said Mr William Forth Burge cheerfully. "You can't think. It is a job, isn't it? Sometimes, my dear, I have thought that boys are a regular mistake. They're a terrible lot of trouble, unless they make up their minds to be very careful and particular, and that they don't often do. But never you mind. We'll see if we can't set it all right by-and-by. We'll get him out of the scrape first, and then see what's to be done with him afterwards. Now, suppose I put down who the people are; and you may as well give me the letters you talked about.--That's right. Now wait a bit." Mr William Forth Burge's coat was buttoned very tightly across his chest, and he had some difficulty in getting at the breast-pocket; but he extricated therefrom a large metallic paper pocket-book, such as would be used by a commercial traveller about to receive an order, opened the clasp, found a suitable place, and fixed it by placing the elastic band of the pocket-book round the leaves, after which he moistened the tip of the pencil between his lips from habit, and proceeded to enter the day and date of the month. "Nothing like doing these things in a business-like way, my dear," he said, as he wrote on, asking questions and making his notes, ending by saying: "Now, suppose we have in the young fellow." "Have him in?" faltered Hazel. "Yes; let's have him in and give him a bit of a talking to. Don't you think it will be best?" Hazel thought for a few moments, and in that brief space she seemed to realise exactly what Percy would say, and how he would resent being taken to task by their visitor. Mr William Forth Burge guessed her thoughts, and nodded and smiled. "You're afraid I shall be too hard upon him. That's just the way with worn--I mean ladies. You're too gentle and kind--just like your nature. Why, my sister, Betsey, she'd come here in a case like this, and she'd tell that brother of yours that he was a very naughty boy, and mustn't do so any more, and there would be an end of it; only it wouldn't do any good. For, bless you, my dear, if you talk like that to a boy who has been a bit out in the world, he'll pretend to be very sorry and that he's going to be quite square, and as soon as you're out of sight he'll grin at you and think how soft you are. Now, suppose you fetch him in." For answer Hazel rose and went to the kitchen, where she found that Percy had tried to secure himself by taking his two young sisters one upon each knee, and holding them there as a sort of armour of innocence against attack. "Percy, there is a gentleman in the next room wishes to see you." "Oh, I can't go--I daren't go!" the boy said excitedly. "What does he want?" "Surely, Hazel, my dear, you are not going to expose poor Percy to insult," cried Mrs Thorne. "Mamma," said Hazel firmly, "I have asked Mr Burge to come down here and help me in an endeavour to settle Percy's affairs." "Settle his affairs! Oh! surely, Percy, you have not been such a bad boy as to go and get into debt?" "Yes, mother," said Hazel quickly, as she responded to the boy's imploring look, "Percy has behaved badly, and entangled himself with a very serious debt and Mr Burge is going to see what can be done." "Then you've been a bad, wicked, thoughtless boy, Percy!" exclaimed Mrs Thorne in a whining voice; "and I don't know what you don't deserve-- going spending your money in such a reckless way, and then taking trust for things you ought not to have had." "Don't you turn against me, ma," whimpered the lad. "But I must turn against you, Percy. It is my duty as your mamma to teach and lead you, and when you are going wrong to scold you for being naughty. Now, put those children down directly, and go upstairs and brush your hair, and then go and see Mr William Forth Burge, who will, I dare say, being a very respectable sort of man, talk to you for your benefit. Hazel, my dear, make my compliments to Mr William Forth Burge, and tell him I am much gratified by his calling, but that I never receive till after three o'clock. Tuesdays and Fridays used to be my days, but of course one cannot be so particular now." "Yes, mother," said Hazel quietly. "Come, Percy," she continued, and she took his hand. "I say, Hazy, must I go?" said the lad, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "Yes: come along and be brave and respectful. Let Mr Burge see that you are truly sorry, and I think he will try and see your employers, and make some arrangement." "What--so that there shall be no police bother?" he asked eagerly. "Yes, I hope so." "I couldn't stand that, Hazy; I couldn't indeed. I should go and enlist or jump off a bridge, or something of the kind." "Don't be foolish, Percy, but try and meet the difficulty like a man." "Yes," he said, "I will. But stop a moment. I say, is my collar all right? Those children have been tumbling me." "Yes, it looks quite right." "And--must I go upstairs and brush my hair?" "No, no; it looks quite smooth. Now, come--be brave and face it as you should." "Oh yes, it's all very well for you, who haven't got it to do," he replied. "You can't think what it is." "Yes, Percy, I can; and it makes me say to you: Why expose yourself to such bitter humiliation? Would it not have been better to be able to hold up your head before all the world and to say: I am poor, and occupy a very menial position, but I am a gentleman?" "Yes, Hazel is quite right my dear," said Mrs Thorne. "It is what I always say to her: Never forget that you are a lady; and I am glad to find that she does not forget my teachings." "I'll come now," said Percy. "I--I think I'm ready;" and, clinging to his sister's hand, he went with her into the room where Mr William Forth Burge was seated behind his book, with his pencil across his mouth, as if it had been a bit to bridle his tongue from uttering that which he had wished to say. He was trying to look very stern, but an admiring glance shot from his eyes as Hazel closed the door after her and then said simply: "This is my brother, Mr Burge." There was a few moments' pause, during which Percy, after a quick look at the great man of Plumton, stood there humbled and abashed, for the knowledge of his position completely took away his natural effrontery, and seemed to have made him ten years younger than he was. A flash of resentment came for a moment, and made his eyes brighten and his cheek colour on hearing their visitor's salutation, but they both died out directly, for all Percy Thorne's spirit seemed to have evaporated now. "Well, sir," cried Mr William Forth Burge fiercely, for here was an opportunity for crowing over a lad who was a very different sort of boy to what he had been. He had never meddled with moneys entrusted to him, and had been content to plod and plod slowly and surely till he had made himself what he was. This boy--Percy Thorne--had tried to make himself rich by one or two bold strokes--by gambling, in fact, and this was a chance; so "Well, sir," he cried, "and what have you got to say for yourself?" Percy looked up and looked down, for it was evident he had nothing to say for himself, and he ended by gazing appealingly at his sister, his lips moving as if saying: "Speak a word for me! Please do." Mr William Forth Burge could be sharp enough as a business-man, simple as he was in some other matters, and he noted Percy's glance, and softly rubbed his hands beneath the table as he rejoiced in the fact that he had been called in to help Hazel in this family matter. Then, seizing upon the opportunity of showing where he could be shrewd and strong, he said quietly: "I think, Miss Thorne, you had better leave us together for a few minutes, and well see what can be done." Hazel hesitated for a moment, and then, in spite of an appeal from her brother, walked to the door, turning then to direct a glance at her visitor which completely finished the work that her eyes had unconsciously already done, and for a few moments after she had gone the ex-tradesman sat with his gaze fixed upon the table, completely unnerved and unable to trust himself to speak. He soon recovered, though, and turned sharply to where the tall, thin boy stood, miserable and humiliated, resting first on one foot and then on the other, and after staring him completely out of countenance for a few moments, he showed himself in quite a new character, and gave some inkling of how it was that he had been so successful in his trade. "Now, young fellow," he said sharply, "I know all about it, and what a scamp you have been." Percy blushed again, and raised his head to make an angry retort. "Well, scoundrel, then, or blackguard, if that other name isn't strong enough for you." "How dare"--began Percy, scarlet. "Eh? What? How dare I? Well, I'll tell you, boy. It's because I'm an honest man, and you ain't. There: you can't get over that." Percy could not get over that. The shot completely dismantled at one blow the whole of his fortifications, and left him at his enemy's mercy. Giving up on the instant he whimpered pitifully-- "Please don't be hard on me, sir; I have been a scoundrel, but if you-- you--could give me another chance--" Boy prevailed, and all Percy Thorne's manliness went to the winds. He was very young yet in spite of his size, and, try how he would to keep them back, the weak tears came, and he could not say another word. "Give you another chance, eh?" said the visitor sharply. "That's all very well, but we've got to get you out of this scrape first. Your people, Suthers, Rubley, and Spark, write as if they meant to prosecute you for robbing them." "But I meant to pay it again, sir--I did indeed!" cried Percy. "Yes: of course. That's what all fellows who go in for a bit of a spree with other people's coin say to themselves, so as to give them Dutch courage. But it won't do!" "But indeed I should have paid it sir." "If you had won, which wasn't likely, boy. Only one in a thousand wins, my lad, and it's always somebody else--not you. Now then, suppose I set to work and get these people, Suthers, Rubley, and Spark"--he repeated the names with great gusto--"to quash the prosecution on account of your youth and the respectability of your relations, what would you do?" "Oh, I'd be so grateful, sir! I'd never, never bet again, or put money on horses, or--" "Make a fool of yourself, eh?" "No, sir; indeed, indeed I would not." "Well, what sort of people are these Suthers, Rubley, and Spark?" "Oh! dreadful cads, sir." "If you say that again," cried the ex-butcher sharply, "I won't make a stroke to get you out of your trouble." Percy stared at him with astonishment. "It's all very fine!" cried Mr William Forth Burge. "Every one who don't do just as you like is a cad, I suppose. People have often called me a cad because I've not had so good an education and can't talk and speak like they do; and sometimes the cads are on the other side." "I'm very sorry, sir," faltered Percy. "Then don't you call people cads, young fellow. Now then, you mean to give up all your stupid tricks, and to grow into a respectable man, don't you?" "Yes, sir; I'll try," said Percy humbly. "Then just you go to your bedroom, brush that streaky hair off your forehead, take out that pin, and put on a different tie; and next time you get some clothes made, don't have them cut like a stable-boy's. It don't fit with your position, my lad. Now, look sharp and get ready, for you're going along with me." "Going with you, sir?" "Yes, along with me, my lad; and I'm going to keep you till you are out of your scrape. Then we'll see about what's to be done next." Percy left the room, and his sister came back, to find Mr William Forth Burge looking very serious; but his eyes brightened as he took Hazel's hand. "I am going to take your brother away with me, and I sha'n't let a moment go by without trying to put things square. I think the best thing will be for me to take him right up to London, and go straight to his employers; but I haven't told him so. If I did, he'd shy and kick; but it will be the best way. And I dare say a bit of a talk with the people will help to put matters right." "But will they prosecute, Mr Burge? It would be so dreadful!" "So it would, my dear; but they won't. They'll talk big about wanting to make an example, and that sort of thing, and then they'll come round, and I shall square it up. Oh, here he comes. There, say good-bye to your sister, young man, for we've no time to spare. Now, go in first. Good-bye, Miss Thorne." "Mr Burge, I cannot find words to tell you how grateful I am," cried Hazel in tears. "I don't want you to," he replied bluntly, as he shook hands impressively, but with the greatest deference. "I couldn't find words to tell you, my dear, how grateful I am to think that you are ready to trust me when you want a friend." Here Mr William Forth Burge stuck his hat on very fiercely, and went home without a word, Percy Thorne walking humbly by his side, and checking his desire to say to himself that after all, Mr William. Forth Burge did seem to be a regular cad. CHAPTER THIRTY. MR BURGE IS BUSINESS-LIKE. "I am the last person in the world, Rebecca, to interfere," said Beatrice, as she busied herself making a series of holes with some thick white cotton, which she wriggled till something like a pattern was contrived; "but I cannot sit still and see that young person misbehaving as she does." "I quite agree with you, dear, and it shocks me to see into what a state of moral blindness poor Henry has plunged." "Ah!" sighed her sister, "it is very sad;" and she sighed again and thought of a certain scarlet woman. "What would he say if he knew that Miss Thorne openly sent letters to Mr William Forth Burge?" "But they might be business letters," said Rebecca. "Miss Thorne has no right to send business letters to Mr William Forth Burge," said Beatrice angrily. "If there are any business matters in connection with the school, the letter, if letter there be--for it would be much more in accordance with Miss Thorne's duty if she came in all due humility--" "Suitably dressed," said Rebecca. "Exactly," assented her sister. "--to the Vicarage and stated what was required. Or if she wrote, it should be to the vicar, when the letter would be in due course referred to us, and we should see what ought to be done." "Exactly so," assented Rebecca. "Mr William Forth Burge has been a great benefactor to the schools; but they are the Church schools, and, for my part, I do not approve of everything being referred to him." "I--I think you are right, Beatrice," assented Rebecca; "but Mr William Forth Burge has, as you say, been a great benefactor to the schools." "Exactly; a very great benefactor, Rebecca; but that is no reason why Miss Thorne should write to him." "I quite agree with you there, Beatrice; and now I have something more to tell you, which I have just heard as I came up the town." "About the schools?" "Well, not exactly about the schools, but about the school-cottage. I heard, on very good authority, that the Thornes have a young man staying in the house." "A young man!" "Yes; he arrived there yesterday afternoon, and Mr Chute, who was my informant, looked quite scandalised." "We must tell Henry at once," cried Beatrice. "Of what use would it be?" said Rebecca viciously. "He would only be angry, and tell us it was Miss Thorne's brother, or something of that sort." "It is very, very terrible," sighed Beatrice, "Of what could Henry be thinking to admit such a girl to our quiet country district?" Just at the same time their brother also was much exercised in his own mind on account of the letter that he had seen in Hazel's handwriting directed to Mr Burge, and he was troubled the more on finding that she should appeal to Mr Burge instead of to him--the head of the parish, and one who had shown so great a disposition to be her friend--for even then he could not own that he desired a closer intimacy. The Reverend Henry Lambent knit his brows and asked himself again whether this was not some temptation that had come upon him, similar to those which had attacked the holy men of old; and as he sat and thought it seemed to him that it could not be, for Hazel Thorne grew to him fairer and more attractive day by day, and, fight hard as he would against those thoughts, they grew stronger and more masterful, while he became less able to cope with them. And all this time Mr William Forth Burge, the stout and plain and ordinary, was working away on Hazel's behalf. He was showing the business side of his nature, and any one who had studied him now would easily have understood why it was that he had become so wealthy. For there was a straightforward promptness in all he did that impressed Percy a good deal; and when, after keeping him for some hours at his villa, wondering what was to happen next--hours that were employed in copying letters for his new friend--the said new friend announced that they were going up to London, Percy, with all the disposition to resist obeyed without a word, and followed to the station. "Don't seem very well off," thought Percy, as Mr William Forth Burge took a couple of third-class tickets for London. He read the boy's thoughts, for he said sharply-- "Six shillings third class; eighteen shillings first class. Going this way saves one pound four." Percy said, "Yes, sir," and subsided moodily into the corner of the carriage opposite to his companion, and but little was said on the journey up. Mr William Forth Burge took the boy to a quiet hotel, and wrote a letter or two, as it was too late to do any business that night. The next morning Percy was left in the coffee-room to look furtively over the sporting news in the _Standard_ while his new friend went off to see Mr Geringer, who, on hearing his business, seemed greatly displeased at any one else meddling with the Thornes' affairs; and though he did not refuse to go with his visitor to intercede for Percy, he put him off till the next afternoon, and Percy's champion left his office chuckling to himself. "Asks me to wait till next day," he said, "so that he may go and see the state of the market for himself. Won't do, Mr Geringer, sir. That's not William Forth Burge's way of doing business." And he went straight to the firm, gave his card, and was shown in to Mr Spark, a dull, heavy man, remarkable in the business for his inertia. Yes, of course they should prosecute Percy Thorne, if that was what the visitor wanted to know; and if the said visitor wanted to know anything else, would he be kind enough to be quick, for Mr Spark's time was very valuable? "Quick as you like, sir," said Mr William Forth Burge, who showed the new side of his character. "I've been in trade, and I know what's what. Now, sir, I'm the friend of the boy's sister; father dead--mother a baby. Business is business. Prosecute the boy, and you put him in prison, and spend more money; you get none back. Forgive him, and take him on again, and, if it's fifty pounds, I'll pay what's lost." Then followed a long argument, out of which Mr William Forth Burge came away a hundred pounds poorer, and with Percy Thorne free to begin the world again, but handicapped with a blurred character. That evening they were back at Plumton. "But there's going to be no prosecution, or anything of that sort, Miss Thorne; and, till we hear of something to suit him, he shall stop at my house and do clerk's work in my office." "But I feel sure you have been paying away money to extricate him from this terrible difficulty, Mr Burge," cried Hazel. "Well, and suppose I have," he said, smiling; "I've a right to do what I like with my own money, and it's all spent for the benefit of our schools." "But, Mr Burge," cried Hazel eagerly, and speaking with the tears running down her cheeks, "how can I ever repay you?" "Oh, I'll send in my bill some day," he said hastily. "But as I was going to say, Master Percy shall stay at my place for the present. I could easily place him at a butcher's or a meat salesman's, but that ain't genteel enough for a boy like him. So just you wait a bit and--" "See," he would have said, but all this time he had been backing towards the door to avoid Hazel's thanks, and he escaped before his final word was spoken. "There's something about that man I don't quite like," said Mrs Thorne as soon as their visitor had gone. "Not like him, dear?" cried Hazel wonderingly. "No, my dear; there's a sort of underhandedness about him that isn't nice." "But, my dear mother, he has been up to town on purpose to extricate Percy from a great difficulty, and, I feel sure," said Hazel warmly, "at a great expense to himself." "Yes, that's it!" exclaimed Mrs Thorne triumphantly. "And you mark my words, Hazel, if he don't try to make us pay for it most heavily some day." "Oh, really, mother dear!" "Now, don't contradict, Hazel, because you really cannot know so well as I do about these things. Has he not taken Percy to his house?" "Yes, dear." "Then you will see if he doesn't make that boy a perfect slave and drudge, and work him till--Well, there now, how lucky! What can have brought Edward Geringer down now?" Hazel turned pale, for at her mother's exclamation she had turned sharply, just in time to see Mr Geringer's back as he passed the window, and the next moment his knock was heard at the door. "Well, my dear," exclaimed Mrs Thorne, as Hazel stood looking greatly disturbed, "why don't you go and let Mr Geringer in? And, for goodness sake, Hazel, do be a little more sensible this time. Edward Geringer has come down, of course, on purpose to see you, and you know why." Further speech was cut short by the children relieving their sister of the unpleasant duty of admitting the visitor, who came in directly after, smiling and looking bland, with one of the little girls on each side. "Ah, Hazel!" he exclaimed, loosing his hold of the children. Hazel tried to master the shrinking sensation that troubled her, and shook hands. Her manner was so cold that Geringer could not but observe it; still, he hid his mortification with a smile, and turned to Mrs Thorne. "And how are you, my dear madam?" he exclaimed effusively as he took both the widow's hands, to stand holding them with a look that was a mingling of respect and tenderness, the result being that the widow began to sob, and it was some little time before she could be restored to composure. "I had a visit," he said at last, "from a gentleman who resides in this place, and upon thinking over your trouble I have engaged to go with him to-morrow afternoon to see poor Percy's employers; but I felt bound to run down here first and have a little consultation with you both before taking any steps." He glanced at Hazel, and their eyes met; and Hazel read plainly that she was the price of his interference to save Percy, and as she mentally repeated his letter, she met his eye bravely, while her heart throbbed with joy as she felt ready to give him a triumphant look of defiance. He started, in spite of himself, as Mrs Thorne exclaimed-- "It is just like you, Mr Geringer--so kind and thoughtful! But Mr William Forth Burge has settled the matter with those dreadful people. They kept a great deal of it from me, but I know all, now it is well over; and it is very kind of you, all the same." "I try to be kind," he said bitterly, "but my kindness seems to be generally thrown away. Miss Thorne, I am going to the hotel to stay to-night. A note will bring me back directly. Mrs Thorne, you must excuse me now." He spoke in a quiet very subdued voice, and left the house, lest they should see the mortification he felt and he should burst out into a fit of passionate reproach, so thoroughly had he hoped that, by coming down, he might work Percy's trouble to his own advantage, and gain so great a hold upon Hazel's gratitude that he might still win the life-game he had been playing so long. But this was check and impending mate, and had he not hurried away he felt that he would have lost more ground still. He walked up to the hotel in a frame of mind of no very enviable character, fully intending to stay for a few days; but on reaching the place he found that it was possible to catch the night-train back to town. "Better let her think I am offended now," he muttered. "It is the best move I can make;" and he went straight back to the station, so for the present Hazel saw him no more, and to her great relief. Percy only came to the cottage once a week, saying that Mr William Forth Burge kept him hard at work writing, and he should be very glad to get a post somewhere in town, for he was sick of Plumton, it was so horribly slow, and Mr William Forth Burge was such a dreadful cad. Percy's stay proved to be shorter than he expected, for at the end of a month he was one morning marched up to Ardley, and brought face to face with George Canninge, who was quiet and firm with him, asking him a few sharp questions, and ending by giving him a couple of five-pound notes and a letter to a shipping firm in London, the head of which firm told him to come into the office the very next day, and was very short, but informed him that his salary as clerk would begin at once at sixty pounds a year, and that if he did his duty he should rise. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. ANOTHER TROUBLE. It was, some will say, a childish, old-fashioned way of keeping cash, but all the same it was the plan adopted by Hazel, who every week dropped the amounts she had received from the school pence, after changing the coppers into silver, through the large slit of an old money-box that had been given her when a child. It was a plain, oak-wood box, with ordinary lock and key, and the slit at the top was large enough to admit of each week's shillings and sixpences being tied up in note-paper, in the ladylike way adopted by the fair sex--that is to say, a neat packet is made and tied up with cotton. After the tying up Hazel used to put the amount it contained upon the packet, enter the said amount in a memorandum-book, drop the packet through the slit, and lock up the drawer in which the box reposed. During the early portion of her stay at Plumton, as previously shown, Mr Chute went on changing the pence for her from copper to silver, but after a time Hazel felt a certain amount of diffidence in charging the schoolmaster with the task, and made an arrangement with the grocer and draper of the place, who readily made the exchange. Then there was the monthly payment to the blanket fund, which was also placed in the same receptacle, after being duly noted; and there were times when Hazel thought that it would be a good thing when she could get rid of an amount that was rather a burden to her, and she even went so far as to think that she would ask Mr William Forth Burge to take charge of the amount, but for certain reasons she declined. It was no uncommon thing for Hazel to run very short of money for housekeeping purposes, and several times over it would have been a great convenience to have made use of a portion of the school pence and replaced it from her salary; but she forbore, preferring that the sums she held in charge should remain untouched as they had come into her hands. After expecting for what seemed a very great length of time, she at last received a beautifully written but ill-spelt letter from one of the churchwardens, requesting her to send him in a statement of the amounts received for the children's pence, and to be prepared to hand over the money at a certain appointed time. The letter came like a relief to her as she sat at dinner; and upon Mrs Thorne asking, in a somewhat ill-used tone, who had been writing that she was not to know of, her daughter smilingly handed her the letter. "It was such a thorough business letter, dear, that I thought you would not care to read it." But Mrs Thorne took it, read it through, and passed it back without a word. "I think you seem a good deal better, dear," said Hazel, smiling. "Indeed, I am not, child," replied Mrs Thorne sharply. "I never felt worse. My health is terrible: Plumton does not agree with me, and I must have a change." "A change, dear?" said Hazel, sighing. "Yes. It is dreadful this constant confinement in a little poking place. I feel sometimes as if I should be stifled. Good gracious, Hazel! what could you be thinking about to come and live in a town like this? Let's go, my dear, and find some occupation more congenial to your spirit. I cannot bear to go on seeing how you are wasted here." "My dear mother!" exclaimed Hazel wonderingly. "I repeat it, Hazel--I repeat it, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs Thorne excitedly. "You are not fit for this place, and the wretched people down here do not appreciate you. Let us go away at once." "But, my dear mother, it is impossible. I should, even if I thought it best, be obliged to give some months' notice; and besides, it would be ungrateful to Mr and Miss Burge, and to the vicar, who is most kind and considerate." "Oh yes; I know all that," whimpered Mrs Thorne. "But all the same, we must go." "Must go, mother dear?" "Yes, child--must go. It is a cruelty to you to keep you here." "But I have been so well, mother; and I seem to be winning the confidence of the people, and the children begin to like me." "Oh yes--yes--yes; of course they are bound to like you, Hazel, seeing what a slave you make yourself to them. But all the same, my dear, I protest against your stopping here any longer." "My dear mother," said Hazel, rising and going to her side to bend down and kiss her, "pray--pray don't be so unreasonable." "Unreasonable?--unreasonable? Am I to be called unreasonable for advising you for your benefit? For shame, Hazel--for shame!" "But my dear mother, suppose I accede to your wishes and decide to leave: where are we to go? I should have to seek for another engagement." "And you would get it, Hazel. Thousands of school managers would be only too glad to obtain your services." Hazel shook her head and smiled. "No, mother dear; you are too partial. Engagements are not so plentiful as that. Think it over, and you will look at the matter differently. We have not the means at our command to think of moving now." "But we must leave, Hazel, and at once," cried Mrs Thorne excitedly. "I cannot and I will not stay here." "But it would be unreasonable and foolish, dear, to think of doing so under our present circumstances. For the children's sake--for Percy's sake, pray be more considerate. We must not think of it at present. After a time, perhaps, I may have the offer of a better post and the change may be such a one as you will like. Come, dear, try and be content a little longer, and all will be right in the end." "Hazel," cried Mrs Thorne angrily, "I insist upon your giving up this school at once!" "My dear mother!" "Now, no excuses, Hazel I say I insist upon your giving up this school at once, and I will be obeyed. Do you forget that I am your mother? Is my own child to rise up in rebellion against me? How dare you? How dare you, I say?" "But my dear mother, if we decide to leave, where are we to go? Where is the money to pay for our removal? You know as well as I do that, in spite of my care, we are some pounds in the tradespeople's debt." "Now she throws that in my face, when I have worked so hard to make both ends meet, and cut and contrived over the housekeeping, thinking and striving and straining, and now this is my reward!" "I do not blame you, dear," said Hazel sadly; "I only think it was a pity that you should have ordered goods for which we had not the money to pay." "And was I--a lady--to go on living in the mean, sordid, penurious way you proposed, Hazel? Shame upon you! Where is your respect for your wretched, unhappy parent?" It was in Hazel's heart to say, half angrily, "Oh, mother, dear mother, pray do not go on so!" but she simply replied, "I know, dear, that it is very hard upon you, but we are obliged to live within our means." "Yes: thanks to you, Hazel," retorted her mother. "I might be living at ease, as a lady should, if my child were considerate, and had not given her heart to selfishness and a downright direct love of opposition to her parent's wishes." "Dear mother," cried Hazel piteously, "indeed I do try hard to study you in everything." "It ought to want no trying, Hazel. It ought to be the natural outcome of your heart if you were a good and affectionate child. Study me, indeed! See what you have brought me to! Did I ever expect to go about in these wretched, shabby, black things, do you suppose--I--I, who had as many as two dozen dresses upon the hooks in my wardrobe at one time? Oh, Hazel, if you would conquer the stubbornness of that heart!" "My dear mother, I must go and put away the dinner-things; but I do not like to leave you like this." "Oh, pray go, madam; and follow your own fancies to the top of your bent. I am only your poor, weak mother, and what I say or do matters very little. Never mind me, I shall soon be dead and cold in my grave." "Oh, my dear mother, pray, pray do not talk like this!" "And all I ask is, that there may be a simple headstone placed there, with my name and age; and, if it could possibly be managed, and not too great an expense and waste of money for so unimportant a person, I should like the words to be cut deeply in the marble,--or, no, I suppose it would be only stone, common stone--just these simple words: `She never forgot that she was a lady.'" Here Mrs Thorne sighed deeply, and began to strive to extricate herself from her child's enlacing arms. "No, no, no, Hazel; don't hold me--it is of no use. I can tell, even by the way you touch me, that you have no affection left for your poor suffering mother." "How can you say that dear?" said Hazel firmly. "Nor yet in your words, even. Oh, Hazel, I never thought I should live to be spoken to like this by my own child!" "My dear mother, I am ready to make any sacrifice for your sake." "Then marry Mr Geringer," said the lady quickly. "It is impossible." "Move from here at once. Take me away to some other place. Let me be where I can meet with some decent neighbours, and not be Chuted to death as I am here." Mrs Thorne was so well satisfied with the sound of the new word which she had coined that she repeated it twice with different emphases. "My dear mother, we have no money; we are in debt and it might be months before I could obtain a fresh engagement. Mother, that too, is impossible." "There--there--there!" cried Mrs Thorne, with aggravating iteration. "What did I say? Everything I propose is impossible, and yet in the same breath the child of my bosom tells me that she is ready to do anything to make me happy, and to show how dutiful she is." "Mother," said Hazel gravely, "how can you be so cruel? Your words cut me to the heart." "I am glad of it, Hazel--I am very glad of it; for it was time that your hard, cruel heart should be touched, and that you should know something of the sufferings borne by your poor, bereaved mother. A little real sorrow, my child, would make you very, very different, and teach you, and change you. Ah, there is nothing like sorrow for chastening a hard and thoughtless heart!" "Mother dear," said Hazel, trying to kiss her. "I must go into the school." "No, no! don't kiss me, Hazel," said the poor, weak woman with a great show of dignity; "I could not bear it now. When you can come to me in all proper humility, as you will to-night, and say, `Mamma, we will leave here to-morrow,' I shall be ready to receive you into my embrace once more." "My dear mother, you drive me to speak firmly," said Hazel quietly. "I shall not be able to come to you to-night and to say that we will leave here. It is impossible." "Then you must have formed some attachment that you are keeping from me. Hazel, if you degrade yourself by marrying that Chute I will never speak to you again." "Hush, mother! the children will hear." "Let them hear my protests," cried Mrs Thorne excitedly. "I will proclaim it on the housetops, as Mr Lambent very properly observed last Sunday in his sermon. I will let every one know that you intend to degrade yourself by that objectionable alliance, and against it I now enter my most formal protest." Mrs Thorne's voice was growing loud, and she was shedding tears. Her countenance was flushed, and she looked altogether unlovely as well as weak. Hazel hesitated for a moment, her face working, and the desire to weep bitterly uppermost, but she mastered it, and laying her hand upon her mother's shoulder, bent forward once again to kiss her. It was only to be repulsed; and as, with a weary sigh, she turned to the door, Mrs Thorne said to her angrily-- "It is time I resumed my position, Hazel--the position I gave up to you when forced by weakness and my many ills. Now I shall take to it once again, and I tell you that I will be obeyed. We shall leave this place to-morrow morning, and I am going to begin to pack up at once." CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. A QUESTION OF CASH. "Heaven give me strength to be patient and forbearing!" said Hazel softly, as she left the cottage and went into the school, for it was just upon two o'clock. "What am I to do? Will she have forgotten this by night?" Far from it, for as soon as Hazel returned Mrs Thorne began again with fresh importunity, and in so strange a manner that her daughter grew frightened, and hesitated as to whether she should send for medical advice; but after a while the poor woman grew more calm, took out her work and began knitting some unnecessary ornament with costly wool; ending, to Hazel's great relief, by going off fast asleep. She signed to the children to be quiet, and led them softly to bed without waking the sleeper; after which, at liberty for the first time that day, she sat down in her own room to think, previous to drawing up a statement of the school pence ready for giving to the churchwarden upon the following day. Hazel's thoughts wandered far--to Archibald Graves, to Mr Geringer, and then to the vicar, his sisters, and good-hearted, kindly Mr Burge, to whom she felt that she could never be sufficiently grateful. Lastly, she went over her mother's strange fit that day. Mrs Thorne had never seemed settled at Plumton, and had always been full of repining, but had never been so excited and importunate before. "She will be better to-morrow," thought Hazel, "and perhaps revert to it no more. I told her aright--it is impossible for us to go away from here; and now--" She had been speaking half aloud during the last few minutes; but she said no more, only sat thinking deeply of the troubles she had had to encounter since she had been at Plumton, and a pleasant smile came upon her lip as she thought that the troubles had been more than balanced by the kindliness and friendly ways of many there. Even the parents of the children had a pleasant smile and a cheery word for her whenever she went to inquire after some sick absentee. "No," she thought to herself. "I should not like to leave my children now." And she smiled as she recalled scenes with Ann Straggalls and Feelier Potts. Then over the sunshine of her memories came clouds once more, as the stiff, chilling presence of the Lambent sisters intruded itself and changed the aspect of her workaday life. Then, as she sat and thought there came back the scene of the school feast the enjoyment of the children, and then-- A vivid blush came into Hazel Thorne's face, and she rose from her seat angry with herself and ready to cry shame for the direction her thoughts had taken, and that was towards George Canninge and the attentions he had paid her. She tried to drive these thoughts away, but they returned pertinaciously, and, try how she would, she kept picturing his face, his words, the quiet gentlemanly courtesy with which he had always treated her. "Oh, it is monstrous!" she cried aloud at last and taking her paper, pen, and ink, she prepared to make out the statement ready to deliver next day; but though she tried to keep her thoughts to the work, she found it impossible, and at last the tears gathered in her eyes, and, weary and low-spirited, she found herself thinking bitterly of her position in life, and her want of strength of mind for allowing such thoughts as these to intrude. At last she began to master herself, and taking up her pen, she opened her memorandum-book, copied out the various amounts received week by week ever since her coming, cast them up, and found that she had a total of twenty-three pounds seven shillings and fourpence, including nearly six pounds that had been paid in for club money. This done, she went down on tiptoe to see if Mrs Thorne had awakened; but she was sleeping soundly, and after glancing at the children Hazel returned to her task, though not to recommence, for once more the thoughts of George Canninge, and his conduct towards her, came back, till, blushing vividly for her folly, she made a stern effort and resumed her work. She had pretty well ended, but there was this to be done: she felt that she ought to unfasten the little packets of money and count them over and check them, ending by placing the whole of the silver in a stout canvas-bag which she had provided for the purpose. Leaving her seat, then, she opened the drawer and took out the heavy oaken box, placed it upon the table, and unlocked it slowly, her thoughts wandering to George Canninge all the time, but only to be rudely brought back by the box before her. She had not opened it before during many months, but in imagination she had pictured its contends--a number of little white packets tied up with cotton lying one upon the other in a sort of neat chaos. Instead of this there were the pieces of paper certainly, but they had been opened, and the scraps of cotton were lying about with the crumpled paper and a number of pence. It struck her as strange, that was all. She did not for the moment remember placing pence in the box, but she must have done so once, probably when she could not get them changed for silver. It was hard to recall what she had done in the course of so many weeks, and after trying for a few moments, she let the effort go, and picked up two or three of the pieces of paper to read her memorandums on the outer side. This one was six shillings and fivepence, that five and elevenpence, then a heavier one that had held ten shillings and sixpence; and again another, evidently when some arrears had been paid up, for it had contained eleven shillings and ninepence. Then the paper dropped from Hazel's hand, and, with lips parted and a look of astonishment in her eyes, she hurriedly took out the heap of pieces of paper, to find that, one and all, they had been emptied, and that at the bottom of the box lay about five shillings' worth of coppers, not a single silver coin remaining behind. "Ah!" ejaculated Hazel, and a chill of horror ran through her, followed by a peculiar sinking sensation of dread. Where was the money left in her charge--where were the contents of those little packets which she had so carefully tied up and entered? Not one remained untouched, for the box had been opened, and she had been robbed! No: it was impossible. Who could know of the existence of that money? Strangers might know that she received the money weekly, but no one would be aware of the fact that she placed it in that box, locked it, and then locked the box in her drawer. She must have made some mistake. It was impossible that she could have been robbed. It was a mistake certainly, and she hurriedly turned out the contents of the box upon the bed, and counted up the pence first-- four shillings and ninepence. Then there were the empty papers. Hazel put her hand to her head, feeling bewildered, and wondering whether she had not made some strange mistake. Did she know what she was doing, or was her memory failing from over-study? Making a determined effort to be cool, she took the papers, arranged them by their dates, and checked them off by the statement which she had drawn up, to find that they tallied exactly; but when she had done that she was no further than before, and at last she stood there in a state of helpless despair, face to face with the fact that she had at last been called upon to give an account of her stewardship and the moneys that should have been ready for handing over to the churchwarden were gone. Hazel sank down upon the floor with her hands clenched and her brain dizzy, to try and think out the meaning of this strange problem. She recalled that she had had other difficult questions to solve before now--puzzles that had seemed perfectly insurmountable, but that they had grown less formidable by degrees, and the difficulties had been surmounted. Perhaps, then, this would prove less black after a time, and she would make out how it was. Had she paid anybody? taken any of the money? given change? No; she could recollect nothing, and in place of growing clearer, the problem grew momentarily more and more confused. Her brow became full of wrinkles, her head more giddy, and as she crouched upon the floor with the empty money-box upon the bed, and the candle that stood upon the table surrounded by the empty wrappers, long of snuff and mushroom topped, she began more and more to realise the fact that at last she was face to face with a difficulty far greater than any that she had yet been called upon to deal with since she had been at Plumton. It was horrible. She had to give up a heavy amount on the next day--a sum that she held in trust--and it was missing. What should she do? What could she do? She could have sobbed in the agony of her heart; but she forced herself to think--to try and make out where the money had gone. The children would not have taken it; they did not know of its existence. Then who could? Percy? Oh no, it was impossible. He had-- Oh no; she would not harbour the thought. He had been weak and foolish, but she felt that she should scorn herself if she harboured such a thought as that her brother would have taken the money that she had in charge. It was too dreadful, and she would not believe it. Then who could it be? As she asked herself this again and again she suddenly heard a sound below as of a chair being thrust back. Then some one rose, and there came the opening of a door, and steps upon the stairs. Hazel rose softly, and stood behind the dim unsnuffed candle as the steps came higher. The door was thrust open, and the breath that Hazel had been holding back till she felt that she must suffocate escaped with a loud sigh, and mother and daughter stood gazing across the table at each other. The thought was horrible, almost maddening--but there was Mrs Thorne with her cap half off, and her hair slightly disarranged by her sleeping, staring in a shrinking, half-angry way before her daughter's searching gaze. For Hazel had no such thought before. Now it came with almost stunning violence, and she saw in it the explanation of her mother's strange manner that day--her sudden desire to leave Plumton at any cost, as soon as she had read the letter containing the request for the school funds to be given up. Words rose to Hazel Thorne's lips, and then sank back; they rose again, and she still remained silent. It was in her mind to ask her mother in accusing tones what she knew of the absent money, for she, and she alone, knew where it was kept and could have had access to the keys. But no; those words were not uttered. She could not speak them. It was too horrible! But Hazel's eyes accused the poor, weak woman, who waited for nothing more, and exclaimed:-- "There, there, Hazel! don't glower at me like that child! It's all your fault; leaving me so short as you did for days and weeks together. Not a shilling to call my own, and poor Percy always writing to me for new clothes and pocket-money; and then things wanted to make the house tidy. I was obliged to use the money; I don't know what I should have done without it. You must pay it back out of your next quarter's salary; and there: pray don't look at me like that. It's very dreadful to be reduced to taking every penny from your own daughter, and--" "Oh, mother, mother!" wailed Hazel; "say no more. What have you--have you done?" "What have I done? What was I to do? How can you be so foolish, Hazel? Do you suppose I can keep up even so small an establishment as this upon the wretched pittance you give me for housekeeping?" Hazel gazed at her mother wonderingly, for the poor woman took hardly any interest in the household management which fell almost entirely upon her child, who found no little difficulty in keeping matters straight. And now Mrs Thorne was seizing upon this as a reason for her abstraction of the money; for she made no denial whatever, but, driven to bay, haughtily acknowledged the fact. "Then you really did take this money, mother?" "Of course I did, Hazel. Why should I leave it when it was lying idly there? It was absurd." "But, my dear mother, the money was not mine." "What nonsense, Hazel! What does it matter whether it was yours or not? Money's money. The school people don't want you to give them the very pennies that the children brought." "No, mother; but they want the amount." "Then give it to them, Hazel. My dear child, what a ridiculous fuss you do make?" "But, mother, do you not understand--do you not see that I have no money, and no means of making it up?" "Really, Hazel, you are too absurd," said Mrs Thorne with forced levity. "What is the ridiculous amount?" "Between twenty and thirty pounds." "Absurd! Why, I have often given as much, or more, for a new dress. There, get the money from the school people--Mr Lambent, Mr Burge, or somebody--and pray do not bother me about it any more." "Mother, dear mother," cried Hazel, "have you no thought? Tell me, have you any of this money left?" "Of course not, and I must beg of you not to address me in so disrespectful a manner. It is a very good thing that your little sisters are not awake. I would not have them hear you speak to me like this on any consideration." "How ever could you think of taking the money?" "Now, this is too absurd; Hazel, when you leave me for days together without a penny. Why, I have even been obliged to go to Mrs Chute to borrow a shilling before now." "You have borrowed shillings of Mrs Chute, mother?" "To be sure I have, my dear; and of course I had to pay them back. She said it was absurd not to use the school pence." "She told you that?" cried Hazel quickly. "Yes, my dear; and she said that both she and Mr Chute often used the pence, and made the sum up again when he took his salary. There, I am sleepy. For goodness' sake, put away that box and get to bed, and don't be so ridiculous." Hazel looked piteously at her mother, and stood hesitating for a few minutes, asking herself what she was to do in such a strait, for it seemed as if Mrs Thorne had quite lost all sense of right and wrong. Was this really, then, the reason why her mother had expressed such a keen desire to got. It seemed like it, and this explained a great deal; for as Hazel studied her appearance more, it became evident to her that the poor woman was in a state of intense nervous trepidation, and that she hardly dare meet her daughter's eye. "Mother," said Hazel at length, "the churchwarden will be here to-morrow, asking me for this money. What am I to say?" "Say nothing, you foolish child! Pay him out of some other money." "You know, mother, that I have no other money whatever." "Then tell him to wait, like any other trades-person. He is only a common man. Such people as these must take their money when they can get it." "Are you wilfully blinding yourself to the fact, mother, that we have committed a theft in using this money?" "My dear, absurd child--" "That it is as great a trouble as that from the consequences of which poor, foolish Percy has just been rescued by Mr Burge?" "Then go to Mr Burge, Hazel, and tell him that you were obliged to use the money because the salary is so small. He will give you the amount directly, my dear;" and she nodded and smiled as she eagerly reiterated her advice. "Mother, mother, what are you thinking of?" "I'm thinking of what is for the best, Hazel, under the circumstances," said Mrs Thorne pompously. "Mother," cried Hazel excitedly, for she was now regularly unstrung, "I could not degrade myself by going and asking Mr Burge for that money, and I dare not face the churchwarden to-morrow when he comes. You took the money--cruelly took the money that was not mine--and I must send him to you." "No--no; no, no, my dear Hazel, I could not, I will not see him! It is impossible. I dare not face him, Hazel. No, no! Let us go away; there is plenty of time. Let us go and settle down somewhere else, and let them forget all about it. They soon will." "Mother, are you bereft of your senses?" said Hazel. "Oh, for shame, for shame! How could we go away and leave such a name behind us? How could I ever hold up my head again? Oh, how could you? How could you?" "I'm sure, my dear, I never thought it would cause all this trouble, or I wouldn't have taken the paltry, rubbishing money. But Hazel, Hazel," she cried, glancing round in an excited manner, "you--you don't think-- you don't think--they'd take me up for it? Hazel, it would kill me; I'm sure it would. I've been frightened, my dear, ever since I took the first packet; but taking one seemed to make me take another." "Mother," said Hazel, as a thought flashed across her mind, "does Mrs Chute know that you took this money?" "Yes, my dear; I told her every time, and she said it was quite right and the best thing I could do. Oh, my dear child, pray, pray do something! Let's--let's run away, Hazel; and take all we can carry, and leave the rest." "Be silent mother. Sit down, and let me think," said Hazel in a cold, hard voice. "Oh, don't speak to me like that Hazel!" cried Mrs Thorne reproachfully. "What have I done to deserve it?" Hazel glanced at her wonderingly, for the poor woman's words were absurd; but she had evidently spoken in all sincerity, and there was a mute agony of mind and appeal in her countenance, which made her child feel that it would be folly to look upon her any more as one who was thoroughly answerable for her actions. "Hadn't we better go, Hazel?" she said again. "This is a miserable place, and we should be better away. The people are not nice. We could get a long way off by morning, and then we shouldn't be worried any more about this wretched school money." "Pray, pray be quiet, mother!" said Hazel wearily; "you distract me!" "Ah! you are beginning to feel what trouble is now. I've--had my share, Hazel." "Mother, will you be silent, and let me try to think of some way out of this difficulty?" "Of course I will, my dear; though I don't see why you should speak so pertly to me, and show such want of respect for your poor, bereaved mother. For my part, I don't think you need trouble your head about it. The churchwarden will know that you are a lady, and if, as a lady, you give him your word that you will send the money to him--say to-morrow or next day, or next week--I'm sure it cannot be particular to a few days." Hazel covered her face with her hands, resting her elbows upon her knees, while Mrs Thorne went maundering on; and as the poor girl sat there, mingled with her thoughts came her mother's garrulity. Now it was strong advice to go at once to Mr Burge, who, in spite of his vulgarity, was very rich and well-disposed. Mrs Thorne said that she would not for a moment mind asking him herself, and that would settle the matter at once. Then she thought that Mr Lambent, who, in spite of his stiffness, was a thorough gentleman, had displayed a good deal of interest in Hazel. He would lend her the money in a moment if he had it; but then Mrs Thorne was not sure that he had got it, and he might not be able to get it in time; for, as Hazel would know when she grew older, clergymen were very often short of money, especially curates; and if she, Mrs Thorne, had her time to come over again, she should never listen to the attentions of a curate. Yes: Mr Lambent would, of course, lend the money if he had it, for he was a perfect gentleman, and could not, of course, refuse a lady; but then he might not have it and if this were the case, all he could do would be to speak to the churchwarden and tell him to wait. Then there was Mr Canninge, a very gentlemanly man, who might be quite ready to advance the amount as a sort of donation to the school, especially as Hazel was so genteel, and ladylike. She felt that she rather liked Mr Canninge, and if she were Hazel she should be very particular how she behaved to Mr Canninge--for there was no knowing. Some gentlemen had common-sense enough not to look for money, and she had her suspicions on the day of the school feast. "Yes," rattled Mrs Thorne, "he was very attentive that day. I remarked it several times. I have a very observant eye, Hazel, for that sort of thing, and depend upon it my dear, if you play your cards properly, there are far more unlikely things than your becoming mistress of Ardley Hall. Yes; I should say that you might very well send Mr Canninge a nicely-worded note, written on thoroughly good paper--in fact, I'd get some for the purpose--and take pains with your writing, so as to let him see that you are a lady. I should tell him that a sudden demand has been made upon you for fifty pounds--yes, I'd make it fifty pounds, anything under looks so paltry, and as if you were a common begging-letter writer. I don't know but what I'd make it a hundred while I was about it. The extra money would be so useful, my dear; you could buy yourself a few dresses with it and make yourself more attractive. You would be sure to win Mr Canninge, I feel certain. The very fact of your showing him that you look upon him almost as a friend would be sufficient to make, as it were, a link between you. Ah! my dear, if young people would only think a little more of their advantages they would be far more successful in life." Here Mrs Thorne yawned very audibly, and looked at Hazel, who was still bending down, hearing everything, and struggling at the same time to see her way out of the difficulty before them, and to keep back the feelings of misery and degradation aroused by her mother's words. "She has actually gone to sleep!" said Mrs Thorne, who seemed quite to have forgotten the terrors of the past few hours. "Ah, these young people--these young people! Heigh-ho!--has--have--Dear me, how sleepy I am! I think I'll go to bed." She glanced at Hazel, and hesitated for a moment, as if about to touch her, but directly after she left the room, saying-- "I won't wake her. Poor girl! she works very hard, and must be terribly tired." As Mrs Thorne closed the door and went into the adjoining room, Hazel rose from her crouching attitude, her faced lined with care-marks, and a hopeless aspect of misery in her heavy eyes. Hazel stood gazing at the door, listening to every sound from the little adjoining room, till she heard her mother sigh and throw herself upon the bed, when she said in a low voice, "God help me!" and knelt down to pray. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. PAYING THE PIPER. "You must ask Mr Canninge, Hazel, or else Mr Burge or Mr Lambent," said Mrs Thorne dictatorially. "Either you must ask one of those gentlemen, or I shall certainly feel that it is my duty to leave Plumton and seek a refuge at the home of one of my relatives." "Mother," said Hazel decidedly, "I cannot ask one of those gentlemen. Can you not see that it would be a degradation that I could not bear?" "If you would think less of your own degradation, Hazel, and more of mine," said Mrs Thorne, "I think it would be far more becoming on your part." It was breakfast-time, and, hot-eyed, feverish, and weary, Hazel was trying to force down a few morsels of dry bread as she sipped her weak tea. She made no reply, but was working hard to find some solution of the difficulty in which she found herself, but could see none. One thing was evident to her, and that was the fact that she must take the full blame of the pence being missing, and undertake to pay it out of her next half-year's salary. It was impossible for her to accuse her mother, and she could think of no relatives who would advance the money. Her head ached violently, and she was suffering from a severe attack of lassitude that deadened her brain-power making her ready to go back to her bed and try to forget everything in sleep. But there was the day's work to meet and at last, in a dreary, hopeless spirit, she went to the school, seeing Mr Chute on his way to the duties of the day, and meeting his eye, which was full of an ugly, malicious expression, that made her shrink and feel that she had indeed made this man her enemy. The children were more tiresome than usual, or seemed to be, and it was only by a great effort that she was able to keep her attention to the work in hand. At another time she would not have noticed it, but now every tap at the schoolhouse door made her start violently, and think that it was the churchwarden, Mr Piper, come for the school pence. "A guilty conscience needs no accuser," she thought to herself, as she set to once more trying to see her way to some solution of her difficulty, but always in vain; and at last she found herself letting the trouble drift till it should find bottom in some shallow shoal or against the shore, for nothing she could do would help her on. The only thing she could hit upon was to say to the churchwarden that she would bring him up the money shortly, and in the meantime she might find out some means of raising it wishing the while that the jewellery of which she once had a plentiful supply was still her own. She could think of no other plan, and was drearily going on with her work, when there came a loud tap from one of the lower classes, presided over at that time by Feelier Potts, and followed by a howl. "What is that?" "Please, teacher, Feely Potts hit me over the head with a book." "Please, teacher, I kep' on telling her you'd got a bad headache, teacher, and told her to be quiet, and she would keep on making a noise, and--and--and I think I did box her with the Testament, teacher." "But you know, Ophelia how strictly I have forbidden any monitor to touch one of her class." "Yes, please, teacher; and I wouldn't have touched her now, only I knew you'd got such a bad headache, and she would be so tiresome I felt as if I could knock her head right off." "Ophelia!" exclaimed Hazel, as she felt ready to smile at what was evidently a maternal expression. "Please, teacher, I won't do so no more." "Then go to your class. I shall trust you, mind. You have given me your word." "Yes, teacher," cried the girl eagerly; "and is your head better, please, teacher!" "No, Ophelia; it is very bad," said Hazel wearily. "Then, please, teacher, let me run home and get mother's smelling-salts. She's got a new twopenny bottle. Such strong 'uns. Do, please, let me go and fetch 'em, teacher." "Thank you; no, Ophelia," said Hazel, smiling at the girl, whose eyes were sparkling with eagerness. "I have a bottle here. Now, go back to your class, and remember that you will help me most by being attentive and keeping the girls quiet, but not with blows. I do not keep you quiet and attentive, Ophelia, by striking you." "No, please, teacher; but mother does." "I prefer gentle means, my child. I want to rule you, if I can, by love." Feelier looked sharply round to see if she was observed, and then bobbed down quickly, and before Hazel knew what the girl intended to do, she had kissed her hand and was gone. It was a trifling incident, but in Hazel's depressed condition it brought the tears into her eyes, and made her think for the first time of how hard it would be to leave her girls if fate said that through this terrible defalcation she must give up the school. The toil had been hard, the work tiresome, but all the same there had been a something that had seemed to link her to the children, and she began to find out now how thoroughly her heart had been in her daily task. There were endless little troubles to encounter; even now there was a heap of confiscations taken from the children, petted objects that they carried in imitation of their brothers--sticky pieces of well-chewed indiarubber, marbles, buttons; one girl had a top which she persisted in bringing to school, though she could never get it to spin, and had twice been in difficulties for breaking windows with it--at times when its peg stuck to the end of the string. There were several papers of sweets, and an assortment of sweets without papers, and in that semi-glutinous state that comes over the best-made preparations of sugar after being submitted to a process of biscuiting in a warm pocket. Half-gnawed pieces of cake were there too, and fancy scraps of a something that would have puzzled the keenest observer, who could only have come to the conclusion that it was comestible, for it displayed teeth-marks. Without analysis it would not have been safe to venture upon a more decisive opinion. It had been imperceptible, this affection for her school, coming on by slow degrees; and as in the middle of her morning's work Hazel suddenly found herself face to face with the possibility of having to resign, she felt startled, and began to realise that in spite of the many troubles and difficulties with which she had had to contend, Plumton had really been a haven of rest and the thought of going completely unnerved her. She started violently several times over as tap after tap came to the door; but the visitors were always in connection with the children. "Please, may Ann Straggalls come home? Her mother wants her." "Please I've brought Sarah Jane Filler's school money." Then there were calls from a couple of itinerant vendors of wonderfully-got-up illustrated works, published in shilling and half-crown parts, to be continued to infinity, if the purchaser did not grow weary and give them up. At last there came a more decided knock than any of the others, and Hazel's heart seemed to stand still. She knew, without telling, that it was the churchwarden, and she was in no wise surprised at seeing him walk in with his hat on, without waiting to have the door opened, but displaying a certain amount of proprietorship only to be expected from an official of the church. Mr Piper was the principal grocer of Plumton, and in addition to the sale of what he called "grosheries," he dealt largely in cake--not the cake made with caraways or currants, but linseed oil-cake, bought by the farmers for fattening cattle and giving a help to the sheep. Mr Piper "did a little," too, in corn, buying a lot now and then when it was cheap, and keeping it till it was dear. There were many other things in which Mr Piper "did a little," but they were always bits of trading that meant making money; so that take him altogether, he was what people call "a warm man," one who buttoned up his breeches-pockets tightly, and slapped them, as much as to say, "I don't care a pin for a soul--I'm too independent for that." This was the gentleman who, tightly buttoned up in his best coat, and looking, all the same, as if he still had his shop-apron tied, walked importantly into the school with his hat on, and nodded shortly as the girls began to rise and make bobs, the curtseys being addressed to the broadcloth coat more than to Mr Piper himself, a gentleman of whom all the elder girls had bought sweets, and who was associated in their minds with the rattling and clinking of copper scales with their weights. For a goodly sum per annum was expended by the Plumton school children in delicacies, a fact due to the kindness of Mr William Forth Burge, who always went down the town with half-a-crown's worth of the cleanest halfpennies he could get, a large supply of which was always kept for him by Mr Piper's young man, who even went so far as to give them a-shake-up in a large worsted stocking with some sand and a sprinkling of vitriol, knowing full well that these halfpence were pretty sure to come to him again in the course of trade. It was, then, to Mr Piper's best coat that the girls made their bobs, that gentleman being held in small respect. In fact as soon as he entered Feelier Potts went round her class, insisting upon every girl accurately toeing the line; and then, whispering "Don't laugh," she began to repeat the words of the national poet who wrote those touching, interrogative lines beginning, "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers," and finishing off with, "Please, Mr Piper, I want a pen'orth of pickled peppers." "'Morning, Miss Thorne," said Mr Piper importantly, and speaking in his best-coat voice, which was loud and brassy, and very different to his mild, insinuating, "what's-the-next-article, ma'am, yes-it-is-a-fine-morning" voice, which was used behind the counter, and went with a smile. "She ain't ready with that money, I'll lay a crown," said Mr Piper to himself. Then aloud--"I have been getting Mr Chute's school pence, Miss Thorne, to put in my accounts. I always collect the school money once a year." Just then the school-door opened quietly, unheard by Hazel and the churchwarden, and also unnoticed by Miss Feelier Potts, who, forgetting all promises of amendment, was delighting her class by asking Mr Piper in a low voice for half-ounces and pen'orths of all sorts of impossible articles suggested by her active young brain, beginning with sugared soap, and on through boiled blacklead to peppermint mopsticks. The terrible moment had come, and Hazel said, as firmly as she could-- "I am not ready with the accounts, Mr Piper; but I will see to them at once, and--" "Oh, all right: I'm in no hurry," he replied; and Hazel's heart gave a leap of relief, but only to sink down heavily the next moment, as he continued--"I always give one morning a year to this job, so get the money and a pen and ink, and I'll soon run through it with you." "You misunderstood me, Mr Piper," faltered Hazel, whose cheeks began to burn before turning pale with shame. "I have made up the account but I have not the money ready." "Couldn't have made out the account properly without the money counted out ready," he said triumphantly. "I checked it by the sums I had put down each week, Mr Piper," said Hazel. "To be sure. Well, it won't take us long to count the money out." "But I have not the money by me," said Hazel desperately, for she could make no excuse at the moment. "Oh!" said Mr Piper slowly, as he made a curious rasping noise by rubbing a rough finger upon his closely-shaven cheek: "have not got the money by you." "No; not at present," faltered Hazel; and once more the tell-tale blush came flushing to her cheeks. "Oh!" said Mr Piper again; and his interjection was as long as a ten-syllable word. "I will send or bring it up to you in a few days." "Oh!" said Mr Piper once more, and he took out his pocket-book at the same time, but made no attempt to go. He slowly took a pencil from a sheath at the side, and examined its point before thrusting it in again, as if trying very hard to make sure that it was a fit. Hazel was in agony, and would have given anything to be alone, but Mr Piper went on testing the depth of his pencil-sheath in the leather pocket-book, and drawing the pencil out again. "You see, it always has been paid upon the morning I said I'd call. I've got Mr Chute's money in here." He slapped his breeches-pocket twice in a very emphatic manner, and looked at Hazel the while, as if asking her to deny it if she dared. "I--I was taken rather by surprise," faltered Hazel. "Nay, nay," said the churchwarden; "I gave you a day's notice." "Yes," said Hazel, "but I was not ready. I will send or bring the amount in a few days, Mr Piper." "I wanted to have made up my accounts," he said, gazing still at his pencil and pocket-book in a meditative way. "You see, it puts me out, being a business-man. I have all this churchwarden work to do, and don't get nothing by it, and it puts me wrong when things go contrary like, and I can't get in the accounts. Now, your pence, for instance--I ought to have had them a month ago." "I am very sorry, sir, but I was not aware when they ought to be paid in." "You see, I make up all these parish things regular like, and if I can't get the money in it throws me all out." "I am very sorry, Mr Piper." "Yes," he said, turning his pencil upside down, and trying whether it would go in the reverse way; "but, you see, that don't help a busy man. I give up one morning like this every year to the school accounts, and dress myself"--he glanced at the sleeve of his black coat--"and come down, and if the money isn't ready, you see, it throws me out." "Yes, I understand, Mr Piper," faltered Hazel; "and I am very sorry." "Yes," he continued, trying to coax the pencil down by giving it a revolving movement, which succeeded better, though not well, for the leather of the pencil-sheath was getting worn with use, and it went into so many folds that Mr Piper had to withdraw the pencil and try it in the proper way--"Yes, it is a nuisance to a busy man," he continued. "I don't know why I go on doing this parish work, for it never pleases nobody, and takes up a deal of a man's time. I wouldn't do it, only Mr Lambent as good as begs of me not to give it up. P'r'aps you'll give me what you have in hand, miss." "Give you what I have in hand?" said Hazel. "Yes! Part on account you know, and send me the rest." "I cannot, Mr Piper. I am not prepared," said Hazel, who felt ready to sink with shame, and the degradation of being importuned at such a time. "Can't you give me any of it on account--some of your own money, you know, miss!" "I really cannot sir; but I will endeavour to pay it over as soon as possible." "Within a week?" "I--I think so," faltered Hazel. Rap went the book open, and Mr Piper's pencil was going as if it was taking down an order for "grosheries," making a note to the effect that Miss Thorne could not pay the school pence upon the proper day, but would pay it within a week. Hazel stood and shivered, for it was horrible to see how business-like Mr Piper could be; and though she could not see the words he wrote, she mentally read them, and wondered how it would be possible to meet the engagement. Still, it was a respite, disgraceful as it seemed, and she felt her spirits rise as the churchwarden wrote away as busily as a commercial traveller who has just solicited what he calls a "line." All this time the school-door was standing partly open, as if some one was waiting to come in, but Hazel was too intent to see. "That'll do, then, for that," said the churchwarden, shutting his book on the pencil and then peering sidewise like a magpie into one of the pockets, from which he extracted a carefully folded piece of blue paper, at the top of which was written very neatly, "Miss Thorne." "As I was coming down, miss, I thought it would be a good chance for speaking to you about your account, miss, which keeps on getting too much behindhand; so p'r'aps you'll give me something on account of that and pay the rest off as quick as you can." "Your account, Mr Piper?" said Hazel, taking the paper. "Yes, miss. Small profits and quick returns is my motter. I don't believe in giving credit--'tain't my way. I should never get on if I did." "But you mistake, Mr Piper; everything we have had of you has been paid for at the time, or at the end of the week." "Don't look like it, miss. When people won't have nothing but my finest Hyson and Shoesong, and a bottle of the best port every week, bottles regularly returned, of course a bill soon runs up." "But surely--" cried Hazel. "Oh, you'll find it all right there, miss; every figure's my own putting down. I always keep my own books myself, so it's all right." "Have you nearly done, Mr Piper?" said Miss Lambent, speaking sweetly, as she stood with Beatrice at the door. "Pray don't hurry: we can wait. Our time's not so valuable as yours." "Just done, miss--just done, miss. You'll find that quite right, Miss Thorne--eleven pun fifteen nine and a half. S'pose you give me six this morning and let the other stand for a week or two?" "Mr Piper, I must examine the bill," said Hazel hoarsely. "I did not know that I was indebted to you more than half-a-sovereign." "Oh, you'll find that all right miss, all right. Can you let me have a little on account?" "I cannot this morning!" cried Hazel desperately. "May we come in now?" said Rebecca Lambent. "Yes, miss, come in," said the churchwarden, closing his pocket-book as Hazel crushed this last horror in her hand in a weak dread lest it should be seen. "So you've been collecting the school accounts as usual, Mr Piper," said Beatrice, smiling. "How much do they amount to this time? My brother will be so anxious to know." Out came Mr Piper's pocket-book again, the pencil was drawn from its sheath, and the page found. "Boys' pence for the year ending the blank day of blank eighteen blank," read Mr Piper, "thirty-two pound seven shillings and eightpence-ha'penny: though I can't quite make out that ha'penny." "And the girls', Mr Piper--how much is that?" "Well, you see, Miss Thorne ain't ready 'm yet so I can't tell. It's no use for me to put down the sum till I get the money. Good morning, miss. Good morning, miss. It's a busy time with me, so I must go." The churchwarden left the schoolroom, his hat still upon his head, and Hazel was left face to face with her friends from the Vicarage. "Had you not better call Mr Piper back, Miss Thorne," said Rebecca. "Shall I call him, Miss Thorne?" said Beatrice eagerly. "No, ma'am, I thank you," replied Hazel. "I explained to Mr Piper that I was not ready for him this morning." "But did he not send word that he was coming?" said Rebecca suavely. "I know he always used to send down the day before." "Yes, Miss Lambent; Mr Piper did send down, but I have not the money by me," said Hazel desperately. "My--I mean we--had a pressing necessity for some money, and it has been used. I will pay Mr Piper, in the course of a few days." Rebecca Lambent appeared to freeze as she glanced at her sister, who also became icy. "It is very strange," said the former. "Quite contrary to our rules, I think, sister," replied Beatrice, "Are you ready?" "Yes, dear. Good morning, Miss Thorne." "Yes; good morning, Miss Thorne," said Beatrice; and they swept out of the school together, remaining silent for the first hundred yards or so as they went homeward. "This is very extraordinary, Rebecca," cried Beatrice at last, speaking with an assumption of horror and astonishment, but with joy in her heart. "Not at all extraordinary," said Rebecca. "I am not in the least surprised. Unable to pay over the school pence and deeply in debt to the grocer! I wonder what she owes to the butcher and baker?" "And the draper!" said Beatrice malignantly. "A schoolmistress flaunting about with a silk parasol! What does a schoolmistress want with a parasol?" "She is not wax," said Rebecca. "I rarely use one. And now look here, Beattie; it is all true, then, about that boy." "What! Miss Thorne's brother?" "Yes; Hazel Thorne's brother. He was in trouble, then, in London, and fled here, and it seems as if the vice is in the family. Why, it is sheer embezzlement to keep back and spend the school pence. I wonder what Henry will say to his favourite now?" Meanwhile Hazel, whose head throbbed so heavily that she could hardly bear the pain, had dismissed the girls, for it was noon, and then hurried back to the cottage to seek her room, very rudely and sulkily, Mrs Thorne said, for she had spoken to her child as she passed through, but Hazel did not seem to hear. "I sincerely hope, my dears, that when you grow up," said Mrs Thorne didactically, "you will never behave so rudely to your poor mamma as Hazel does." "Hazel don't mean to be rude, ma," said Cissy in an old-fashioned way. "She has got a bad headache, that's all. I'm going up to talk to her." "No, Cissy; you will stay with me," said Mrs Thorne authoritatively. "I may go, mayn't I, ma? I want to talk to Hazel," said Mab. "You will stay where you are, my dears; and I sincerely hope to be able to teach you both how to comport yourself towards your mamma. Hazel, I am sorry to say, has a good deal changed." A good deal, truly; for she looked ghastly now, as she knelt by the bed, holding her aching head, and praying for help and strength of mind to get through her present difficulties and those which were to come. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. MOTHER AND SON. "I thought you would have come in, George," said Mrs Canninge, entering her son's library, where he was seated, looking very moody and thoughtful. "Come in? Come in where?" "To the drawing-room, dear. Beatrice Lambent called. I thought you would have known." "I saw some one come by," he said quietly. "I did not know it was she." "She is in great trouble, poor girl!" continued Mrs Canninge; "or, I should say, they are all in great trouble at the Vicarage." "Indeed! I'm very sorry. What is wrong!" "Nothing serious, my dear; only you know what good people they are, and when they make a _protegee_ of anybody, and that body doesn't turn out well, of course they feel it deeply." "Of course," said George Canninge absently; and his mother bit her lip, for she had not excited his curiosity in the least and she had wanted him to ask questions. "It seems very sad, poor girl!" she said after a pause. "My dear mother," said the young squire rather impatiently, "Is it not rather foolish of you to speak of Beatrice Lambent as `poor girl'? She must be past thirty." "I was not speaking of Beatrice Lambent, my dear," said Mrs Canninge; "though, really, George, I do not think you ought to jump at conclusions like that about dear Beatrice's age, which is, as she informed me herself, twenty-five. I was speaking of their _protegee_ at the Vicarage." "I beg your pardon," said George Canninge. "I did not know, though, that they had a _protegee_." "Well, perhaps I am not quite correct, my dear boy, in calling her their _protegee_; but they certainly have taken great interest in her, and it seems very sad for her to have turned out so badly. They took such pains about getting the right sort of person, too." "Whom do you mean?" said the young man carelessly; "their new cook? Why, the parson was bragging about her tremendously the other day when he dined here--a woman who could make soup fit for a prince out of next to nothing." "My dear boy, how you do run away, and how cynically and bitterly you speak!" exclaimed Mrs Canninge, laying her hands upon her son's shoulders. "I was not speaking of Mr Lambent's cook; I meant the new schoolmistress." There was a pause. "I felt his heart give a great throb," said Mrs Canninge to herself. "Calm as he is striving to be, I can understand him, and read him as easily as can be." "Indeed!" said George Canninge at last, as soon as he could master his emotion. "I was not aware the Vicarage people thought so much of Miss-- of the new schoolmistress." "Well, you see, dear, she is only a schoolmistress, but they have been very kind and considerate to her. They found her to be a young person of prepossessing manners, and, like all country people, they took it for granted that she would be worthy of trust; and, therefore this discovery must have been a great shock to them." It needed all George Canninge's self-command to keep him calmly seated there while his mother, from what she considered to be a sense of duty, went on poisoning his wound. But he mastered himself, and bore it all like a stoic, denying himself the luxury of asking questions, though the suspense was maddening, and he burned to hear what his mother had to say. "I declare, George," she said at last; "it is quite disheartening. You seem to have given up taking an interest in anything. I thought you would have liked to hear the Vicarage troubles." "My dear mother, why should I worry myself about the `Vicarage troubles'?" said the young squire calmly. "I have enough of my own." "But you are the principal landholder here, my dear, and you must learn to take an interest in parish matters for many reasons. Now, this Miss Thorne has been trusted to a great extent by Mr Lambent and it seems shocking to find one so young behaving in an unprincipled manner." George Canninge rose. There is an end to most things; certainly there is to the forbearance of a man, and Mrs Canninge's son could bear no more. "Unprincipled is a very hard term to apply to a young lady, mother," he said, with the blood flushing into his cheeks. "It is, my dear boy, I grant it; and very sad it is to find one who seemed to be well educated and to possess so much superficial refinement, ready to yield to temptation." The ruddy tint faded out of George Canninge's cheeks, leaving him very pale; but he remained perfectly silent, while his mother went on-- "It is the old story, I suppose: that terrible love of finery that we find in most young girls. I must say I have noticed myself that Miss Thorne dressed decidedly above her station." George Canninge did not speak. His eyelids drooped over his eyes, and he stood listening, with every nerve upon the stretch; and very slowly and deliberately Mrs Canninge went on-- "I am sure I am very sorry, my dear, for it seems so sad; though, really, I do not see that I need trouble myself about it. The foolish girl, I suppose, wanted money for dress, and having these school funds in her hand--children's pence and some club money--she made use of them. So foolish, too, my dear, because she must have known that sooner or later, she would be found out." "Who has told you this, mother!" said George Canninge sternly. "I heard it from Beatrice Lambent, my dear, just now. She is in terrible trouble about it." "Miss Lambent has been misinformed," said George Canninge calmly; but it cost him a tremendous effort to speak as he did. "Oh, dear me, no, my dear George!" exclaimed Mrs Canninge eagerly. "She was present when Mr Piper went to the school to receive the money, and she confessed to having spent it; and it seems that these people are terribly in debt as well." "There is some mistake, mother," said George Canninge again, in the same calm, judicial voice; "it cannot be true." "But it is true, my dear boy," persisted Mrs Canninge, who, woman of the world as she was, had not the prudence upon this occasion to leave her words to rankle in her son's breast, but tried to drive them home with others in her eagerness to excite disgust with an object upon which George Canninge seemed to have set his mind. "I say, mother, that it cannot be true," he said, speaking very sternly now; and he crossed the room. "You are not going out dear?" said Mrs Canninge. "I want to talk to you a little more." "You have talked to me enough for one day, mother," said the young man firmly; "and I must go." "But where, dear? You are not going to the Vicarage to ask if what I have told you is true? I had it from dear Beatrice's own lips, and she is terribly cut up about it." "I am not going to the Vicarage, mother," said the young man firmly. "I am going down to the school to ask Miss Thorne." "George, my dear son!" Her answer was the loudly closing door, and directly after she heard steps upon the gravel-drive. She ran to the window, and could see that her son was walking rapidly across the park; for George Canninge was so deeply considering the words he had heard that he would not wait for his horse. "It is monstrous!" cried Mrs Canninge, stamping angrily. "It shall never be! It would be a disgrace!" The next minute she had thrown herself angrily into her son's chair, and sat there with clenched hands and lowering brow. A minute later, and she was acting as most women do when they cannot make matters go as they wish. Mrs Canninge took out her pocket-handkerchief, and shed some bitter, mortified tears. CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. SISTER AND BROTHER--VULGAR. "Oh, Bill!" Then an interval of panting and wiping her perspiring face and then again-- "Oh, Bill!" Then a burst of piteous sobbing, for poor little Miss Burge was crying as if her heart would break. "Let it go, Betsey. Don't try to stop it, dear. Let it go," said Mr William Forth Burge in the most sympathising of tones; and his sister did let it go, crying vehemently for a time, while he waited patiently to know what was the matter. "That's better, my dear," he said, kissing her. "Now then, tell us what's the matter." "Oh, Bill! I've been down the town, and I almost ran back to tell you the news." "And you haven't told it to me yet," he said, smiling affectionately at the troubled little woman, under the impression that he was doing the right thing to comfort her. "Don't laugh, Bill dear; for you'll be so upset when you know." "Shall I, Betsey?" he said seriously. "Then I won't laugh." "You see, I went down to Piper's to order some fresh things for the storeroom, as I'd been through this morning, when Mr Piper himself came to wait upon me, and he told me he'd been down to the schools for the children's pence for the year, and that Mr Chute had paid, and that Miss Thorne didn't, but owned that she had spent all the money." "What! the school pence?" "Yes, dear; and after a time he said that the Thornes were a good deal in debt with him besides." "More shame for him. I never went shouting it out to other folks if any one was in my debt. But, Betsey, did he say Miss Thorne had--had spent the money!" "Yes, dear; and it was so shocking." Mr William Forth Burge stood rubbing and smoothing his fat round face over with his hand for a few moments, his sister watching him eagerly the while, like one who looks for help from the superior wisdom of another. "I don't believe it," said the great man at last. "You don't believe it, Bill?" "Not a bit of it." "Oh, I am glad!" cried Miss Burge, clapping her hands. "It would have been shocking if it had been true." "Did you go down and see Miss Thorne?" "No, dear; I came to tell you directly." "You ought to have gone down and asked her about it, Betsey," said her brother stiffly. "Ought I, Bill dear? Oh, I am so sorry! I'll go down at once." "No, you won't: I'll go myself. Perhaps, poor girl! she has spent the money because it was wanted about her brother, and she's been afraid to speak about it, when of course, if she'd just said a word to you, Betsey, you'd have let her have fifty or a hundred pound in a minute." "No, indeed, Bill dear, for I haven't got it," said Miss Burge innocently. "Yes, you have, dear," he said, screwing up his face, and opening and shutting one eye a great deal. "Of course she wouldn't take it from me, but she would from you, you know. Don't you see?" "Oh, Bill dear, what a one you are!" cried little Miss Burge. "I'll go down to her at once." "No," he said; "I must go. It's too late now; but another time you just mind, for you've got plenty of money for that I say, Betsey: I've got it, my dear--it's her mother!" "What's her mother, Bill dear?" "Spent the money, and she's took the blame," he cried triumphantly. "Oh! I am glad, Bill. But oh, how clever you are, dear! How did you find it out?" "It's just knowing a thing or two; that's all, Betsey. I've had jobs like this in connection with business before now. But I must be off." "But won't you take me with you, Bill?" He hesitated for a moment or two, and then said-- "Well, you may as well come, Betsey; but mind what you're about, and don't get making an offer, for fear of giving offence." "Would it give offence, Bill?" "Yes, if you didn't mind your p's and q's. You hold your tongue, and leave everything to me; but if I give you a hint, you're to take Miss Thorne aside and make her an offer." "It's my belief that Bill will be making her an offer one of these days," thought little Miss Burge; "but she don't seem to be quite the sort of wife for him, if he is going to bring one home." Mr William Forth Burge was not long in changing his coat and he met his sister in the hall, twirling his orange silk handkerchief round and round his already too glossy hat; after which they walked down arm-in-arm to the school, to find the head pupil-teacher in charge, and the girls unusually quiet, a fact due to the vicar being in the class-room, in company with George Canninge, both having arrived together, and then shaken hands warmly, and entered to have a look round the school. Mr William Forth Burge and his sister both shook hands with the other visitors, and were then informed that Miss Thorne was suffering from a terribly bad headache. She had been very unwell, the pupil-teacher said, all the morning, and had been obliged to go and lie down. Hereupon the visitors all began to fence, the object of their call being scrupulously kept in the background, and they one and all took a great deal of interest in the girls, and ended by going away all together, expressing their sorrow that poor Miss Thorne was so unwell. The vicar and George Canninge walked up the town street together, after shaking hands with Mr and Miss Burge, and discussed politics till they parted; while Mr William Forth Burge, slowly followed with his sister, also talking politics but of a smaller kind, for they were the politics of the Plumton people, and the great man began to lay down the law according to his own ideas. "They were both down there about that school money, Betsey, as sure as a gun. But just you look here: people think I'm soft because I come out with my money for charities and that sort of thing; but they never made a bigger mistake in their lives, if they think they can do just what they like with me; so there now." "That they never did, Bill," assented his sister. "I look upon them schools as good as mine, and if there's to be a row about this money, I mean to have a word in it, for I'm not a-going to have that poor young lady sat upon by no one. I've hit the nail on the head as sure as a gun, and if it isn't the old lady that's got her into a scrape, you may call me a fool." "Which I never would, Bill," said little Miss Burge emphatically; and together they toddled back home. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING BY POST. It was a most extraordinary thing, but, probably from uneasiness, Mrs Thorne was the first down next morning. Hazel had had a sleepless night, and it was not till six o'clock that she dropped off to sleep heavily, and did not awaken till past eight, when, hot, feverish, and with her head thick and throbbing, she hurriedly dressed herself and went down. Fate plays some strange tricks with us at times; and on this, the first morning for months that Hazel had not received the letters herself, Mrs Thorne was there to take them. "Three letters for Hazel," she said to herself. "Dear me, how strange! Three letters, and all bearing the Plumton postmark!" She changed the envelopes from hand to hand, and shuffled them in a fidgety way, as if they were cards. "I feel very much displeased, for Hazel has no right to be receiving letters from gentlemen; and I am sure if Edward Geringer were here he would thoroughly approve of the course I take. She shall not have these letters at all. It is my duty as Hazel's mamma to suppress such correspondence. Often and often have I said to her, `Hazel, my child, under any circumstances never forget that you are a lady.'" There was another close examination of the letters, and then Mrs Thorne went on-- "No young lady in my time would have ventured upon a clandestine correspondence with a gentleman; and now, to my horror as a mamma, I wake to the fact that my daughter is corresponding with three gentlemen at once. Oh, Hazel, Hazel, Hazel! it is a bitter discovery for me to make that a child of mine has been deceiving me. I wonder who they can be from." Mrs Thorne laid the envelopes before her with the addresses uppermost. "`Miss Thorne, The Schools, Plumton All Saints,' all addressed the same. This, then, is the reason why poor Edward Geringer has been refused." Here there was another examination of the postmarks. "Three gentlemen, and all living at Plumton. Now, really, Hazel, it is not proper. It is not ladylike. One gentleman would have been bad enough, in clandestine correspondence; though, perhaps, if there had been two it would be because she had not quite made up her mind. But three gentlemen! It is positively disgraceful, and I shall stop it at once!" This time, in changing the position of the letters, Mrs Thorne turned them upside down. "I remember at the time poor Thorne was paying me attentions how Mr Deputy Cheaply and Mr Meriton, of the Common Council, both wished to pay me attentions as well; but, no: I said it would not be correct. And I little thought, after all my efforts, that a child of mine would be so utterly forgetful of her self-respect as to behave like this. Ah, Hazel! Hazel! It is no wonder that the silver threads begin to appear fast in my poor hair." Mrs Thorne placed the envelopes beneath her apron as the two children came bustling in, one with the cloth, and the other with the bread-trencher, to prepare the breakfast. "Hazel's fast asleep, ma, and we're going to get breakfast ready ourselves." "I'm sure I don't know why your sister can't come down, my dears," said Mrs Thorne pettishly. "It is very thoughtless of her, knowing, as she does, how poorly I am." "Sis Hazy has got a very bad headache, mamma; and we dressed quietly and came down and lit the fire quite early." "Oh, it was you lit the fire, was it!" said Mrs Thorne. "I thought it was one of the schoolgirls." "No; it was us, ma dear; and when we've made the tea we're going to take poor Hazy a cup in bed." "Whoever can these letters be from?" said Mrs Thorne to herself, as she turned them over and over in her hands, growing quite flushed and excited the while. "I declare I don't know when I have felt so hurt and troubled;" and going into the little parlour, leaving the children busy over the preparations, she once more examined them carefully, and ended by taking out her scissors. "I don't care!" she exclaimed; "it is my duty as Hazel's mamma to watch over her, and I should not be doing that duty if I did not see who are the gentlemen who correspond with her." Mrs Thorne hesitated a few minutes longer, and then the itching sensation of curiosity proved to be too much for the poor woman, and taking the pair of finely-pointed scissors, she slit open the three envelopes, and then started guiltily, thrust them into her pocket, and went into the kitchen. "Did I hear Hazel coming down?" she said sharply. "No, ma. Mab just went up and found her fast asleep." Mrs Thorne went back into the parlour, hesitated a few moments longer, and then opened the first letter, to find that it contained five ten-pound notes, all new and crisp, and with them a sheet of note-paper bearing the words:-- "Will Miss Thorne accept the help of a very sincere friend?" That was all. "Well, I am sure!" exclaimed Mrs Thorne, staring at the crisp notes, re-reading the words upon the note-paper, and then hurriedly replacing notes and paper in the envelope. "Now, who can that be from?" The second envelope was then opened, and, to Mrs Thorne's intense astonishment, it contained ten five-pound notes, also crisp and new, and with them the simple words:-- "With the hope that they may be useful. From a friend." "I never did in all my life!" exclaimed Mrs Thorne, now beginning to perspire profusely, as she hurriedly replaced the second batch of notes, and then with trembling fingers opened the last envelope, which contained six five-pound notes, carefully enclosed in a second envelope, but without a word. "Only thirty pounds," said Mrs Thorne, "only thirty, and without a word. Well, all I can say is, that whoever sent it is rather mean. Now, who can have sent these banknotes? Well, of course, it is on account of that paltry sum in school pence being required, and it is very kind, but I don't think I ought to allow Hazel to receive money like this. Really, it is a very puzzling thing, and I wish Edward Geringer was here." The notes were returned to the third envelope, and Mrs Thorne sat there very thoughtful, and looking extremely perplexed. "No; I certainly shall not let Hazel have this money. A girl at her time of life might be tempted into a great many follies of dress if she had it and I shall certainly keep it from her." With a quiet self-satisfied smile, she placed the notes in her pocket and was in the act of rising, when she turned and saw Cissy at the door. "Well, what is it?" said Mrs Thorne sharply. "Breakfast's ready, ma dear; and I can hear Hazy dressing in such a hurry. Come and sit down, and let's all be waiting for her. It will be such fun. She will be so surprised when she comes down." Mrs Thorne felt relieved, for she was afraid that the child had seen her with the notes, and that might have interfered with her plans. "I'm sure it is quite time your sister was down, my dear," said the lady indignantly. "I don't know how she expects the wretched children she teaches to be punctual, if she is so late herself." And assuming an aspect of dignified, injured state, she seated herself at the table, the children smothering their mirth as they also sat down, one on either side, and watched the door. Hazel hurried down directly after, to come hastily into the little kitchen, where, reading the children's faces, she felt the tears rush into her eyes with the emotion caused by the pleasant innocent surprise, and went and kissed them both before saluting her mother, who kept up her childish, injured air. "Really, Hazel, my dear, I think when I do come down that you might study me a little, and not leave everything to these poor children. It comes very hard upon me, to see them driven to such menial duties, when their sister might place us all in a state of opulence. It seems very hard--very hard indeed." Hazel glanced at her, but did not speak. There was that, however, in her eyes which told of mingled reproach and pity, emotions that the weak woman could not read, as she took the tea handed to her, sipping it slowly with an injured sigh. "Were there any letters, mother!" said Hazel, when breakfast was half over and she had glanced at the clock, for Feelier Potts had been for the schoolroom key, and already there were distant echoing sounds of voices and footsteps in the great room, which told of the arrival of the scholars. Mrs Thorne did not reply. "Were there any letters, mother dear?" said Hazel again. "Pass me the bread and butter, Mab, my child," said Mrs Thorne, colouring slightly, while Hazel looked at her with wonder. "There were three letters for you, Hazy," cried Cissy sharply. "Cissy! How dare you say such a thing?" cried Mrs Thorne. "Please, ma, I met the postman when I went for the milk, and the postman told me so, and I saw him afterwards showing them to Mr Chute." "You wicked--Oh, of course, yes. I forgot," said Mrs Thorne hastily, as she encountered her daughter's eye fixed upon her with such a look of reproach that she shivered, and in her abject weakness coloured like a detected schoolgirl. "Will you give me the letters, mamma?" said Hazel, holding out her hand. "Don't call me mamma like that, Hazel," said Mrs Thorne, with a weak attempt at holding her position; but her daughter's outstretched hand was sufficient to make her tremblingly take the letters from her pocket and pass them across the table. "You have opened them, mamma!" said Hazel. "Once more, Hazel, I must beg of you not to call me _mamma_ like that!" exclaimed Mrs Thorne. "I have always noticed that it is done when you are angry." "I said you have opened them, mamma!" "Of course I have, my dear. I should not be doing my duty as your mother if I did not see for myself who are the class of people with whom you hold clandestine correspondence." "You know, mother," said Hazel firmly, "that I should never think of corresponding with any one without your approval." "Then, pray, what do those letters mean?" "I do not know," said Hazel quietly; and she opened them one by one, saw their contents, read the notes that accompanied two, and then, letting her face go down upon her hands she uttered a loud sob. "Now, that is being foolish, Hazel," cried her mother. "Children, leave the table! Or, no, it will be better that your sister and I should retire. No; take your breakfasts into the other room, children, and I will talk to your sister here." "Don't cry, Hazy," whispered Cissy, clinging to her sister affectionately. "Don't speak cross to Hazel, please ma," whispered Mab. "Silence, disobedient children!" cried the poor woman in tragic tones. "Leave the room, I desire." Hazel felt cut to the heart with sorrow, misery, and despair. The increasing mental weakness of her mother, and her growing lack of moral appreciation of right and wrong, were agonising to her; and at that moment she felt as if this new trouble about the letters was a judgment upon her for opening those addressed to her mother, though it was done to save her from pain. To some people the airs and assumptions of Mrs Thorne would have been food for mirth; but to Hazel the mental pain was intense. Knowing what the poor woman had been previous to her troubles, this childishness was another pang; and often and often, when ready to utter words of reproach, she changed them to those of tenderness and consideration. "Now, Hazel," said Mrs Thorne with dignity, "I am waiting for an explanation." "An explanation, dear?" said Hazel, leaving her seat to place her arm affectionately round her mother's neck. "Not yet, Hazel," said the poor woman, shrinking away. "I cannot accept your caresses till I have had a proper explanation about those letters." "My dear mother, I can give you no explanation." "What! do you deny that you are corresponding with three different gentlemen at once?" "Yes, mother dear. Is it likely?" said Hazel, smiling. "Don't treat the matter with levity, Hazel. I cannot bear it! Who are those letters from?" "I do not know, dear; though I think I could guess." "Then I insist upon knowing." "My dear mother, I can only think they are from people who know of my trouble about the school." "You did not write and ask for help, Hazel?" "No, mother. No; I should not have done such a thing." "Then tell me at once who would send to you like that." "Mother dear, can you not spare me this?" "I never did see such a strange girl in my life as you are, Hazel. Well, never mind; I dare say I can bear another slight or two if you will not tell me. There, I suppose you must pay that wretched school money out of those notes." "Out of these, mother?" "Of course, child. Why, what are you thinking now?" "Mother dear, it is impossible." "Impossible, child! Why, what romantic notion have you taken into your head now?" "It is no romance, mother; it is reality," sighed Hazel. "Then what are you going to do?" "Return the money to the givers as soon as I can be certain where to send." "Return it? What! that money, when you know how urgently it is needed at home?" "Yes, dear." "And how is that school money to be paid?" Hazel was silent. "I declare, Hazel," cried Mrs Thorne, "your behaviour is quite preposterous, and the absurdity of your ideas beyond belief. Do, pray, leave off these foolish ways and try to behave like a sensible--There now, I declare her conduct is quite shocking: running off like that without saying `Good morning,' or `May I leave the room, mamma?' Dear, dear me, I have come down in the world indeed." For Hazel had suddenly left the room--nine o'clock striking--and the idea strongly impressing itself upon her mind that so sure as she happened to be late some one or another would kindly inform Miss Lambent if she did not realise it for herself. CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. HAZEL THORNE SEEKS HELP. As soon as Hazel Thorne had fairly started the school that morning, she took out the envelopes and studied each handwriting fairly to see if she could make out who were the senders of the letters. That she found she could not do, but in her own mind she set down the writers aright, and a bitter feeling of shame and humiliation came upon her as she felt that those who sent would never have dreamed of making such a present to any one they respected. It looked to her like charity, and her face burned as she indignantly longed to return the envelopes and notes to their senders. She knew that there had been the three gentlemen visitors to the school while she was absent upon the previous afternoon, and though it was possible that they might have been down to speak to her respecting her failure of trust, her heart told her that it was not; and now her mother's strong desire to leave the place seemed to have come upon her in turn, and she felt that she would give anything to be a hundred miles away from Plumton and at peace. She tried to win forgetfulness by devoting herself to the various classes, but in vain; every step she heard seemed to be a visitor coming to ask her about the money not paid, and every subject she took up suggested the notes now lying in her pocket. Twice over she went to her desk and there wrote a brief letter of thanks to Mr William Forth Burge, but she tore it up directly; and she dared not write one to George Canninge, nor yet to the vicar, from whom she was sure the other amounts had come. Just in the middle of one of her greatest fits of depression there was a knock at the door, and she dreaded that it might be the vicar, while if it had been George Canninge she felt that she dared not have faced him. Her heart gave a throb of relief as she heard the familiar tones of Mr William Forth Burge, and the next throb was one of gratitude as she knew that he had had the delicacy to bring his sister with him. Then there was a depressing feeling as she felt that they would show by their manner how displeased and disappointed they were at her breach of trust. Here she was wrong again, for her visitors' greeting was warm in the extreme, and with the reaction a sensation of oppression robbed her of the power of speech; while had she not tried hard she would have burst into a passionate flood of tears. "We were so sorry to hear of your bad headache, my dear," said little Miss Burge affectionately, "and really I don't think you ought to be here now. Your poor eyes look as red as red, and you are quite pale and feverish." "So she is," said Mr William Forth Burge. "Why, Betsey, there ought to be a holiday, so that Miss Thorne could take a day or two's rest." "No, no, Mr Burge; I am better," said Hazel, speaking excitedly; for the kindly consideration of these people had taken away all resentment, all pride, and she felt that she was with friends. "Mr William Forth Burge--" "No, no; plain Mr Burge or William Burge to me, Miss Thorne. I don't want a long name from you." "Mr Burge--Miss Burge, yesterday I could not have spoken to you upon this subject, but your kindness--" "There, there, there; don't say a word about it," he replied quickly. "I know all, and it was an accident." "An accident?" "Yes, my dear," broke in little Miss Burge. "Bill talked it over to me last night, and--Now, you won't be offended, my dear?" "Nothing you could say would offend me," cried Hazel eagerly. "No, of course not, my dear. Well, my brother said to me, `depend upon it, Betsey, her poor ma wanted the money for housekeeping or something, and just used it. That's all.'" "And he has humiliated me by this letter that I received by post." "Don't call it humiliation, my dear," cried Miss Burge; "it was only sent out of civility to you as one of our neighbours whom we like, and that's what it means." Hazel hesitated for a few moments, and then, in her loneliness and isolation, she clung to the hands outstretched to help her. "Mr Burge--Miss Burge, I am so lonely and helpless here. You have heard about the school pence, but I cannot tell you why the amount was wanting. Give me your help and counsel." "Then will you let me help you?" "I shall be most grateful if you will," cried Hazel. "Hullo!" shouted Burge, staring up at the partition. "What are you a-doing there?" "The shutter slipped down a little, sir," said Mr Chute loudly. "Trying to close it, sir. That's it!" and the shutter closed with a snap. "Oh, that's it, is it?" said Mr William Forth Burge angrily. "I don't know as that is it, Mr Chute." But Mr Chute had by this time fastened the shutter, and had descended from his coign of vantage, looking very red and feeling terribly mortified at having been detected. "He was listening; that's about what he was doing." There was a buzz of excitement amongst the children, but it subsided directly, and Hazel placed at a venture the envelope which she believed to have come from her visitor in his hands. "You sent that to me, Mr Burge," said Hazel firmly. "Well, it was me, as you know, Miss Thorne; and you won't hurt our feelings by refusing it, will you?" "I could not take it, sir; but I do appreciate your goodness all the same. Now help me to decide who sent me these letters." Hazel's visitors looked at each other, then at the envelopes, and then back at Hazel. "Do you want me to say who sent those two letters?" said Mr William Forth Burge gloomily. "I should be very grateful if you could, sir." "This one's from Mr Canninge, at Ardley, I should say; and the other's the parson's writing, I feel sure. If they've sent you money, Miss Thorne, of course you won't want mine--ours." It was an endorsement of her own opinion, and for the moment Hazel did not notice the dull, heavy look on her visitor's face as she exclaimed-- "I have no doubt these gentlemen had kindly intentions, but I cannot take their help, and I want to see whether I might risk a mistake in returning the notes." "Oh, I think I'd return 'em," said Mr William Forth Burge eagerly. "I'd risk its being a mistake. Even if it _was_, your conduct would be right." Hazel looked at him intently, and then bowed her head in acquiescence. "Yes," she said thoughtfully, "I will risk its being a mistake. Or no: Mr Burge, will you be my friend in my present helpless state? I ask you to return the notes on my behalf." "That's just what I will do," he cried excitedly, for it seemed to him that he had won the day. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. MR WILLIAM FORTH BURGE IS INDIGNANT. You may make money, and you may turn philanthropist giving right and left, letting not either hand know what the other doeth; but if you think you are going to make innumerable friends by so doing, you are mistaken, for you will most likely make enemies. You will excite jealousy amongst your equals, because you have passed them in the race; your superiors, as they call themselves, will condemn you, and hold you in contempt for trying, as they say, to climb to their level; and even the recipients of your bounty will be offended. Mrs Dilly will think that Miss Bolly's half-pound of tea was better than hers, and old Tom Dibley will be sure to consider the piece of beef his neighbour, Joe Stocks, received "a better cut" than his own. It was so with Mr William Forth Burge, who gave a great deal of beef to the poor--it was in his way--and who was constantly giving offence by presenting one poor family with better "cuts" than others; and he knew it, too. "I tell you what, Betsey," he said, rubbing his ear with vexation, one day, "it's my full belief that nature made a regular mistake in bullocks. There ought to be no legs and shins, or clods or stickings, my dear, but every beast ought to be all sirloin; though it's my belief, old girl, that if it was, and you let 'em have it full of gravy, and sprinkled with nice white scraped horse-radish on the top, they wouldn't be satisfied, but would say the quality was bad." "There, never mind, Bill dear," said his comforter; "some people always would be ungrateful. Old Granny Jinkins is just as bad. She said yesterday that the nice, warm, soft, new flannel jacket I made for her myself was not half so nice and warm as one I gave to Nancy Dean." "Yes, that's just the way," said Mr William Forth Burge. "The more you help people, the more they turns again' you. I often wish I'd never made a penny; for what's the good of it all but to help other people, and be grumbled at afterwards for not helping 'em more?" "Oh, but all people ain't the same, dear." "There ain't much difference, Betsey. Here's old Mrs Thorne quite hates me; that boy thinks I'm a reg'lar cad; and Miss Thorne's turning the same way." "That I'm sure she's not!" cried little Miss Burge, starting up and speaking angrily, with her face flushed, "Miss Hazel Thorne's as good as gold, and she thinks you the best of men; and I declare, Bill, that you ought to be ashamed of yourself, and I don't know what you don't deserve. It's too bad. There!" "Thanky, Betsey, my dear. That seems to do me good. I like to hear you speak out like that. But do you really think she likes me?" "I'm sure she does, Bill, and there ain't no think in the matter; and there, for goodness' sake, don't you settle down into a grumbler, Bill, because you've got no cause to be, I'm sure." "Well, I don't know, Betsey," he said, stirring his tea slowly. "Things don't seem to go right. I thought, seeing what I'd done for the schools, I ought to have a pretty good voice in everything, but because I've spent hundreds and hundreds over 'em it seems just why I'm to be opposed. Here's Chute: I showed the committee that he was a miserable spy of a fellow, not content with watching Miss Thorne, but putting it about that she was carrying on with different people in the place and gentlemen from town, just out of spite like, as Lambent agrees with me, because the poor gal wouldn't notice him. Well, I want him dismissed or made to resign." "Well, and isn't he to go?" "Go! Lor' bless you! Why, the committee's up in arms to keep him; and just on account of that school-pence job, as the poor gal couldn't help at all, they'd have dismissed her if she hadn't said she'd resign." "Oh, Bill, it's much too bad!" "Bad ain't nothing to it, my dear. I've been fighting hard for her stopping, and sending her resignation back; but neither Lambent nor Squire George Canninge won't interfere, and I'm left to fight it all out, and they're beating me." "And why didn't you tell me all this before, Bill?" said Miss Burge. "Oh, I hadn't the heart to talk about it, my dear," replied her brother. "It's all worry and vexation, that it is, and I wish I'd never done nothing for the schools at all." "Don't say that, Bill, when you've done so much good." "But I do say it," he cried angrily. "Here is everybody setting themselves again' me, and it's all jealousy because I've got on. I never asked no favours of 'em before; it's all been give, give; and now they show what they're all made of. It's all horse-leeches' daughters with 'em, that's what it is, and I wish Plumton All Saints was burnt. All Saints indeed!" he cried indignantly; "it's all devils, and no saints in it at all." "But can't Mr Lambent settle it?" "No, he couldn't if he'd moved; and those two cats--there, I can't call 'em anything else--who are always going about preaching charity and love to the poor people, and giving 'em `Dairyman's Daughters' instead of beef or tea, have been setting every one again' the poor gal, and they're at the bottom of it all I know. They hate her like poison." "Well, I don't know about as bad as poison," said little Miss Burge thoughtfully; "but they don't like her, and I don't think that Mrs Canninge likes her either." "No, I'm sure she don't; but I don't care," said Mr William Forth Burge furiously. "I'm not beaten, and if that poor girl will stand by us, I'll stand by her, to the last shilling I've got." "That's right, Bill!" cried little Miss Burge enthusiastically, "for I do like her ever so; and the good, patient way in which she puts up with the fine airs and silly ways of her ma makes me like her more and more. I haven't got a very bad temper, have I, Bill?" "I think you've got a regular downright good 'un, Betsey," said her brother, looking at her admiringly. "Well, Bill, do you know if I was to go there much, Mrs Thorne would make me a regular spitfire. She gives me the hot creeps with her condescending, high-and-mighty ways. She's come down in the world. Well, suppose she has. So's thousands more, but they don't--they don't--" "Howl," said Mr William Forth Burge, "that's it; they don't howl. Lor a mussy me, what difference do it make? Do you know, Betsey, I believe I was just as happy when I first started business on my own account; and I'm sure I thought a deal more of my first new cart, with brass boxes and patent axles, painted chocklit--it was picked out with yallar--than I did of our new carriage, here, and pair. Ah! and my first mare, as I only give fifteen pun for, could get over the ground better than either of these for which I give two hundred because they was such a match." "There, now, you're beginning to grumble again, Bill, and I won't have it. You've grown to be a rich man, all out of your own cleverness, and you ought to be very proud of of it; and if you're not, I am." "But, you see, Betsey, I ain't so happy as I thought I should be." "Then you ought to be, seeing how happy you can make other folks; and oh, Bill, by-the-way, them Potts's are in trouble." "Well, that ain't nothing new. Potts always is in trouble. He ought to have been christened Beer Potts or Pewter Potts, though they don't know what a pewter pot is down in this part of the world." "That's better, Bill; now you're beginning to joke," said little Miss Burge, smiling, "But you'll do something for the Potts's?" "I'll never do nothing for anybody else again in the place," said Mr William Forth Burge; "a set of ungrateful beggars. What's the matter with Potts? Been tipsy again?" "I'm afraid he has, Bill; but that isn't it. They've got the fever there; that big, saucy girl, Feelier, is down with it and the poor mother wants money badly." "Why don't she work for it, then?" "Oh, she do, Bill; she's the most hard-working woman in the place." Mr William Forth Burge's hand went into his pocket, and he brought out five pounds, to place them in his sister's hand. "I wouldn't give it her all at once, dear," he said; "but a pound at a time like. It makes it do more good." Little Miss Burge had the tears in her eyes as she gave her brother a sounding smack on either cheek. "Now, don't you pretend again, Bill, that you ain't happy here," she said, "for ain't it nice to be able to do a bit of good like this now and then?" "Of course it is," he replied, "but they only jumps on you afterwards. Here we're going to do this, and p'r'aps save that child's life; and as soon as she gets well the first thing she'll do will be to make faces at your back in the school, as I've seen her do on Sundays over and over again." "Oh, I don't mind, Bill." "But you're not going to the house where that gal's ill?" "Oh no, Bill dear; I won't go down. Don't you be afraid about that. And look here; you make a big fight of it, and beat 'em about Miss Thorne." "I'm going to," he replied. "But I say, Betsey," he continued, half turning away his face. "Yes, Bill." "Should--should--" Mr William Forth Burge's collar seemed to be very tight, for he thrust, one finger between it and his neck, and gave it a tug before continuing hoarsely-- "I never keep anything from you, Betsey?" "No, Bill, you don't. You always was a good brother." "Should--should you mind it much, Betsey, if I was to--to--get married?" Little Miss Burge stood gazing at him silently for some minutes, and then she said softly-- "No, Bill; I don't think I should. Not if it was some one nice, who would make you very happy." "She is very nice, and she would make me very happy," he said slowly. "But, Betsey--my--dear--do--you--think--she'd--have me?" Mr William Forth Burge's words came very slowly indeed at last, and he rested his arms upon his knees and sat in a bent position, looking down at the carpet as if waiting to hear what was a sentence of great moment to his life. "Bill dear, I know who you mean, of course," said the little woman at last, tearfully. "I don't know. She likes you, for she told me she did; but I shouldn't be your own true sister if I didn't say that p'r'aps it's only as a friend; and that ain't love, you know, Bill, is it?" "No," he said softly; "no, Betsey; you're quite right, dear. But I'm going to try, and--and I'm only a common sort of a chap, dear--if she says no, I'm going to try and bear it like a man." "That's my own dear--dear--O Bill, look; if there she isn't coming up to the house!" And little Miss Burge ran off to hide her tears. CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. WILLIAM FORTH BURGE MAKES LOVE. Mr William Forth Burge's heart gave a big throb, and his red face assumed a mottled aspect as he went out to the front to welcome Hazel Thorne, who shook hands warmly; and her pale face lit up with a pleasant smile as he drew her hand through his arm and led her into the handsome breakfast-room, his heart big with what he wished to say, while he asked himself how he was to say it, and shrank trembling from the task. "Yes, my sister's quite well," he said, in answer to a question. "She'll be here directly; and I hope the little girls are quite well. When may they come and spend the day?" "It is very kind of you, Mr Burge," said Hazel, giving him a grateful look; "but I think they had better not come." "Oh! I say, don't talk like that," he cried. "My dear Miss Thorne--" He could get no farther. He had made up his mind to declare his love, but his heart failed as he mentally told himself it would be madness to ask such a thing of one so different to himself. "She'll go away again, and I shall have said nothing," he thought. "It can't never be, for she's too young and nice for me." And then, as is often the case, the opportunity came, and, to his own astonishment, William Forth Burge said, simply and honestly, all that was in his heart leaving him wondering, in spite of his pain, that he had spoken so truthfully and well. "You have always been so kind, Mr Burge," began Hazel, "that I shrink from letting you think I impose upon your good nature; but one of my girls is down with a very serious illness, and I have come to ask you to help her poor mother in her time of trial." "Help her? Why, of course," he cried, leaving his chair and crossing to take Hazel's hands. "Is there anything I wouldn't do if you asked me, Miss Thorne? My dear, don't think I'm purse-proud--because I tell you I'm a rich man; for I only say it so as you may know there's plenty to do good with; and if you'll come to me, my dear, and let it be yours or ours, or whatever you like to call it--there it is. You shall do as you like, and I'll try, and I know Betsey will, to make you as happy as we can." "Mr Burge!" cried Hazel piteously as she rose to her feet. "Just a minute," he pleaded. "It isn't nothing new. It's been growing ever since you come down here. Don't be offended with me. I know I'm twice as old as you, and more, and I'm very ordinary; but that don't keep me from loving you very, very dear." "Don't--pray don't say any more, Mr Burge," cried Hazel appealingly. "I--I cannot bear it." "No, no; don't go yet, my dear," he cried. "If you only knew what a job it has been to work myself up to say this, you wouldn't be so hard as to stop me." "Hard! Pray don't call it hard, Mr Burge. I grieve to stop you, for you have been so truly kind to me ever since I came." "Well, that isn't saying much; my dear. Betsey and me was kind--I say that ain't right, is it? I know now--Betsey and I was kind because we always liked you, and I thought it would be so nice if some day or other you could think me good enough to be your husband." "Dear Mr Burge, you cut me to the heart, for I seem as if I were so ungrateful to you after all that you have done." "Oh, no!" he said quickly; "you're not ungrateful. You're too pretty and good to do anything unkind." "Mr Burge!" "You see, it is like this, my dear. I'm not much of a fellow; I never was." "You have been the truest and kindest of friends, Mr Burge; and I esteem you very much." "No! Do you, though?" he cried, brightening up and smiling. "Well, that does me good. I like to hear you say that, because I know you wouldn't say anything that was not true." "Indeed, I would not Mr Burge," said Hazel, laying her hand upon his arm; and he took it quietly, and held it between both of his. "All the same, though," he went on dolefully, "I am not much of a fellow, though I've been a very lucky one. I never used to think anything about the gals--the ladies, and they never took no notice of me, and I went on making money quite fast. I used to think of how prime it would be to have a grand house and gardeners down here at Plumton, and how Betsey would enjoy it; and then what a happy time I should have; but somehow it hasn't turned out so well as I thought it would. You see, I've been a butcher--not a killing butcher, you know, but a selling butcher; and though the gentry's very kind and patronising, and make speeches and no end of fuss about everything I do or say, I know all the time that they think I'm a tradesman, and always will be, no matter how rich I am." "But I'm sure people esteem you very much, Mr Burge." "No," he said, shaking his head sadly, "they don't. It's the money they think of. You esteem me, my dear, because you've just told me so, and nothing but the truth never came out of those pretty little lips. They don't think much of me. Why should they, seeing what a common-looking sort of fellow I am? No: don't shake your head, because you know it as well as I do. I ain't a gentleman, and if I'd twenty million times as much money it wouldn't make a gentleman of me." "And I say you are a gentleman, Mr Burge--a true, honest, nature's gentleman, such as no birth, position, or appearance could make." "No, no, no, my dear," he said sadly; "I'm only a common man, who has been lucky and grown rich--that's all." "I say that you are a true gentleman, Mr Burge," she cried again, "and that you are showing it by your tender respect and consideration for a poor, helpless, friendless girl." "No: that you ain't, my dear," he cried with spirit; "not friendless; for as long as God lets William Forth Burge breathe on this earth, with money or without money, you've got a friend as'll never forsake you, or say an unkind--lor', just as if one could say an unkind word to you; I couldn't even give you an unkind look. Why, I don't, even now, when what you've said has cut me to the heart." "I couldn't--I couldn't help it, Mr Burge," she cried. "I suppose you couldn't, my dear; but if you could have said _yes_ to me, and been my little wife--it isn't money as I care to talk about to you--but the way in which I'd reglar downright worship you, and care for them as belongs to you, and the way in which you should do everything you liked, and have what you liked--There, I get lost with trying to think about it," he said dolefully, "and I go all awkward over my grammar, as you, being a schoolmistress, must see, and make myself worse and worse in your eyes, and ten times more common than ever." "No, no, no!" she cried excitedly; "I never, never thought half so much of you before, Mr Burge, as I do now. I never realised how true a gentleman you were, and how painful it would be to say to you what I now say. I do appreciate it--I do know how kind and generous you are to wish to make me your wife--now, in this time of bitter disgrace." "Tchah!" he cried contemptuously; "who cares for the disgrace? I'd just as soon believe that the sun and moon had run up again' one another in the night as that you had taken the beggarly school pence. Don't say another word about it, my dear: it makes me mad, as I told Miss Rebecca and Miss Beatrice yesterday. I said it was a pack of humbugging lies, and they ought to be ashamed of themselves for believing it. I know who had--" "Hush! oh, pray hush!" cried Hazel piteously. "All right, my dear, mum's the word; but don't you never say no word to me again about you having taken the money. It's insulting William Forth Burge, that's what it is." Hazel looked up sadly in his face, which was now scarlet with excitement. "I thank you, Mr Burge," she said simply; and then, smiling, "Am I not right in saying that you are a true gentleman?" "No, no no, my dear; you are not right," he replied sorrowfully. "But I am!" she cried. "No, my dear, no; but I know you think you are; and if--if you could go on thinking that I was just a little like a gentleman, you'd make me very happy indeed, for I do think a deal of you." "It is no thought--no fancy, Mr Burge; but the truth." "And if some day--say some day ever so far off--though it would be a pity to put it off long, for a fellow at my age don't improve by keeping--I say if by-and-by--" "Mr Burge--dear Mr Burge--" "I say--say that again." "Mr Burge," said Hazel, laying her hands in his; "you have told me you loved me, and asked me to be your wife." "Yes," he said, kissing her hand reverently, "and it's been like going out of my sphere." "It would be cruel of me not to speak plainly to you." "Yes," he said dejectedly, "it would; though it's very hard when a man's been filling himself full of hope to find it all go--right off at once." "It is my fate to bring misery and trouble amongst people," she sobbed, "and I would have given anything to have spared you this. I respect and esteem you, Mr Burge, more than I can find words to say; but I could never love you as your wife." He dropped the hand he held, and turned slowly away that she might not see the workings of his face; and then, laying his arms upon the mantelpiece, he let his head go down, and for the next few minutes he stood there, with his chest heaving, crying softly like a broken-hearted child. "I cannot bear it," muttered Hazel, as she wrung her hands and gazed wildly about the sumptuously furnished room, as if in search of help; for the troubles of the past had told upon her nerves. She felt hysterical, and could not keep back her own tears, which at last burst forth in a wild fit of passionate sobbing, as she sank into the nearest chair and covered her face with her hands. This roused her suitor, who took out his flaming orange handkerchief, and used it freely and simply, finishing off, after he had wiped his eyes, with a loud and sonorous blow of his nose. "'Tain't being a man!" he said, in a low tone. "I'm 'bout ashamed of myself. It's weak and stoopid, and what will she think?" His face was very red now, but a bright, honest glow came into his eyes, and his next act showed how truly Hazel had judged his character and seen beneath the surface of the man. For, giving himself a sounding blow upon the chest, he pulled himself together, and the odd appearance, the vulgarity, all passed away as he crossed to where Hazel sat, weeping and sobbing bitterly. "Don't you cry, my dear," he said softly, as he stretched out one heavy hand and touched her gently and reverently upon the arm. "I beg your pardon for what I've said, though I'm not sorry; for it's made us understand one another, and wakened me up from a foolish dream." There was something in his voice that soothed Hazel, and the sobs grew less violent. "It wasn't natural or right, and I ought to have known better than to have expected it; but they say every man gets his foolish fit some time or other in his life, and though mine was a long time coming, it came very strong at last. It's all quite over, my dear, and I know better now, and I'm going to ask you to say once more that common, vulgar sort of fellow as I am, you are going to look upon me as your friend." "Common!" cried Hazel hysterically, for the bonds that she had maintained for weeks had given way at last, and her woman's weakness had resulted in tears and sobs. "Common!--vulgar! No, no!" She caught his hands in hers and pressed them to her lips. Then she would have sunk upon her knees and asked his pardon for the pain she had unwittingly caused, but he caught her in his arms and held her helplessly sobbing to his breast. They neither of them were aware that the drawing-room door was opened, and that Miss Burge and Rebecca Lambent had entered, the former to look tearfully on, the latter indignant as she muttered, "Shameless creature!" between her teeth. "What! have you made matters up, then, Bill?" cried Miss Burge excitedly as she ran forward. "Oh, my dear, my dear!" Her tears were flowing fast as she paused before them, trying to extricate her handkerchief from an awkward pocket and arrested by her brother's words. "Yes, Betsey, we've made it up all right," he said. "I--I didn't think it," sobbed Miss Burge. "No," he said; "and it isn't as you think, for this is our very, very dear young friend, Betsey, and--and as I'm plenty old enough to be her father, Hazel Thorne's going to let me act by her like one, and stand by her through thick and thin, in spite of all that the world may say, including you, Miss Lambent." He spoke proudly, as he drew Hazel closer to his breast, and stood there softly stroking her hair, with so frank and honest a light shining out of his eyes that it brightened the whole man. "Sir!" exclaimed Rebecca. "Madam!" he cried, "I don't want to be rude; but, as your company can't be pleasant to Miss Hazel Thorne, I'd take it kindly if you'd go." "And I was ready to forget my position and marry a man like this," muttered Rebecca as she walked down to the gate. "Oh, that creature! She came upon Plumton like a curse." "Betsey, my dear," said Mr William Forth Burge, speaking to his sister, but speaking at Hazel, "you and me never had anything kept from one another, and please God we never will, so I'll tell you. I've been asking Miss Hazel Thorne here to be my wife." "Yes, Bill dear, I know--I know," sobbed little Miss Burge. "And while I've been asking her, it came over me like that I was wrong to ask her, and that it wouldn't be natural and right." "Oh, Bill dear!" "She's been so good and tender, and kind and sensible, that it's been like taking the scales from before my eyes, and been a sort of lesson to me; and somehow, my dear, I feel as if I was a different sort of man to what I was before. I'm not a speaker, and I can't express myself as I should like to; but what I want to say is, that I feel as if I was more of a man and a bit wiser than I was." "Oh, Bill dear!" "I'm getting on fast for fifty, Betsey dear, and Miss Thorne here--I should like to say Hazel Thorne here--is only two-and-twenty or thereabouts, and she's going to be like our own child from now, if she will, and we're going to try and keep away troubles for the future till she wants to go away. And now we won't say any more about it, but let things settle down. Stop a minute, though, Hazel Thorne, my dear; you've made me a gentleman, and we shall be friends." For answer Hazel left Miss Burge, who had been sitting by her with her arm round her waist, and, placing her hand in his, she looked him full in the eyes, seeing no longer the homeliness of the man, hearing no more his illiterate speech, but gazing as it were straight into his simple honest kindly heart. She hesitated for a moment, and then, reaching up she kissed, him as a child would kiss one she loved. CHAPTER FORTY. "I WANT TEACHER." One low, weary, incessant cry in the shabby, sloping-roofed, whitewashed room. The place was scrupulously clean; there was not so much as a speck upon the windows; but the chamber was miserably bare. One well-worn, damaged rush-chair was beside the worm-eaten, stump bedstead, a box supported a chipped white jug and basin, and an old sack unsewn and opened out formed the carpet. The only other article of furniture was a thin, very old, white scrap of dimity curtain half drawn across the lead lattice-paned window upon a piece of tape. And from the bed arose that one weary, constant cry from between the fevered, cracked lips, night and day-- "I want teacher to come!" For there was no mischief dancing in her unnaturally bright eyes; the restless hands were not raised to play some trick; the face was not drawn up in some mocking grimace: all was pitiful, and pinched, and sad; for poor Feelier Potts lay sick unto death, and it seemed as if at any moment the dark shadow would float forth from the open window, bearing one more sleeping spirit away. "I want teacher!--I want teacher!"--night and day that weary, weary burden, ever in the same unreasoning strain; and it was in vain that the poor rough mother, softened now in face of this terrible trouble, sought to give comfort. "But she can't come now, my bairn--she can't come. Oh, do be quiet-- do!" "I want teacher--I want teacher to come." Unreasoning ever--for poor Feelier was almost beyond reasoning--there was one great want in her shadowed mind, and it found vent between her lips for the first days loudly, then painfully low, and at last in a hoarse murmur, but always the same-- "I want teacher to come." "I won't come anigh you to speak, miss, for it wouldn't be right," sobbed poor, broken-down Mrs Potts, weak now and worn out, as she stood at the cottage gate, after making signs for Hazel to come to the door. For nights past she had been watching by her child's couch, while her husband had kept watch at the public-house till it was shut, and then he had slept in a barn. For he had only one body, and he was terribly afraid lest it should be stricken by the sore disease. "I am not afraid of the infection, Mrs Potts," said Hazel kindly. "You look worn out; let me give you a cup of tea." "My dear Hazel," said Mrs Thorne from the kitchen, where she was seated at the evening meal, "what are you going to do?" "Good, if I can, mother," said Hazel simply, and she filled a cup and took it out to the half-fainting woman, who looked her thanks, for she could not speak for some minutes. "There, miss, and God bless you for it," she said, handing back the cup. "I felt I must come and tell you, miss, for--for it seems as if she couldn't die till you had been." "Does she ask for me so?" said Hazel. "She asks for nothing else, miss. It's always `I want teacher,' and-- and I thought miss--if you'd come to the house--if it was only to stand on the other side of the road--the window's open, miss, and she could hear you, and if you was just to say, `I'm here, Feelier!' or, `go to sleep, there's a good girl!' it would quiet her like, and then she'd be able to die." "Oh, pray don't speak like that!" cried Hazel. "Let us hope that she will live." "I don't know what for, miss," said the wretched woman despondently. "Only to live to have a master who'd beat and ill-use her, and make her slave to keep his bairns. I did think I'd like her to live, but the Lord knows best and He's going to take her away." "I'll come on and see her," said Hazel quietly. "Poor child! I was in hopes that she was going to amend. Wait for me here till I get my hat, and I will come." "What are you going to do, my dear?" exclaimed Mrs Thorne as Hazel passed through the room. "I am going to see one of my children, mother," she replied quietly. "Not that dreadful Feelier Potts, Hazel?" "Hush, dear! The child is dangerously ill, and her mother can hear your words." "But it would be madness to go. It is an infectious disease." "I feel, dear, as if it is my duty to go," replied Hazel, with a curious, far-off look in her eyes; and without another word she followed to the little low cottage by the side of the road. "There, miss, if you'd stand there I think you could hear her. You see the window's open. I'll go upstairs and stir her up like, and then you speak, and--" "I want teacher! When will she come?" The words came in a low, harsh tone plainly to Hazel's ears, and with a sigh she walked straight up to the door. "But you hadn't better go anigh her. The doctor said--" "It will not hurt me," said Hazel quietly. "Well, miss, if you wouldn't mind, it would do her a power of good, I'm sure. This way, miss," and she led her visitor through the room where she had been washing, to the awkward, well-worn staircase, and up this to poor Feelier's blank-looking room. "I want teacher!--I want teacher!" came the weary burden as Hazel walked up to the bedside, shocked at the way in which the poor girl had changed. "I want teacher! When will she come?" came again from the cracked lips as Hazel sank upon her knees by the bedside. "I am here, my child," she said softly, as the burning head was tossed wearily from side to side. The effect was electrical. The thin arms that had been lying upon the coverlet were raised, and with one ejaculation they were flung round the visitor's neck, the poor child nestling to her with a cry of joy. "My poor child!" cried Hazel tenderly. And the weary iteration was heard no more. "She never made that ado over me," said the mother discontentedly; but no one seemed to heed her, and she stole downstairs to her work, but came up from time to time to find poor Feelier sleeping softly in Hazel's arms, her head upon her breast. And when Mrs Potts attempted to unloose the clinging hands that were about "teacher's neck," the girl uttered a passionate, impatient cry, and clung the tighter to one who seemed to have come to bring her hope of life. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "It was very imprudent of you to come, Miss Thorne," said the doctor. "I heard you were here from Mr William Forth Burge. He is waiting below. Suppose you try to lay her down; she seems to be asleep." Asleep or awake, poor Feelier would not be separated from her friend, and the doctor unwillingly owned at last that it would be undoing a great deal of good to force her away. "You have given her a calm sense of rest, for which in her delirium she has been so long striving. I must confess that you have done her more good than I." "She will go to sleep soon, perhaps," said Hazel, "and then leave me of her own accord." "And then?" said the doctor. "I can return home, and come again when she asks for me." "I'm afraid, Miss Thorne, that you have not thought of the probable consequences of returning home," said the doctor. "You have young sisters there, and your mother. My dear young lady, it would be exceedingly imprudent to go." For the first time the consequences of her step occurred to Hazel, and she looked aghast at the speaker. "Then there is the school, Miss Thorne. I think, as a medical man, it is my duty to forbid your going there again for some time to come. Yes, I see you look at me, but I am only a hardened medical man. I go everywhere, and somehow one escapes a great portion of the ills one goes to cure." There was no help for it, and after coming as an act of kindness to see the poor girl who had cried for her so incessantly, Hazel found herself literally a prisoner, and duly installed in the bedroom as her sick scholar's nurse. CHAPTER FORTY ONE. BROTHER AND SISTERS--REFINED. There was a good deal of conversation about it at the Vicarage, where it became known through a visit paid by Rebecca and Beatrice to the school, and their coming back scandalised at finding it in charge only of the pupil-teachers, who explained the reason of Hazel's absence, and that she had sent a message to Mr Chute, asking him if he would raise one of the shutters, and give an eye occasionally to the girls' school, which was, however, in so high a state of discipline now that the pupil-teachers were able to carry it on passably well. "And of course Mr Chute has done so?" said Miss Lambent. "No, please 'm; he said he had plenty to do with his own school," replied one pupil-teacher. "And he wouldn't do anything of the sort," said the other. "What a disgraceful state of affairs, Beatrice!" exclaimed Miss Lambent; and the sisters hurried away to acquaint their brother with the last piece of news. "I suppose, with a person of her class, one can only expect the same conduct that one would receive from a servant," said Beatrice acidly. "I do not understand you, Beatrice," said her brother. "I mean, Henry, that now she has resigned or received her dismissal, we shall only get the same amount of inattention that one would from a discharged servant." "For my part," said the vicar, "I think that Miss Thorne is being hardly dealt with." "Absurd, Henry!" said Miss Lambent. "We cannot say a word to you but you take Miss Thorne's part." "Why not, when I see her treated with injustice!" "Injustice, Henry!" cried Beatrice. "Is it injustice to speak against a young person who behaves like an unjust steward?" The vicar was silent. "For my part," said Rebecca, "I think she should have been dismissed at once; and she would have been, but for the opposition offered by you, Henry, and Mr Burge." "For my part," continued the vicar, ignoring the past speeches, "I can see nothing more touching, more beautiful, and Christian-like than Miss Thorne's behaviour to this child--one of the sick lambs of her fold." "We are sorry, of course, for Ophelia Potts," said Rebecca; "but she is a dreadful child." "A fact, I grant," said the vicar; "and one that makes Miss Thorne's conduct shine out the more." "Henry!" exclaimed his sisters in a breath. "We are not doing wrong in staying here, Rebecca," said Beatrice haughtily. "I do not believe in witchcraft or such follies, but it is as though this woman had bewitched our brother, and as if he were shaping himself in accordance with her plans." "I do not understand you, Beatrice," said the vicar sternly. "I will be plainer, then, Henry. It seems to me that you are offering yourself a willing victim to the wiles of an artful woman; and the next thing will be, I suppose, that you intend bringing her here as mistress of the Vicarage." "I quite agree with Beatrice," cried Rebecca. "It is time we left you, Henry, to the devices and desires of your own heart." The vicar was stern of aspect now, as he paced the library, and hot words of anger were upon his lips, but he stayed them there, and looked from face to face as if seeking sympathy where there was none. He knew that his sisters were right, and that in following out the dictates of his own heart he would gladly ask Hazel Thorne to be his wife; but he was weak, and the more so that she had given him no hope. His was not the nature that would have made him a martyr to his faith; neither could he be one for his unrequited love. He loved Hazel Thorne; but she did not care for him--he could see it plainly enough; and even had she loved him in return, he was not one who could have braved public opinion for her sake. For the trouble connected with that money was always in his mind. Then there was the society to which he belonged. What would they say if he, the Reverend Henry Lambent, Master of Arts, and on visiting terms with the highest county families, were to enter into a matrimonial alliance with the daughter of a bankrupt stockbroker--one who was only the new mistress! Then there were his sisters. If he married Hazel, always supposing she would accept him, he should have to break with them; and this he was too weak to do. In imagination he had been the stern ruler of Plumton All Saints' Vicarage for many years, and head of the parish. But it was a mistake: the real captain had been Beatrice, his younger sister; and Rebecca, though the elder, had been first lieutenant. The vicar had only been a private in the ranks. "Now we are upon this theme," Beatrice went on, "it would be better, Henry, that the unpleasant feeling that has existed should come to an end." "Surely there has been no unpleasant feeling between us," said the vicar. "I quite agree with Beatrice--unpleasant feeling," said Rebecca. "We are sisters and brother," continued Beatrice, "and we must remain so." "Most assuredly," said the vicar, smiling. "I am speaking for Rebecca as well as for myself, then, Henry, when I tell you that we have concluded that the only way in which our old happy relations can be continued will be by separating." "Parting?" said the vicar, in dismay. "Yes, Henry; by parting. Rebecca and I have a sufficiency, by clubbing together our slender resources, to enable us to live a life of content. A life of usefulness, we fear, will no longer be within our reach, for we shall have to leave our poor behind. But that we must be resigned to lose, for it is time, Henry, that we left you free and were--" "No longer a tax upon you and an obstacle in the path of your inclinations," said Rebecca. "But surely--you do not mean--you would not leave the Vicarage?" "We have carefully weighed the matter over, Henry," said Rebecca, "and I do not see how, under the circumstances, you could wish us to do otherwise." "No, no, it is impossible!" cried the vicar, who seemed deeply moved. "Beatrice--Rebecca, of what are you thinking?" "Of our duty and your happiness," said Beatrice firmly. "At the expense of your own," exclaimed the vicar. "We must do our duty," said Rebecca with a sigh, and the sisters rose and left the room, like clever diplomatists, content with the impression they had made, and feeling that by a bold stroke they had completely riveted their old mastery. CHAPTER FORTY TWO. BAD NEWS. The news of Hazel Thorne's imprisonment, for it could be called little else, was not long in reaching Ardley, and Mrs Canninge watched her son's countenance to see what effect it had. There had been an increasing coolness between mother and son, and it seemed as if it were rapidly approaching estrangement. Their old affectionate intercourse had given place to a chilling politeness, and though, time after time, in the bitter annoyance she felt, Mrs Canninge had felt disposed to ask her son how soon it would be necessary for her to vacate her position of mistress of the old hall, she had never been guilty of the meanness, but waited her time. "He shall never marry her," she said over and over again; and in spite of her better self, the news of the money trouble had been like balm to her wounded spirit. Now, then, the tidings of Hazel's visit to the sick child had come, and again, in spite of herself, she felt a sensation akin to satisfaction, for this seemed as if it might act as a safeguard to her son. It was a flimsy one, she knew--a broken reed upon which to lean; but it was something, and every trifle that appeared likely to keep George Canninge and Hazel apart, if it were only for a few days longer, was like a reprieve, and might result in something better to her mind. The matter was not discussed, but Mrs Canninge noted that her son rode over to the town every morning, and found afterwards that he called at the Burges' day after day, where he incidentally learned that Hazel was still nursing the fever-stricken child. It was pleasant to him at this juncture to talk to little Miss Burge, and to listen to her simple prattle about Hazel, and what trouble she and her brother took in sending down everything that was necessary for the invalid and her nurse, so that Hazel might be comfortable. "It is very kind of you and Mr Burge," said Canninge one day. "Oh, I don't know, Mr Canninge," she replied; "we want to do all the good we can, and one can't help loving Miss Thorne." "No," said George Canninge quietly; and as he rode home he repeated little Miss Burge's words to himself over and over again--"One can't help loving Miss Thorne." But he made no further advances--he did not go to the schoolhouse to make inquiries, nor yet ask at the cottage where Hazel was a prisoner; he contented himself with visiting the Burges day by day, to start back almost in alarm one morning as he saw a look of trouble in little Miss Burge's face, and before he could ask what was wrong the little woman burst out with-- "Oh, Mr Canninge, that poor, dear girl!" "What?" he said excitedly. "She has not--" "Yes, sir, and badly. My brother has been down there this morning, and she is delirious. And oh, poor girl! poor girl! I cannot let her lie there alone. I'm dreadfully afraid of the fever, Mr Canninge; but I shall have to go." "You? What! to nurse her?" said George Canninge, with a face now ghastly. "Yes, sir; I must go. My brother has been down every day, and I've never been once!" she cried, bursting into a fit of sobbing. "It's dreadful cowardly, I know; but I could not help it then." "And she may die!" said George Canninge as he rode slowly home; "and I have never told her I loved her. Dare I go to see her now?" He asked himself that question many times, and again many times on the succeeding days; but he did not go near the place where Hazel Thorne lay now, in the shabby room, upon the bed roughly made up for her by Mrs Potts; while Feelier, the very shadow of herself, lay watching "teacher," and the tears stole down her wasted cheeks as she listened to Hazel Thorne's excited talking, for the most part incoherent; but here and there a word came to Feelier's ears, and she wept again, because she was too weak to get up and wait upon "teacher," whose attack was rapidly assuming a serious form. By special arrangement with the doctor, the news as to Hazel's state was sent to the Burges' after every visit. Not that this was held to suffice, for little Miss Burge was constantly calling at the doctor's house, and asking for fresh information when there was none to give. "I can't bear this no longer, Bill dear," said Miss Burge one morning. "There's that poor girl lying there in that wretched place, and no one but strangers to tend her; and it seems as if all her friends had left her now she is in distress." "Not all," said Burge, raising his drooping head. "I'm down there every day; only I can't be admitted to her room, poor dear! I wish I might be." "And I've been holding back," sobbed little Miss Burge, "because I felt afraid of catching the complaint, and the doctor said it would be madness for me to go; but I'm going down this morning, Bill dear, and if I die for it I won't mind--at least not very much--for I'm sure I shouldn't be any good to live if I couldn't help at a time like this. Hasn't her poor ma been to her yet?" "No; she isn't fit to go," said Burge. "She is ill, and weak, and foolish, and the doctor told her that if she went she would only take the disease home to the little girls. She would only have worried her poor child and been in the way." "I'm glad I've never been a mother, Bill, to turn out no more use than that in trouble," sobbed the little woman. "Now, do drink your tea, dear; it will do you good." "Nothing won't do me no good, Betsey," said the poor fellow dejectedly. "But it looks so bad, dear, to see you like this. I declare you haven't washed and shaved this mornings and your hair ain't been brushed." "No," he said drearily; "I forgot Betsey--I forgot." "Why, Bill!" she exclaimed, looking at him scrutinisingly. "Yes, dear." "Why, you haven't been to bed all night!" "No, dear." "Why, if you haven't been watching down there by that cottage!" she cried. "Yes, dear," he said quietly. "It seemed to do me good like." "Oh, Bill!" "And then I went to the post-office, and I've telegraphed for Sir Henry Venner to come down by special train." "You have, Bill dear! Why, that's the Queen's doctor, ain't it." "Yes, dear." "But won't it cost a heap of money?" "I'd give every penny I've got and sell myself too," he said, with a ring of simple pathos in his voice, "if it would bring that poor darling back to herself." He laid his arms upon the table, and his forehead went down upon them, as he said softly, as if to himself-- "I don't want any return--I'm not selfish--and I'd ask nothing back. I could go on loving her always, and be glad to see her happy, only please God to let her live--please God let her live!" Little Miss Burge, with the tears streaming down her honest round face, rose from her seat at the breakfast-table, and went down upon her knees beside her brother, to lay her cheek against one of his hands. "I'm going down to her now, Bill dear," she said softly; "and I'll watch by her night and day; for I think I love her, poor dear! as much as you." "God bless you, Betsey dear!" he said, drawing her to his breast, and speaking now with energy. "I couldn't ask you to go, for it seemed like sending you where I daren't go myself; but if you could go, dear, I should be a happier man!" "And go I will, Bill; and I will do my best." "And look here, dear!" he cried, quite excitedly now, "you don't know how you're helping me, for now I can do what I want." "What's that, dear?" "Why, I thought, dear, if the big doctor would give leave, we might bring the poor girl on here; but I daren't even think of it before, on account of you. You, see, dear, I could send away the servants, and get a nurse to come." "Oh yes; do, Bill dear!" cried the little body eagerly. "We'd put her in the west room, which would be so bright and cheerful, and--There, I'm standing talking when I ought to go." In fact, within five minutes little Miss Burge was ready, with her luggage on her arm; the said luggage consisting of a clean night-dress, "ditto" cap, a cake of soap, and a brush and comb; with which easily portable impedimenta she was soon after settled in Mrs Potts's dreary low-roofed room. "No, miss," whispered the rough woman, "never slep' a wink all night; but kep' on talk, talk, talk, talking about her mother and father, and Squire Canninge, and the school pence, and that she was in disgrace." "And teacher kep' saying Mr William Forth Burge was her dearest friend," put in Feelier, in a shrill, weak voice. "Hush!" whispered little Miss Burge, for their voices had disturbed Hazel, who, till then, had been lying in a kind of stupor. She opened her eyes widely, and stared straight before her. "Are you there, Mr Burge?--are you there?" she said in a quick, excited whisper. "No, my dear; it's me, Betsey Burge. I've come to stop with you." "I didn't know how good and kind you were then--when I spoke as I did. I was very blind then--I was very blind then," sighed Hazel wearily. "And you'll soon be better now," said little Miss Burge in a soft, cheery way. "There--let me turn your pillow; it's all so hot, and--Mrs Potts, send up for two pillows out of our best room directly." "Yes, mum; I'll go myself;" and Mrs Potts hurried away. "There, my dear, you'll be nicer and cooler now, and--Oh, dear me, what a lot of things I do want! Mrs Potts, call at the druggist's for some eau-de-cologne--a big bottle mind." "Yes, mum," came from below. "Her poor head's like fire. There, dear--there, my poor dear, let me lay your hair away from you; it will cool your head." "Please, Miss Burge, don't let them cut off all teacher's hair," whispered Feelier from the other bed. "No, my dear; not if I can help it." "I want to tell you I was so ungrateful when you spoke to me as you did, Mr Burge," said Hazel in her low excited whisper. "No, no, my darling, not ungrateful," said little Miss Burge, in the soothing voice any one would adopt to a child.--"Poor dear, she don't know what she's saying." "I have lain here and thought of what you have done," continued Hazel, "and how self-denying you have always been to me; and I was ungrateful for it all. I know now I was ungrateful." "She is wandering, poor girl!" said little Miss Burge, with a sob, as she busied herself in making the room more comfortable, after she had smoothed Hazel's pillow and opened the window wide to give her more air. After this she turned her attention to poor Feelier, rearranging her pillow, and ending by bathing her face and hands, the poor girl uttering a sigh of relief and pleasure, sinking back afterwards upon her cool pillow, too weak almost to raise her arm. "There, now you feel more comfortable, don't you, my dear?" whispered the busy little woman. "Oh, yes, and--and--and--please--please I'll never do so no more." Poor Feelier burst into a passionate fit of tearful remorse, sobbing wildly in spite of little Miss Burge's efforts to calm her. "Oh! hush, hush, my dear; pray be still." "I--I--I used to make faces at you in school," sobbed Feelier. "Yes, yes, yes; but hush my dear. You only did it in fun." "N-no, I didn't," sobbed Feelier; "I did it to make--make the other girls laugh." "But hush, pray hush, or you'll hurt poor Miss Thorne." Feelier's sobs ended in one large gulp, as if by magic, and she lay perfectly still, staring at the other bed. "Please, Miss Burge," she whispered, "will you bring some of your roses and put in water by teacher's pillow?" "Yes, my dear, that I will," said the little lady, patting Feelier's hand. "And now lie still, and don't talk; let's keep the room quiet, and try to make her better." "Yes, Miss Burge; but please will teacher get well?" "Why, surely, my dear; and very soon." "Because mother said I was a little wretch and gave teacher the fever, and I wish I may die instead." "But you shall both get well, my dear, very soon; and then you shall both go down to the sea, and you shall be Miss Thorne's little maid." "Shall I?" cried the girl, with her eyes sparkling and a flush coming into her thin, sunken cheeks. "Yes, that you shall, my dear; only lie very still, and don't talk." "Please, Miss Burge," whispered Feelier, "let me tell you this." "Well, only this one thing, and then you must be very quiet, my dear." "Yes, I will," whispered Feelier, in a quiet, old-fashioned way; "but that's how teacher keeps on all night and all day; she keeps on wanting Mr William Forth Burge to come to her, and mother says I kep' on just the same, asking for teacher to come, and I was quiet when she did, and then"--sob--"she caught the fever too." "Yes, yes, my dear; but you'll soon do better now." "But you'd better let old Billy Burge--" Feelier stopped short, conscious of the slip of her guilty tongue, and looked up at her gentle attendant as if she expected a blow. "I won't call him that name agen," she said demurely, "but if he come he'd do teacher good; only if he did come, he'd ketch the fever too, and I don't know what's best, only we mustn't let teacher die." "No, no, my dear; of course not," whispered little Miss Burge hastily. "But if she did die I know what I should do," said Feelier dreamily, and with a drowsy look in her eyes, the effect of being washed and the cooler atmosphere of the room inducing sleep. "What should you do, my dear?" said Miss Burge, pressing down the pillow to let the cool air blow upon her cheek. "I should set violets and primroses all over her grave; and if any of the other girls was to pick any of 'em, oh, I would give 'em such a banging! And then--then--then--" And then poor, weak Ophelia Potts sank into a profound sleep, and little Miss Burge wiped her eyes and sat and watched Hazel's weary, restless head; listening to her broken sentences and the incoherent mutterings, all of which were to the same tune--that she had been weak and cruel and ungrateful to one who had been all devotion to her, and that she would never rest till she had tried to make him some amends. "Poor Bill, if he could only hear her now, how glad he'd be!" sighed the watcher; "but this will all pass away, and when she gets well she'll never know she said a word. Poor Bill; it won't never--it couldn't ever be!" "I want Mr Burge," cried Hazel suddenly, and her voice sounded hard and strange. "Tell him to come to me--tell him to come." "Yes, yes, yes, my darling; he shall come soon." "He would catch the fever, do you say? No no; I could not give it to him; he is so kind and good. Tell Mr Geringer, mother, it is impossible; I could not be his wife." "Oh, my poor dear!" whispered Miss Burge, bathing Hazel's burning forehead with the eau-de-cologne that Mrs Potts had now brought; "that poor, poor, burning, wandering brain. Why don't the doctor come?" CHAPTER FORTY THREE. THE QUEEN'S PHYSICIAN. It was many hours yet before the doctor came, for the life of one patient is no more to a medical man than that of another, and the great physician had several urgent cases to see before he could use the special train placed at his disposal by Hazel's elderly lover, who had never left the station all the morning, and had given instructions that the starting of the train should be telegraphed to him from the terminus in town. In addition, he had a messenger, in the shape of Feelier's brother, who came to and fro every hour to where Mr William Forth Burge was walking up and down the platform, to deliver a report from Miss Burge on the patient's state. One of these messages was to the effect that the local doctor had been, and said that there was no change; and that he was stopping at home on purpose to meet the great physician when he came. So was Mr William Forth Burge's carriage, and so was a group of the tradespeople and others, for in the easy-going life of a little country town the loss of a day was as nothing compared to the chance of seeing the Queen's own physician when he came down. At last, but not till far in the afternoon, came the lightning message speeding along the wires, "Special left King's Cross 3:30;" and then how slow seemed the rapid special, and by comparison how it lagged upon its way, for it would be quite an hour and a half, the station-master said, perhaps two hours, even at express speed. And all this time William Forth Burge waited, and would have taken nothing but for the thoughtfulness of the station-master's wife, who brought him some tea. "No, six, not yet; that's the fast down." Or, "No sir, not yet; that's only the afternoon goods." Or again, "No sir; that's only the slow local. They'll wire me from Marshton when she passes." This from the chief official; and at last the wired message came, and after what seemed to be an interminable time, a fast engine, tender, one saloon carriage, and brake steamed into the station, and a little, quiet dark man stepped out as the door was held open by the station-master, waiting ready to do honour to the man greater in his power than the magician kings of old, but very weak even then. "Mr William Forth Burge? Thanks. Carriage waiting. Thanks. Now tell me a little of the case." This was mastered principally by questions as they drove to the cottage. "Yes," said the great man. "I see. The old thing, my dear sir. What can you expect with sanitary arrangements such as these?" He pointed right and left as they drove along, Mr William Forth Burge suddenly checking the driver, as they were about halfway, to pick up Doctor Bartlett, the resident medical man. Next followed a consultation in the wretched keeping-room of the cottage, the great doctor treating his humble brother with the most profound respect, and then they went up to the bedroom, and little Miss Burge came down to her brother with her handkerchief to her eyes. A dreary half-hour followed before the doctors came down, the two occupants of the room gazing up at them with appeal in their eyes as they vacated their chairs in the great man's favour. "I can only say, Mr William Forth Burge, that we must hope," said the great baronet. "It is the most ordinary form of typhoid fever, and must have its course. I may add that I almost regret that you should have called me down, unless my opinion is any comfort to you; for I can neither add to nor detract from the skilful treatment adopted by my _confrere_, Doctor Bartlett, who is carefully watching the case. What we want is the best of nursing; and, at any cost, let the poor girl be taken to some light, wholesome, airy room." "Might we risk moving her?" panted Mr Burge. "It is a grave risk; but it must be ventured, with the greatest care, under Doctor Bartlett's instructions; for I have no hesitation in saying that if our patient stays here she will die." "God bless you, Sir Henry; I'd have given all I possess for that!" gasped Burge, as he placed a slip of paper in the doctor's hands. There was the drive back to the station, the little train steamed out, and that evening, while poor Feelier Potts slept, Hazel Thorne was carried down to the Burges' carriage, and lay that night in the west room, to keep on talking incessantly of her cruelty to one who had been so noble, so true, and good, and to make appeals to him for his forgiveness, as she now knew how to value his honest love. CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. MRS THORNE RECEIVES. Hazel Thorne's illness came like a shock to Plumton All Saints, and the opposing members of the committee, who had been instrumental in gaining her dismissal, looked angrily one at the other, as if that other one was specially to blame. The Reverend Henry Lambent sent down messengers to know how Miss Thorne was progressing, and later on sent the same messengers to the Burges' for news. "Will you not go down and see Mrs Thorne, Rebecca--Beatrice?" he said, one day, appealingly. "This is a troublous time." "We had already felt it to be a duty, Henry, and we will run all risks in such a cause." There was not the slightest risk in going to the schoolmistress's cottage, and the sisters went down, to find Mrs Thorne weak and almost prostrate with illness and anxiety, but ready to draw herself up stiffly to receive her visitors. "Cissy, Mabel, place chairs for these ladies," she said. "Miss Lambent will perhaps excuse my rising. I am an invalid." Rebecca bowed and glanced at her sister, who made her a sign to proceed. "We have called, Mrs Thorne, knowing you to be in so sad a state of affliction--" "To offer a few words of condolence," said Mrs Thorne, interrupting her. "It is very neighbourly and kind, I am sure I am sorry poor Hazel is too unwell to be here to receive you as well." "What insolence!" muttered Beatrice. "Condolence is hardly the word," said Rebecca stiffly. "We are very much grieved about Miss Thorne, especially as her illness has come almost like a chastisement for her weakness in her discharge of her scholastic trust." "Oh! You are alluding to the school trifle she did not pay over to the collector at the time," said Mrs Thorne haughtily. "It is a pity that so much should have been made of so trivial a matter." "Trivial, Mrs Thorne! Your daughter's conduct--" "Has always been that of a lady, Miss Lambent. Ah! you single ladies don't know, and of course never will know, the necessities of housekeeping." Beatrice winced. "I used that money as I would small change, and I must say I am surprised at Mr Lambent or his sisters, or the school committee, or whoever it is, being so absurdly particular." "Particular, Mrs Thorne!" cried Rebecca, aghast. "Yes; it is very absurd. By-the-way, I may as well observe that I have this morning received a letter from my late husband's solicitor, telling me that fifteen hundred pounds, the result of some business arrangement of his, are now lying at my disposal at the bank; and if you will send the properly authorised person down I will give him a cheque." "Mrs Thorne!" exclaimed Rebecca, whom this assumption of perfect equality--at times even of superiority--galled terribly, "we came down here to give you a little good advice--to say a few words of sympathy, and to bring you two or three books to read, and ponder over their contents. I am surprised and grieved that you should have taken such a tone." "I beg your pardon, Miss Lambent," retorted Mrs Thorne, who was very pale and much excited; "allow me to tell you that you are making a mistake. I am not in the habit of receiving parochial visits. They may be very acceptable to the poor of your district, but, as a lady, when another lady calls upon me, I look upon it as a visit of ceremony. You will excuse me, but I am not well. My daughter's illness--my own-- rather tells upon me. You will excuse my rising. I beg your pardon, you are forgetting your little books." She picked them up from the table, and held them out; the top one was "The Dairyman's Daughter," in paper cover. The Lambent sisters had risen, and were darting indignant looks at Hazel's mother before she drew their attention to the books they were leaving upon the table; now their anger was hot indeed. "We brought them for you to read," cried Rebecca indignantly. "They were for your good. Mrs Thorne, your conduct is insolent in the extreme." "Insolent in the extreme," assented Beatrice. "I am too unwell to argue with you, ladies," said Mrs Thorne loftily. "Cissy, my child, take those into the kitchen, and give them to one of the school children as they come by. Mabel, my dear, bring mamma a glass of water." She took not the slightest further notice of her visitors, who looked at one another for a few moments, and then left the house, marching by the window with stately stride, while Mrs Thorne leant back in her chair, saying to herself-- "Next time they call I hope they will remember that I am a lady." That same evening, as she sat alone, she drew the letter of which she had spoken from her pocket, and read it through again, the second perusal giving her fresh strength and increasing dignity. "I shall certainly insist now," she said musingly, as she refolded the letter and tapped her left forefinger with the edge, "upon Hazel entering into a matrimonial alliance with Edward Geringer. He is older, certainly; but what of that? He is rich and loves her, and will make her an admirable husband; and when, by-and-by he leaves her, she will still be young and handsome, and, what is better, rich, and not left, as I have been, at the mercy of the world--Lambents and people of that class. Yes, I am in a position now to insist, and I shall write to Edward Geringer at once. Perhaps his coming would have a favourable effect upon Hazel's illness--a foolish, weak girl, to persist in going to that house when I so strongly advised her not." Mrs Thorne sat musing and building her _chateaux en Espagne_, while the children amused themselves in the garden. "Yes," she continued, "I am once more, I am thankful to say, no longer dependent upon charity, nor yet upon poor Hazel--weak, foolish child! It is a pity she should have grown so conceited and arbitrary on finding herself at the head of affairs. Ah, these young people--these young people! But I will not blame her, for a great deal was due to the teachings of that training institution. I noticed the change in her directly. It did so put me in mind of young Penton, when he received his commission of ensign in the 200th Foot. He had just the same short, sharp, haughty way that my Hazel assumed, poor child! Ah, well! we have nearly got to the end of the school teaching, and it will be a lesson for us all. It was against my wishes that she took it up--that I will say; and it has been very hard upon me to bring me down to the companionship of such a woman as Mrs Chute. I wish I had never seen her, for I should never have thought of using those school pence if it had not been for her." Mrs Thorne smoothed down her black silk apron, and sat thinking for some time before exclaiming-- "Yes, I will write a cheque for the amount and send it in a note, with my compliments, to Mr Lambent. It will be the most ladylike way of proceeding. The children shall put on their best hats and take it up. It will be better than trusting the money to the school children or the post. I will do it at once." The poor, weak woman smiled with satisfaction as she took out the thin oblong book that had been sent to her that morning, and wrote out a cheque for the amount due for the children's school pence, carefully blotting and folding it, and placing it in a sheet of note-paper inscribed, "With Mrs Thorne's compliments." "Of course it ought to go to Mr Piper; but I shall send it to the vicar, and he must pay it himself. Good gracious!" She had just directed the envelope to the Reverend Henry Lambent, when she saw him pass the window; and as she sat listening, her heart beating heavily the while, there was a gentle tap at the door, which was standing open, and the vicar's voice said softly--"May I come in?" "Yes; I--that is--Yes, pray come--in, Mr Lambent; but if you have called on account of your sisters' visit to me this morning, I--" "My visit was to you alone, Mrs Thorne," said the vicar gravely. "But I must protest against any such visits as your sisters'!" "My dear Mrs Thorne," said the vicar sadly, "I have come to you, a lady who has known great trouble, as a friend. My dear madam, I have a very painful communication to make. Your daughter--" "Not worse, Mr Lambent?" cried Mrs Thorne piteously. "Don't say she's worse!" There was a painful silence, and then the vicar sighed heavily as he said-- "Her state is very dangerous indeed." CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. A BREACH OF PROMISE OF MARRIAGE. Hazel seemed to have borne the moving well, and the doctor smiled his satisfaction at seeing his patient in such light and cheerful quarters; but the days had gone on without change. Night and day there had been the same weary, restless wandering of the fevered brain--the same constant talking of the troubles of the past; and little Miss Burge sobbed aloud sometimes as she listened to some of the revelations of Hazel's breast. "Poor dear!" she said, and she strove to give the sufferer the rest and ease that would not come, as hour by hour she watched the terrible inroads the fever made in her care-worn face. "She's getting that thin, doctor, it's quite pitiful," she said; but only to receive the same answer. "Wait till the fever has exhausted itself, my dear madam, and we will soon build up fresh tissue, and you shall see her gain strength every hour." But the fever did not exhaust itself, and in spite of every care Hazel's state grew critical indeed. "If I might only see her, dear," said Mr William Forth Burge; "if I might only speak to her once. I wouldn't want to come in." "No, Bill dear," said the little woman firmly; "not yet. The doctor says it is best not, and you must wait." "Does--does she ever in her wanderings--a--a--does she ever speak about me, Betsey?" "Yes; sometimes she says you have been very kind." "She has said that?" "Yes, dear; but she is not herself, Bill dear. She's quite off her head. I wouldn't build up any hopes upon that." "No, I won't," he said hastily. "I don't expect anything--I don't want anything, only to see her well again. But it does me good to think she can think of me ever so little while she is ill." "You see, dear, it's her wandering," said his sister; "that's all." "But tell me, Betsey, tell me again, do you think she will get over it?" he said imploringly. She looked at him with the tears trickling down her face, but she did not answer. "He comes, you see, and smiles and rubs his hands, and says, `She's no worse--she's no worse, Mr William Forth Burge, sir;' but I can't trust him, Betsey, like I can you. There," he cried, "see: I'm quite calm, and I'll bear it like a man. Tell me, do you think she'll get over it?" "Bill dear, I can't tell you a lie, but I don't think there's any present danger. I do think, though, you ought to send for the poor girl's brother, and let him be down." William Forth Burge uttered a low groan, for he read the worst in his sister's eyes. "I'll send for him directly, dear," he said; and he rose and staggered from the room. It was in the morning, and the message for Percy to come down at once was sent; after which, in a dull, heavy way, Burge stood staring before him, trying to get his brain to act clearly, as he asked himself what he ought to do next. "I think I ought to go down to her mother," he said softly; "and I will." In this intent he went softly out into the hall, when little Miss Burge came hastily down the stairs, and her brother gasped as he placed one hand upon his side. "Bill--Bill," she whispered excitedly, "she is talking sensibly, and she wants to see you." "Wants to see me?" he panted. "No, no; she is wandering, poor girl!" "No, no, dear," cried little Miss Burge, clinging to his arm; "she has asked for you hundreds of times when she was wandering, and I wouldn't tell you--I thought it wouldn't be right. But now she's quite herself, and she's asking for you to come." "But ought I," he said, "in my own house?" "Yes--now," whispered back his sister. "But Bill dear, she's wasted away to a shadow, she's weak as weak, and you must not say a word more to her than if she was a friend or you were her brother." "No, no," he said hoarsely. "Come, then. She wants to speak to you, and it may do her good." Trembling with excitement, William Forth Burge softly followed his sister up the stairs, trying to smile and look composed, so as to present an encouraging aspect to the invalid, telling himself, heartsore though he was, that it was his duty, and that it would have a good effect; but as he entered the room and saw the change that had taken place, he uttered a low groan, and stood as if nailed to the floor. For Hazel was changed indeed. Her cheeks were sunken and her eyes looked unnaturally large, but the restless, pained expression had passed away, and the light of recognition was in her eyes, as she tried to raise one hand, which fell back upon the coverlet. He saw her lips part, and she smiled at him as he stood there by the door. This brought him back to himself, and he went hurriedly towards the bedside. "It was selfish of me to ask you to come," she said softly; "but you have both shown that you do not fear the fever." "Fear it, my dear? No!" he said, taking her thin white hand, kissing it, and making as if to lay it reverently back upon the coverlet; but the fingers closed round his, and a thrill of joy shot through his breast, as it seemed for the moment that she was clinging to him. "How am I ever to thank you enough?" she said, in a faint whisper. "Why have you brought me here? It troubles me. I feel as if I should make you suffer." "But you mustn't talk now, my darling," whispered little Miss Burge. "Wait till the doctor has been, and only lie still now and rest your poor self." "Yes--rest," she said feebly--"rest. I feel so easy now. All that dreadful pain has gone." "Thank God!" She turned her eyes upon the speaker with a grateful look and smiled faintly, motioning to him to take the chair by the bedside. "Don't leave me," she whispered. "Yes; keep hold of my hand. You have been so kind, and I seem to see it all now so plainly." "But my darling, you must not talk. There, just say a word or two to him, and then he must go. I'm going to ask the doctor to come and see you now." "No: let him wait. I must talk now. Perhaps to-night my senses will go again, and I shall be wandering on and on amongst the troubles once more." "Then you will be very still, dear." "Yes; I only want to lie and rest. Don't leave me, Mr Burge. Hold my hand." There was a sweet, calm look upon her face as she lay there, holding feebly by the hand that tenderly grasped hers, and her eyes half-closed as if in sleep. From time to time William Forth Burge exchanged glances with his sister, but the looks he received in return were always encouraging, and he sat there, care-worn and anxious, but at the same time feeling supremely happy. An hour had passed before Hazel spoke again, and then it was in a dreamy, thoughtful whisper. "I've been thinking about the past," she said, "and recalling all that has been done for me. I cannot talk much; but, Mr Burge, I can feel it all. Don't--don't think me ungrateful." "No, no," he whispered, as he bent down and kissed her hand; "I never could." "I was thinking about--about when you asked me--to be your wife." "Yes, yes, my dear!" he said eagerly; "but I was mad then. It was only an old fellow's fancy. I could not help it. It was foolish, and I ought to have known better. But we know one another now, and all you've got to do, my dear, is to grow well and strong, and find out that William Burge is man enough to do what's right." She lay thinking for some little time, and then he felt that a feeble effort was being made to draw his hand closer to her face, and yielding it, once more a wild throb ran through his nerves, for she feebly drew his hand to her cheek and held it there. "I was very blind then," she said in a whisper; "but I am not blind now." She spoke with her eyes closed, the restful look intensifying as the time glided on. After a while the woman who had acted as nurse announced the coming of the doctor, who brightened and looked pleased as he saw the change. "Yes," he said; "the fever has left her. Now we must build her up again." And after satisfying himself about his patient's state, he beckoned Miss Burge from the room, and gave the fullest instructions as to the course to be pursued, promised to come in again that evening, and went away. The day glided on, and William Forth Burge kept his place by the bedside, feeling that it was his by right; and then, at times, suffering from a terrible depression, as he told himself that he ought to go, and not presume upon the weakness of one who was in his charge. Hazel lay with her eyes half-closed, apparently in a restful, dreamy state, rousing herself a little when her tender nurse administered to her food or medicine, and then turning her eyes for a few moments to the occupant of the chair by the bedside, smiling at him sadly, afterwards, with a restful sigh, letting her cheek lie against his hand. "I should like to have seen my little sisters," she said once softly, "and my poor mother; but it would be cruel to bring them here. I should like to kiss poor Ophelia too." She laughed faintly here, as if amused. "Poor child!--so good at heart. Poor child!" There was another long interval of genuine sleep now, which lasted until evening, when Hazel awoke with a frightened start crying out painfully. "What is it, my pet?" whispered little Miss Burge, bending over the bed, and parting the hair from Hazel's hot wet brow. "There--there; you're better now." The light of recognition came, and she darted a swift, clear look at the speaker, then turned excitedly to the bedside where William Forth Burge still sat holding her hand. The peaceful smile came back as she saw him there, and she began speaking in a quick, excited way:-- "I have been dreaming--I thought I had told him it was impossible again--that I could not; for I loved some one else. But I do not. It was a weak girl's fancy. Miss Burge, I should like to kiss you, dear; but it would be unkind. Touch my face--my lips with your fingers." "My darling, I have no fear," sobbed the little woman; and she bent down and kissed the poor girl passionately, but only to rise in alarm, and make a sign to her brother, which he interpreted aright, and was about to rise and seek for help; but Hazel clung to his hand in alarm. "No, no! don't go!" she said hoarsely. "I could not bear it now." "I'll run, Bill!" panted Miss Burge; but a word from Hazel stayed her. "No; stop!" she whispered. "God knows best, Miss Burge. Lift me a little more. Let my head rest on your shoulder--so!" William Forth Burge raised the thin, slight form tenderly and reverently, till Hazel's head rested upon his broad shoulder, and he held her there; but she was not satisfied till he had placed her arm so that it half embraced his neck, and there she lay, gazing with her unnaturally bright, wistful eyes in his, while the great tears slowly welled over their bounds and trickled down his heavy face. "Miss Burge," she said again, and there was something very strange and wild in her voice, "I was weak and foolish once; but now it is too late, I have grown wiser--just at last. This is going to be my husband. In his dear memory I shall be his wife, for I love him now--with all my heart!" She closed her eyes for a few moments, and without a sound little Miss Burge stretched out one hand to the bell, making a sign to the nurse who answered, and then glided away. There was a long, deep silence then, broken only by a sob from Miss Burge, who now sank upon her knees by the bedside. Hazel's eyes opened again, and she gazed about her wildly, and as if in fear; but the restful smile came back, and she sighed as if relieved; and again there was a long silence, during which the watchers waited impatiently for the doctor's step. And so the minutes glided by, and the night came on apace--a night they felt would be black and deep, for all hope was gone. Then Hazel spoke again, and her voice sounded clearer and more distinct-- "I shall not hurt you now," she said softly, and her thin, wasted hand rose from the counterpane, seemed to tremble in the air for a moment, and then nestled in William Forth Burge's breast. "Kiss me," she said softly; "think that--at last--I loved you. So tired--let me sleep!" Is there truth in the old superstitious stories that we hear? True in their spiritual sense or no, just then a black pigeon that had hovered about the house for days alighted upon the window-sill, and the rustle of its wings sounded loud and painful in the oppressive stillness of that evening. From the fields the soft lowing of the kine came mellowed and sweet, and from the wood behind the house a thrush sang its evening hymn to the passing day, while, as the west grew less ruddy, the soft dawn-like light intensified in the north. It needed but one sound to add to the solemnity of the time, and that was the heavy knoll of the church bell, which rang out the curfew, as it had announced the hour from the far-back days when it was cast and blessed, and holy hands first hung it there. Just then little Miss Burge uttered a faint ejaculation of relief, for there was a quick step upon the gravel; but ere it reached the door there was a deep sigh in the shadowed room, Hazel's large, soft eyes grew dilate, and their light was for ever gone; another bridegroom had snatched her from her simple-hearted lover's arms--and that bridegroom was Death! The End. 
40264	----	book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) REGIMENT OF WOMEN [Illustration: Publisher's Device] THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA MELBOURNE THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. TORONTO REGIMENT OF WOMEN BY CLEMENCE DANE 'The monstrous empire of a cruell woman we knowe to be the onlie occasion of all these miseries: and yet with silence we passe the time as thogh the mater did nothinge appertein to us.' JOHN KNOX, _First Blast of the Trumpet against the Monstrous Regiment of Women_. New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1922 _All rights reserved_ COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. Set up and electrotyped. Published January, 1917. Norwood Press: Berwick & Smith Co., Norwood, Mass., U. S. A. To E. A. Here's Our Book As it grew. But it's Your Book! For, but for you, Who'd look At My Book? C. D. REGIMENT OF WOMEN CHAPTER I The school secretary pattered down the long corridor and turned into a class-room. The room was a big one. There were old-fashioned casement windows and distempered walls; the modern desks, ranged in double rows, were small and shallow, scarred, and incredibly inky. In the window-seats stood an over-populous fish-bowl, two trays of silkworms, and a row of experimental jam-pots. There were pictures on the walls--_The Infant Samuel_ was paired with _Cherry Ripe_, and Alfred, in the costume of Robin Hood, conscientiously ignored a neat row of halfpenny buns. The form was obviously a low one. Through the opening door came the hive-like hum of a school at work, but the room was empty, save for a mistress sitting at the raised desk, idle, hands folded, ominously patient. A thin woman, undeveloped, sallow-skinned, with a sensitive mouth, and eyes that were bold and shining. They narrowed curiously at sight of the new-comer, but she was greeted with sufficient courtesy. "Yes, Miss Vigers?" Henrietta Vigers was spare, precise, with pale, twitching eyes and a high voice. Her manner was self-sufficient, her speech deliberate and unnecessarily correct: her effect was the colourless obstinacy of an elderly mule. She stared about her inquisitively. "Miss Hartill, I am looking for Milly Fiske. Her mother has telephoned----Where is the class? I can't be mistaken. It's a quarter to one. You take the Lower Third from twelve-fifteen, don't you?" "Yes," said Clare Hartill. "Well, but--where is it?" The secretary frowned suspiciously. She was instinctively hostile to what she did not understand. "I don't know," said Clare sweetly. Henrietta gaped. Clare, justly annoyed as she was, could not but be grateful to the occasion for providing her with amusement. She enjoyed baiting Henrietta. "I should have thought you could tell me. Don't you control the time-table? I only know"--her anger rose again--"that I have been waiting here since a quarter past twelve. I have waited quite long enough, I think. I am going home. Perhaps you will be good enough to enquire into the matter." "But haven't you been to look for them?" began Henrietta perplexedly. "No," said Clare. "I don't, you know. I expect people to come to me. And I don't like wasting my time." Then, with a change of tone, "Really, Miss Vigers, I don't know whose fault it is, but it has no business to happen. The class knows perfectly well that it is due here. You must see that I can't run about looking for it." "Of course, of course!" Henrietta was taken aback. "But I assure you that it's nothing to do with me. I have rearranged nothing. Let me see--who takes them before you?" Clare shrugged her shoulders. "How should I know? I hardly have time for my own classes----" Henrietta broke in excitedly. "It's Miss Durand! I might have known. Miss Durand, naturally. Miss Hartill, I will see to the matter at once. It shall not happen again. I will speak to Miss Marsham. I might have known." "Miss Durand?" Clare's annoyance vanished. She looked interested and a trifle amused. "That tall girl with the yellow hair? I've heard about her. I haven't spoken to her yet, but the children approve, don't they?" She laughed pointedly and Henrietta flushed. "I rather like the look of her." "Do you?" Henrietta smiled sourly. "I can't agree. A most unsuitable person. Miss Marsham engaged her without consulting me--or you either, I suppose? The niece or daughter or something, of an old mistress. I wonder you didn't hear--but of course you were away the first fortnight. A terrible young woman--boisterous--undignified--a bad influence on the children!" Clare's eyes narrowed again. "Are you sure? The junior classes are working quite as well as usual--better indeed. I've been surprised. Of course, to-day----" "To-day is an example. She has detained them, I suppose. It has happened before--five minutes here--ten there--every one is complaining. Really--I shall speak to Miss Marsham." "Of course, if that's the case, you had better," said Clare, rather impatiently, as she moved towards the door. She regretted the impulse that had induced her to explain matters to Miss Vigers. If it did not suit her dignity to go in search of her errant pupils, still less did it accord with a complaint to the fidgety secretary. She should have managed the affair for herself. However--it could not be helped.... Henrietta Vigers was looking important.... Henrietta Vigers would enjoy baiting the new-comer--what was her name--Durand? Miss Durand would submit, she supposed. Henrietta was a petty tyrant to the younger mistresses, and Clare Hartill was very much aware of the fact. But the younger mistresses did not interest her; she was no more than idly contemptuous of their flabbiness. Why on earth had none of them appealed to the head mistress? But the new assistant was a spirited-looking creature.... Clare had noticed her keen nostrils--nothing sheepish there.... And Henrietta disliked her--distinctly a point in her favour.... Clare suspected that trouble might yet arise.... She paused uncertainly. Even now she might herself interfere.... But Miss Durand had certainly had no right to detain Clare's class.... It was gross carelessness, if not impertinence.... Let her fight it out with Miss Vigers.... Nevertheless--she wished her luck.... With another glance at her watch, and a cool little nod to her colleague, she left the class-room, and was shortly setting out for her walk home. Henrietta looked after her with an angry shrug. For the hundredth time she assured herself that she was submitting positively for the last time to the dictates of Clare Hartill; that such usurpation was not to be borne.... Who, after all, had been Authority's right hand for the last twenty years? Certainly not Clare Hartill.... Why, she could recall Clare's first term, a bare eight years ago! She had disliked her less in those days; had respected her as a woman who knew her business.... The school had been going through a lean year, with Miss Marsham, the head mistress, seriously ill; with a weak staff, and girls growing riotous and indolent. So lean a year, indeed, that Henrietta, left in charge, had one day taken a train and her troubles to Bournemouth, and poured them out to Authority's bath-chair. And Edith Marsham, the old warhorse, had frowned and nodded and chuckled, and sent her home again, no wiser than she came. But a letter had come for her later, and the bearer had been a quiet, any-aged woman with disquieting eyes. They had summed Henrietta up, and Henrietta had resented it. The new assistant, given, according to instructions, a free hand, had gone about her business, asking no advice. But there had certainly followed a peaceful six months. Then had come speech-day and Henrietta's world had turned upside down. She had not known such a speech-day for years. Complacent parents had listened to amazingly efficient performances--the guest of honour had enjoyed herself with obvious, naïve surprise: there had been the bomb-shell of the lists. Henrietta had nothing to do with the examinations, but she knew such a standard had not been reached for many a long term. And the head mistress, restored and rubicund, had alluded to her, Henrietta's, vice-regency in a neat little speech. She had received felicitations, and was beginning, albeit confusedly, to persuade herself that the stirring of the pie had been indeed due to her own forefinger, when the guests left, and she had that disturbing little interview with her principal. Edith Marsham had greeted her vigorously. She was still in her prime then, old as she was. She had another six years before senility, striking late, struck heavily. "Well--what do you think of her, eh? I hope you were a good girl--did as she told you?" Henrietta had flushed, resenting it that Miss Marsham, certainly a head mistress of forty years' standing, should, as she aged, treat her staff more and more as if it were but a degree removed from the Upper Sixth. The younger women might like it, but it did not accord with Henrietta's notions of her own dignity. She was devoutly thankful that Miss Marsham reserved her freedom for private interviews; had, in public at least, the grand manner. Yet she had a respect for her; knew her dimly for a notable dame, who could have coerced a recalcitrant cabinet as easily as she bullied the school staff. She had rubbed her hands together, shrewd eyes a-twinkle. "I knew what I was doing! How long have you been with me, Henrietta? Twelve years ago, eh? Ah, well, it's longer ago than that. Let me see--she's twenty-eight now, Clare Hartill--and she left me at sixteen. A responsibility, a great responsibility. An orphan--too much money. A difficult child--I spent a lot of time on her, and prayer, too, my dear. Well, I don't regret it now. When I met her at Bournemouth that day--oh, I wasn't pleased with you, Henrietta! It has taken me forty years to build up my school, and I can't be ill two months, but----Well, I made up my mind. I found her at a loose end. I talked to her. She'll take plain speaking from me. I told her she'd had enough of operas and art schools, and literary societies (she's been running round Europe for the last ten years). I told her my difficulty--I told her to come back to me and do a little honest work. Of course she wouldn't hear of it." "Then how did you persuade Miss Hartill?" But Henrietta, raising prim brows, had but drawn back a chuckle from the old woman. "How many types of schoolgirl have you met, Henrietta? Here, under me?" Henrietta fidgeted. The question was an offence. It was not in her department. She had no note of it in her memorandum books. "Really--I can hardly tell you--blondes and brunettes, do you mean? No two girls are quite the same, are they?" But Miss Marsham had not attended. "Just two--that's my experience. The girl from whom you get work by telling her you are sure she can do it--and the girl from whom you get work by telling her you are sure she can't. You'll soon find out which I told Clare Hartill. And now, understand this, Henrietta. There are to be no dissensions. I want Clare Hartill to stay. If she gets engrossed in the work, she will. She won't interfere with you, you'll find. She's too lazy. Get on with her if you can." But Henrietta had not got on with her, had resented fiercely Miss Marsham's preferential treatment of the new-comer. That Miss Marsham was obviously wise in her generation did not appease her _amour propre_. She knew that where she had failed, Clare had been uncannily successful. Yet Clare was not aggressively efficient: indeed it was a grievance that she was so apparently casual, so gracefully indifferent. But, as if it were a matter of course, she did whatever she set out to do so much better, so much more graphically than it had ever been done before, that inevitably she attracted disciples. But Henrietta's grievance went deeper. She denied her any vestige of personal charm, and at the same time insisted fiercely that she was an unscrupulous woman, in that she used her personal charm to accomplish her aims: her aims, in Henrietta's eyes, being the ousting of the secretary from her position of trust and possible succession to the headship. Henrietta did not realise that it was herself, far more than Clare, who was jeopardising that position. Though there was no system of prefecture among the staff, she had come to consider herself responsible for the junior mistresses, encouraging them to bring complaints to her, rather than to the head of the school. Old Miss Marsham, little as she liked relaxing her hold on the reins, dreaded, as old age must, the tussle that would inevitably follow any insistence on her prerogatives, and had acquiesced; yet with reservations. Had one of the younger mistresses rebelled and carried her grievance to the higher court, Miss Vigers' eyes might have been opened; but as yet no one had challenged her self-assumed supremacy. Clare, who might have done so, cared little who supervised the boarders or was supreme in the matter of time-table and commissariat. Her interest lay in the actual work, in the characters and possibilities of the workers. There she brooked no interference, and Henrietta attempted little, for when she did she was neatly and completely routed. But the more chary Henrietta grew of interfering with Clare's activities, the more she realised that it was her duty (she would not have said pleasure) to supervise the younger women. She had a gift that was almost genius of appearing among them at awkward moments. If a child were proving refractory and victory hanging in the balance, Miss Vigers would surely choose that moment to knock at the class-room door, and, politely refusing to inconvenience the embarrassed novice, wait, all-observant, until the scene ended, before explaining her errand. Later in the day the young mistress would be button-holed, and the i's and t's of her errors of judgment dotted and crossed. Those who would not submit to tutelage she contrived to render so uncomfortable that, sooner or later, they retired in favour of temperaments more sheeplike or more thick-skinned. To Alwynne Durand, at present under grave suspicion of tampering with Clare Hartill's literature class, she had been from the first inimical. She had been engaged without Henrietta's sanction; she was young, and pretty, and already ridiculously popular. And there was the affair of the nickname. Alwynne had certainly looked out of place at the mistresses' table, on the day of her arrival, with her yellow hair and green gown--"like a daffodil stuck into a bunch of everlastings," as an early adorer had described her. The phrase had appealed and spread, and within a week she was "Daffy" to the school; but her popularity among her colleagues had not been heightened by rumours of the collective nickname the contrast with their junior had evoked. Her obvious shyness and desire to please were, however, sufficiently disarming, and her first days had not been made too difficult for her by any save Henrietta. But Henrietta was sure she was incompetent--called to witness her joyous, casual manner, her unorthodox methods, her way of submerging the mistress in the fellow-creature. She had labelled her undisciplined--which Alwynne certainly was--lax and undignified; had prophesied that she would be unable to maintain order; had been annoyed to find that, inspiring neither fear nor awe, she was yet quite capable of making herself respected. Alwynne's jolliness never seemed to expose her to familiarities, ready as she was to join in the laugh against herself when, new to the ways of the school, she outraged Media, or reduced Persia to hysterical giggles. She was soon reckoned up by the shrewd children as "mad, but a perfect dear," and she managed to make her governance so enjoyable that it would have been considered bad form, as well as bad policy, to make her unconventionality an excuse for ragging. She had, indeed, easily assimilated the school atmosphere. She was humble and anxious to learn, had no notions of her own importance. But she was quick-tempered, and though she could be meek and grateful to experience backed by good manners, she reared at patronage. Inevitably she made mistakes, the mistakes of her age and temperament, but common sense and good humour saved her from any serious blunders. Miss Vigers had, nevertheless, noted each insignificant slip, and carried the tale, less insignificant in bulk, in her mind, ready to produce at a favourable opportunity. And now the opportunity had arisen. Miss Hartill had delivered Miss Durand into her hand. Miss Hartill, she was glad to note, had not shown any interest in the new-comer.... Miss Hartill had a way of taking any one young and attractive under her protection.... That it was with Miss Hartill that the girl had come into conflict, however, did away with any need of caution.... Miss Durand needed putting in her place.... Henrietta, in all speed, would reconduct her thither. CHAPTER II Miss Vigers hurried along to the Upper Third class-room. She straightened her jersey, and patted her netted hair as she went, much in the manner of a countryman squaring for a fight, opened the door, after a tap so rudimentary as to be inaudible to those within, and entered aggressively, the light of battle in her eye. To her amazement and annoyance her entry was entirely unnoticed. The entire class had deserted its desks and was clustered round the rostrum, where Alwynne Durand, looking flushed and excited and prettier than a school-mistress had any business to be, was talking fast and eagerly. She had a little stick in her hand which she was using as a conductor's baton, emphasising with it the points of the story she was evidently telling. A map and some portraits were pinned to the blackboard beside her, and the children's heads were grouped, three and four together, over pictures apparently taken from the open portfolio lying before her on the desk. But their eyes were on Miss Durand, and the varying yet intent attitudes gave the collective effect of an audience at a melodrama. They were obviously and breathlessly interested, and the occasional quick crackle of question and answer merely accentuated the tension. Once, as Alwynne paused a moment, her stick hovering uncertainly over the map, a child, with a little wriggle of impatience, piped up-- "We'll find it afterwards. Oh, go on, Miss Durand! Please, go on!" And Alwynne, equally absorbed, went on and the class hung upon her words. The listener was outraged. Children were to be allowed to give orders--to leave their places--to be obviously and hugely enjoying themselves--in school hours--and the whole pack of them due elsewhere! She had never witnessed so disgraceful a scene. Her dry precision shivered at Alwynne's coruscating adjectives. (It is not to be denied that Alwynne, at that period of her career, was lax and lavish in speech, altogether too fond of conceits and superlatives.) She cut aridly into the lecture. "Miss Durand! Are you aware of the time?" Alwynne jumped, and the class jumped with her. It was curious to watch that which but a moment before had been one absorbed, collective personality suddenly disintegrating into Lotties and Maries and Sylvias, shy, curious, impish or indifferent, after their kind. Miss Vigers's presence intimidated: each peeping personality retired, snail-like, into its schoolgirl shell. With a curious yet distinct consciousness of guilt, they edged away from the two women, huddling sheepishly together, watching and waiting, inimical to the disturber of their enjoyment, but distinctly doubtful as to whether "Daffy," in the encounter that they knew quite well was imminent, would be able to hold her own. But Miss Durand was self-possessed. She looked down at Miss Vigers from her high seat and gave a natural little laugh. "Oh, Miss Vigers! How you startled me!" "I'm sorry. I have been endeavouring to attract your attention for some moments. Are you aware of the time?" Alwynne glanced at the clock. The hands stood at an impossible hour. "There!" she remarked penitently, "it's stopped again!" She smiled at the class, all ears and interest. "One of you children will just have to remind me. Helen? No, you do the chalks already. Millicent!" She singled out a dreamy child, who was taking surreptitious advantage of the interruption to pore over the pictures that had slid from the desk to the floor of the rostrum. "Milly! Your head's a sieve too! Will you undertake to remind me? Each time I have to be reminded--in goes a penny to the mission--and each time you forget to remind me, you do the same. It'll do us both good! And if we both forget--the rest of the class must pull us up." The little girl nodded, serious and important. Alwynne turned to Henrietta. "Excuse me, Miss Vigers, were you wanting to speak to me? I'm afraid we're in rather a muddle. Children--pick up those pictures: at least--Helen and Milly! Go back to your desks, the rest of you." And then, to Henrietta again, "I suppose the gong will go in a minute?" She was being courteous, but she was implying quite clearly that she considered the interruption of her lesson unnecessary. Henrietta's eyes snapped. "The twelve-fifteen gong went a long time ago, Miss Durand. It's nearly one. Miss Hartill wishes to know what has happened to her class." "My hat!" murmured Alwynne, appalled. It was the most rudimentary murmur--a mere movement of the lips; but Henrietta caught it. Justifiably, she detested slang. She stiffened yet more, but Alwynne was continuing with deprecating gestures. "This is dreadful! I'm awfully sorry, Miss Vigers, but, you know, we never heard the gong! Not a sound! Are you sure it rang?" (This to Henrietta, who never slackened her supervision of the relays of prefects responsible for the ever-punctual gong. But Alwynne had no eye for detail.) She continued agitatedly, unconscious of offence-- "But of course I must go and explain to Miss Hartill at once. Children--get your things together, and go straight to the Lower Second. I'll come with you. Miss Vigers, I am so sorry--it was entirely my fault, of course, but we none of us heard the gong." But as she spoke, and the girls, attentive and curious, obediently gathered up their belongings and filed into the passage, the gong, audible enough to any one less absorbed than Alwynne and her class had been, boomed for its last time that morning, the prolonged boom that was the signal for the day-girls to go home. The children dispersed hurriedly, and Alwynne was left alone with Henrietta. Alwynne was grave--distinctly distressed. "I must go and explain to Miss Hartill at once," she repeated, making for the door. "You needn't trouble yourself," Henrietta called after her. "Miss Hartill went home half-an-hour-ago." The irrepressible note of gratification in her voice startled Alwynne. She turned and faced her. "I don't understand! You said she was waiting." "When I left her, she had been waiting over half-an-hour. She told me that she should do so no longer. Miss Hartill is not accustomed to be kept waiting while the junior mistresses amuse themselves." Alwynne raised her eyebrows and regarded her carefully. "Did Miss Hartill ask you to tell me that? Are you her messenger?" she asked blandly. The last sentence had enlightened her, at any rate, as to Miss Vigers's personal attitude to herself. She was perfectly aware that she had been guilty of gross carelessness; that, if Miss Hartill chose, she could make it a serious matter for her; but for the moment her apprehensive regrets, as well as her profound sense of the apology due to the formidable Miss Hartill, were shrivelled in the white heat of her anger at the tone Henrietta Vigers was permitting herself. She was as much hurt as horrified by the revelation of an antipathy she had been unconscious of exciting; it was her first experience of gratuitous ill-will. She rebelled hotly, incapable of analysing her emotion, indifferent to the probable consequences of a defiance of the older woman, but passionately resolved that she would not allow any one alive to be rude to her. And Henrietta, amazed at the veiled rebuke of her manner, also lost her temper. "Miss Hartill and I were overwhelmed by such an occurrence. Do you realise what you are doing, Miss Durand? You keep the children away from their lesson--you alter the school time-table to suit your convenience--without a remark, or warning, or apology." "I've told you already that I didn't hear the gong," interrupted Alwynne, between courtesy and impatience. She was trying hard to control herself. "That is nonsense. Everybody hears the gong. You didn't choose to hear it, I suppose. Anyhow, I feel it my duty to tell you that such behaviour will not be tolerated, Miss Durand, in this, or any school. It is not your place to make innovations. I was horrified just now when I came in. The class-room littered about with pictures and papers--the children not in their places--allowed to interrupt and argue. I never heard of such a thing." Alwynne's chin went up. "Excuse me, Miss Vigers, but I hardly see that it is your business to criticise my way of teaching." "I am speaking to you for your own good," said Henrietta. "That is kind of you; but if you speak to me in such a tone, you cannot expect me to listen." Henrietta hesitated. "Miss Durand, you are new to the school----" "That gives you no right to be rude to me!" Henrietta took a step towards her. "Rude? And you? I consider you insolent. Ever since you came to the school you have been impossible. You go your own way, teach in your own way----" "I do as I'm told," said Alwynne sharply. "In your own way. You neither ask nor take advice----" "At any rate, Miss Marsham is satisfied with me--she told me so last week." She felt it undignified to be justifying herself, but she feared that silent contempt would be lost on Miss Vigers. Also, such an attitude was not easy to Alwynne; she had a tongue; when she was angry, the brutal effectiveness of Billingsgate must always tempt her. Henrietta countered coldly-- "I am sorry that I shall be obliged to undeceive her; that is, unless you apologise----" "To Miss Hartill? Certainly! I intend to. I hope I know when I'm in the wrong." "To me----" "To you?" cried Alwynne, with a little high-pitched laugh. "If you tell me what for?" "In Miss Marsham's absence I take her place," began Henrietta. "Miss Hartill, I was told, did that." "You are mistaken. The younger mistresses come to me for orders." "I shall be the exception, then. I am not a housemaid. Will you let me get to my desk, please, Miss Vigers? I want my books." She brushed past Henrietta, cheeks flaming, chin in air, and opened her desk. The secretary, for all her anger, hesitated uncertainly. She was unused to opposition, and had been accustomed to allow herself a greater licence of speech than she knew. Alwynne's instant resentment, for all its crude young insolence, was, she realised, to some extent justified. She had, she knew, exceeded her powers, but she had not stopped to consider whether Alwynne would know that she had done so, or, knowing, have the courage to act upon that knowledge. She had been staggered by the girl's swift counter-attack and was soon wishing that she had left her alone; but she had gone too far to retreat with dignity; also, she had by no means regained control of her temper. "I can only report you to Miss Marsham," she remarked lamely, to Alwynne's back. Alwynne turned. "You needn't trouble. If Miss Hartill doesn't, I shall go to her myself." "You?" said Henrietta uneasily. "Why," cried Alwynne, flaming out at her, "d'you think I'm afraid of you? D'you think I am going to stand this sort of thing? I know I was careless, and I'm sorry. I'm going straight down to Miss Hartill to tell her so. And if she slangs me--it's all right. And if Miss Marsham slangs me--it's all right. She's the head of the school. But I won't be slanged by you. You are rude and interfering and I shall tell Miss Marsham so." Shaking with indignation she slammed down the lid of her desk: and with her head held high, and a dignity that a friendly word would have dissolved into tears, walked out of the class-room. CHAPTER III Alwynne Durand was quite aware that she was an arrant coward. The cronies of her not remote schooldays would have exclaimed at the label, have cited this or that memorable audacity in confutation, but Alwynne herself knew better. When her impulsiveness had jockeyed her into an uncomfortable situation, pure pride could always be trusted to sustain her, strengthen her shoulders and sharpen her wits; but she triumphed with shaking knees. Alwynne, touchy with the touchiness of eighteen, was bound to fling down her glove before Henrietta Vigers, and be ostentatiously ready to face cornet, flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, and all kinds of music. But Alwynne, half-an-hour later, on her way to Miss Hartill and her overdue apology, was bound also to be feeling more like a naughty schoolgirl than a mistress of six weeks' standing has any business to feel, to be uneasily wondering what she should say, how she should say it, and why on earth she had been fool enough to get herself into the mess. If it had been any one but Miss Hartill, with whom she had not exchanged five words, but whom she had heard discussed, nevertheless, from every conceivable and inconceivable point of view, with that accompanying profusion of anecdote of which only schoolgirl memory, so traditional as well as personal, is capable. Miss Marsham, she had been given to understand might be head mistress, but Miss Hartill was Miss Hartill. Alwynne, accustomed as she was to the cults of a boarding-school, had ended by growing exceedingly curious. Yet when Miss Hartill had returned, a week or two late, to her post, Alwynne could not, as she phrased it, for the life of her see what all the fuss was about. Miss Hartill was ordinary enough. Alwynne had looked up one morning, from an obscure corner of the Common-room, at the sound of a clicking latch, had had an impression of a tall woman, harshly outlined by the white panelled door, against which she leaned lazily as she quizzed the roomful of women. Alwynne told herself that she was not at all impressed.... This the Miss Hartill of a hundred legends? This the Olympian to whom three-fourths of the school said its prayers? Who had split the staff into an enthusiastic majority and a minority that concealed its dislike? Queer! Alwynne, shrugging her shoulders over the intricacies of a school's enthusiasms, had leaned back in her chair to watch, between amusement and contempt, the commotion that had broken out. There was a babble of welcome, a cross-fire of question and answer. And then, over the heads of the little group that had gathered about the door, a pair of keen, roving eyes had settled on herself, coolly appraising. Alwynne had been annoyed with herself for flushing under the stare. She had a swift impression of being summed up, all raw and youthful and ambitious as she was, her attitude of unwilling curiosity detected, expected even. There had been a flicker of a smile, amused, faintly insolent.... But it had all been merest impression. Miss Hartill, who had been, indeed, surrounded, inaccessible, from the instant of her entrance until the prayer bell rang, did not look her way a second time. But the impression had remained, and Alwynne, obscure in her newness and her corner, found herself reconsidering this Miss Hartill, more roused than she would confess. If she were not the Hypatia-Helen of the class-rooms, she was none the less a personality! Whether Alwynne would like her was another matter. Alwynne, in the next few days, had not come into direct contact with Miss Hartill. She had noticed, however, a certain stirring of the school atmosphere, a something of briskness and tension that affected her pleasantly. The children, she supposed, were getting into their stride.... But she began to see that the classes chiefly affected were the classes with which Miss Hartill had most to do, that the mistresses, too, were working with unusual energy, and that Miss Vigers was less in evidence than heretofore; that, in short, Miss Hartill's return was making a difference. Insensibly she slipped into the fashion of being slightly in awe of her--was daily and undeniably relieved that her work had as yet escaped the swift eyes and lazy criticism. But she was also aware that she would be distinctly gratified if Miss Hartill should at any time express satisfaction with her and her efforts. Miss Hartill was certainly interesting. She had wondered if she should ever get to know her; had hoped so. And now Napoleon Buonaparte and a stopped clock had between them managed the business for her effectually. She was going to know Miss Hartill--a justifiably, and, according to Miss Vigers, excessively indignant Miss Hartill. She looked forward without enthusiasm to that acquaintance. She did not know what she should say to Miss Hartill.... But Miss Hartill would do the talking, she imagined.... She was extremely sorry for herself as she knocked at Miss Hartill's door. The maid left her stranded in the hall, and she waited, uncomfortably conscious of voices in the next room. "Brand? But I don't know any----Drand! Oh, Durand! What an extraordinary time to----All right Bagot. No. Lunch as usual." The maid slipped across the hall again to her kitchen as Miss Hartill came forward, polite, unsmiling. She did not offer her hand, but stood waiting for Alwynne to deliver herself of her errand. But Alwynne was embarrassed. The exordium she had so carefully prepared during her walk was eluding her. It had been easy to arrange the conversation beforehand, but Miss Hartill in the flesh was disconcerting. She jumbled her opening sentences, flushed, floundered, and was silent. Ensued a pause. Clare surveyed her visitor quizzically, enjoying her discomfort. Alwynne was at her prettiest at a disadvantage. She had an air of shedding eight of her eighteen years, of recognising in her opponent a long-lost nurse. Clare repressed a chuckle. "Try again, Miss Durand," she said solemnly. "I came," said Alwynne blankly. "You see, I came----" She paused again. "Yes, I think I see that," said Clare, as one enlightened. Alwynne eyed her dubiously. There might or might not have been a twinkle in her colleague's eye. She took heart of grace and began again. "Miss Hartill, I'm awfully sorry! It was me--I, I mean, I kept the girls. I didn't hear the gong. Really and truly I didn't. Honestly, it was an accident. I thought I ought to come and apologise. Truly, I'm most awfully sorry, quite apart from avoiding getting into a row. Because I've got into that already." Clare's lips twitched. Alwynne was built on generous lines. She had a good carriage, could enter a room effectively. Clare had not been unaware of her secure manner. Her present collapse was the more amusing. Clare was beginning to guess that what Miss Durand did, she did wholeheartedly. "I expect you're simply wild with me. Miss Vigers said you would be," said Alwynne hopelessly. "Miss Vigers ought to know," said Clare. There was another pause. "I'm frightfully sorry," said Alwynne suggestively. "Are you, Miss Durand?" "I mean, apart from upsetting you, I'm so savage with myself. One doesn't exactly enjoy making a fool of oneself, does one, Miss Hartill? You know how it feels. And it's my first post, and I did mean to do it well, and I've only been here six weeks, and I'm in a row with three people already." "How--three?" said Clare with interest. "Well--there's you----" "I think we're settling that," said Clare, with her sudden smile. "Are we?" Alwynne looked up so warily that Clare laughed outright. "But the other two, Miss Durand--the other two? This grows interesting." "Well, you see," Alwynne expanded, "I had an awful row with Miss Vigers--and she's sure to tell Miss Marsham. I suppose I was rude, but she did make me so mad. I don't see that it was her business to come and slang me before my class." "My class," corrected Clare. "I wouldn't have minded you," said Alwynne, lifting ingenuous eyes. "I'm flattered," murmured Clare. "Well--you would have understood," said Alwynne with conviction. "But Miss Vigers----I ask you, Miss Hartill, what would be the use of talking about Napoleon to Miss Vigers?" "I give it up," said Clare promptly. "There you are!" Alwynne waved her hand triumphantly. "But, excuse me"--Clare was elaborately respectful--"has Napoleon any traceable connection with the kidnapping of my class?" "Oh, I thought I explained." Alwynne plunged into her story. "You see, I was giving them Elocution--they're learning the _Incident in the French Camp_--you know?" Clare nodded. "Well, I thought they were rather more wooden than usual, and I found out that they knew practically nothing about Napoleon! Marengo--Talleyrand--never heard of 'em! Waterloo, and that he behaved badly to his wife--that's all they knew!" "The English in a nutshell!" murmured Clare. "So, of course, I told them all about him, and his life, and tit-bits like the Sèvres tea-things, and Madame Sans-gêne. They loved it. And I was showing them pictures and I suppose we got absorbed. You can't help it with Napoleon, somehow. Oh, Miss Hartill, doesn't it seem crazy, though, to keep those children at Latin exercises, and the exports of Lower Tooting, and Bills of Attainder in the reign of Queen Anne, before they know about things like Napoleon, and Homer, and the Panama Canal? Wouldn't you rather know about the life of Buddha than the war of Jenkins's ear? Not that I ever got to the Georges myself! Oh, it makes me so wild! It's like stuffing them with pea-nuts, when one has got a basket of peaches on one's arm. It isn't education! It's goose-cramming! I can't explain properly what I mean. I expect you think I'm a fool!" "An enthusiast. It's much the same," said Clare absently. "You'll get over it." Then, with a twinkle: "Reform's an excellent thing, of course--but why annex my class to experiment with?" Alwynne defervesced. There was an unhappy pause. "You know, I'm most awfully sorry," said Alwynne at last, as one making a brilliant and original contribution to the discussion. A piercing shriek from the kitchen interrupted them. Alwynne jumped, but Clare was undisturbed. "It's only Bagot. She's always having accidents. But she's an excellent cook. After all, what's a shilling's worth of crockery a week compared with a good cook? But to return to Napoleon and the Lower Third----" "You don't think she's hurt herself?" Alwynne ventured to interrupt. "She did squeal." Clare looked suddenly concerned. "I hope not. I haven't had lunch yet." She went to the kitchen door, reappearing with a slightly harried air. "Miss Durand, I wish you'd come here a minute. She's cut her hand. Oh, lavishly! Most careless! What is one to do? I suppose one must bandage it?" Her tone of helpless disgust was so genuine that Alwynne was inclined to laugh. So there were circumstances that could be too much even for Miss Hartill! How reassuring! And how it warmed the cockles of one's heart to her! Her lips twitched mischievously as she looked from the disconcerted mistress to the sniffing maid, but she lost no time in stripping off her gloves and setting to work, issuing orders the while that Clare obeyed with a meekness that surprised herself. "Linen, please, Miss Hartill, or old rags! It's rather a bad cut." Then, to the maid, "How on earth did you do it? A tin-opener? No, no, Miss Hartill! a duster's no good. An old handkerchief or something." She was achieving complicated effects with a fork and a knotted scarf as she spoke, and Clare, obediently tearing linen into strips, considered her critically. The girl was capable then, as well as amusing.... That tourniquet might not be professional, but it was at least effective.... The bleeding was stopping.... Very good of her to toil over Bagot's unappetising hand.... Clare marvelled at her unconcern, for she was dainty enough in her own person to please even Clare's fastidious eye. Clare supposed that it was a good thing that some people had the nursing instinct.... She thanked her stars that she herself had not.... Alwynne, unconscious of scrutiny, put in her final safety-pin, settled the sling and stepped back at last, surveying her handiwork with some pride. "It'll want a stitch, though. She'd better go to the doctor, I think," she said decisively. "Shall I come with you?" This to the maid, complacently the centre of attention. But the maid preferred to fetch her mother. "Her mother lived quite close, miss. If Miss 'Artill could get on----" "She can't do any cooking with that hand," said Alwynne to Clare, more in decision than appeal, and Clare acquiescing, she fetched hat and coat, manipulated hatpins, and bundled the girl forth. She returned to the kitchen to find Miss Hartill, skirts clutched high, eyeing the crowded table with distaste, and prodding with a toasting-fork at the half-prepared meal. "Isn't it disgusting? How these people bleed! I can't stand a mess! Really, I'm very much obliged to you, Miss Durand for seeing to Bagot. I'm no good at that sort of thing. I hate touching people. You don't think it was a bad cut, though?" "It must have hurt! She won't be able to use her hand for a day or two." Clare rubbed her nose peevishly. She had a comical air of resenting the necessity for concerning herself with her own domestic arrangements. "Well, what am I to do? And I loathe charwomen. She might at least have got lunch first!" "The meat's cooked, anyhow," said Alwynne hopefully, drawing forth a congealing dishful. Clare shivered. "Take it away! It's all over Bagot." "I don't think it is." Alwynne examined it cautiously. Clare gave her a short laugh. "Anyhow, it doesn't appeal any more. Never mind, Miss Durand, I shall manage--I mustn't keep you." Alwynne disregarded the hint. She seemed preoccupied. "There aren't any eggs, I suppose," she ventured diffidently. Clare flung out vague hands. "Heaven knows! It's Bagot's business. Why?" "Because," Alwynne had crossed the room and was struggling with a stiff cupboard door, "Elsbeth says I'm a fool at cooking (Elsbeth's my aunt, you know), but I can make omelets----" The door gave suddenly and Alwynne fell forward into the dark pantry. There was a clatter as of scattered bread-pans. She soon emerged, however, floury but serene. "Yes! There are some! It wouldn't take ten minutes, Miss Hartill. That is--if----" she sought delicately for a tactful phrase: "if you would perhaps like to go away and read. If any one stands about and watches--you know what I mean----" "Are you proposing to cook my lunch?" Clare demanded. "Of course, if you don't like omelets," said Alwynne demurely. Clare laughed outright. "I do--I do. All right, Miss Durand, I'm too hungry to refuse. But I see through it, you know. It's to cry quits!" Alwynne broke in indignantly-- "It isn't! It's the _amende honorable_--at least, if it doesn't scorch." "All right, I accept it!" Clare pacified her; then, as she left the kitchen, "Miss Durand?" "Yes, Miss Hartill?" "Are you going to make one for Miss Vigers?" Alwynne's face fell. "I'd forgotten Miss Vigers." Clare twinkled. "Perhaps--if it doesn't scorch--I'll see what I can do," she promised her. The lunch was a success. Alwynne, dishing up, had her hat ordered off her head, and was soon sharing the omelet and marvelling at herself for being where she was, and Clare, for her part, found herself enjoying her visitor as much as her meal. Clare Hartill led a sufficiently solitary life. She was a woman of feverish friendships and sudden ruptures. Always the cleverest and most restless of her circle, she usually found her affinities as unable to satisfy her demands on their intellect as on their emotions. Disillusionment would be swift and final: Clare never forgave a bore. Gradually it came to pass that intercourse she so carefully fostered with her elder pupils became her absorbing and satisfying interest. She plumed herself on her independence of social amenities, did not guess, would not have admitted, that her pleasure in a chance table companion had its flavour of pathos. It was enough to acknowledge to herself that Alwynne Durand, with her enthusiasms, her incoherencies, and her capacities had certainly caught her difficult fancy. She liked the girl's manner; its compound of shyness and audacity, deference and independence pleased her sophisticated taste. She found her racy and original, and, in the exertion of drawing her out, was herself at her best. A brilliant talker, she chose to listen, and soon heard all there was to hear of Alwynne's short history; of her mother's sister, Elsbeth Loveday (Clare pricked up her ears at the name), who had reared her from babyhood; of her schooldays; her crude young likes and dislikes; her hero-worships and passionate, vague ambitions. Clare knew it all by heart, had heard the tale from more pairs of lips than she could remember, for more years than she cared to count. But Alwynne, nevertheless, told it in a way of her own that appealed to Clare and interested her anew. She told herself that the girl was worth cultivating; and what with apt comments, apter silences, and the half-finished phrases and abrupt noddings of perfect comprehension, contrived to make Alwynne think her the most sympathetic person she had ever had the fortune to meet. Indeed, they pleased each other so well that when Alwynne, towards tea-time, made an unwilling move, Clare was as unwilling, for her part, to let her go. "It was certainly a most excellent omelet," she said, as she sped her from the door. "I suppose you won't come and cook me another to-night?" Alwynne took her at her word. "I will! Of course I will! Would you like me to, really? I will! I'd love to!" Clare laughed. "Oh, I was only in fun. Whatever would your aunt say?" "She wouldn't mind," began Alwynne eagerly. Clare temporised. "But your work? Haven't you any work?" Alwynne overwhelmed her. "That's all right! It isn't much! I'll sit up. I wish you'd let me. I would love to. You must have some one to cook your supper for you, mustn't you?" "Well, of course, if you'd really like to----" Clare hesitated between jest and earnest. But Alwynne was wholly in earnest. "I'll come. Thank you very much indeed," said Alwynne, eyes sparkling. CHAPTER IV In the months that followed the eating of the omelet, Alwynne would have agreed that the cynic who said that "an entirely successful love-affair can only be achieved by foundlings" should have included friendship in his dictum. For relations ... well, everybody knew what everybody meant when relations were mentioned in that particular tone; and Elsbeth, dearest of maiden aunts, was nevertheless at times aggressively a relation: privileged to wet-blanket enthusiasms. Elsbeth made, indeed, no stand against the alliance that had sprung mushroom-like into existence; was courteous, in her sweet silent fashion, to Clare Hartill at their occasional meetings; but she remained subtly uninterested. But when, again, had that suppressed and self-effacing personality shown interest in any living thing save Alwynne herself? Alwynne, shrugging her shoulders, and ignoring, as youth must, the affectionate prevision that had lapped her all her life, supposed that she must not expect too much of poor, dear Elsbeth.... (It was characteristic of their relationship that she never called her guardian "Aunt.") Elsbeth, darling Elsbeth--but a little limited, perhaps? Hardly to be expected that she should appreciate a Miss Hartill.... Elsbeth, though Alwynne never guessed it, quite understood what went on in her niece's mind: was resigned to it. She knew that she was not a clever woman. She had been too much occupied, all her life, in smoothing the way for other people, to have had leisure for her own cultivation, physical or mental. Her two years of teaching, in the uncertificated 'eighties, had but served to reveal to herself her ingrained incapacity for government. She had never forgotten the humiliation of those months when Clare Hartill, a pitiless fourteen-year-old girl, had headed one successful revolt after another against her. It had been an episode; with the advent of Alwynne she had returned to domesticity; but the experience had intensified her innate lack of self-esteem. There were times when she seriously debated whether, in bringing up her orphaned niece, she were indulging herself at the expense of her duty. She knew quite well, and rejoiced shamefacedly in the knowledge, that Alwynne, her beautiful, brilliant, headstrong girl, could twist the old aunt round her little finger. And that, of course, could not be good for Alwynne. Alwynne was, to do her justice, extremely fond of her aunt. Till the advent of Clare Hartill, Elsbeth had been the pole-star of her world. All the more disconcerting of Elsbeth, receiver of confidences, therefore, to be so entirely uninterested in the comet that was deflecting Alwynne from her accustomed orbit. She wondered occasionally what her aunt's history had been. Elsbeth was reticent: never a woman of reminiscences. Her relations were distant ones, whom she rarely mentioned and apparently more rarely missed. Alwynne was the more surprised one breakfast, when, retailing the school's latest scandal, she was interrupted by an exclamation of pleasure. "Alwynne! The Lumsdens are coming back!" Elsbeth rustled foreign paper delightedly. Alwynne wrinkled her brows. "The Lumsdens? Oh--those cousins of yours?" "Yes. The youngest, Rosemary, only died last year. Don't you remember? They've lived abroad for years on account of her health, and her son Roger always went out to her for his holidays." "Roger? Is that the velveteen boy in the big album?" Elsbeth laughed. "He must be thirty by now. The estate went to him. It was let, you know, and the Great House at Dene--to a school, I believe. They had lost money. And Rosemary was always extravagant. Roger went to America for a time. But still he's well enough off. He came home when his mother died last year, and now, it seems, he's taken a house close to their old home, and settled down as a market-gardener. The Lumsdens are to come and keep house for him. He's very fond of his aunts, I know. Well! To think of seeing Jean and Alicia again after all these years. They want us to come and stay when they've settled down." "You'll enjoy that?" Alwynne eyed her aunt curiously. Elsbeth's pale cheeks were pink, her faded eyes dreamy. Her unconscious hand was rapping out its tune upon the tablecloth--the only symptom of excitement that Elsbeth ever showed. "Were you fond of them? Why haven't you ever been to see them, Elsbeth?" "Time flies. And I certainly can't afford to gad about the Riviera. And there was you, you know. Besides----" she hesitated. "Besides what?" Elsbeth did not seem to hear. "You'll like Dene, Alwynne. Oh, yes, I know it well. I used to stay with them--before the Great House was let. Years ago. And Roger--I hope you'll get on with Roger. I haven't seen him since he was five. A jolly little fellow. And from what Alicia says----" But Alwynne would not take any interest in Roger. He had a snub nose in the photograph; and besides, she hated men. So dull. As Clare said----Indeed, she wasn't always quoting Clare! She didn't always set up Clare's judgment against Elsbeth's! Elsbeth needn't get huffy! She would like to go down to Dene very much, if Elsbeth wanted to, some time or other. But when the holidays came and the formal invitation, Alwynne was less amenable. Why couldn't Elsbeth go alone? Elsbeth couldn't expect her to go and stay with utter strangers. She hated strangers. Besides, there was Clare. (It was "Clare" and "Alwynne" by that time.) She and Clare had planned out every day of the holidays. Everything fixed. She really couldn't ask Clare to upset all her arrangements. It wouldn't be fair. Awfully sorry, of course, but why couldn't Alwynne's dear Elsbeth go by herself? She, Alwynne, could keep house. Oh, perfectly well! She wasn't a fool! She wouldn't dream of spoiling Elsbeth's holiday, but Elsbeth must see that there was no need for Alwynne to share it. But Elsbeth was unusually obstinate. Elsbeth, it appeared, wanted Alwynne with her; wanted to show Alwynne to these old friends; wanted to show these old friends to Alwynne; wouldn't enjoy the visit without Alwynne at her elbow; refused utterly to be convinced of unreasonableness. Alwynne would enjoy the change, the country--didn't Alwynne love the country?--and if she herself, and Alicia, and Jean, were not of Alwynne's generation, there was always Roger! By all accounts Roger was very nice; witness the aunts who adored him. Alwynne snorted. She argued the matter mercilessly, length, breadth, depth and back again, and ended, as Elsbeth knew she would, by getting her own way. But Elsbeth did not go to Dene by herself. There she was mulish. Go visiting and leave the housekeeping to Alwynne's tender mercies? Heaven forbid! There was more in housekeeping than dusting a bedroom, making peppermint creams, or wasting four eggs on an omelet. So Alwynne spent her pleasant holidays in and out of Clare Hartill's pocket and Elsbeth stayed at home. But Elsbeth had learned her lesson. It was many a long day before she again suggested a visit to Dene. CHAPTER V One of Alwynne's duties was the conduct of a small "extra" class, consisting of girls, who, for reasons of stupidity, ill-health or defective grounding, fell too far below the average of knowledge in their respective classes. She devoted certain afternoons in the week to coaching them, and was considered to be unusually successful in her methods. She could be extremely patient, and had quaint and unorthodox ways of insinuating facts into her pupils' minds. As she told Elsbeth, she invented their memories for them. She was sufficiently imaginative to realise their difficulties, yet sufficiently young to dream of developing, in due course, all her lame ducks into swans. She was intensely interested in hearing how her coaching had succeeded; her pleasure at an amended place in class was so genuine, her disappointment at a collapse so comically real, yet so devoid of contempt, so tinged with conviction that it was anybody's fault but the culprit's, that either attitude was an incentive to real effort. Like Clare, she did not suffer fools gladly, but unlike Clare, she had not the moral courage to be ruthless. Stupidity seemed as terrible to her as physical deformity; she treated it with the same touch of motherliness, the same instinctive desire to spare it realisation of its own unsightliness. Her rather lovable cowardice brought a mixed reward; she stifled in sick-rooms, yet invalids liked her well; she was frankly envious of Clare's circle of brilliant girls and as inevitably surrounded by inarticulate adorers, who bored her mightily, but whose clumsy affection she was too kindhearted to suppress. It had been well for Alwynne, however, that her following was of the duller portion of the school. This Clare could endure, could countenance; such boy-bishopry could not affect her own sovereignty, and her subject's consequence increased her own. But to see Alwynne swaying, however unconsciously, minds of a finer type, would not have been easy for Clare. She had grown very fond of Alwynne; but the sentiment was proprietary; she could derive no pleasure from her that was not personal, and, in its most literal sense, selfish. She was unmaternal to the core. She could not see human property admired by others with any sensation but that of a double jealousy; she was subtly angered that Alwynne could attract, yet was caught herself in the net of those attractions, and unable to endure to watch them spread for any but herself. Alwynne, quite unconscious of the trait, had at first done herself harm by her unfeigned interest in Clare's circle. It took the elder woman some suspicious weeks to realise that Alwynne lacked completely her own _dompteuse_ instinct, her craving for power; that she was as innocent of knowledge of her own charm as unwedded Eve; that her impulse to Clare was an impulse of the freshest, sweetest hero-worship; but the realisation came at last, and Clare opened her hungry heart to her, and, warmed by Alwynne's affection, wondered that she had hesitated so long. Alwynne never guessed that she had been doubted. Clare was proud of her genuine skill as a character reader--had been a little pleased to give Alwynne proof of her penetration when occasion arose; and Alwynne, less trained, less critical, thought her omniscient, and never dreamed that the motives of her obscurest actions, the sources of her most veiled references were not plain to Clare. Secure of comprehension, she went her way: any one in whom Clare was interested must needs attract her: so she took pains to become intimate with Clare's adorers, from a very real sympathy with their appreciation of Clare, whom she no more grudged to them than a priestess would grudge the unveiling of her goddess to the initiate. She received their confidences, learned their secrets, fanned the flame of their enthusiasms. Too lately a schoolgirl herself, too innocent and ignorant to dream of danger, she did her loyal utmost in furtherance of the cult, measuring the artificial and unbalanced emotions she encountered by the rule of her own saner affection, and, in her desire to see her friend appreciated, in all good faith utilised her degree of authority to encourage what an older woman would have recognised and combated as incipient hysteria. Gradually she became, through her frank sympathy, combined with her slightly indeterminate official position, the intermediary, the interpreter of Clare to the feverish school. Clare herself, her initial distrust over, found this useful. She could afford to be moody, erratic, whimsical; to be extravagant in her praises and reproofs; to deteriorate, at times, into a caricature of her own bizarre personality, with the comfortable assurance that there was ever a magician in her wake to steady her tottering shrines, mix oil with her vitriol, and prove her pinchbeck gold. Fatal, this relaxation of effort, to a woman of Clare's type. Love of some sort was vital to her. Of this her surface personality was dimly, ashamedly aware, and would, if challenged, have frigidly denied; but the whole of her larger self knew its need, and saw to it that that need was satisfied. Clare, unconscious, had taught Clare, conscious, that there must be effort--constant, straining effort at cultivation of all her alluring qualities, at concealment of all in her that could repulse--effort that all appearances of complete success must never allow her to relax. She knew well the evanescent character of a schoolgirl's affection; so well that when her pupils left the school she seldom tried to retain her hold upon them. Their letters would come thick as autumn leaves at first; she rarely answered, or after long intervals; and the letters dwindled and ceased. She knew that, in the nature of things, it must be so, and had no wish to prolong the farewells. Also, her interest in her correspondents usually died first; to sustain it required their physical nearness. But every new year filled the gaps left by the old, stimulated Clare to fresh exertion. So the lean years went by. Then came vehement Alwynne--no schoolgirl--yet more youthful and ingenuous than any mistress had right to be, loving with all the discrimination of a fine mind, and all the ardour of an affectionate child. Here was no question of a fleeting devotion that must end as the schooldays ended. Here was love for Clare at last, a widow's cruse to last her for all time. Clare thanked the gods of her unbelief, and, relaxing all effort, settled herself to enjoy to the full the cushioning sense of security; the mock despot of their pleasant, earlier intercourse becoming, as she bound Alwynne ever more closely to her, albeit unconsciously, a very real tyrant indeed. Yet she had no intention of weakening her hold on any lesser member of her chosen coterie. Alwynne was too ingenuous, too obviously subject through her own free impulse, to entirely satisfy: Clare's love of power had its morbid moments, when a struggling victim, head averted, pleased her. There was never, among the new-comers, a child, self-absorbed, nonchalant or rebellious, who passed a term unmolested by Miss Hartill. Egoism aroused her curiosity, her suspicion of hidden lands, virgin, ripe for exploration; indifference piqued her; a flung gauntlet she welcomed with frank amusement. She had been a rebel in her own time, and had ever a thrill of sympathy for the mutinies she relentlessly crushed. War, personal war, delighted her; she was a mistress of tactics, and the certainty of eventual victory gave zest to her campaigns. She did not realise that the strain upon her childish opponents was very great. The finer, the more sensitive the character, the more complete the eventual defeat, the more permanent its effects. Clare was pitiless after victory: not till then did she examine into the nature thus enslaved, seldom did she find it worth the trouble of the skirmish. In most cases she gave semi-liberty; enough of smiles to keep the children feverishly at work to please her (the average of achievement in her classes was astounding), and enough of indifference to prevent them from becoming a nuisance. To the few that pleased her fastidious taste, she gave of her best, lavishly, as she had given to Alwynne. There are women to-day, old girls of the school, who owe Clare Hartill the best things of their lives, their wide knowledge, their original ideas, their hopeful futures and happy memories: to whom she was an inspiration incarnate. The Clare they remember is not the Clare that Elsbeth knew, that Alwynne learned to know, that Clare herself, one bitter night, faced and blanched at. But which of them had knowledge of the true Clare, who shall say? * * * * * In Clare's favourite class was a certain Louise Denny. She was thirteen--nearly three years below the average of the class in age. How far beyond it in all else, not even Clare realised. Clare had discovered her, as she phrased it, in the limbo of the Lower Third. She had been paying one of her surprise visits to the afternoon extra needlework classes--(the possibility of her occasional appearance, book in hand, was responsible for the school's un-English proficiency in hemming, darning and kindred mysteries), to read aloud to the children carefully edited excerpts from Poe's _Tales_, had forgotten her copy and had been shyly offered another, private property from Louise Denny's desk. Thereon must Alwynne, for a week or two, resign perforce her Lower Third literature classes to Clare, intent on her blue rose. Louise's compositions had been read--Clare and Alwynne spent a long evening over them, weighing, comparing, discussing. Clare could be exquisitely tender, could keep all-patient vigil over an unfolding mind, provided that the calyx concealed a rare enough blossom. Louise was encouraged, her shyness swept aside, her ideas developed, her knowledge tested; she was fed, too, cautiously, on richer and richer food--stray evening lectures, picture galleries with Alwynne, headiest of cicerones; the freedom of the library and long talks with Clare. Finally Clare, bearing down all opposition, transplanted her to the Lower Fifth, containing at that time some brilliantly clever girls. Louise justified her by speedily capturing, and doggedly retaining, the highest place in the class. Clare was delighted. Her critics--there were some mistresses who vaguely disapproved of the experiment--were refuted, and the class, already needing no spur, outdoing itself in its efforts to compete with the intruder, swept the board at an important public examination. On the morning of the announcement of results, Clare entered her form-room radiant. It was a low, many-windowed room, with desks ranged single-file along the walls. The class being a small one, the girls were accustomed to sit for their lessons at a large oval table at the upper end of the room. Beside the passage doorway, there was a smaller one, that led into the studio, and was never used by the children. Clare, however, would sometimes enter by it, but so seldom that they invariably forgot to keep watch. Clare enjoyed the occasional view she thus obtained of her unconscious and relaxed subjects, and the piquancy of their uncensored conversation; she enjoyed still more the sudden hush, the crisp thrill, that ran through their groups, when they became aware of her, observant in the doorway. On the morning in question she had watched them for some little while. Before each girl lay her open exercise-book and school edition of Browning. They were deep in discussion of their work, very eager upon some question. By the empty chair at the head of the table sat Marion Hughes, blonde and placid, a rounded elbow on her neatly written theme, that her neighbour was trying to pull away, to compare with her own well-inked manuscript. This neighbour, one Agatha Middleton, was dark, gaunt, with restless eyes and restless tongue. She was old for her fifteen years, and had been original until she discovered that her originality appealed to Miss Hartill. Since then she had imitated her own mannerisms, and was rapidly degenerating into an eccentric. The law of opposites had decreed that the sedate Marion should be her bosom friend. They went up the school together, an incongruous, yet well-suited pair, for they were so unlike that there could be no rivalry. Marion was alternately amused and dazzled by the pyrotechnic Agatha. Agatha's respect for Marion's common sense was pleasantly tempered by a conviction of superior mental agility. Finally, they were united by their common devotion to their form-mistress. Whether it would have occurred to Marion, unprompted, to admire Miss Hartill, is uncertain. Her affections were domestic and calm. But adoration was in the air, and she had not sufficient originality to be unfashionable. She was caught, too, in Agatha's whirlwind emotions, and ended by worshipping Clare conscientiously and sincerely. Clare, on her side, respected her, as she told Alwynne, for her "painstaking and intelligent stupidity," and, recognising a nature too worthy for neglect, yet too lymphatic to be suitable for experiments, was uniformly kind to her. Agatha, she had revelled in for six weeks, and had since more or less ignored as a bore. Below the pair sat a spectacled student, predestined to scholarships and a junior mistress-ship; opposite, between giggling twins, a vivid little Jewess, whose showy work was due to the same vanity that tied her curls with giant bows, and over-corsetted her matured figure. At the foot of the oval, directly opposite Clare's vacant chair, stood Louise, flushed and excited, chanting low-voicedly a snatch of verse. During a lull in the hubbub Marion called to her down the table-- "How many pages?" Louise flushed. She was still a little in awe of these elders whom she had outstripped. She rapidly counted the leaves of her essay, and held up both hands, smiling shyly. Marion exclaimed. "Ten? You marvel! I only got to seven. I simply didn't understand it. Whatever did you find to say?" Agatha fell upon the query. "That's nothing! I've done twenty-two!" she cried triumphantly, and turned to face the shower of comments. "Miss Hartill will bless you. She said last time that you thought ink and ideas were synonyms." "Agatha only writes three words to a line anyway." They liked her, but she was of the type whose imperiousness provokes snubs. "Well, I thought I shouldn't get it done under forty--an essay on _The Dark Tower_. It's the beastliest yet. _The Ancient Mariner_ was nothing to it. I've made an awful hash--didn't you?" "I understood all right when she read it, and explained. It's so absurd not to let one take notes. I've been years at it. Fortunately she said we needn't learn it--Louise and I--with all our extra work." An unimaginative hockey captain fluttered her pages distractedly. "Oh, but I have!" Louise looked up quickly. "Why?" The hockey captain opened her eyes and mouth. "Oh, I rather wanted to." The little Jewess giggled. "'_Déjà?_'" she murmured. She did not love Clare. Marion returned to the subject with her usual perseverance. "Did you understand it, kid?" Louise stammered a little. "When she reads it, and when I say it aloud, I think I do. It was impossible to write it down." "Let's see what you have put." Agatha, by a quick movement, possessed herself of Louise's exercise-book. Louise, shy and desperate, strove silently with her neighbours, who, curious, held her back, while Agatha, holding the book at arm's length, recited from it in a high mocking voice. "_Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came._ Description! Description! Description! for three--five--seven pages! You've let yourself go, Louise! Ah, here we are--_The meaning of the poem_. Now we're getting to it. _Shakespeare and Browning may have known all the real history of Childe Roland; the reason of his quest, the secret of the horror of the Tower; but we are left in ignorance. That does not matter, for, as we read, the inner meaning of the terrible poem kills all curiosity. Shuddering we close the book, and pray to God that Childe Roland's journey may never be ours; that for our adventurous souls, knight-erranting through this queer life, there may never come a choice of ways, a turning from the pleasant high-road, to go upon a hideous journey; till, crossing the Plains of Loneliness, Fear and Sorrow, we face the Hills of Madness, and enter the Dark Tower of that Despair which is our soul's death._ With capital letters galore! What a sentence! Here, shut up, you spit-fire!" Louise had wrenched herself free and flung herself upon Agatha, in a white heat of anger. "Give it me! You've no right! You've no right!" she gasped. Her shyness had gone, she was blazing with indignation. Agatha, the book held teasingly out of reach, affected to search for her place. Louise raised her clenched fist desperately. A cool hand caught her wrist in a firm yet kindly grip. A hush fell on the voluble group and Agatha collapsed into an apologetic nonentity. Clare, who had entered in her usual noiseless fashion, stood a moment between the combatants, watching the effect of her appearance. Her hand shifted to Louise's bony little shoulder; through the thin blouse she could feel the driven blood pulsing. She did not move till she felt the child regaining comparative calm, when, giving her a gentle push towards her place, she walked slowly to the head of the table and seated herself. The class watched her furtively. It was quite aware that all rules of decorum had been transgressed--that pains and penalties would be in order with any other mistress. But with Miss Hartill there was always glorious uncertainty--and Miss Hartill did not look annoyed. Little gestures began to break the tension and Agatha, relieved, smiled a shade too broadly. Instantly Clare closed with her. She began blandly-- "Agatha, I thought you could read aloud better than that. You are not doing your work justice. Pass me your essay." "It's Louise's," said Agatha helplessly. "Ah, I see. And you kindly read it to us for her? It's a pity you didn't understand what you read--but an excuse, of course. Louise must not expect too much." Agatha flung up her head angrily. "Oh, I understood it all right. I thought it was silly." "You did? Read me your own." "Now?" "Certainly." Now Clare, as she corrected and commented upon the weekly essays, did occasionally, if the mood took her, read extracts, humorous chiefly, therefrom; but it had never been customary for a pupil to read her own work aloud. Agatha had the pioneer spirit--but she was no fool. She comprehended that, with Clare inimical, she could climb no higher than the pillory. She fell back upon the tradition of the school. "Oh, Miss Hartill--I can't!" "Why not?" "No one ever does----" Clare waited. Agatha protested redly, her fear of ridicule outweighing her fear of Clare. "Miss Hartill, I simply couldn't. Before everybody--all this tosh--I mean all this stuff I wrote. It's a written essay. I couldn't make it sound right aloud." Clare waited. "It's not good enough, Miss Hartill. Honestly! And we never have. You've never made us. I couldn't." Clare waited. Agatha twisted her hands uneasily. The schoolgirl shyness that is physical misery was upon her. "I--don't want to, Miss Hartill. I can't. It's not fair to have one's stuff--to be laughed at--to be----" she subsided just in time. The class sat, breathless, all eyes on Clare. And Clare waited; waited till defiance faded to unease--unease to helplessness, till the girl, overborne by the utter silence, gave way, and dropping her eyes to her exercise, fluttering its pages in angry embarrassment, finally, with a giggle of pure nervousness, embarked on the opening sentence. Clare cut through the clustering adjectives. "Stand up, please." Resistance was over. She rose sullenly. She had been proud of her essay, had worked at it sincerely, knew its periods by heart. But her pleasure in it was destroyed, as completely, she realised, as she had destroyed that of little Louise. More--for Louise had found a champion. That, she recognised jealously. Unjust! Her essay was no worse, read soberly--yet she was forced to render it ridiculous. She read a couple of pages in hurried jerks, stumbling over the illegibilities of her own handwriting, baulked by Clare's interpolations. She heard her own voice, high-pitched and out of control, perverting her meaning, felt the laden sentences breaking up into chaos on her lips. In her flurry she pronounced familiar words amiss, Clare's calm voice carefully correcting. Once she heard a chuckle. Two pages ... three ... only that ... she remembered that she had boasted of twenty ... seventeen to be read yet and they were all laughing. To have to stand there ... three pages.... "_But as Childe Roland turned round_----" "Louder, please," said Clare. "_But as Childe Roland turned round_----" and even Marion was laughing.... "_Turned round to look once more back to the high road_----" "And slower." "_To the high road_----" She stopped suddenly, a lump in her throat. "Go on, Agatha." "_To the high road_----" The letters danced up and down mistily. "_To the high road where the cripple--where the cripple_----Oh, Miss Hartill," she cried imploringly, "isn't it enough?" It was surrender. Clare nodded. "Yes, you may sit down now. Your essay, please: thank you. And now I'll read you, once more, what Louise has to say on the same subject. I dare say you'll find, Agatha, that you were almost as unfair to her essay, as you were to--your own." And she smiled her sudden dazzling smile. Agatha, against her will, smiled tremulously back. Clare, with a glance at the little figure, huddling at the foot of the table, began to read. The essay, for all its schoolgirl slips and extravagances, was unusual. The thought embodied in it, though tinged with morbidity, striking and matured. Clare did it more than justice. Her beautiful voice made music of the crude sentences, revealed, embellished, glorified. Her own interest growing as she read, infected the class; she swept them along with her, mutually enthusiastic. She ended abruptly, her voice like the echoes of a deep bell. Marion broke the little pause. "I liked that," she said, as if surprised at herself. "So did I," Clare was pleased. She dipped her pen in red ink and initialled the foot of the essay. "That was good work, Louise. Now, the others." But Louise, shy and glowing, broke in-- "But it wasn't all mine, Miss Hartill, not a bit." Clare looked at her, half frowning. "Not yours? Your handwriting----?" "Oh, I wrote it. But you've made it different. I hadn't meant it like that." Clare raised a quizzical eyebrow. "I have misinterpreted----?" Louise was too much in earnest to be fluttered. "I only mean--you made it sound so beautiful that it was like listening to--to an organ. I didn't bother about the words while you read. It was all colours and gold--like the things in the Venetian room. You know. The meaning didn't matter. But I did mean something, not half so good, of course, only quite different. Horrid and grizzly like the plain he travelled through, Childe Roland. It ought to have sounded harsh and starved, like rats pattering--what I meant--not beautiful." "I see." Clare was interested. She was quite aware that she had used her magnificent voice to impress arbitrarily her opinion of Louise's work upon the class. That Louise, impressionable as she knew her to be, should have yet detected the trick, amused her greatly. "So you think I didn't understand your essay?" Louise's shy laugh was very pleasant. "Oh, Miss Hartill. I'm not so stupid. It's only that I can't have got the--the----" "Atmosphere!" The girl in spectacles helped her. "The atmosphere that I meant to; so you put in a different one to help it. And it did. But it wasn't what I meant." Clare glanced at her inscrutably, and began to score the other essays. She would get at Louise's meaning in her own way. She skimmed a couple, Agatha, be it recorded, receiving the coveted initials, before she spoke again. "Didn't I tell you to learn _Childe Roland_, too? Ah, I thought so. Begin, Marion, while I finish these. Two verses." Her pen scratched on, as Marion's expressionless voice rose, fell and finished. Agatha continued, jarringly dramatic. Two more followed her. Then Clare put down her pen. "'For mark!'..." There was a warning undertone in Louise's colourless voice, that crept across the room like a shadow. Clare lifted her head and stared at her. "For mark! no sooner was I fairly found Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, Than, pausing to throw backward a last view O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round: Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. I might go on; nought else remained to do." There was horror in the whispering voice: the accents of one bowed beneath intolerable burdens, sick with the knowledge of nearing doom, gay with the flippancy of despair. Louise was looking straight before her, vacant as a medium, her hands lying laxly in her lap. Clare made a quick sign to her neighbour to be silent, and the strained voice rose anew. Clare listened perplexedly. She told herself that this was sheer technique--some trick had been played, she was harbouring some child actress of parts--only to be convinced of folly. She knew all about Louise. Besides, she had heard the child read aloud before. Good, clean, intelligent delivery. But nothing like this--this was uncanny. Uncanny, yet magnificent. The artist in her settled down to enjoyment; yet she was uneasy, too. "And just as far as ever from the end!" The creeping voice toiled on across the haunted plain, growing louder, clearer, nearer. Vision was forced upon Clare, serene in her form-room, swift and sudden vision. She not only heard, every sense responded. At her feet lay the waste land of the poem, she smelt the dank air, shrank from the clammy undergrowth, watched the bowed figure of the wandering knight, stumbling forwards doggedly. It was coming towards her, the outline blurred in the evening mist, the face hidden. The voice was surely his? "Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled Increasing like a bell." She heard it alive with warning. Nearer, ever nearer; the bowed form was at her very feet, as the voice rose anew in despairing defiance. "To view the last of me----" The helmeted head was flung back; the voice echoed from hill to hill-- "I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew. Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came." The figure fell, face upwards, at her feet. Clare tore at the visor with desperate hands, for at the last line, the strong voice had broken, quavering into the pitiful treble of a frightened child. The bars melted under her touch, as dream things will, and she was staring down at no bearded face, but at Louise. Louise herself, with blank, dead eyes in a broken, blood-flecked face. The dead mouth smiled. "You see, that was what I meant, Miss Hartill. That atmosphere." Clare roused herself with a start. Louise, rosily alive, and quivering with eagerness, was waiting for her comments. She got none. "Begin again," said Clare mechanically, to the next girl. The brightness died out of Louise's face, as she subsided in her seat. Clare, dazed as she was, saw it, and was touched. The child deserved praise--should not be punished for the vagaries of Clare's own phantasy. And the monkey could recite! She shook off the impression of that recital as best she could. Curious, the freaks of the imagination! She must tell Alwynne of the adventure--Alwynne, dreamer of dreams.... And Alwynne was interested in Louise; was coaching her.... Perhaps she was responsible ... had coached her in that very poem? She hoped not ... it would be interference.... She did not like interference. But no--that performance was entirely original, she felt sure. There was genius in the child--sheer genius ... and but for Clare herself, she would yet be rotting undeveloped in the Lower Third. She was pleased with herself, pleased with Louise too; ready to tell her so, to see the child's face light up again delightedly; she was less attractive in repose.... Clare's chance came. It was the turn of the hockey captain to recite. She appealed to Clare. "Oh, Miss Hartill! You said I needn't, Louise and I--because of all our extra work. Not the poem." Clare considered. "I remember. Very well. But Louise?" She looked at her questioningly, half smiling. "When did you find the time?" Louise laughed. "I don't know, Miss Hartill. It found itself." "Ah! And how much extra work have you, Louise?" Louise reflected. "All the afternoons, I think. And three evenings when I go to lectures. And, of course, gallery days, when I make up in the evenings." "And homework?" "Oh, there's heaps of time at night always." Clare smiled upon her class. "Well, Lower Fifth--what do you think of it?" The class opened its mouth. "Louise is moved up four forms. She's thirteen. She's top of the class and first in to-day's results. You hear what her extra work is. And she finds time to learn _Childe Roland_--optional. What do you think of it?" Agatha bit down her envy. "It's pretty good," she said. Clare's glance approved her. "Yes. So I think. It's so good that I'm more than pleased. I'm--impressed. Rather proud of my youngest pupil. For next time you will learn----" And with one of her quick transitions, she began to dictate her homework. The gong clanged as she finished. Alwynne's voice was heard in the passage, inquiring for Miss Hartill, and Clare hurried out. Followed a confused banging of books and desk-lids, a tangle of fragmentary remarks, and much trampling of boots on uncarpeted boards, as one after another followed her. Within five minutes the room was bare, save for Clare's forgotten satchel at the upper end of the big table, and Louise, motionless in her chair at the foot. CHAPTER VI Louise was tasting happiness. Happiness was a new and absorbing experience to Louise. The only child of a former marriage, she had grown up among boisterous half-brothers with whom she had little fellowship. Her father, a driving, thriving merchant, was prouder of his second brood of apple-cheeked youngsters than of his first-born, who fitted into the scheme of life as ill as her mother had done. He had imagined himself in love with his first wife, had married her, piqued by her elusive ways, charmed by her pale, wood-sorrel beauty; and she, shy and unawakened, had taken his six feet of bone and muscle for outward and visible sign of the matured spiritual strength her nature needed. The disappointment was mutual as swift; it had taken no longer than the honeymoon to convince the one that he had burdened himself with a phantast, the other that she was tied to a philistine. For a year they shared bed and board, severed and inseparable as earth and moon; then the wife having passed on to a daughter the heritage of a nature rare and impracticable as a sensitive plant, died and was forgotten. The widower's speedy re-marriage proved an unqualified success. Indeed, the worthy man's after life was so uniformly and deservedly prosperous (he was as shrewd and industrious in his business as he was genial and domesticated in his home), that he might be forgiven if his affection for his eldest child were tepid; for, apart from her likeness to his first wife, she was, in existing, a constant reminder of the one mistake of a prosperous career. He was kind to her, however, in his fashion; gave her plenty of pocket-money (he was fond of giving); saw to it that she had a sufficiency of toys and sweets, though it piqued him that she had never been known to ask for any. Otherwise was content to leave her to his wife. The second Mrs. Denny, kindly, capable and unimaginative as her husband, had her sense of duty to her step-daughter; but she was too much occupied in bearing and rearing her own family, whose numbers were augmented with Victorian regularity, to consider more than the physical well-being of the child. Louise was well fed and warmly clad, her share was accorded her in the pleasures of the nursery. What more could a busy woman do! Louise, docile and reserved, was not unhappy. Until she went to school, however, her mental outlook resembled that of a person suffering from myopia. Her elders, her half-brothers, all the persons of her small world, were indefinite figures among whom she moved, confused and blundering. She knew of their existence, but to focus them seemed as impossible as to establish communication. She did not try over hard; she was sensitive to ridicule; it was easier to retire within her childish self, be her own confidante and questioner. She had an intricate imagination and before she learned to read had created for herself a fantastically complete inner world, in which she moved, absorbed and satisfied. Indeed, her outward surroundings became at last so dangerously shadowy that her manner began to show how entire was her abstraction, and Mrs. Denny, sworn foe to "sulks" and "moping," saw fit to engage a governess as an antidote. The governess, a colourless lady, achieved little, though she was useful in taking the little boys for walks. But she taught Louise to read, and thereafter the child assumed entire charge of her own education. The mother's books, velvety with dust that had sifted down upon them since the day, six years back, when they had been tumbled in piles on an attic floor by busy maids preparing for the advent of the second Mrs. Denny, were discovered, one rainy day, by a pinafored Siegfried, alert for treasure. Contented years were passed in consuming the trove. Her mother's choice of books was so completely to her taste that they gave the lonely child her first experience of mental companionship; suggesting to her that there might be other intelligences in the world about her than the kindly, stolid folk who cherished her growing body and ignored her growing mind. She was almost startled at times to realise how completely this vague mother of hers would have understood her. Each new volume, fanciful or quizzical or gracious, seemed a direct gift from an invisible yet human personality, that concerned itself with her as no other had ever done; that was never occupied with the dustiness of the attic, or a forgotten tea-hour, but was astonishingly sensitive to the needs of a little soul, struggling unaided to birth. The pile of books, to her hungry affections, became the temple, the veritable dwelling-place of her mother's spirit. Seated on the sun-baked floor, book on knee, the noises of the high road floating up to her, distance-dulled and soothing, she would shake her thick hair across her face, and see through its veil a melting, shifting shadow of a hand that helped to turn her pages. The warm floor was a soft lap; the battered trunk a shoulder that supported; the faint breeze a kiss upon her lips. The fantastic qualities the mother had bequeathed, recreated her in the mind of her child, bringing vague comfort (who knows?) alike to the dead and the living Louise. Yet the impalpable intercourse, compact of make-believe and yearnings, was, at its sweetest, no safe substitute for the human companionships that were lacking in the life of Louise. Half consciously she desired an elder sister, a friend, on whom to lavish the stores of her ardent, reticent nature. At twelve she was sent to school. At first it did little for her. She was unaccustomed to companions of her own age and sex and, quite simply, did not know how to make friends with many who would have been willing enough, if she could have contributed her share, the small change of joke and quarrel and confidence, towards intimacy. But Louise was too inured to the solitude of crowds to be troubled by her continued loneliness. She met the complaints of Mrs. Denny, that she made no friends like other children, with a shrug of resignation. What could she do? She supposed that she was not nice enough; people didn't like her. Secretly her step-mother agreed. She was kind to Louise, but she, too, did not like her. She found her irritating. Her dreamy, absent manner, her very docility and absence of self-assertion were annoying to a hearty woman who was braced rather than distressed by an occasional battle of wills. She thought her shyness foolish, doubted the insincerity of her humility, and looked upon her shrinking from publicity, noise and rough caresses, her love of books and solitude, as a morbid pose. Yet she was just a woman and did not let the child guess at her dislike, though she made no pretence of actual affection. She knew perfectly well that Louise's mother (they had been schoolgirls together), had irritated her in exactly the same way. Educationally, too, the first year at school affected Louise but slightly. Her brothers' governesses had done their best for the shy, intelligent girl, and her wide reading had trained, her awkwardness and childish appearance obscured, a personality in some respects dangerously matured. But her dreaminess and total ignorance of the routine of lesson-learning hampered her curiously; she learnt mechanically, using her brain but little for her easy tasks, and she was not considered particularly promising. With Clare's intervention the world was changed for Louise; she had her first taste of active pleasure. It is difficult to realise what an effect a woman of Clare's temperament must have had on the impressionable child. In her knowledge, her enthusiasms, her delicate intuition and her keen intellectual sympathy, she must have seemed the embodiment of all dreams, the fulfilment of every longing, the ideal made flesh. A wanderer in an alien land, homesick, hungry, for whom, after weary days, a queen descends from her throne, speaking his language, supplying his unvoiced wants, might feel something of the adoring gratitude that possessed Louise. She rejoiced in Clare as a vault-bred flower in sunlight. On all human beings, child or adult, emotional adventure entails, sooner or later, physical exhaustion; the deeper, the more novel the experience, the greater the drain on the bodily strength. To Louise, involved in the first passionate experience of her short life, in an affection as violent and undisciplined as a child's must be, an affection in itself completely occupying her mind and exhausting her energies, the amount of work made necessary by the position to which Clare and her own ambition had assigned her, was more of a burden than either realised. Only Alwynne, sympathetic coach (for Louise had two years' back work to condense and assimilate), guessed how great were the efforts the child was making. Clare, who always affected unconsciousness of her own effect on the ambitions of the children, had persuaded herself that Louise was entirely in her right place; and Louise herself was too young, and too feverishly happy, to consider the occasional headaches, fits of lassitude and nights cinematographed with dreams, as anything but irritating pebbles in her path to success--and Clare. The weeks in her new class had been spread with happiness--a happiness that had grown like Elijah's cloud, till, on the day of the Browning lesson, as she listened to the beloved voice making music of her halting sentences, to the words of praise, of affection even, that followed, it stretched from horizon to horizon. As she sat in the deserted class-room, her neat packet of sandwiches untasted in the satchel at her elbow, she re-lived that golden hour, dwelling on its incidents as a miser counts money. There was the stormy beginning; Agatha's mockery; her own raging helplessness; Clare's entrance; the exquisite thrill she had felt at her touch, that was not only gratitude for championship.... Never before had Clare been so near to her, so gentle, so protecting.... And afterwards, facing Louise at the foot of the table, how beautiful she had been.... Yet some of the girls could not see it.... They were fools.... Her head had been framed in the small, square window, so darkened and cobwebbed by crimson vines that only the merest blur of white clouds and blue hills was visible.... She had worn a gown of duller blue that lay in stiff folds: the bowl of Christmas roses, that mirrored themselves on the dark, polished table, had hidden the papers and the smeared ink-pot. Suddenly Louise remembered some austere Dutch Madonnas over whom delightful, but erratic Miss Durand had lingered, on their last visit to a picture gallery. She called them beautiful. Louise, with fascinated eyes sidling past a wallful of riotous Rubens, to fix on the soap and gentian of a Sasseferato, had wondered if Miss Durand were trying to be funny. She remembered, too, how some of the younger girls, comparing favourites, had called Miss Hartill ugly. She had raged loyally--yet, secretly, all but agreed. With her child's love of pink and white prettiness she had had no eyes for Clare's irregular features. But to-day something in Clare's pose had recalled the Dutch pictures, and in a flash she had understood, and wondered at her blindness. Miss Durand was right: the drawn, grey faces and rigid outlines had beauty, had charm--the charm of her stern smile.... The saints were hedged with lilies, and she, too, had had white flowers before her, that filled the air with the smell of the marvellous Roman church at Westminster.... The painted ladies were Madonnas--mothers--and Miss Hartill, too, had worn for a moment their protective look, half fierce, half tender.... Why was it? What has made her so kind? Not only to-day, but always? The girls feared her, some of them; those that she did not like talked of her temper and her tongue; Rose Levy hated her; even Agatha and Marion, and all of them, were a little frightened, though they adored.... Louise was never frightened.... How could one be frightened of one so kind and wonderful? She could say what she liked to Miss Hartill, and be sure that she would understand.... It was like being in the attic, talking aloud.... Mother would have been like that.... If it could be.... Louise, her chin in her doubled fists, launched out upon her sea of make-believe. If it could be.... If it were possible, that Mother--not Mamma, cheery, obtuse Mamma of nursery and parlour--but Mother, the shadow of the attic--had come back? All things are possible to him that believeth: and Mr. Chesterton had said there was no real reason why tulips should not grow on oaks.... Heaps of people--all India--believed in reincarnation, and there was _The Gateless Barrier_ and _The Dead Leman_ for proof.... Might it not be? The idea was intoxicating. She did not actually believe in it, but she played with it, wistfully, letting her imagination run riot. She wove fantastic variations on the themes "why not," "perhaps," "who knows." She was but thirteen and very lonely. She was in far too exalted a mood to have an appetite for her sandwiches, or time for the books beside her. She was due for extra work with Alwynne at three, and the intervening hour should have been used for preparation. Wasting her time meant sitting up at night, as Louise was well aware, and a tussle with Mrs. Denny, concerned for the waste of gas. But for all that, she would not and could not rouse herself from the trance of pleasure that was upon her. Her mind was contemplating Clare as a mystic contemplates his divinity; rapt in an ecstasy of adoration, oblivious alike of place and time. She did not hear the luncheon gong, or the gong for afternoon school, or a door, opening and shutting behind her. Yet it did not startle her, when, turning dreamily to tap on her shoulder, she found herself facing Miss Hartill herself. Miss Hartill should have left the school before lunch, she knew, but it was all in order. What could surprise one on this miraculous day? She did not even rise, as etiquette demanded; but she smiled up at Clare with an expression of welcoming delight that disarmed comment. Clare, too, could ignore conventions. She was merely touched and amused by the child's expression. "Well, Louise? Very busy?" Louise glanced vaguely at her books. "Yes. I ought to be, I mean. I don't believe I've touched anything. I was thinking----" "Two hours on end? Do you know the time? I heard Miss Durand clamouring for you just now." Clare looked mischievous. She could forgive forgetfulness of other people's classes. Louise was serene. "I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. I'd forgotten. I must go." But she made no movement. She sat looking at Miss Hartill as if nothing else existed for her. The intent, fearless adoration in her eyes was very pleasant to Clare; novel, too, after the more sophisticated glances of the older girls. With an odd little impulse of motherliness she picked up Louise's books, stacked them neatly and fitted them into the satchel. Louise watched her. Miss Hartill buckled the strap and handed her the bundle. "There you are, Louise! Run along, my child, I'm afraid you'll get a scolding." She stooped to her, bright-eyed, laughing. "And what were you thinking of, Louise, for two long hours?" "You," said Louise simply. A touch of colour stole into Clare's thin cheeks. She took the small face between her hands and kissed it lightly. "Silly child!" said Miss Hartill. CHAPTER VII Alwynne, drumming with her fingers on the window-sill, as she stood by Louise's desk, was distinctly annoyed. Louise, for the first time since she had known her, was late. It was, indeed, not one of her assigned classes; but she and Louise had found their hours together so insufficient for all the work that they were trying to make good, that Alwynne had good-naturedly arranged to give her a daily extra lesson. It bit into Alwynne's meagre free time; but she was fond of Louise; proud of her, too; and there was Clare! Clare was so anxious for Louise's success. Clare had been so pleased with the plan.... Perhaps it was natural that Alwynne, as she made the arrangement, forgot to consult Elsbeth. She told her about it afterwards, and Elsbeth praised her for her unselfishness, and was anxious lest she should be overtired. She did not remind Alwynne that she was alone all day; that she had been accustomed to look forward to the gay tea-hour, when Alwynne returned, full of news and nonsense. She resigned herself cheerfully to a solitary meal, and to keeping the muffins hot against Alwynne's uncertain home-coming. The extra lessons had been a real boon to Louise, and she had grown attached to Alwynne and intimate with her. Alwynne's elder-sisterly attitude to the children she taught, although it horrified the older women, was seldom abused; it merely made her the recipient of quaint confidences, and gave her an insight into the characters of her pupils that was invaluable to girls and governess alike. To developing girls a confidante is a necessity. The present boarding-school system of education ousts the mother from that, her natural position; renders her, to the daughter steeped in an alien atmosphere, an outsider, lacking all understanding. Invaluable years pass before the artificial gulf that boarding-school creates between them, is spanned. And the substitute for the only form of sympathy and interest that is entirely untainted by selfish impulses is usually the chance acquaintance, the neighbour of desk and bedroom; occasionally, very occasionally, for the girl's feverish admiration usually precludes sane acquaintanceship, a mistress of more than average insight. Such a mistress, Alwynne, in spite of, or perhaps because of, her youthful indiscretions of manner, was in a fair way to become. And of all the children who had opened their affairs to her, none had experienced more completely the tonic effect of a kind heart and a sense of humour, than Louise. She would come to her lesson, overtired from the strain of the morning classes, over-stimulated from the contact with Clare, over-hopeful or utterly depressed, as the mood took her. Alwynne's cheerful interest was balm to the child's overwrought nerves. Alwynne let her spend a quarter of an hour or more in confiding the worries and excitements of the day, after which, Louise, curiously revived, contrived to get through an amazing amount of work. There was no doubt as to Louise's capacity for advanced work, but her state of mind affected her output; she was, as Alwynne once phrased it to Clare, "like a violin--you had to tune her up before she was fit for use." And Alwynne's "tuning" had done more than she or Clare or even Louise herself had guessed, towards her success in her new class. Bit by bit, Alwynne had heard all about Louise; the details of her meagre home-life; her attitude to the busy world of school, that frightened while it attracted her; her difficulties with her fellows; her delight in her work. Finally, there was Clare. Louise was very shy about Clare; inclined to scent mockery, to be on the defensive; but Alwynne's own matter-of-fact enthusiasm had its effect. Also Alwynne's interest, though it invited, never demanded confidences. It took Louise some time to realise that it arose from simple friendliness of soul; that there was neither curiosity nor pedagogic zeal behind it; that, though she was teased and laughed at, she was respected, and, out of school hours, treated as an equal; that she and her schoolgirl secrets were safe with Miss Durand. It was, indeed, in the light of after events, pathetic that Louise, dazzled by Clare's will-o'-the-wisp brilliance, never realised how close to her for a season the friend, the elder sister she had longed for, really stood. With the egoism of a child, and a child in love, she was humbly and passionately grateful for Clare's least sign of interest, yet accepted all the many little kindnesses that Alwynne showed her, as a matter of course. She scarcely realised, absorbed as she was in Clare, that she was even fond of Miss Durand, yet she relied on her implicitly: and Alwynne, innocent of the jealous, acquisitive impulse that tainted Clare's intercourse with any girl who caught her fancy, was not at all disturbed or hurt by Louise's attitude. She looked after the child as she would have looked after a starving cat or a fugitive emperor, if they had come her way, as a matter of course, and as instinctively as she ate her dinner. She was thinking of Louise, as she sat waiting, and a little curious as to what the child would say to her. She had heard all about the Browning lesson, at lunch, from Rose Levy, whose veiled, epigrammatic malice was usually amusing. Agatha had been on her other side, and she had anticipated equally amusing protests and contradictions and a highly coloured and totally different version. But Agatha had been unusually subdued that morning. Both had made it apparent, however, that Clare had been more than a little pleased with Louise. But, however triumphant Louise's morning might have been, she had no business to be late now. What did she mean by keeping her waiting? Twice had Alwynne been down to the preparation room, searching for her: she did not mean to be impertinent of course, but it was, at least, casual. Alwynne, with easy, evanescent indignation, resolved to give Louise a taste of her tongue. Here the child herself burst in upon her meditations, flushed to her glowing eyes, that were bright as if with drugs, excited as Alwynne had never yet guessed that she could be, charged with some indefinable quality as a live wire is charged with electricity. She stammered her apologies mechanically, sure of pardon, and, the formality complied with, was eager, touchingly eager for questions and the relief of communication. But Alwynne, at nineteen, could not be expected to forego a legitimate grievance. She read Louise a little lecture on punctuality and politeness, and settled at once to the work in hand. She said, with intention, that they must not waste any more time. Louise submitted with her usual meekness, and did, Alwynne could see, do her utmost to apply herself to her work. But her answers were ludicrously vague and _mal à propos_, and she met Alwynne's comments, momentarily sharper, with an abstracted smile. Suddenly Alwynne lost patience with her. "I don't know what's the matter with you to-day, Louise," she said sharply. "I don't believe you've taken in a word of what I've said. If you can't take a little more trouble, I'd better go home." Louise, obviously and pathetically jerked back to consciousness from some dreamer's Paradise, looked up at her with scared, apologetic eyes. The radiance dimmed slowly from her face. She made no answer, only to put up her hand to her head, with a queer little gesture of helplessness. "What's the matter with you?" demanded Alwynne, but already more gently. Her anger was always fleeting as a puff of smoke. But Louise merely shrugged her shoulders and looked vaguely at her again. Then she returned to her work. Alwynne, walking up and down the room watched her intently as she bent over the Latin grammar. She was wrinkling her brows over a piece of prose that she had already construed at the previous lesson, and with an ease that had astonished Alwynne. She looked bewildered and put her hand to her head again. Her efforts to recall her wandering thoughts were patent and almost physical in their intensity; her small hand hovered, contracting and relaxing, like a baby catching at butterflies. Alwynne was puzzled by her. The child was sincere: but obviously something momentous had happened, and was still occupying her, to the exclusion of all else. Alwynne wished that she had been less hasty: she felt that she should not have checked her. She stood a moment beside her, reading what she had written. It was scarcely legible, and made no sense. She put a hand on her shoulder-- "Louise, you are writing nonsense. What is it? Tell me what the matter is?" Louise laid down her pen, gave her a quick, shy smile, hesitated uncertainly, then, to Alwynne's dismay, collapsed on the low desk in a fit of wild, hysterical crying. Alwynne always shed the mistress in emergency. She whipped her arms about the child, and, sitting down, gathered her into her lap. She felt how the little, thin body was wrenched and shaken by the sobs it did not attempt to control, but she said nothing, only held it comfortingly tight. Slowly the paroxysm subsided, and the words came, jerky, fragmentary, faint. Alwynne bent close to catch them. Louise was so sorry ... she was all right now ... Miss Durand must think her crazy. No--no--nothing wrong ... it was the other way round ... she was so happy that it frightened her ... she was madly happy ... she had been in heaven all day ... it was too wonderful to tell any one about ... even Miss Durand.... Miss Hartill--no one could ever know what Miss Hartill was.... She had been so good to her--so wonderful.... She had made Louise so happy that she was frightened ... she couldn't believe it was possible to be so madly happy.... That was all.... Yes, it had made her cry--the pure happiness.... Wasn't it silly? Only she was so dreadfully tired.... It had hurt her head trying to do the Latin--because she was so tired.... Yes, she had had headaches lately.... But she didn't care--it was worth it, to please Miss Hartill.... It was queer that being so happy should make her want to cry; it was comical, wasn't it? She began to laugh as she spoke, with tears brimming over her lashes, and for a few moments was inclined to be hysterical again. But Alwynne's firm grasp and calm voice was too much for Louise's will, weakened by emotion and fatigue; she was soon coaxed and hushed into quiet again, and after lying passively for a while in Alwynne's arms, fell into the sudden light sleep of utter exhaustion. Alwynne, rocking her gently, sat on in the darkening room, without a thought of the passage of time; puzzling over the problem in her arms. She was too ignorant and inexperienced to understand Louise's outburst, or to realise the dangerous strain that the child's sensibilities were undergoing but the touch of the little figure, clinging, nestling to her, stirred her. She was vaguely aware that something--somehow--was amiss. Innocently she rejoiced that Clare was being kind to Louise, that the child was so happy and content; but the complaint of fatigue, the frequent headaches, troubled her. She would speak to Elsbeth.... Perhaps the child needed a tonic? Elsbeth would know.... She glanced down. How different people looked asleep.... She had never before realised how young Louise was. What was she? Thirteen? But what a baby she looked, with her thin, child's shape and small, clutching hands.... It was the long-lashed lids that did it, hiding the beautiful eyes that were so much older, as she saw now, than the rest of Louise. With her soul asleep, Louise looked ten, and a frail little ghost of ten, at that. Alwynne frowned. She supposed Clare Hartill realised how young Louise was, was right in allowing her to work so hard? But Clare knew all about girls, and what did she, Alwynne, know? After all Louise had never flagged before.... It was probably the usual end of term fatigue--and of course it was necessarily an unusually stiff three months for her.... She needed a holiday.... Next term would come more easily to her, poor little impetuous Louise.... Alwynne realised that she was growing fond of the child. Suddenly she heard footsteps in the corridor, and her own name in Clare's impatient accents. Louise, too, roused at the sound, and, jerking herself upright, slid from Alwynne's lap to her feet, as the door opened and the light was switched on with a snap. Clare stood in the doorway. Serenely Alwynne rose, smoothing the creases in her dress, while with the other hand she steadied Louise, swaying and blinking in the strong light. Clare's sharp eyes appreciated her calm no less than the tear-stains on Louise's cheek; she guessed distortedly at the situation. She bit her lip. She found nothing to be annoyed at, yet she was not pleased. "Alwynne! I've been hunting for you high and low. I thought you were coming home to tea with me." Alwynne beamed at her. "Of course! And do you know, I forgot to tell Elsbeth. Isn't it disgraceful? But I'm coming." She turned to Louise. "My dear, run along home, and get to bed early; you look dreadfully tired. Doesn't she, Miss Hartill?" But Clare was already in the passage. Alwynne hurried after her, with a last cheerful nod, and Louise heard the echo of their footsteps die away in the distance. Still dazed and heavy with sleep, her thoughts obscured and chaotic, she sat down again stupidly at her desk in the alcove of the window. She leaned her forehead against the cold pane and looked out. It was a wild night. The wind soughed and shrieked in the bare trees: the rain tore past in gusts; the lamp-post at the corner was mirrored in the wet pavement, like a moon on an oily sea. Louise pushed open the casement. The wind lulled as she did so, and she lent out. The air, at least, was mild, and a faint back-wash of rain sprayed soothingly upon her hot cheeks and swollen eyes. Slowly her thoughts shaped themselves. So the day was over--the happiest day she had ever had.... She thought God was very wonderful to have made such a woman as Miss Hartill. She sent Him a hasty little prayer of thanks. But she had been very foolish that afternoon.... She could not understand it now.... She hoped Miss Durand would not tell Miss Hartill.... Miss Hartill had been in a great hurry! Was that why she had not said good-night to her? But such a little word. She wondered why Miss Hartill had not said good-night to her.... The front door below the window creaked and opened. Louise peered downwards. Miss Durand and Miss Hartill came down the steps sheltering under one umbrella, talking. Their voices floated up. "I hope you don't spoil her, Alwynne? Yes, I know----" Alwynne was murmuring friendly adjectives. "But a mistress is in a peculiar position. You should not let yourself be too familiar----" A gust of wind and rain whirling down the road bore away the rest of the sentence. Louise shut the window. She shivered a little as she gathered up her books. Her happiest day was over. CHAPTER VIII A week before Christmas Alwynne began to wonder how the day itself should be spent, or rather, if her plans for the spending would ever pass Elsbeth's censorship. She was doubtful. For the last two or three years Christmas had been to them a rock of collision. "The pity of it!" thought Alwynne. Once it had been the event, the crowning glory, the very reason of the ending year. A year, indeed, had always presented itself to her in advance as a wide country through which she must make her way, to reach the hostel, Christmas, hidden in the mists of time, on its further border. She had the whole map of the land in her mind, curiously vivid and distinct. She had never consciously devised the picture; it had, from the first, presented itself complete and unalterable. She stood, on New Year's Day, at the entrance of a country lane which ran between uneven hedges through a varying countryside of fields and woods and heatherland. Each change in the surroundings represented a month, the smaller differences the weeks and days. She went down this winding lane as the days went by, in slow content. January was a silent expanse of high tableland, snow-bound to the horizon. Winding down hill through the sodden grassland of the bare February country, where she lighted on nothing but early parsnip fronds and sleepy celandine buds in the dripping wickery hedges, she passed at last into the wood of March, a wood of pollard hazels and greening oaks and bramble-guarded dingles, where the anemones grew, and the first primroses. She slipped and slithered in and out of mossy leaf-pits, and the briars clawed her hair and pinafore, as she robbed the primrose clumps with wet, reddened fingers. The wind shrieked overhead and wrestled wildly with the bare branches, but beyond there was blue sky and a drift of cloud. But, unawares, she would always head through the wood to where the trees grew thinner and dash out at last, through a mist of pale cuckoo-pint, into the cowslip field that was April. The path ran on through May and June between fields of ox-eye daisies and garden roses, always down hill, till she tumbled into August, the deep hot valley. There she found the sea. With September the road lifted steadily, growing stony and ever steeper. It wound on ahead of her like a silver thread through a brocade of red and gold and purple, that was heather and bracken and beech. But the beech blossoms could never be gathered; they fell apart into a shower of dull leaves, and left her with a branch of bare twigs in her hand. The briony berries that she twisted into wreaths stained her straw hat with their black, evil juice; even the manna-like old-man's-beard smelled sour and rotten. The decaying, witchlike beauty of the season tricked and frightened her; autumn was a hard hill to climb. But far away, on the summit of that difficult hill, stood a house. An old house, gaily bricked, dressed in ivy, with a belfry from which carols rang out unceasingly. It was always night-time where it stood and cheerful lights were set in every window. Alwynne never saw the house till she had turned the bend of the road into November; then it faced her suddenly and she would wave to the distant windows with a thrill of excitement, and quicken her steps, with the goal of the journey in sight at last. There was yet a weary climb before it was reached; every day of December was a boulder, painfully beclambered. But she would come to the gates at last, and tear up the frosty drive, from the shadow of whose shrubberies Jacob Marley peered and clanked at her and ghosts of Christmas turkeys gobbled horribly, to the open holly-hung doorway where Santa Claus, authentic in beard and dressing-gown, welcomed her with Elsbeth's voice. Followed stay-at-home days of delirious merry-making, from which she awoke a week later, to find herself, her back to a closed door, a spent cracker in her hand, looking out again, eager and a little wistful, across the white untrodden plain of yet another January. But ever the next Christmas beckoned her anew. To Elsbeth, too, Christmas was the day of delights, and Alwynne the queen of it. To Elsbeth, too, the pleasure of it began many weeks earlier in the secret fashioning of quaint gifts and surprises, and the anticipation of the small niece's delight in them. Elsbeth would have cheerfully cut off one of her slim fingers if Alwynne had happened to covet it. The childless woman loved Alwynne--the child in Alwynne she worshipped. But though the delight of actual motherhood was denied Elsbeth, she was spared none of its chagrins. Stooping for years to a child's level, she was cruelly shaken when Alwynne, suddenly and inexplicably, as it always seems, grew up. It took Elsbeth almost as many years to straighten herself again. Years when Alwynne, in the arrogance of her enterprising youth, thought that Elsbeth was sometimes awfully childish. She supposed that she was growing old; she used not to be like that.... Thereafter, each Christmas, challenging comparison as it did with the memory-mellowed charm of its forerunners, emphasised the change that had taken place. Yearly the ideal Christmas lured them to the old observances; yearly the reality satisfied them less. Elsbeth still sat up half the night on Christmas Eve, at work upon the little tree. Alwynne still planned gorgeous and laborious presents for her aunt. Elsbeth still filled a stocking (out-size) with tip-toe secrecy, and Alwynne, at sixteen, still ran across in her dressing-gown, and curled up on Elsbeth's bed to unpack it. But at sixteen one is too old and too young to be a child any more. The tree was a fir-tree, pure and simple; the fairy lights stank of tallow; and not even for the sake of a new bright sixpence, would Alwynne, in the thick of a vegetarian fad, devour a slice of the evil-coloured Christmas pudding. Elsbeth, as she saw her old-time jokes and small surprises that could no longer surprise, fall utterly flat, thought that school had altered Alwynne altogether; that she was assuming airs of maturity ridiculous in a child of her age, ("Sixteen? She's a mere baby still," affirmed poor Elsbeth,) that she was growing indifferent, superior, heartless. And Alwynne, trying to appear amused, wondered why Christmas was so different from what it used to be and wished heartily that Elsbeth would not try to be skittish. It didn't suit her--made her seem undignified. Each, longing for the old days, when the other had conjured up so easily the true spirit of the festival, tried her affectionate best to do so still; each, failing inevitably, inevitably blamed the other. Neither realised, that Dan Christmas is the god of very little children, and that where they are not, he, too, does not linger. But the last restless, unsatisfactory day had settled the matter for them finally. Alwynne had fidgeted through morning service, and pained her aunt, on the walk home, with her sceptical young comments; had omitted to kiss her under the mistletoe; had sat through the ceremonious meal, answering Elsbeth's cheerful pleasantries in monosyllables; and finally, after an unguarded remark, and the inevitable reproving comment, had flung out of the room in a fever of irritation. She came near thinking Elsbeth a foolish and intolerable old maid. And Elsbeth, sitting sadly over the fire all the lonely afternoon, puzzled meekly over Alwynne's hardness of heart, and cried a little, in pure longing, for the baby of a few years back, to whom she had been as God. They were reconciled, of course, by tea-time. Alwynne, quieted by solitude, was soon bewildered at her own ill-humour, shocked at the sentiments she had been able to entertain, remorseful at hurting Elsbeth's feelings and spoiling her Christmas Day. They were able to send each other to bed happy again. But they had no more snap-dragons and early stockings. The next Christmas, shorn of its splendours, was a strange day to them both, but, at least, a peaceful one, with Alwynne at her gentlest, and Elsbeth, forgiving her as best she could, for her long skirts and her seventeen years. With the passing of yet another year, however, Alwynne's last scruple as to the sacrosanct privacy of Christmas celebrations vanished utterly. The ideal day, she saw at last, and clearly, should be neither a children's carnival, nor a symposium of relatives. (Alwynne knew of none but Elsbeth, but she dearly loved a phrase.) Christmas should be a time of social intercourse, of peace and goodwill towards men--the human race--neighbours and friends--not merely relations.... One should not shut oneself up.... It would be a sound idea, for instance, to ask some one to dinner.... A friend of Elsbeth's--or there was Clare! It would be very jolly if Clare could come to dinner.... Clare was delightful when she was in holiday mood; she could keep the table in a roar.... A little fun would do Elsbeth good.... Surely Elsbeth would enjoy having Clare to dinner? She found herself, however, experiencing considerable difficulty in opening up the project to her aunt. Elsbeth, to whom the possibility of such a request had long ago presented itself, who could have told you by sheer intuition at what exact moment the idea occurred to her niece, gave her no help. Alwynne had contrived to put her in the position of appearing to approve Clare Hartill. Clare, she felt, had had something to do with that. She knew that it would be unwise to lose the advantage of her apparent tolerance; knew that Clare expected her to lose it by some impulsive expression of mistrust or dislike, and intended to utilise the lapse for her own ends. It would be easy for Clare to pose as the generous victim of unreasoning hostility. But Clare should not, she resolved, have the opportunity. She, Elsbeth, would never be so far lacking in cordiality as to give her any sort of handle. But Clare Hartill should not eat her Christmas dinner with them, vowed Elsbeth, for all that. So for a couple of days, Alwynne, approaching Elsbeth from all possible angles, found no crack in her armour, and somewhat puzzled, but entirely unsuspicious, thought it hard that Elsbeth should be, at times, so curiously unresponsive. She would not have scrupled to ask her aunt outright to invite Clare, but she quite genuinely wished to find out first if Elsbeth would mind, and never guessed that the difficulty she found in opening the matter was the answer to that question. The arrival of the turkey was her opportunity. Sailing into the kitchen in search of raisins (the more maturely dignified Alwynne's deportment, the more likely her detection in some absurd child's habit or predilection), she found Elsbeth raging low-voiced, and the small maid gaping admiration over the brobdingnagian proportions of their Christmas dinner. "Look at it, Alwynne! What am I to do? Twenty pounds! And we shan't get through ten! Really, it's too bad--I wrote so distinctly. It's impossible to return it--to Devonshire! No time. It's the twenty-second already. How shall we ever get through it?" "We might get some one in to help us," began Alwynne delightedly. But Elsbeth, very busy all of a sudden, with basin and egg-beater, whisked and bustled her out of the kitchen. Alwynne returned to the matter, however, later in the day. "Elsbeth, we shall never manage that turkey alone." "Of course, I must send some over to Mrs. Marpler," began Elsbeth hastily. Mrs. Marpler was a charwoman. Alwynne contrived to make their succession of little maids adore her, but she and Mrs. Marpler detested one another cordially. Mrs. Marpler's offences, according to Alwynne, were that she was torpid, inefficient, breathed heavily, smelled of cats, and, by the complicated and judicious recital of the authentic calamities which regularly befell her, lured from Elsbeth more than her share of the broken meats and old clothes of the establishment, perquisites which Alwynne, entirely incredulous, coveted for pet dependents of her own. Alwynne's offences, according to Mrs. Marpler, were, the aforementioned incredulity, her hostile influence on Miss Loveday, a certain crispness of manner and a tendency to open all windows in Mrs. Marpler's neighbourhood. The feud distressed Elsbeth, and Alwynne's diagnosis of Mrs. Marpler's character; for she liked to believe the best of every one. Alwynne forced her to agree, but secretly she sympathised with her feckless char-lady. "Marpler has been out of work three weeks, and as poor Mrs. Marpler says, where their Christmas dinner is to come from----" "How much extra did you pay her this week?" demanded Alwynne remorselessly. "And last week--and the week before--and the week before that? Of course he's out of work. Who wouldn't be?" "My dear Alwynne, if you think they can buy a Christmas dinner on what I gave them--" retorted Elsbeth heatedly. "But it's absurd to argue with you. What do you know of what food costs?" "Anyhow, Mrs. Baker, with six children----" began Alwynne, who also had been primed by a protégée. But she recollected that she did not wish to annoy Elsbeth at this juncture. Clare must take precedence of Mrs. Baker. "Well, you can send them the legs and the carcase," she conceded; "even then there will be more than we can possibly manage. Couldn't we ask some one to spend the day with us?" "I hardly think," said Elsbeth, with a touch of severity, "that you would find any one. Most people like to keep Christmas with their Relations." "Well, I haven't got any. But by all accounts I think I should hate 'em in the plural as much as I love 'em in the singular." She blew Elsbeth a kiss. "But if we could find some one--to help us eat up the turkey--and spend the evening--it would be rather jolly, don't you think? It was dullish last year, wasn't it?" "Was it?" said Elsbeth, with careful brightness. "I'm sorry. I had thought you enjoyed it." "Oh, why is she so touchy? I didn't mean anything," cried Alwynne within herself. And aloud-- "Oh, I only meant without a tree or anything specially Christmassy----" "Alwynne," said Elsbeth, with scrupulous patience, "it was you who suggested not having one." "I know, I know, I know, I know!" cried Alwynne, in a fever. Elsbeth sighed. Alwynne repented. "Elsbeth darling, I didn't mean to be rude; I'm a beast. And I didn't mean it wasn't nice last year. I only meant--it would be--be a change to have some one--because of the turkey--and I thought, perhaps Clare----" "Can't you exist for a day without seeing Clare Hartill?" asked Elsbeth, with a wry smile. Alwynne dimpled. "Not very well," she said. Elsbeth stared at her plate. Alwynne edged her chair along the table, till she sat at Elsbeth's elbow. She slid an arm round her neck. "Elsbeth! Elsbeth, dear! You're not cross, Elsbeth? It's a very big turkey. Do, Elsbeth!" "Do what?" "Ask Clare. You like her, don't you?" No answer. "Don't you, Elsbeth?" Alwynne's tone was a little anxious. "Would you care if I didn't?" The pattern of her plate still interested Elsbeth. She was tracing its windings with her fork. "You silly--it would just spoil everything. That's just it--I would like to get you two fond of each other, only with Clare so busy there's never a chance of your really getting acquainted." "I knew Clare Hartill long before you did, Alwynne. I knew her as a schoolgirl." "But not well--not as I know her." "No, not as you know her." "There you are," said Alwynne, with satisfaction. "That's why--you don't know her properly. Oh, Elsbeth, you must share all my good things, and Clare's the very best of them. Do let her come." "She may be engaged; she probably is." "Oh, no--Clare will be alone--I know, because----" she stopped herself. Elsbeth questioned her with her eyes. "Oh, nothing--only I happen to know," said Alwynne. "Because?" Alwynne shook her head mischievously. "Oh, well, if you won't tell me----" began Elsbeth. "Oh, I will, I will," cried Alwynne hastily. "My dear, I don't want to know Miss Hartill's secrets, or yours either," said Elsbeth huffily. But to herself, "Why am I losing my temper over these silly trifles?" "Elsbeth dear, it was nothing. Only Clare did ask me to spend Christmas Day with her." "Well?" said Elsbeth jealously. "What?" asked Alwynne's ingenuous eyes. "Are you going?" Alwynne nestled up to her, humming with careful flatness the final bars of _Home, sweet home_. "Elsbeth, you old darling--I do believe you're jealous! Are you, Elsbeth? Are you?" "Are you going?" repeated Elsbeth. Alwynne was sobered by her tone. "I'm going to spend my Christmas Day in my own home, with my own Elsbeth," she said, "and I think you needn't have asked me." Elsbeth melted. "My dear, I'm a silly old woman----" "Yes, you tell me that once a week." "One day you'll believe it.--All right--you can ask your Miss Hartill--or shall I write?" Alwynne hugged her. "Elsbeth, you're an angel! I'll go round at once. Oh, it will be jolly." "If she comes." Alwynne turned, on the way to her bedroom. Elsbeth's intonation was peculiar. "What do you mean?" "I don't think she'll come, Alwynne." "But I know she'll be alone----" "Well, you go and ask her." "But why do you say that--in that tone?" "I may be wrong. But I've known her longer than you have. But run along and ask her." "But why? Why?" "Oh, don't bother me, child," cried Elsbeth impatiently. "Run along and ask her." CHAPTER IX "I had a letter from Louise yesterday," announced Clare. She was curled up in a saddle-bag before the roaring golden fire, and was busy with paper and pencil. Alwynne, big with her as yet unissued invitation, sat cross-legged on the white bearskin at her feet. The floor was littered with papers and book-catalogues. At Christmas-time Clare ordered books as a housewife orders groceries, and she and Alwynne had spent a luxurious evening over her lists. The vivid flames lit up Clare's thin, lazy length, and turned the hand she held up against their heat into transparent carnelian. Her face was in shadow, but there were dancing specks of light in her sombre eyes that kept time with the leaping blaze. Clare was a sybarite over her fires. She would not endure coal or gas or stove--wood, and wood only, must be used; and she would pay any price for apple-wood, ostensibly for the quality of its flame, secretly for the mere pleasure of burning fuel with so pleasant a name; for she liked beautiful words as a child likes chocolate--a sober, acquisitive liking. She had, too, though she would not own it, a delight in destruction, costly destruction; she enjoyed the sensation of reckless power that it gave her. The trait might be morbid, but there was not a trace of pose in it; she could have enjoyed a Whittington bonfire, without needing a king to gasp applause. Yet she shivered nightly as she undressed in her cold bedroom, rather than commit the extravagance of an extra fire. She never realised the comicality of her contradictoriness, or even its existence in her character, though it qualified every act and impulse of her daily life. Her soul was, indeed, a hybrid, combining the temper of a Calvinist with the tastes of a Renascence bishop. At the moment she was in gala mood. The autumn term was but four days dead, she had not had time to tire of holidays, though, within a week, she would be bored again, and restless for the heavy work under which she affected to groan. Her chafing mind seldom allowed her indolent body much of the peace it delighted in--was ever the American in lotus-land. It was fidgeted at the moment by Alwynne's absorption in a lavishly illustrated catalogue. "Did you hear, Alwynne? A letter from Louise." Alwynne's "Oh?" was absent. It was in the years of the Rackham craze, and she had just discovered a reproduction of the _Midsummer_ Helen. "Any message?" Clare knew how to prod Alwynne. The girl glanced up amused but a little indignant. "You've answered it already? Well! And the weeks I've had to wait sometimes." "This was such a charming letter," said Clare smoothly. "It deserved an answer. She really has the quaintest style. And Alwynne--never a blot or a flourish! It's a pleasure to read." Alwynne laughed ruefully. She would always squirm good-humouredly under Clare's pin-pricks, with such amusement at her own discomfiture that Clare never knew whether to fling away her needle for good, or, for the mere experiment's sake, to stab hard and savagely. At that stage of their intimacy, Alwynne's guilelessness invariably charmed and disarmed her--she knew that it would take a very crude display of cruelty to make Alwynne believe that she was being hurt intentionally. Clare was amused by the novel pedestal upon which she had been placed; she was accustomed to the panoply of Minerva, or the bow of Diana Huntress, but she had never before been hailed as Bona Dea. It tickled her to be endowed with every domestic virtue, to be loved, as Alwynne loved her, with the secure and fearless affection of a daughter for a newly-discovered and adorable young mother. She appreciated Alwynne's determination of their relationship, her nice sense of the difference in age, her modesty in reserving any claim to an equality in their friendship, her frank and affectionate admiration--yet, while it pleased her, it could pique. Calm comradeship or surrendering adoration she could cope with, but the subtle admixture of such alien states of mind was puzzling. She had acquired a lover with a sense of humour and she felt that she had her hands full. Her imperious will would, in time, she knew, eliminate either the lover or the humour--it annoyed her that she was not as yet quite convinced that it would be the humour. She intended to master Alwynne, but she realised that it would be a question of time, that she would give her more trouble than the children to whom she was accustomed. Alwynne's utter unrealisation of the fact that a trial of strength was in progress, was disconcerting: yet Clare, jaded and super-subtle, found her innocence endearing. Without relaxing in her purpose, she yet caught herself wondering if an ally were not better than a slave. But the desire for domination was never entirely shaken off, and Alwynne's free bearing was in itself an ever-present challenge. Clare loved her for it, but her pride was in arms. It was her misfortune not to realise that, for all her Olympian poses, she had come to love Alwynne deeply and enduringly. Alwynne, meanwhile, laughing and pouting on the hearth, the firelight revealing every change of expression in her piquant face, was declining to be classed with Agatha Middleton; her handwriting may be bad, but it wasn't a beetle-track; anyhow, Queen Elizabeth had a vile fist--Clare admired Queen Elizabeth, didn't she? She had always so much to say to Clare, that if she stopped to bother about handwriting----! Had Clare never got into a row for untidiness in her own young days? Elsbeth had hinted.... But of course she reserved judgment till she had heard Clare's version! She settled to attention and Clare, inveigled into reminiscences, found herself recounting quaint and forgotten incidents to her own credit and discredit, till, before the evening was over, Alwynne knew almost as much of Clare's schooldays as Clare did herself. She could never resist telling Alwynne stories, Alwynne was always so genuinely breathless with interest. They returned to Louise at last, and Alwynne read the letter, chuckling over the odd phrases, and dainty marginal drawings. She would have dearly liked to see Clare's answer. She was glad, for all her protests, that Clare had been moved to answer; she knew so well the delight it would give Louise. The child would need cheering up. For, quite resignedly and by the way, Louise had mentioned that the Denny family had developed whooping-cough, and emigrated to Torquay, and she, in quarantine, though it was hoped she had escaped infection, was preparing for a solitary Christmas. Alwynne looked up at Clare with wrinkled brows. "Poor child! But what can I do? I haven't had whooping-cough, and Elsbeth is always so afraid of infection; or else she could have come to us. I know Elsbeth wouldn't have minded." "You are going to leave me to myself then? You've quite made up your mind?" Alwynne's eyes lighted up. "Oh, Clare, it's all right. You are coming! At least--I mean--Elsbeth sends her kindest regards, and she would be so pleased if you will come to dinner with us on Christmas Day," she finished politely. Clare laughed. "It's very kind of your aunt." "Yes, isn't it?" said Alwynne, with ingenuous enthusiasm. "I'm afraid I can't come, Alwynne." Alwynne's face lengthened. "Oh, Clare! Why ever not?" Clare hesitated. She had no valid reason, save that she preferred the comfort of her own fireside and that she had intended Alwynne to come to her. Alwynne's regretful refusal when she first mooted the arrangement, she had not considered final, but this invitation upset her plans. Elsbeth's influence was opposing her. She hated opposition. Also she did not care for Elsbeth. It would not be amiss to make Elsbeth (not her dislike of Elsbeth) the reason for her refusal. It would have its effect on Alwynne sooner or later. She considered Alwynne narrowly, as she answered-- "My dear, I had arranged to be at home, for one thing." Alwynne looked hurt. "Of course, if you don't care about it--" she began. Clare rallied her. "Be sensible, my child. It is most kind of Miss Loveday; but--wasn't it chiefly your doing, Alwynne? Imagine her dismay if I accepted. A stranger in the gate! On Christmas Day! One must make allowances for little prejudices, you know." "She'll be awfully disappointed," cried Alwynne, so eager for Clare that she believed it. "Will she?" Clare laughed pleasantly. "Every one doesn't wear your spectacles. What would she do with me, for a whole day?" "We shouldn't see her much," began Alwynne. "She spends most of her time in church. I go in the morning--(yes, I'm very good!) but I've drawn the line at turning out after lunch." "Then why shouldn't you come to me instead? It would be so much better. I shall be alone, you know." Clare's wistful intonation was not entirely artificial. Alwynne was distressed. "Oh, Clare, I'd love to--you know I'd love to--but how could I? Elsbeth would be dreadfully hurt. I couldn't leave her alone on Christmas Day." "But you can me?" "Clare, don't put it like that. You know I shall want to be with you all the time. But Elsbeth's like my mother. It would be beastly of me. You must put relations first at Christmas-time, even if they're not first really." She smiled at Clare, but she felt disloyal as she said it, and hated herself. Yet wasn't it true? Clare came first, though Elsbeth must never guess it. Dear old Elsbeth was pretty dense, thank goodness! Where ignorance is bliss, etcetera! Yet she, Alwynne, felt extraordinarily mean.... Clare watched her jealously. She had set her heart on securing Alwynne for Christmas Day, and had thought, ten minutes since, with a secret, confident smile, that there would not be much difficulty. And here was Alwynne holding out--refusing categorically! It was incredible! Yet she could not be angry: Alwynne so obviously was longing to be with her.... Equally obviously prepared to risk her displeasure (a heavy penalty already, Clare guessed, to Alwynne), rather than ignore the older claim. Clare thought that an affection that could be so loyal to a tedious old maid was better worth deflecting than many a more ardent, unscrupulous enthusiasm. Alwynne was showing strength of character. She persisted nevertheless-- "Well, it's a pity. I must eat my Christmas dinner alone, I suppose." "Oh, Clare, you might come to us," cried Alwynne. "I can't see why you won't." Clare shrugged her shoulders. "If you can't see why, my dear Alwynne, there's no more to be said." Alwynne most certainly did not see; but Clare's delicately reproachful tone convicted her, and incidentally Elsbeth, of some failure in tact. She supposed she had blundered ... she often did.... But Elsbeth, at least, must be exonerated ... she did so want Clare to think well of Elsbeth.... She perjured herself in hasty propitiation. "Yes. Yes--I do see. I ought to have known, of course. Elsbeth was quite right. She said you wouldn't, all along." "Oh?" Clare sat up. "Oh? Your aunt said that, did she?" She spoke with detachment, but inwardly she was alert, on guard. Elsbeth had suddenly become worth attention. "Oh, yes." Alwynne's voice was rueful. "She was quite sure of it. She said I might ask you, with pleasure, if I didn't believe her--you see, she'd love you to come--but she didn't think you would." "I wonder," said Clare, laughing naturally, "what made her say that?" "She said she knew you better than I did," confided Alwynne, with one of her spurts of indignation. "As if----" "Yes, it's rather unlikely, isn't it?" said Clare, with an intimate smile. "But you're not going?" "I must. Look at the time! Elsbeth will be having fits!" Alwynne called from the hall where she was hastily slipping on her coat and hat. Clare stood a moment--thinking. So the duel had been with Elsbeth! So that negligible and mouse-like woman had been aware--all along ... had prepared, with a thoroughness worthy of Clare herself, for the inevitable encounter ... had worsted Clare completely.... It was amazing.... Clare was compelled to admiration. It was clear to her now that Elsbeth must have distrusted her from the beginning. It had been Elsbeth's doing, not hers, that their intercourse had been so slight.... Yet she had never restrained Alwynne; she had risked giving her her head.... She was subtle! This affair of the Christmas dinner for instance--Clare appreciated its cleverness. Elsbeth had not wanted her, Clare now saw clearly; had been anxious to avoid the intimacy that such an invitation would imply; equally anxious, surely, that Alwynne should not guess her uneasy jealousy: so she had risked the invitation, counting on her knowledge of Clare's character (Clare stamped with vexation--that the woman should have such a memory!) secure that Clare, unsuspicious of her motives, would, by refusing, do exactly as Elsbeth wished. It had been the neatest of gossamer traps--and Clare had walked straight into it.... She was furious. If Alwynne, maddeningly unsuspicious Alwynne, had but enlightened her earlier in the evening! Now she was caught, committed by her own decision of manner to the course of action she most would have wished to avoid.... She could not change her mind now without appearing foolishly vacillating.... It would not do.... She had been bluffed, successfully, gorgeously bluffed.... And Elsbeth was sitting at home enjoying the situation ... too sure of herself and Clare even to be curious as to the outcome of it all. She knew. Clare stamped again. Oh, but she would pay Elsbeth for this.... The _casus belli_ was infinitely trivial, but the campaign should be Homeric.... And this preliminary engagement could not affect the final issues.... She always won in the end.... But, after all, Elsbeth could not be blamed, though she must be crushed; Alwynne was worth fighting for! Elsbeth was a fool.... If she had treated Clare decently, Clare might--possibly--have shared Alwynne with her.... She believed she would have had scruples.... Now they were dispelled.... Alwynne, by fair means or foul, should be detached ... should become Clare's property ... should be given up to no living woman or man. She followed Alwynne into the hall and lit the staircase candle. She would see Alwynne out. She would have liked to keep Alwynne with her for a month. She was a delightful companion; it was extraordinary how indispensable she made herself. Clare knew that her flat would strike her as a dreary place to return to, when she had shut the door on Alwynne. She would sit and read and feel restless and lonely. Yet she did not allow herself to feel lonely as a rule; she scouted the weakness. But Alwynne wound herself about you, thought Clare, and you never knew, till she had gone, what a difference she made to you. She wished she could keep Alwynne another couple of hours.... But it was eleven already ... her hold was not yet strong enough to warrant innovations to which Elsbeth could object.... Her time would come later.... How much later would depend on whether it were affection that swayed Alwynne, or only a sense of duty.... She believed, because she hoped, that it was duty--a sense of duty was more easily suborned than an affection.... For the present, however, Alwynne must be allowed to do as she thought right. Clare knew when she was beaten, and, with her capacity for wry admiration of virtues that she had not the faintest intention of incorporating in her own character, she was able to applaud Alwynne heartily. Yet she did not intend to make victory easy to her. They went down the flights of stairs silently, side by side. Alwynne opened the entrance doors and stood a moment, fascinated. "Look, Clare! What a night!" The moon was full and flooded earth and sky with bright, cold light. The garden, roadway, roofs, trees and fences glittered like powdered diamonds, white with frost and moonshine. The silence was exquisite. They stood awhile, enjoying it. Suddenly Clare shivered. Alwynne became instantly and anxiously practical. "Clare, what am I thinking of? Go in at once--you'll catch a dreadful cold." With unusual passivity Clare allowed herself to be hurried in. At the staircase Alwynne said good-bye, handing her her candle, and waiting till she should have passed out of sight. On the fourth step Clare hesitated, and turned-- "Alwynne--come to me for Christmas?" Alwynne flung out her hands. "Clare! I mustn't." "Alwynne--come to me for Christmas?" "You know I mustn't! You know you'd think me a pig if I did, now wouldn't you?" "I expect so." "But I'll come in for a peep at you," cried Alwynne, brightening, "while Elsbeth's at afternoon service. I could do that. And to say Merry Christmas!" "Come to dinner?" "I can't." "Then you needn't come at all." Clare turned away. Alwynne caught her hand, as it leaned on the balustrade. In the other the candle shook a little. "Lady Macbeth! Dear Lady Macbeth! Miss Hartill of the Upper Sixth, whom I'm scared to death of, really--you're behaving like a very naughty small child. Now, aren't you? Honestly? Oh, do turn round and crush me with a look for being impudent, and then tell me that I'm only doing what you really approve. I don't want to, Clare, but you know you hate selfishness." Clare looked down at her. "All right, Alwynne. You must do as you like." "Say good-night to me," demanded Alwynne. "Nicely, Clare, very nicely! It's Christmas-time." Carefully Clare deposited her candlestick on the stair above. Leaning over the banisters, she put her arms round Alwynne and kissed her passionately and repeatedly. "Good-night, my darling," said Clare. Then, recoiling, she caught up her candlestick, and without another word or look, hurried up the stairs. Alwynne walked home on air. CHAPTER X Elsbeth bore the news of Clare's defection with stoicism; but her motherly soul was disturbed by Alwynne's disappointment, though she could not stifle her pleasure in its cause. She felt, indeed, somewhat guilty, and was eager to atone by acquiescing in Alwynne's plan of visiting Clare while she went to church; and met her more than half way over the question of an altered tea-hour. Alwynne, who from the first had been fretted, though but half consciously, by the faintly repellent manner assumed by each of the two women at mention of the other, was soothed by Elsbeth's advances. Elsbeth was a dear, after all: there was no one quite like Elsbeth.... For all her obstinacies and unreasonableness, she never really failed you.... She could be depended on to love you at your worst; you could quarrel with her with never a fear of real alienation.... Elsbeth might not be exciting, but she was as indispensable as food.... She was, after all, the starting-point and ultimate goal of all one's adventures.... Clare would lose some of her delightfulness, if there were no Elsbeth to whom to en-sky on her.... Alwynne did not see what she wanted with a mother, so long as she had Elsbeth.... She had said so once to her aunt and had never guessed, as she was chidden for sacrilege against the picture over her bed, at the exquisite pleasure she had given. After the little coolness of the past few days (her aunt's fault entirely, Alwynne knew, and so could be unruffled) Elsbeth's renewal of sympathetic interest was very soothing. Alwynne was glad to foster it by talking of Clare, and Clare, and nothing but Clare, for the rest of the week. In church on Christmas morning, poor Elsbeth, settling her spiritual accounts, begging forgiveness for uncharitable thoughts, and assuring her Maker that she wished Clare no evil, could yet sigh for the useful age of miracles, and patron saints, and devils, when a prayer in the right quarter could transport your enemy to inaccessible islands of the Antipodes. She would have been magnanimous, have bargained for every comfort--Eden's climate and hot and cold water laid on--but the island must be definitely inaccessible and Antipodean. Clare, too, had spent her morning, if not in prayer, at least in profound meditation. She felt stranded, and was wishing for Alwynne, and anathematising the superfluous and intriguing aunt. Clare made the mistake of all tortuous intelligences in being unable to credit appearances. She was being, as usual, unjust to Elsbeth, Alwynne, and the world at large. She could not believe in simplicity combined with brains: a simple soul was necessarily a simpleton in her eyes. Because her own words were ever two edged, her meaning flavoured by reservations and implications, she literally could not accept a speech as expressing no more and no less than its plain dictionary meaning. With any one of her own type of mind she was at her ease; her mistake lay in not recognising how rare that type was; in detecting subtleties where none existed, and wasting hint, suggestion and innuendo on minds that drove as heartily through them as an ox walks through a spider thread stretched from post to gatepost of the meadow he means to enter. Elsbeth, whom she had considered a negligible fool, had yesterday startled her into respect--not for the kindly and selfless pleasure in Alwynne's pleasure, that had, for all her little jealous anxieties, prompted the invitation to Clare, but for the totally imaginary cunning with which, in Clare's eyes, it had invested her. Alwynne's repetition of Elsbeth's remark had enlightened Clare: enlightened her to qualities in Elsbeth which Elsbeth herself would have been horrified to possess. Clare saw, in the manner of the invitation, a gauntlet flung down, the preliminaries to a conflict, with Alwynne herself for the prize; and the first warning of an antagonist sufficiently like herself to be considered dangerous, the more dangerous, indeed, for the apparently uninteresting harmlessness that could mask a mind in reality so scheming and so complex. She did not realise that if she did finally close with Elsbeth, with the intention of robbing her of Alwynne, she would have far more to fear from her simple, affectionate goodness of heart than from any subtlety of intellect with which Clare was choosing to invest her. She wondered, as she frittered away the morning, how she should best counter Elsbeth's attack. She would call, of course--in state; it would be due; she would not be judged deficient in courtesies. Alwynne should be there (she would ensure that), and she, Clare, would be exceedingly charming, and very delicately emphasise the contrast between Elsbeth and herself. It would be quite easy, with Alwynne already biassed. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation. It would be amusing. She should enjoy routing Elsbeth. And there was the case of Alwynne to be considered. She had been excessively nice to Alwynne lately, had, in fact, allowed her, for a moment, to see how necessary she was becoming to Clare.... That was a mistake.... One must never let people feel secure of their hold upon one.... That little speech of Alwynne's last night, mocking and tender--she had thrilled to it at the time--did it not, ever so faintly, shadow forth a readjustment of attitudes, sound a note of equality? That, though it had pleased her at the moment, must not be.... Alwynne must be checked.... It would not hurt her.... She was subdued as easily as a child, and as easily revived.... She never bore malice. Clare, who never forgot or forgave a pinprick, had often marvelled at her, could even now scarcely believe in the spontaneity of her good temper. But Alwynne, certainly, had been going too far lately; was absurdly popular in the school; could, Clare guessed, have annexed more than one of her own special worshippers, if she had chosen. Louise, she knew, confided in her: she thought with a double stab of jealousy of the scene she had witnessed but a few days since; of Louise, fresh from her commendations, from her kiss even (that rare impulse, regretted as soon as gratified), at rest in Alwynne's arms. She recalled Louise's startled look and Alwynne's contrasting serenity. She had not enquired what it all meant--that was not her way. But she had not forgotten it. Alwynne was hers. Louise was hers. But they had nothing to seek from one another! Alwynne, undoubtedly, as the elder, the dearer, required the check; not little Louise. Louise's letter had genuinely touched her--she thought she would go and see the child, spend her Christmas Day charitably, in amusing her. And if (in after-thought) Alwynne came round in the afternoon, and found her gone--it couldn't be helped! It wouldn't hurt Alwynne to be disappointed.... It wouldn't hurt Alwynne to spend a day of undiluted Elsbeth.... And Louise would be amusingly charmed to see Clare.... It was pleasant to please a child--a clever, appreciative child.... She would go round directly after lunch.... The maid should go home for the afternoon.... She laughed mischievously as she imagined the blankness of Alwynne's face, when she should be confronted by silence and a closed door. Poor, dear Alwynne! Well, it wouldn't hurt her. But Alwynne set out gaily on Christmas afternoon, and, first escorting Elsbeth to the lych-gate of her favourite church, walked on as quickly as her narrow fur-edged skirt would let her. The clocks were striking three as she turned into Friar's Lane. It was a cold, still day, and Alwynne shivered a little, and drew her furs closely about her, as she stood outside the door of Clare's flat. She had rung, but the maid was usually slow in answering. The passage was damply cold. It would be all the jollier to toast oneself before one of Clare's imperial fires.... She wished the maid would hurry up. She waited a moment and then rang again. There was no answer. It struck her that the maid might have been given the afternoon off; but it was funny that Clare did not hear. She rang again. She could hear the bell tinging shrilly within, but there was no other sound save the tick of the solemn little grandmother on the inner side of the wall. Suddenly it occurred to her that Clare might be dozing. Clare never slept in the afternoons, but she did occasionally doze in her chair for a few minutes. She denied that she did so as strenuously as people always and unaccountably do; but Alwynne knew better. It always delighted her when Clare succumbed to drowsiness; a good sleeper herself, she had been appalled by Clare's acquiescence in four wakeful nights out of seven, and after a casual description that Clare had once given her of the arid miseries of insomnia, ten minutes' unexpected slumber did not give Clare herself more ease than it gave Alwynne. The possibility of such an explanation of the silence, therefore, had to be considered respectfully: if Clare slept, far be it from Alwynne to wake her! Yet she could not go away.... Clare, after that unlucky clash of wills, would be doubly hurt if Alwynne left without seeing her first.... But if Clare were asleep.... Resignedly Alwynne sat herself down on Clare's doorstep to wait until a movement within should be the signal to ring again. She was not annoyed; she always had plenty to think about; and it would be very pleasant, when Clare did at last open the door, to be received with open arms, and pitied, and scolded, and warmed.... It was certainly very cold.... All the draughts of the town seemed to have their home on the staircase, and to come sliding and slithering and undulating past, like a brood of invisible snakes. She shifted her position. The doorstep was icy. She got up, and placed her muff, her chinchilla muff (shades of Elsbeth! her beautiful, new chinchilla muff) on the whitened doorstep. Then she sat on it. "Ah! That's better," murmured Alwynne appreciatively. She was grateful to Elsbeth for reminding her to wear her muff. But it did not get any warmer, and the daylight was beginning to fade. She glanced at her watch--twenty minutes past three. Surely Clare was awake again now. But she would wait another five minutes. She watched the hands--marvelled at the interminable length of a minute, and was drifting off on her favourite speculation as to the essential unreality of time, when simultaneously the grandmother struck the half-hour and she sneezed. She jumped up horrified. A cold would mean a week's absence from Clare, and a restatement of Elsbeth's thesis "of the advisability of wearing flannel petticoats and long-sleeved bodices." Also, half of her hoarded hour was gone. She rang again impatiently. No answer. Clare must be out.... Gone to the post? No, Alwynne had been waiting half-an-hour, she would have returned by now.... Impossible that Clare should be out on Christmas afternoon, when she had refused an invitation and was expecting Alwynne herself.... She rang; and waited; and rang again and again and yet again. "If Clare has gone out----" cried Alwynne indignantly; and subjected the handle to a final series of vicious tugs. The bell within pealed and rocked and jarred, gave a last hysterical gurgle and was dumb. She had broken the bell. She had broken Clare Hartill's bell! Alwynne looked round about her guiltily; she felt more like nine than nineteen. The flight of stairs was still empty and silent. No one had seen her come; no one would see her go.... If she went quietly away, and said nothing about it? For Clare would be annoyed.... She always got so annoyed over little things.... What a pity to have a fuss with Clare over such a little thing as a broken bell! She crept on tip-toe down the stairs and out into the road. Then she paused. Was she being mean? After all--there was no earthly use in telling Clare.... Clare would never let her pay for the mending.... Yet naturally she would be annoyed to come back and find her bell broken.... She would think it was the milkman or the paper-boy.... Alwynne hoped they would not get into trouble.... Perhaps, after all, she had better tell Clare. Such an absurd thing to confess to, though--that she had been in such a temper that she had broken the bell! Clare would be sarcastic.... Yet it was Clare's fault for being out.... That was unkind.... She would tell Clare so ... she would write and tell her.... She would write a note now, and tell her about the bell at the same time.... She retraced her steps, pulled out her note-book and pencil, and began to scribble-- _Dear Clare--I'm awfully sorry but I'm afraid I've broken the bell. I couldn't make you hear. I thought you were asleep, but I suppose you are out. I must have rung too hard, but I didn't think you would be out._ Heavily underlined. _I'm dreadfully sorry about the bell._ She hesitated. If Clare would let her pay for a new one, she wouldn't feel so bad.... Yet how could she suggest it? It would sound so crude.... If only Clare would not be angry.... Absurd to be feeling afraid of Clare--but then she had never done anything so stupid before.... Angry or not, Clare would never let her pay.... Yet should she suggest it? She bit her pencil in distracted indecision, till the lead broke off between her teeth. That settled it. The damp stump was barely capable of scoring an _Alwynne_. She pinned the paper to the door with her only hatpin (a present of the forenoon) and reluctantly departed. It was a pity that her best hat blew off twice into the mud. Elsbeth was glad to get Alwynne back so early. Had Alwynne enjoyed herself? Alwynne sneezed as she answered. Before the evening was over Alwynne reeked of eucalyptus. CHAPTER XI Louise was at the nursery window, staring out into the brown, bare garden. The sky was smooth and a dark yellow, the naked trees barred it like a tiger's hide. The gathering dusk had swallowed up the wind. Not a twig stirred, not a sparrow's chirp broke the thick stillness. Spellbound, the world awaited the imminent snow. Louise, sitting motionless in the window-seat, with her little pink nose flattening itself against the panes in dreary expectation of a stray unlikely postman, looked, with her peaked, ivory face and dark, unwinking eyes, her colourless clothes, and the sprig of holly with never a scarlet berry pinned to her flat little chest, like the mood of the December day made flesh. Clare, at least, thought so. Dispensing with the indifferent maid, she had found her own way to the nursery, and pushing open the unlatched door, stood an instant, appraising the child and her surroundings. She noted with distaste the remains of the barely tasted lunch, still encumbering the table, and impingeing on the little pile of austere Christmas presents, so carefully arranged: the gloves and stockings and the prim Prayer Book a mere background for a dainty calendar that she recognised. She smiled, with a touch of irritation--did Alwynne ever forget any one, she wondered? But it was not suitable for a mistress to send her pupils presents.... She wished she had thought of sending Louise something herself ... something more original than that obviously over-prized calendar.... It was not much of a Christmas table, she thought ... not much of a Christmas Day for a child.... She marvelled that a well-furnished room could look so dreary. Louise's huddled pose, the neglected fire, the book crushed face downwards on the floor, combined to touch her. With her incurable feeling for the effective attitude, she remained straight and stiff in the shadows of the doorway, but her gesture was beautiful in its awkward tenderness as she stretched out her hand to the window. "Merry Christmas, Louise!" For an instant the child was silent, rigid, incredulous: then came a whirl of petticoats and a flash of black legs. Louise, wild with excitement, dropped to the floor and dashed across the room. "Oh, Miss Hartill! Oh, Miss Hartill! You?" "Well, are you pleased to see me?" "Please, won't you sit down?" Louise, between delight and embarrassment, did curious things with the big arm-chair. "I can't believe it's you. And on Christmas Day! Won't you please sit down? Is the room too warm for you? Will you take off your furs? Would you like some tea? I'll make up the fire--it's cold in here. Will you take this chair? Oh, Miss Hartill! It's like the Queen calling on one. I don't know what to do." She looked up at Clare, blushing. Her pleasure and excitement were pretty enough. Clare laughed. "I'll tell you what to do. Run and put on your coat and hat. Would you like to come and spend the rest of the day with me?" "With you?" Louise's eyes opened. "But it's Christmas Day?" "Well?" "I shan't be in the way?" "I don't think so," said Clare coolly. "I'll send you home if you are." She twinkled, but Louise was serious. "You could do that, couldn't you?" she remarked with relief. "Oh, Miss Hartill, you are good! And I was hating my Christmas Day so. Won't you sit down while I get my things on?" "Hurry up!" said Clare. And Louise fled to her bedroom. Their walk back to Friar's Lane was a silent one. The snow was at last beginning to fall. Clare, half hypnotised by the steady silent motion, tramped forward, keeping time to some fragment of tune within her head. She was warmed by the pleasant consciousness of a kindly action performed, but its object, trotting beside her, was half forgotten. Louise, very shy at encountering Miss Hartill unofficially, was far too timid to speak unless she were addressed. But she was perfectly happy; marvelling and rejoicing at her situation (Miss Hartill's guest, bound for her home!), overflowing with dog-like devotion to the Olympian who had actually remembered her existence. She was glad of the silent walk. It gave her time to realise her own happiness; to learn by heart that picture of Clare, against the background of the empty nursery, to get her every sentence by rote, and store all safely in her memory before turning to the contemplation of the incredible adventure upon which she was now embarking. Clare, preceding Louise up the staircase, found Alwynne's note awaiting her. She frowned as she read it and felt for her latch-key. It was just like Alwynne to leave a note like that for any one to read.... And the hatpin for any one to steal.... She wished it had been stolen before it had scratched her paint.... And the bell! It was really annoying of Alwynne! It would cost her five shillings to put right.... She, Clare, was not mean, but she did begrudge money for that sort of thing.... Really, Alwynne might offer to pay for it.... But that, of course, would never occur to Alwynne.... She was altogether too reckless about other people's belongings.... Her own were her own affair.... But to break Clare's bell.... She must have been quite comprehensively annoyed to have actually broken it.... Clare laughed. She had had a sudden vision of Alwynne's blank face and indignant pealings. Poor old Alwynne! Well--it wouldn't hurt her.... If she were careful to let Alwynne know to whom she had been sacrificed, Alwynne might not be quite so partisan over Louise next term.... That wouldn't be a bad thing.... She did not approve of intimacies between the girls and the mistresses.... But she, Clare, would make it up to both of them.... She would begin now, with Louise.... She would devote herself to amusing Louise.... She would give Louise the time of her life.... Louise would be sure to tell Alwynne about it afterwards.... CHAPTER XII "What are you going to do with yourself all the holidays?" asked Clare, with a touch of curiosity. Louise had slipped off her chair on to the soft hearthrug, and sat, hugging her knees and staring up at Clare. "Read," she said briefly, and gave a little gurgle of anticipation. "All day long?" "Oh, yes, Miss Hartill. I never get a chance in term time. There's such heaps to read. I'd like to live in a library." "Yet a peep at the world outside beats all the books that were ever written." "I wonder." Louise rubbed her chin meditatively against her knees before she delivered herself. "You know--I think the way things strike people is much more interesting than the things themselves. I like exploring people's minds. Do you know?" "I know," said Clare. She laughed mischievously. "You mean--that what you think I am, for instance, is much more interesting than what I really am." Louise protested mutely. Her black eyes glowed. "I daresay you're right, Louise. You wear pink spectacles, you see. I'm quite sure you would be appalled if any one took them off. I'm a horrid person really." Louise looked puzzled; then the twinkle in Miss Hartill's eyes enlightened her. Miss Hartill was teasing. She laughed merrily. Clare shook her head. "It's quite true. I'm an egoist, Louise!" "It's not true," said Louise passionately. She was on guard in an instant, ready to justify Miss Hartill to herself and the world. It amused Clare to excite her. "My good child--what do you know about it?" "Lots," said Louise, with a catch in her voice. "You're not! You're not!" "I am." Clare leaned forward, much tickled. She could afford to attempt to disillusion Louise.... Louise would not believe her, but she could not say later that she had not been warned. But at the same time, Clare warmed her cold and cynical self in the pure flame of affection her self-criticism was fanning. "I am," she repeated. "Why do you think I came round to see you to-day?" Louise looked up at her shyly, dwelling on her answer as if it gave her exquisite pleasure. "Because--because you knew I was alone, and you hated me to be miserable on Christmas Day." "You?" Clare's eyebrows lifted for a second, but a glance into the child's candid eyes dispelled the vague suspicion.... Louise and conceit were incompatible. She listened with a touch of compunction to the innocent answer. "Not me specially, of course. Any one who was down. Only it happened to be me. I think you can't help being good to people: you're made that way." Her eyes were full of wondering admiration. Clare was touched. She sighed as she answered-- "I wish I were. You shouldn't believe in people, Louise. I came round because--yes, you were a lonely scrap of a schoolgirl, certainly--but there were lots of other reasons. I wanted a walk and I wanted to be amused, and I wanted--and I wanted----" she moved restlessly in her chair, "All pure egoism, anyhow." "But you came," said Louise. "To please you, or to punish some one else? I don't know!" Louise enjoyed her incomprehensibility. She stored up her remarks to puzzle over later. Yet she would ask questions if Miss Hartill were in a talking mood. "Do I know them?" (She had an odd habit of using the plural when she wished to be discreet.) She wondered who had been punished, and why, and thrilled deliciously, as she did to a ghost story. She thought that it would be terrible to have offended Miss Hartill: yet immensely exciting.... She wondered if all her courage would go if Miss Hartill were angry? She had always despised poor Jeanne du Barrie: but Miss Hartill raging would be harder to face than a mob.... "What have they done?" asked Louise eagerly. "They? It's your dear Miss Durand," said Clare, with a grim smile. "I'm very angry with her, Louise. She's been behaving badly." Louise's eyes widened: she looked alarmed and distressed. "Oh, but Miss Hartill--she hasn't! She couldn't! What has she done?" "Shall I tell you?" Clare leaned forward mysteriously. Louise nodded breathlessly. "She wouldn't copy me and be an egoist. And I wanted her to, rather badly, Louise. There, that's all! You're none the wiser, are you? Never mind, you will be, some day. Don't look so worried, you funny child." "Why do you call yourself such names? You're not an egoist? You can't be," cried Louise desperately. Clare laughed. "Can't I? Most people are. It's not a synonym for murderess! Stop frowning, child. Why, I don't believe you know what it means even. Do you know what an egoist is, Louise?" "Sir Willoughby Patterne!" said Louise promptly. Clare threw up her hands. "What next? I wish I'd had charge of you earlier. You shouldn't try so hard to say 'Humph,' little pig." "I don't." Louise was indignant. "Then what possesses you to steer your cockle-boat on to Meredith? Well--what do you think of him? What have you read?" "About all. He's queer. He's not Dickens or Scott, of course----" Her tone deprecated. "Of course not," said Clare, with grave sympathy. "But I like him. I like Chloe. I like the sisters--you know--'Fine Shades and Nice Feeling'----" "Why?" Clare shot it at her. "I don't know. They made me laugh. They're awfully real people. And I liked that book where the two gentlemen drink wine. 'Veuve' something." "What on earth did you see in that?" Clare was amused. "I don't know. I just liked them. Of course, I adore Shagpat." "That I understand. It's a fairy tale to you, isn't it?" "Not a proper one--only Arabian Nightsy." "What's a proper one, Louise?" Louise hesitated. "Well, heaps that one loves aren't. Grimm's and Hans Andersen's aren't, or even _The Wondrous Isles_. And, of course, none of the Lang books. I hate those. You know, proper fairy stories aren't easy to get. You have to dig. You get bits out of the notes in the Waverley Novels, and there's _Kilmeny_, and _The Celtic Twilight_, and _The Lore of Proserpine_, and Lemprière. Do you believe in fairies, Miss Hartill?" "It depends on the mood I'm in," said Clare seriously, "and the place. Elves and electric railways are incompatible." Louise flung herself upon the axiom. "Do you think so? Now I don't, Miss Hartill--I don't. If they are--they can stand railways. But you just believe in them literaturily----" "Literally," Clare corrected. "No, no--literaturily--just as a pretty piece of writing. You'll never see them if you think of them like that, Miss Hartill. The Greeks didn't--they just believed in Pan, and the Oreads, and the Dryads, and all those delicious people; and the consequence was that the country was simply crammed with them. You just read Lemprière! I wish I'd lived then. Miss Hartill, did you ever see a Good Person?" "I'm afraid not, Louise. But I had a nurse who used to tell me about her grand-aunt: she was supposed to be a changeling." Louise wriggled with delight. "Oh, tell about her, Miss Hartill. What was she like?" "Tiny and black, with a very white skin. They were a fair family. Nurse said they all disliked her, though she never did them any harm. She used to be out in the woods all day--and she ate strange food." "What?" "Fungi, and nettle-tops, and young bracken, and blackberries, my nurse said." "Blackberries?" "She was Irish; the Irish peasants won't touch blackberries, you know. We're just as bad, Louise. Heaps of fungi are delicious--wait till you've been in Germany. They know what's good: but, then, they won't touch rabbits, so there you are! I expect my nurse's aunt thought us an odd lot, us humans." "Was she really a fairy?" Louise was breathless. "How do I know? A witch perhaps. I should think a young witch, by all accounts." "What happened to her?" "She was 'swept' on her wedding-day." "Crossing water?" "No. She was to marry an old farmer. She went into the woods at dawn to wash in dew, and gather bindweed for her wreath----" She paused dramatically, her eyes dancing with fun; but Louise was wholly in earnest. "Go on! Oh, go on!" "She was never seen again." "Oh, how lovely!" Louise shivered ecstatically. "I wish I'd been her. What did her foster people do?" "What could they? I think they were glad to be rid of her." (Clare suppressed a certain tall young gipsy, who had figured suspiciously in the original narrative.) "Fairy blood is ill to live with, Louise. I don't envy Mrs. Blake, or Mrs. Thomas Rhymer." "No. But it's so difficult to live in two worlds at once." "Shouldering the wise man's burden already?" "You get absent-minded, and forget--ink-stains, you know, and messages." "I know," said Clare. "You see, I have such a gorgeous world inside my head, Miss Hartill: I go there when I'm rather down, here. It's a sort of Garden of the Hesperides, and you are there, and Mother, and all my special friends." "Who, for instance?" Clare was curious; it was the first she had heard of Louise with friends of her own. "Well--Elizabeth Bennett, and the Little Women, and Garm, and Amadis of Gaul----" "Oh--not real people?" Clare was amused at herself for being relieved. "Oh, but Miss Hartill--they are real." Louise was indignant. "Ever so much more than--oh, most people! Look at Mrs. Bennett and Mamma! Nobody will think of Mamma in a hundred years--but who'd ever forget Mrs. Bennett?" "Mrs Bennett in the Garden of the Hesperides, Louise?" Clare began to chuckle. "I can't swallow that." Louise pealed with laughter. "You should have seen her the other day, with the dragon after her. She'd been trying to sneak some apples, because Bingley was coming to tea." "Who came to the rescue?" "Oh, I did." Louise was revelling in her sympathetic listener. "I have to keep order, you know. She was awfully blown, though. Siegfried helped me." "I wish I could get to fairyland as easily as you do." Louise considered. "I don't. My country is only in my head. Fairyland must be somewhere, mustn't it? Do you know what I think, Miss Hartill?" "In patches, Louise." Louise blushed. "No, but seriously--don't laugh. You know you explained the fourth dimension to us the other day?" "That I'm sure I never did." Clare was lying back in her chair, her arms behind her head, smiling inscrutably. "Oh, but Miss Hartill----" "Never, Louise!" "Oh, but honestly--I'm not contradicting you, of course--but you did. Last Thursday fortnight, in second lesson." "I wish you were as accurate over all your dates, Louise! Your History paper was not all that it should be." "It's holidays, Miss Hartill! But don't you remember?" "I explained to you that the fourth dimension was inexplicable--a very different thing." "_The Plattner Story_ explains it--clearly." Louise's tone was distinctly reproachful. "Oh no, it doesn't, Louise. Mr. Wells only deludes you into thinking it does." "Well, anyhow, I think--don't you think that it's rather likely that fairyland is the fourth dimension? It would all fit in so beautifully with all the old stories of enchantment and disappearances. Then there was another book I read about it. _The Inheritors_----" "Have done, Louise! You make me dizzy. Don't try to live exclusively on truffles. If you could continue to confine your attention to books you have some slight chance of understanding, for the next few years, it would be an excellent thing. Neither Meredith nor the fourth dimension is meat for babes, you know." "I like what I don't understand. It's the finding out is the fun." Louise looked mutinous. "And having found out?" "Then I start on something else." Clare considered her. "Louise, I don't know if it's a compliment to either of us--but I believe we're very much alike." Louise gave a child's delighted chuckle, but she showed no surprise. "That's nice, Miss Hartill." She hesitated. "Miss Hartill, did you know my Mother?" "Mrs. Denny?" Clare hesitated. Louise gave an impatient gesture. "Not Mamma. My very own Mother." "No, my dear." Clare's voice was soft. Louise sighed. "No one does. There are no pictures. Father was angry when I asked about her once: and Miss Murgatroyd--she was our governess--she said I had no tact. I miss her, you know, though I don't remember her. I had a nurse: she told me a little. Mother had grey eyes too, you know," said Louise, gazing into Clare's. "I expect she was rather like you." She watched Clare a little breathlessly. There was more of tenderness in her face than many who thought they knew Clare Hartill would have credited, but no hint of awakening memory, of the recognition the child sought. She went on-- "People never come back when they're dead, do they?" She had no idea of the longing in her voice. "No, you poor baby!" Clare rose hastily and began to walk up and down the room, as her fashion was when she was stirred. "Never?" "'_Stieg je ein Freund Dir aus dem Grabe wieder?_'" murmured Clare. "What, Miss Hartill?" "Never, Louise." Louise's thistledown fancies were scattered by her tone. Impossible to discredit any statement of Miss Hartill's. Yet she protested timidly. "There was the Witch of Endor, Miss Hartill. Samuel, you know." "Is that Meredith?" said Clare absently. Then she caught Louise's expression. "What's the matter?" "But it's the Bible!" cried Louise horrified. Clare sat down again and began to laugh pleasantly. "What am I to do with you, Louise? Are you five or fifty? You want to discuss Meredith with me--(not that I shall let you, my child--don't think I approve of all this reading--I did it myself at your age, you see) and five minutes later you look at me round-eyed because I've forgotten my Joshua or my Judges! Kings? I beg your pardon; Kings be it! Never mind, Louise. Tell me about the Witch of Endor." "Only that she called up Samuel, I meant, from the dead." Louise was evidently abstracted; she was picking her words. "Don't you believe it, Miss Hartill, quite?" "It's the Old Testament, after all," temporised Clare. She began to see Louise's difficulty. She had no beliefs herself but she thought she would find out how fourteen handled the problem. "Then the New is different? There was Dorcas, you know, and the widow's son. That is all true, Miss Hartill?" Clare fenced. "Many people think so." "I want to know the truth," said Louise tensely. "I want to know what you think." She spoke as if the two things were synonymous. Clare shook her head. "I won't help you, Louise. You must find out for yourself. Leave it alone, if you're wise." "How can I? I've been reading----" "Ah?" "The _Origin of Species_--and _We Two_." Clare's gravity fled. She lay back shaking with laughter. "Louise, you're delightful! Anything else?" Louise pulled up her footstool to Clare's knee. "Miss Hartill, I've been reading a play. It's horrible. I can't bear it, though it was thrilling to read----" Clare interrupted. "Where do you get all these books, Louise?" "They are all Mother's, you know. Nobody else wants them. And then there's the Free Library." Clare shuddered. She would sooner have drunk from the tin cup of a public fountain than have handled the greasy volumes of a public library. "How can you?" she said disgustedly. "Dirt and dog-ears!" Louise opened her eyes. She was too young to be squeamish. "'A book's a book for a' that,'" she laughed. "How else am I to get hold of any--that I like?" Clare jerked her head to the lined walls. "Help yourself," she said. Louise was radiant. "May I? Oh, you are good! I will take such care. I'll cover them in brown paper." She jumped up and, running across the room, flung herself on her knees before the wide shelves. Timidly, at first, but with growing forgetfulness of Clare, she pulled out here a volume and there a volume, handling them tenderly, yet barely opening each, so eager was she for fresh discoveries. She reminded Clare of _Alice_ with the scented rushes. Clare was amused by her absorption, and a little touched. The child's attitude to books hinted at the solitariness of her life: she relaxed to them, greeting them as intimates and companions; there was a new appearance on her; she was obviously at home, welcomed by her friends; a very different person to the shy-eyed, prim little prodigy her school-fellows knew. Clare, glancing at her now and then, sympathised benevolently, and left her to herself; she understood that side of the child; her remark to Louise about the resemblance between them had not been made at random; she was constantly detecting traits and tastes in her similar to her own. She was interested; she had thought herself unique. Their histories were not dissimilar; she, too, different as her environment had been, could look back on a lonely, self-absorbed childhood; she, too, had had forced and premature successes. They had not been empty ones, she reflected complacently; she had used those schoolgirl triumphs as stepping-stones. She doubted if Louise could do the same: there was something unpractical about Louise--a hint of the visionary in her air. She had at present none of Clare's passion for power and the incense of success. Clare, quite aware of her failing, aware that it was a failing and perversely proud of it, yet hoped that she should not see it sprouting in the character of Louise. She hated to see her own defects reproduced (ineffably vulgarised) in others; it jarred her pride. The discovery of the resemblance between herself and Louise amused and charmed her, as long as it was confined to the qualities that Clare admired; but if the girl began to reflect her faults, Clare knew that she should be irritated. She considered these things as she sat and sewed. She was an exquisite needlewoman. The frieze of tapestry that ran round the low-ceilinged room was her own work. Alwynne had designed it--a history of the loves of Deirdre and Naismi some months before, when she and Clare had discovered Yeats together; and Clare had adapted the rough, clever sketches, working with her usual amazing speed. The foot-deep strips of needlework and painted silk, with their golden skies and dark foregrounds, along which the dim, rainbow figures moved, were just what Clare had wanted to complete her panelled room; for she was beauty-loving and house-proud, though her love of originality, or more correctly her tendency to be superior and aloof, often enticed her into bizarrerie. But the Deirdre frieze was as harmonious as it was unusual; and Clare, as she daily feasted her eyes on the rich, mellow colours, was only annoyed that the idea of it had been Alwynne's. That fact, though she would not own it, was able, though imperceptibly, to taint Clare's pleasure. She was quite unnecessarily scrupulous in mentioning Alwynne's share in the work to any one who admired it; but it piqued her to do so, none the less. If any one had told her that it piqued her she would have been extremely amused at the absurdity of the idea. She was at the time working out a medallion of her own design, and growing interested, she soon forgot all about Louise, sitting Turkish fashion at the big book-case. The light had long since faded and the enormous fire, gilding walls and furniture, rendered the candles' steady light almost superfluous. Candlelight was another predilection of Clare's--there was neither electricity nor gas in her tiny, perfect flat. The tick of the clock in the hall and the flutter of turning pages alone broke the silence. Outside, the snow fell steadily. Half-a-mile away Alwynne Durand, drumming on the window-pane, while her aunt dozed in her chair, thought incessantly of Clare, and was filled with restless longing to be with her. She tried to count the snowflakes till her brain reeled. She felt cold and dreary, but she would not rouse Elsbeth by making up the fire. She wished she had something new to read. She thought it the longest Christmas Day she had ever spent. The neat maid, bringing in the tea-tray, roused Clare. She pushed aside her work and began to pour out; but Louise in her corner, made no sign. Clare laughed. "Louise, wake up! Don't you want any tea?" Louise, as if the conversation had not ceased for an instant, scrambled to her feet and came to the table, a load of books in her arms, saying as she did so-- "I'll be awfully careful. May I take these, perhaps?" Clare nodded. "Presently. I'll look them over first. Muffins?" She gave Louise a delightful meal and taught her to take tea with a slice of lemon. She was particular, Louise noticed; some of the muffins were not toasted to her liking, and were instantly banished; she criticised the cakes and the flavouring of the dainty sandwiches; then she laughed wickedly at Louise for her round eyes. "What's the matter, child?" "Nothing," said Louise, embarrassed. "I believe you're shocked because I talked so much about food?" Louise blushed scarlet. "I like eating, Louise." "Yes--yes, of course," she concurred hastily. Clare was entertained. She knew quite well that Louise, like all children, considered a display of interest in food, if not indelicate, at least extremely human. She knew, too, that in Louise's eyes she was too entirely compounded of ideals and noble qualities to be more than officially human. She enjoyed upsetting her ideas. "If you come to actual values, I'd rather do without Shakespeare than Mrs. Beeton," she remarked blandly. "Oh, Miss Hartill!" Louise was protesting--suspecting a trap--ready to ripple into laughter. "You do say queer things." "I?" "Yes. As if you meant that!" "But I do! Eating's an art, Louise, like painting or writing. I had a pheasant last Sunday----" She gave the entire menu, and enlarged on the etceteras with enthusiasm. Louise looked bewildered. "I never thought you thought about that sort of thing," she remarked. "I thought you just didn't notice--I thought you would always be thinking of poetry and pictures----" She subsided, blushing. Clare laughed at her pleasantly. "I thought, I thought, I think, I thought! What a lot of thoughts. I'm sorry, Louise! Is all my star-dust gone?" Louise shook her head vigorously, but she was still embarrassed. She changed the subject with agility. "I've read that!" "What?" "The star-dust book--but I've picked out two others of his. May I? All these?" Clare ran her finger along the titles. "Yes--yes--Fiona Mcleod--yes--_Peer Gynt_--yes, if you like, you won't understand it, or Yeats--but all right. No, not Nietzsche! Not on any account, Louise." Louise protested. "Oh, why not, Miss Hartill? I'm nearly fourteen." "Are you really?" said Clare, with respect. "He looks so jolly--Old Testamenty----" "He does, Louise! That's his little way. But he's not for the Upper Fifth." "He's in the Free Library," said Louise, with a twinkle. Clare turned. "You can have all the books you want, if you come to me. But no more Free Library, Louise. You understand? I don't wish it." Louise tingled like a bather under a cold spray. She liked and disliked the autocratic tone. Clare went on. "I detest trash--and there's a good deal, even in a Carnegie collection. There's no need for you to dull your imagination on melodrama like--what was it?" "What, Miss Hartill?" "The play you began to tell me about--you thought it horrible, you said." Louise opened her eyes. "Miss Hartill, it wasn't melodrama--it was good stuff. That's why it worried me. It's by a Norwegian or a Dane or some one. _Pastor Sang_ it's called." "That? I don't follow. I should have thought the theology would have bored you, but there's nothing horrible in it." "It worried me. Oh, Miss Hartill, what does it all mean? Darwin says, we just grew--doesn't he? and that the Bible's all wrong. But you say that doesn't matter--it's just Old Testament? And this play says--do you remember? the wife is ill--and the husband, who cures people by praying--he can't cure her----" "Well?" said Clare impatiently. "And he says, if the apostles did miracles, we ought to be able to--he kills his wife, trying. He can't, you see. But the point is, if he couldn't, with all his faith--could the apostles? And if the apostles couldn't, could Christ Himself? The miracles are just only a tale, perhaps?" "Perhaps," said Clare. "You're not clear, Louise, but I know what you mean." "It frightened me, that play," said the child in a low voice. "If there were no miracles--and everything one reads makes one sure there weren't--why, then, the Bible's not true! Jesus was just a man! He didn't rise? Perhaps there isn't an afterwards? Perhaps there isn't God?" "Perhaps," said Clare. The child's eyes were wide and frightened. She put her hand timidly on Clare's knee. "Miss Hartill--you believe in God?" Clare looked at her, weighing her. Louise spoke again; her voice had grown curiously apprehensive. "Miss Hartill--you do believe in God?" Clare shrugged her shoulders. Louise stared at her appalled. "If _you_ don't believe in God----" she began slowly, and then stopped. They sat a long while in silence. Clare felt uncomfortable. She had not intended to express any opinion, to let her own attitude to religion appear. But Louise, with her sudden question, had forced one from her. After all, if Louise had begun to doubt and to inquire, no silence on Clare's part would stop her.... Every girl went through the phase--with Louise it had begun early, that was all.... Yet in her heart she knew that Louise, with her already overworked mind, should have been kept from the mental distress of religious doubt.... She knew that for some years she could have been so kept; that, as the mouth can eat what the body will not absorb, so, though her intelligence might have assimilated all the books she chose to read, her soul need not necessarily have been disturbed by them. Her acquired knowledge that the world is round need not have jostled her rule of thumb conviction that it is flat. Her interest in 'ologies and 'osophies could have lived comfortably enough, with her child's belief in four angels round her head, for another two or three years--strengthening, maturing years. Clare knew her power. At a soothing word from her, Louise would have shelved her speculations, or at least have continued them impersonally. Clare could have guaranteed God to her. But Clare had shrugged her shoulders, and Louise had grown white--and she had felt like a murderess. Do children really take their religion so seriously?... After all, what real difference could it make to Louise?... She, Clare, had been glad to be rid of her clogging and irrational beliefs.... Louise, too, when she recovered from the shock, would enjoy the sense of freedom and self-respect.... If Louise talked like a girl of eighteen she could not be expected to receive the careful handling you gave a child of twelve.... Anyhow, it was done now.... Suddenly and persuasively she began to talk to Louise. She touched gently on the history, the growth and inevitable decay of all religions--the contrasting immutability of the underlying code of ethics, upon which they, one and all, were founded. She told her vivid little stories of the religious struggles of the centuries, had her breathless over the death of Socrates, nailed up for her anew the ninety-five theses to the Wittenberg church door. Exerting all her powers, all her knowledge, all her descriptive and dramatic skill, to charm away one child's distress, Clare was, for an hour, a woman transformed, sound and honey-sweet. Against all that happened later, she could at least put the one hour, when, remorsefully, she had given Louise of the best that was in her. Incidentally, she delivered to her audience of one the most brilliant lecture of her career. Later she wrote down what she remembered of it, and it became the foundation for her monograph on religions that was to become a minor classic. Its success was immediate--that was typical of Clare--but she never wrote another line. That also was typical of Clare. It bored her to repeat a triumph. She soon had Louise happy again: it was not in Louise to stick to the high-road of her own thoughts, with Miss Hartill opening gates to fairyland at every sentence. Clare kept her for the rest of the evening, and took her home at last, weighed down by her parcel of books, sleepy from the effects of excitement and happiness. She poured out her incoherent thanks as they waited on the doorstep of her home. There had never been such a Christmas--she had never had such a glorious time--she couldn't thank Miss Hartill properly if she talked till next Christmas came. Clare, nodding and laughing, handed her over to the maid, and went home, not ill-pleased with her Christmas either. She thought of the child as she walked down the snowy, star-lighted streets, and wondered whimsically what she was doing at the moment. Would she say her prayers on her way to bed still, or had Clare's little, calculated shrug stopped that sort of thing for many a long day? She rather thought so. She shook off her uneasy sense of compunction and laughed aloud. The cold night air was like wine to her. After all, for an insignificant spinster, she had a fair share of power--real power--not the mere authority of kings and policemen. Her mind, not her office, ruled a hundred other minds, and in one heart, at least, a shrug of her shoulders had toppled God off His throne; and the vacant seat was hers, to fill or flout as she chose. CHAPTER XIII With the opening of the spring term began the final and most arduous preparations for the Easter examinations. The school had been endowed, some years before, under the will of a former pupil, with a scholarship, a valuable one, ensuring not only the freedom of the school, but substantial help in the subsequent college career, that the winning of it entailed. The rules were strict. The papers were set and corrected by persons chosen by the trustees of the bequest. The scholarship was open to the school, but no girl over seventeen might enter: and though an unsuccessful candidate might compete a second time, she must gain a percentage of marks in the first attempt. Total failure debarred her from making a second. This last rule limited in effect, the entries to members of the Sixths and Fifths, for the scholarship was too valuable for a chance of it to be risked through insufficient training. The standard, too, was high, and the rules so strictly enforced that withheld the grant if it were not attained, that Miss Marsham was accustomed to make special arrangements for those competing. They were called the "Scholarship Class," and had certain privileges and a great amount of extra work. To most of them the particular privilege that compensated for six months' drudgery was the fact that they were almost entirely under Miss Hartill's supervision. She considered their training her special task and spared neither time nor pains. She loved the business. She understood the art of rousing their excitement, pitting ambition against ambition. She worked them like slaves, weeding out remorselessly the useless members. Theoretically all had the right to enter; but none remained against Miss Hartill's wishes. In spite of the work, the members of the Scholarship Class had an envied position in the school. Clare saw to that. Without attackable bias, she differentiated subtly between them and the majority. Each of the group was given to understand, without words, impalpably, yet very definitely, that if Miss Hartill, the inexorable, could have a preference, one had but to look in the glass to find it; and that to outstrip the rest of the class, to be listed an easy first, would be the most exquisite justification that preference could have. And as the type of girl who succumbed the most surely to Clare's witchcraft was also usually of the type to whom intellectual work was in itself attractive, it was not surprising if her favourite class were a hot-bed of emulation and enthusiasm--enthusiasm that was justified of its origin, for not even Henrietta Vigers denied that Clare contributed her full share to the earning of the scholarship, Miss Marsham, towards the end of the spring, was wont to declare, with her usual kindly concern, that she was thankful that the examination was not an annual affair.... Their good Miss Hartill was too anxious, too conscientious.... Miss Marsham must really forbid her to make herself ill. And, indeed, when the class was a large one, Clare was as reckless of her own strength as of that of her pupils, and suffered more from its expenditure. Where they were responsible, each for herself, Clare toiled early and late for them all. She fed them, moreover, from her own resources of energy, was entirely willing to devitalise herself on their behalf. The strain once over, she appeared slack, gaunt, debilitated. She had, however, her own methods of recuperation. Her ends gained, she could take back what she had given--take back more than ever she had given. Moreover, the supply of child-life never slackened. Old scholars might go--but ever the new ones came. Was it not Clare who gave the school its latter-day reputation? By the end of the summer term Clare would be once more in excellent condition. When the promotion of Louise to the Upper School had first been mooted, Miss Hartill had not forgotten that the scholarship examination was once more drawing near. She saw no reason why Louise should not compete. That Louise, the whilom dullard of the Third, the youngest girl in the Upper School, should snatch the prize from the expectants of the Sixths and Fifths, would be an effective retort on Clare's critics, would redound very pleasantly to Clare's credit. If she let the opportunity pass, Louise must wait two years: at thirteen it would be a triumph for Louise and Clare; at fifteen there would be nothing notable in her success. And the baby herself would be delighted. Clare was already sufficiently taken with Louise to enjoy the anticipation of her delight. She was quite aware that it would entail special efforts on her own part, as well as on the child's, and that she had a large class already on her hands, and in need of coaching. But there was always Alwynne. Alwynne was so reliable; she could safely leave Louise's routine work in Alwynne's hands. It remained to consult Louise and incidentally the parent Dennys. Louise was awestruck, overwhelmed by the honour of being allowed to compete, absurdly and touchingly delighted. No doubt as to Louise's sentiments. No doubt as to the sincerity of her efforts. No doubt, until the spring term began, of the certainty of her success. The spring term opened with Clare in Miss Marsham's carved seat at morning prayers. The school had grown accustomed to its head-mistress's occasional absence. Miss Marsham, who had for some time felt the strain of school routine too much for her advanced years, was only able to sustain the fiction of her unimpaired powers by taking holidays, as a morphineuse takes her drug, in ever-increasing doses. She was confident in the discretion alike of Clare Hartill and Henrietta Vigers, and, indeed, but for their efficiency, the school would have suffered more quickly than it actually did. Nevertheless, the absence of supreme authority had, though but slightly, the usual disintegrating effect. There was always, naturally, an increase of friction between the two women, especially when the absence of the directress occurred at the beginning of a term. There would be the usual agitations--problems of housing and classification. There would arrive parents to be interviewed and impressed, new girls to be gracefully and graciously welcomed. Clare (to whom Henrietta, for all her hostility, invariably turned in emergencies), showing delicately yet unmistakably that she considered herself unwarrantably hampered in her own work, would submit to being on show with an air of bored acquiescence, tempered with modest surprise at the necessity for her presence. It was sufficiently irritating to Henrietta, under strict, if indirect, orders to leave the decorative side of the vice-regency to her rival. She was quite aware of Clare's greater effectiveness. She did not believe that it weighed with Miss Marsham against her own solid qualities. She affected to despise it. Yet despising, she envied. She was unjust to Clare, however, in believing the latter's reluctance entirely assumed. Clare enjoyed ruffling the susceptibilities of Henrietta, but she was none the less genuinely annoyed at being even partially withdrawn from her classes and was relieved when, at the end of a fortnight, Miss Marsham returned to her post. Clare had been forced to neglect her special work. Classes had been curtailed and interrupted, the many extra lessons postponed or turned over to Alwynne, whom more than any other mistress she had trained and could trust. It was Alwynne who, reporting to her at the end of the first fortnight, had made her more than ever eager to be rid of her deputyship. There were new girls in the Fifth in whom Alwynne was interested. One, at least, she prophesied, would be found to have stuff in her. It was a pity she was not in the Scholarship Class.... She was too good for the Lower Fifth.... Alwynne supposed it would be quite impossible to let her enter? "At this time of day? Impossible! Do you realise that we've only another three months?" "I don't suppose she'd want to, anyhow," said Alwynne. "She's a quaint person! Talk about independence! She informed me to-day that she shouldn't stay longer than half-term, unless she liked us." "Oho! Young America!" Clare was alert. "I didn't know you referred to Cynthia Griffiths. I interviewed the parents last week. Immensely rich! She was demure enough, but I gathered even then that she ruled the roost. Her mother was quite tearful--implored me to keep her happy for three months anyhow, while they both indulged in a rest cure abroad. She seemed doubtful of our capacities. But she was not explicit." "Cynthia is. I've heard the whole story while I tried to find out how much she knew. She's a new type. Her French and her German are perfect--and her clothes. Her bedroom is a pig-sty and she gets up when she chooses. I gather that she has reduced Miss Vigers to a nervous wreck already. Thank goodness I'm a visiting mistress! I wonder what the girls will make of her!" "Or she of them." "That won't be the question," surmised Alwynne shrewdly. "Clare, she has five schools behind her, American and foreign--and she's fifteen! We are an incident. I know. There were two Americans at my school." "It remains to be seen." Clare's eyes narrowed. "Well, what else?" Alwynne fidgeted. "I'm glad you're taking over everything again. I prefer my small kids." "Why?" "Easier to understand--and manage." Clare looked amused. "Been getting into difficulties? Who's the problem? Agatha?" "That wind-bag! She only needs pricking to collapse," said Alwynne contemptuously. Then, with a frown: "I wish poor little Mademoiselle Charette would realise it. Have you ever seen a Lower Fifth French lesson? But, of course, you haven't. It's a farce." Clare frowned. "If she can't keep order----" "She can teach anyhow," said Alwynne quickly. "I was at the other end of the room once, working. I listened a little. It's only Agatha. Mademoiselle can tackle the others. She's effective in a delicate way; but senseless, noisy rotting--it breaks her up. She loses her temper. Of course, it's funny to watch. But I hate that sort of thing. I did when I was a schoolgirl even, didn't you?" "I don't remember." But in the back of Clare's mind was a class-room and herself, contemptuously impertinent to a certain ineffective Miss Loveday. Alwynne continued, frowning-- "Anyhow, I wish you'd do something." Clare yawned. "One mustn't interfere with other departments--unasked." "Well, I ask you." Alwynne was in earnest. "Why?" "I want you to." "Why?" Alwynne blushed. "Why this championship? I didn't know you and Mademoiselle Charette were such intimates?" "It's just because we aren't. I like her, but----" "But what?" "Well--we had a row. You see--You won't tell, Clare?" Clare smiled. "She doesn't like you," blurted out Alwynne indignantly. "And I just want to show her how altogether wrong----" "What a crime! How did you find it out?" Clare was amused. "She was telling me about Agatha. And I said--why on earth didn't she complain to you? And she said--nothing on earth would induce her to. I said--I was sure you would be only too glad for her to ask you. And she said----" Alwynne paused dramatically: "She said--she hadn't the faintest doubt you would, and that I was a charming child, but that she happened to understand you. Then we had a row of course." Clare pealed with laughter. "She's quite right, Alwynne. You are a charming child. So that is Mademoiselle Charette, is it? And I never guessed." She mused, a curious little smile on her lips. "She's a dear, really," said Alwynne apologetically. "Only she's what Mrs. Marpler calls ''aughty.' I can't think why her knife's into you." "Suppose----" Clare's eyes lit up, she showed the tip of her tongue--sure sign of mischief afloat. "Suppose I pull it out? What do you bet me, Alwynne?" Alwynne laughed. "I wish you would. I don't like it when people don't appreciate you. Anyhow, I wish you'd settle Agatha. You know, it's not doing the scholarship French any good. The class slacks. Mademoiselle is worried, I know." Clare was serious at once. "That must stop. The standard's too high for trifling. And one or two of them are weak as it is. Especially Louise. Isn't she? Don't you coach her for the grammar? How is her extra work getting on, by the way? Like a house on fire, I suppose?" "Not altogether." Alwynne looked uneasy. "What?" Clare looked incredulous. "She's the problem," said Alwynne. She had a piece of paper on the table before her and was drawing fantastic profiles as she spoke, sure sign of perturbation with Alwynne, as Clare knew. "Well?" demanded Clare, after an interval. Alwynne paused, pencil hovering over an empty eyesocket. She seemed nervous, opened her lips once or twice and closed them again. "What's wrong?" Clare prompted her. "Nothing's wrong exactly." Alwynne flushed uncomfortably. "After all, you've seen her in class. Her work is as good as usual?" "I think so. Her last essay was a little exotic, by the bye, not quite as natural--but you corrected them. I was so busy." "You don't think she's getting too keen, working too hard?" Alwynne's tone was tentative. "Do you think so?" Clare was thoroughly interested. She was tickled at Alwynne's anxious tones. She always enjoyed her occasional bursts of responsibility. But she was nevertheless intrigued by Alwynne's hints. She had certainly not given her class its usual attention lately. To Louise she had scarcely spoken unofficially since term began; no opportunity had occurred, and she had been too busy to make one. Louise had returned a bundle of books to her on the opening day of the term, and had been bidden to fetch herself as many more as she chose. But Clare had been out when Louise had called. Clare, to tell the truth, had not once given a thought to Louise since Christmas Day. She had taken a trip to London with Alwynne soon after. The two had enjoyed themselves. The holidays had flown. But she had been glad to find her class radiantly awaiting her. She had found it much as usual. Alwynne's perturbation was the more intriguing. "Do you think so?" she repeated, with a lift of her eyebrows that reduced Alwynne's status to that of a Kindergarten pupil teacher. She enjoyed seeing her grow pink. "Of course, it's no affair of mine," said Alwynne aggrievedly. She went on with her drawing. Clare swung herself on to the low table and sat, skirts a-sway, gazing down at Alwynne's head, bent over its grotesques. There was a curl at the nape of the neck that fascinated her. It lay fine and shining like a baby's. She picked up a pencil and ran it through the tendril. Alwynne jumped. "Clare, leave me alone. You only think I'm impertinent." "Does she want a finger in the pie, then?" said Clare softly. "Poor old Alwynne!" The pencil continued its investigations. Alwynne tried not to laugh. She could never resist Clare's soft voice, as Clare very well knew. "I don't! I only thought----" "That Louise--your precious Louise----" "She's trying so awfully hard----" "Yes?" "She's overdoing it. The work's not so good. She's too keen, I think----" "Yes?" "I think----" "Yes, Alwynne?" "You won't be annoyed?" "That depends." "Then I can't tell you." "I think you can," said Clare levelly. Alwynne was silent. Clare took the paper from her and examined it. "You've a fantastic imagination, Alwynne. When did you dream those faces? Well--and what do you think? Be quick." "I think she's growing too fond of you," said Alwynne desperately. She faced Clare, red and apprehensive. She expected an outburst. But Clare never did what Alwynne expected her to do. "Is that all? Pooh!" said Clare lightly and began to laugh. She swung backwards, her finger-tips crooked round the edge of the table, her neat shoes peeping and disappearing beneath her skirts as she rocked herself. She regarded Alwynne with sly amusement. "So I've a bad influence, Alwynne? Is that the idea?" Alwynne protested redly. Clare continued unheeding. "Well, it's a novel one, anyhow. Could you indicate exactly how my blighting effect is produced? Don't mind me, you know." Then, with a chuckle: "Oh, you delicious child!" Alwynne was silent. "Tell me all about it, Alwynne dear!" cooed Clare. Alwynne shrugged her shoulders with a curiously helpless gesture. "I can't," she said. "I thought I could--but I can't. You don't help me. I was worried over Louise. I thought--I think she alters. I think she gets a strained look. I know she thinks about you all the time. I thought--but, of course, if you see nothing, it's my fancy. There's nothing definite, I know. If you don't know what I mean----" "I don't!" said Clare shortly. "Do you know yourself?" "No!" said Alwynne. She searched Clare's face wistfully. "I just thought perhaps--she was too fond of you--I can't put it differently. I'm a fool! I wish I hadn't said anything." "So do I," said Clare gravely. "I didn't mean to interfere: it wasn't impertinence, Clare," said Alwynne, her cheeks flaming. Clare hesitated. She was annoyed at Alwynne's unnecessary display of insight, yet tickled by her penetration, not displeased by the jealousy which, as it seemed to her, must be at the root of the protest. Alwynne had evidently not forgotten her chilly Christmas afternoon.... Louise, as obviously, had talked.... There must have been some small degree of friction for Alwynne to complain of Louise.... Curiously, it never occurred to Clare that Alwynne's remarks hid no motive, that Alwynne was genuinely anxious and meant exactly what she had said, or tried to say. Possibly in Alwynne's simplicity lay her real attraction for Clare. It made her as much of a sphinx to Clare as Clare was to her. As she stood before her, apprehensive of her displeasure, obviously afraid that she had exceeded those bounds to their intercourse that she, more than Clare, had laid down, yet withal, a curiously dogged look upon her face, Clare was puzzled as to her own wisest attitude. She was inclined to batter her into a retraction; it would have relieved her own feelings. Clare could not endure criticism. But she was not yet so sure of Alwynne as to allow herself the relief of invective. She thought that she might easily reserve her annoyance for Louise. It was Louise, after all, who had exposed her to criticism.... And if Alwynne chose to be jealous, it was at least a flattering display.... She supposed she must placate Alwynne.... After all, fifty Louises and her own dignity could not weigh against the possession of Alwynne.... She spoke slowly, choosing her words, "As if I could think you impertinent! But, my dear--I'm older than you. Can't you trust me to understand my girls? After all, I devote my life to them, Alwynne." Clare's quiet dignity was in itself a reproof. "I know." Alwynne lifted distressed eyes. "I didn't mean--I didn't imply--of course, you know best. I only thought----" "That I took more notice of Louise than was wise?" "No, no!" protested Alwynne unhappily. Clare continued-- "If you think I'm to blame for encouraging a lonely child--she has no mother, Alwynne--lending her a few books--asking her to tea with me--because I felt rather sorry for her----" "I didn't mean that----" Alwynne twisted her fingers helplessly. "Then what did you mean?" Clare asked her. She had slipped on to the floor, and was facing Alwynne, very tall and grave and quiet. "Won't you tell me just exactly what you did mean?" she allowed a glimmer of displeasure to appear in her eyes. And Alwynne, tongue-tied and cornered, had nothing whatever to say. She had been filled with vague uneasiness and had come to Clare to have it dispelled. The uneasiness was still there, formless yet insistent--but the only effect of her clumsy phrases was to hurt Clare's feelings. After all, was she not worrying herself unduly? Was she to know better than Clare? She had felt for some moments that she had made a fool of herself. There remained to capitulate. Her anxiety over Louise melted before the pain in Clare's eyes--the reproof of her manner. "Would you like me to speak to Louise, before you?" went on Clare patiently. "Perhaps she could explain what it is that worries you----" "No, no! for goodness' sake, Clare!" cried Alwynne, appalled. Then surrendering, "Clare--I didn't mean anything. I do see--I've been fussing--impertinent--whatever you like. I didn't mean any harm. Oh, let's stop talking about it, please." "I'd rather you convinced yourself first," said Clare frigidly. "I don't want the subject re-opened once a week." Then relenting, "Poor old Alwynne! The trials of a deputy! Has she worried herself to death? But I'm back now. I think I can manage my class, Alwynne--as long as you stand by to give me a word of advice now and then." Alwynne squirmed. Clare laughed tenderly. "My dear--give Louise a little less attention. It won't hurt either of you. Are you going to let me feel neglected?" Then, with a change of tone. "Now we've had enough of this nonsense." She curled herself in her big chair. "Alwynne, there's a box of Fuller's in the cupboard, and an English Review. Don't you want to hear the new Masefield before you go home?" And Alwynne's eyes grew big, and she forgot all about Louise, as Clare's "loveliest voice" read out the rhyme of _The River_. Yet Clare had a last word as she sent her home to Elsbeth. "Sorry?" said Clare whimsically, as Alwynne bade her good-bye. "I always was a fool," said Alwynne, and hugged her defiantly. But Clare, for once, made no protest. She patted her ruffled hair as she listened to the noises of the departure. "Too fond of me?" she said softly. "Too fond of me? Alwynne--what about you?" But if Alwynne heard, she made no answer. CHAPTER XIV Miss Marsham was accustomed to recognise that it was the brief career of Cynthia Griffiths that first induced her to consider the question of her own retirement. It is certain that the school was never again quite as it had been before her advent. The Cynthia Griffiths term remained a school date from which to reckon as the nation reckons from the Jubilee. In an American school Cynthia Griffiths must have been at least a disturbing element--in the staid English establishment, with its curious mixture of modern pedagogy and Early Victorian training, she was seismic. With their usual adaptability, the new girls, as they accustomed themselves subduedly to the strange atmosphere, had found nothing to cavil at in the school arrangements. They had not thought it incongruous to come from Swedish exercises to prolonged and personal daily prayers, kneeling for ten minutes at a time while their head mistress wrestled with Deity. It might have bored girls of sixteen and eighteen to learn their daily Bible verse, and recite it alternately with the Kindergarten and Lower School, but it never occurred to them to protest, any more than they were likely to object to the little note-book which each girl carried, with its printed list of twenty-five possible crimes, and the dangling pencil wherewith, at tea-time, to mark herself innocent or guilty. The hundred and one rules that Edith Marsham had found useful in the youth of her seminary, forty years before, and that time had rendered obsolete, irritating, or merely unintelligible, were nevertheless endured with entire good nature by her successions of pupils. Alwynne and her contemporaries might fume in private and Clare shrug her shoulders in languid tolerance, but nobody thought it worth while to question directly the entire sufficiency of a bygone system to the needs of the new century's hockey-playing generations. But a little leaven leaveneth the whole lump. What, if you please, is an old lady to do? An old lady, declining on her pleasant seventies, owning sixty, not a day more, traditionally awe-inspiring and unapproachable, whose security lies in the legends that have grown up of the terrors of her eye and tongue, when Young America clamours at her intimidating door? Young America, calm-eyed, courteous, coaxing, squatting confidentially at the feet of Authority, demanding counsel and comfort. Useless for harried Authority to suggest consultation with equally harried assistants. Young America, with a charming smile and the prettiest of gestures, would rather talk it over quietly with Authority's self. Authority, who is the very twin of her dear old Grannie at home, will be sure to understand. Such fusses about nothing all day and every day! Can it be that Authority expects her to keep her old bureau tidy, when she's had a maid all her life? Young America will be married as soon as she quits Europe (follows a confidential sketch of the more promising of Young America's best boys), and have her own maid right on. Can Authority, as a matter of cold common-sense, see any use in bothering over cupboards for just three months or so? If so--right! Young America will worry along somehow, but it seemed kind of foolish, didn't it? Or could Young America hire a girl--like she did in Paris? Anyway it was rough luck on the lady in the glasses to get an apoplexy every day, as Authority might take it was the case at present. Another point--could Authority, surveying matters impartially, see any harm in running down town when she was out of candy? It only meant missing ten minutes French, and if there was one thing Young America (lapsing suddenly, with bedazing fluency, into that language) was sure of, it was French. These English-French classes meant well--but, her God! how they were slow! There had been--Young America confessed it with candid regret--some difficulties with the cute little mark-books. Young America had mislaid three in a fortnight. She just put them down, and they lay around awhile, and then they weren't there. Some of the ladies had been real annoyed. And once on the subject of mark-books, did Authority really mean that she was to chalk it up each time she was late for breakfast, or said "Darn it," or talked in class? Would, in her place, Authority be able to keep tally? Couldn't Young America just mark off the whole concern and be done with it? Young America apologised for worrying Authority with these quaint matters--but, on her honour, every lady in the school seemed to have gone plum crazy about them.... They just sat around and yapped at her. Young America was genuinely scared. She had thought a heart-to-heart chat with Authority ought to put things right. She would be real grateful to Authority for fixing things.... And so, with the odd curtsey she had learned among "the Dutchies," as she called her German pensionat, and a hearty kiss on either cheek, Young America, affable as ever, beamed upon Authority and withdrew. Authority felt as if it had been out in a high wind. Instinctively it clutched at its imposing head-dress. All was in place. Authority lay back in its chair and gasped fishily. But Miss Vigers, frenzied into confession of inability to deal with the situation--got scant sympathy. "What am I to do? I hate troubling you--I am sure, though, it's a relief to us all to have you back. Of course, if you had been at home she would never have been admitted.... You would have realised the unsuitability--but it was not my decision.... Miss Hartill.... But what am I to do? I flatter myself I can control our English girls--but these Americans! Open defiance, Miss Marsham! Her room! She refuses to attend to it. She comes and goes when she chooses. She treats me, positively, as an equal. Her influence is unspeakable! It must be stopped! Ten minutes late for breakfast--oh, every day! Once, I could excuse. And on the top of it all to offer me chocolates! I must ask you to punish her severely.... Keep her in? Miss Marsham, I did.... I sent her to her room. Miss Marsham, will you believe me? When I went up to her later, she was fast asleep! On the bed! In the daytime!! Without taking off the counterpane!!! Miss Marsham, I leave the matter to you!" She paused for the comments her tale deserved. But to outraged Authority, it had called up a picture--an impudent picture of Young America, curled kitten-fashion on its austere white pallet--pink cheek on rounded arm, guileless eyes opening sleepily under a sour and scandalised gaze. Henrietta started. She could not believe her ears. Benevolently--unmistakably--Authority had chuckled. But the scandal was short-lived. Before the term was over: before Henrietta had braced herself to her usual resource, a threat of resignation, or Miss Marsham, hesitating between the devil of her protesting subordinates and the deep sea of Young America's unshakable conviction that in her directress she had an enthusiastic partisan, could allow her maid to suggest to her that she needed a change, the end had arrived. Cynthia, as Alwynne had surmised, found ten weeks of an English private school more than enough for her; and an imperious telegram had summoned her docile parents. She departed as she had come, in a joyous flurry. The school mourned, and the Common-room, in its relief, sped the parting guest with a cordiality that was almost effusive. A remark of Henrietta's, as the mistress sat over their coffee on the afternoon of Cynthia's departure, voiced the attitude of the majority to its late pupil. "I'm thankful," Miss Vigers was unusually talkative, "deeply thankful that she's gone. An impossible young woman. Oh, no--you couldn't call her a girl. Would any girl--any English girl--conceivably behave as she has? They have begun to imitate her, of course. That was to be expected. She demoralised the school. It will take me a month to get things straight. I have three children in bed to-day. Headaches? Fiddlesticks! Over-eating! I suppose you heard that there was a midnight feast last night?" The Common-room opened its eyes. "I'm not astonished. A farewell gathering, I suppose! I'm sure it's not the first," said Clare, her eyes alight with amusement. "But go on. How did you find it out?" "Miss Marsham informed me of it," said Henrietta, with desperate calmness. "It appears that Cynthia asked her permission. Miss Marsham--er--contributed a cake. Seed!" Clare gurgled. "This is priceless. Did she tell you? I wonder she had the face." Henrietta grew pink. "No. Cynthia herself. She--er--offered me a slice. She had the impertinence--the entirely American impertinence--to come to my room--after midnight--to borrow a tooth-glass. To eat ices in. It appeared that they were short of receptacles." "Ices?" came the chorus. "Her mother provided them, I believe. In a pail," said Henrietta stiffly. "Did you lend the tooth-glass?" asked Clare. Henrietta coughed. "It was difficult to refuse. She had bare feet. I did not wish her to catch cold." Clare turned away abruptly. Her shoulders shook. "I do not wish to be unjust. I do not think she was intentionally insubordinate." Henrietta fingered one of the tall pink roses that had appeared on her desk that morning. "I believe she meant well." "She was a dear!" said the little gym mistress. "She was an impossible young woman," retorted Henrietta with spirit. "At the same time----" "At the same time?" Clare spoke with unusual friendliness. "She certainly had a way with her," said Henrietta. CHAPTER XV Cynthia Griffiths had set a fashion. Her kewpie hair-ribbons and abbreviated blouses were an unofficial uniform long after she had ceased, probably, to know that such articles of dress existed. Her slang phrases incorporated themselves in the school vocabulary. Her deeds of derring-do were imitated from afar. To have been on intimate terms with her would have been an impressive distinction, had not every member of the school been able to lay claim to it. For Cynthia's jolly temperament laughed at schoolgirl etiquette, could never be brought to realise the existence of caste and clique. She darted into their lives and out again, like a dragon-fly through a cloud of gnats. It was not strange that her beauty, her prodigality, in conjunction with the all-excusing fact of her nationality, should have attracted the weather-cock enthusiasm of her companions: should have made her, short as her career had been, the rage. Yet the one person on whom that career was to have a lasting influence was, to all appearance, the least affected by it. Cynthia and Louise Denny were class-mates, for Clare, amused and interested by the new type, had, after all, arranged for Cynthia to join the Scholarship Class, though there could be no idea of her entering. She agreed with Alwynne that there was not much likelihood of Cynthia's sojourn being a long one. In the meantime, as she had explained to Miss Marsham, it was better to have the fire-brand under her own eye. Miss Marsham agreed with alacrity, and contrasted Clare's calmly capable manner with the protests of Henrietta. She realised joyfully that Cynthia would not be permitted to appeal from any decision of Miss Hartill. She recalled, not for the first time, that in all Clare's years there had never come a crisis for which she had been found unprepared. Details of a campaign might finally reach the ears of Authority--there would be always birds of the air to carry the matter--but from Miss Hartill herself, no word; if pressed, there would be a brief summary, a laughing comment, never an appeal for help. Miss Marsham had built up her school by sheer force of personality. She was old now, grown slack and easy, but instinctively she recognised a ruling spirit, a kindred mind. One day she must choose her successor.... She was rich. Her school need not fall to the highest bidder.... There were Henrietta and Clare. Henrietta had scraped and saved, she knew.... Henrietta was fond of trying on Authority's shoes.... Of Clare's wishes she was less sure.... But Clare was a capable girl--a capable girl.... Clare had never let any one worry her.... She read Clare correctly. Clare had no intention of allowing Cynthia Griffiths to lessen her prestige. But she had her own method of solving the American problem. She treated her new pupil with the easy good humour, the mocking friendliness of an equal. She realised the impossibility of counteracting the effects of a haphazard education, but recognising equally the inherent kindliness and lawlessness of the character, played on both qualities in her management of the girl. Her classes were not demoralised, but stimulated, by the new-comer's presence: yet Clare had said nothing to Cynthia of rules and regulations. But Miss Hartill's manner had certainly implied that while to her, too, they were a folly and a weariness, after all it was easy to conform. It saved trouble and pleased people. All conveyed without prejudice to the morals of her other pupils in a shrug, and a twinkle, and a half-finished phrase. Cynthia was charmed. Here was common-sense. For the first time she felt herself at home. She appalled the classes by her loud encomiums, her delighted discovery of qualities that it was blasphemy to connect with Miss Hartill. For Cynthia, with the pitiful shrewdness that her cosmopolitan years had instilled, admired Clare for reasons that bewildered the worshippers. To them Clare moved through the school, apart, Olympian, a goddess, condescending delightfully. To Cynthia, accustomed to intrigue, she was obviously and admirably Macchiavellian. It amazed her that the English girls could not perceive Miss Hartill's cleverness, that they should adore her for qualities as foreign to her character as they were essentially insipid, and be indignant at understanding and discriminating praise. But Cynthia was above all philosophical. She shrugged her shoulders over the crazy crew, and reserved her comments for--Louise. For in Louise, incredible as Alwynne Durand, for instance, would have thought it, she did find a listener--an antagonist, easily pricked into amusing indignation, into white-hot denials--nevertheless, a listener. Indeed, it was the attitude of Cynthia to Clare Hartill rather than her personal attraction that was responsible for Louise's departure from her original and sincere attitude of indifference to the advances of the popular American. Louise was less in the foreground than she had been in the previous term. She had come back to school, less talkative, less brilliant, but working with a dogged persistence that had on Alwynne, at least, a depressing effect. But Alwynne, also, was seeing less of the girl. Cynthia Griffiths obstructed her view--Cynthia, taking one of her vociferous likings to a sufficiently unresponsive Louise. For the _rapprochement_ was scarcely a normal, schoolgirl intimacy. Cynthia Griffiths had been intrigued by Louise's personality. She had been quick to grasp the importance of the child's position--to guess her there by reason of her brains and temperament. Yet to Cynthia, judging life, as she did, chiefly by exterior appearances, Louise, insignificant, timid, shadowy, was an incessant denial of her nevertheless recognisable influence in school politics. In the language of Cynthia, she was a dark horse. Cynthia was charmed--school life was dull--the mildest of mysteries was better than none. She would devote herself to deciphering a new type. This little English kid had undoubted influence with girl and mistress alike. Cynthia had intercepted glances between her and Miss Hartill, and Miss Durand too, that spoke of mutual understanding. Perhaps it was money--half the school in her pay? Or secret influences of the most sinister? Hypnotism, maybe? Cynthia Griffiths, fed on dime novels and magazine literature, was not ten minutes concocting the hopefullest of mare's nests. She approached Louise between excitement and suspicion. Cynthia was not scrupulous. She forced her way through the reserves and defences of the younger girl like a bumble-bee clawing and screwing and buzzing into the heart of a half-shut flower. She found much to puzzle her, more to amuse, but nothing to justify her gorgeous suspicions. She confessed them one day to Louise, in a burst of confidence, and Louise was hugely delighted. Cynthia always delighted her. She liked her jolly ways, and her sense of fun, and was quite convinced that she had no sense of humour at all. The conviction saved her some suffering. She was jealous, inevitably jealous, of the brilliant new-comer, painfully alive to, exaggerating and writhing at Clare's preoccupation with her; yet the warped shrewdness proper to her state of mind, she could calculate with painful accuracy how long it would take Clare to tire of her new toy, what qualities would soonest induce satiety. She guessed, hoped, prayed, that Miss Hartill would discover, as she had done, Cynthia's lack of conscious humour, the obtuseness that underlay her boisterous ease. She was not fine enough to hold Miss Hartill long: she would grow too fond of Miss Hartill: would, in the terrible craving to render up her whole soul, expose herself in all her crudity. Louise did, for a while, soothe the jealousy, the tearing, clawing beast in her breast, with that comfortable conviction. That her reasoning was subconscious, that she was unaware of the process of analysation and deduction that led to her conclusions, is immaterial; she felt--and as she felt, she acted; her reasons for her actions were sounder than she dreamed. She made mistakes often enough: her profound occupation with Clare Hartill had induced a spiritual myopia; the rest of the world was out of focus; and it was her initial misunderstanding of Cynthia Griffiths that led to their curious, unaffectionate alliance. In all Louise's ponderings, she had never doubted but that Cynthia would, like the rest of the world, fall down and worship at the shrine of Clare Hartill. Cynthia Griffiths, amused spectator of an alien life, did nothing of the kind. And Louise--amazed, fiercely incredulous, all-suspicious, yet finally convinced of the inconceivable fact--it had a curious effect. She should have been indignant, contemptuous of the obtuse creature--as, indeed, in a sense, she was--but chiefly she was conscious of a lifted weight--of an enormous and hysterical gratitude. Cynthia was a fool--a purblind philistine. But what relief was in her folly, what immense security! Jealousy could not die out in Louise, but it entered on a new phase--became passive, enduring resignedly inevitable pain. But its vigilance, its fierce pugnacity was dead; for Cynthia--dear fool--did not care. Pearls had been cast before Americans. Louise was ready enough to be gracious to such exquisite insensibility. She became friendly. She had guarded her secret jealousy from the world. She was "keen" on Miss Hartill, certainly, but so was half the school, at least. She was merely in the fashion. Insignificant and circumspect, giving no confidences, no one but Clare herself, and Alwynne Durand, guessed at the intensity of her affection. But with Cynthia Griffiths she was reckless. Ostrich-like, she trusted to the protection of her formal disclaimer, while with each new discussion, each half-confidence, she exposed herself and her feelings more completely. And Cynthia, dropping her theories, began to be interested in the strange, vehement imp, with its alternating fits of frankness and reticence, wit and childishness, its big brain and its inexplicable yet obvious unhappiness. She affected Louise, was accustomed to pet and parade her, long before she had solved the problem of her character; indeed, it was not until she had confided to the child her plans for an early departure, that Louise relaxed her self-protective vigilance. She had begun, in her walks with Cynthia, to realise the relief and healing of self-expression. If Cynthia were going away to Paris, America, never to be seen again, what harm in talking--in saying for once what she felt? There was wry pleasure in it, and, oh, what harm? Louise found an odd satisfaction in leading Cynthia--on her side, if you please, alert for evidence, the amateur detective still--to sit in judgment on Clare Hartill; would sit, horrified, thrilled, drinking in blasphemy. She would have allowed no other human being to impeach the smallest detail of Clare Hartill's conduct, but from Cynthia, though she raged hotly, she did allow, and in some queer fashion, enjoy it. She had, perhaps, a vague assurance that Cynthia, being a foreigner, could not be taken seriously. So the pair discussed Clare Hartill from all possible angles till Louise occasionally forgot to keep up her elaborate pretence of indifference, to insist on its being understood that the discussion was rhadamanthine in its impersonality. "Yes, I'm off soon," Cynthia had confided. They were sitting together in her cubicle. "All this is slow--slow. Ne' mind! Wait till this child gets going!" She stretched herself lazily, and flung back on her little white bed, arms behind her. Louise studied her magnificent torso. "Why did you come?" she demanded. Cynthia laughed. "Italy--France--Deutschland--I'd done everywhere but England. Now comes a tour round the world--and so home. I'm Californian, you know. I'll have great times then. You don't live, over here. You're afraid of your own shadows. Now an American girl----" "How do you mean?" "Aren't you? Always afraid of breaking rules? Haven't I asked you--haven't I begged you to come out with me one day? Oh, Louise, it would be great! I saw a taxi-man yesterday, outside church, with the duckiest eyes! Lunch somewhere, and 'phone through for the new show at Daly's. An American show! Dandy! Only taken you four years to transfer here! Let's go, Louise? We'd be back to supper." Louise twinkled. "Rot! We'd be expelled." Cynthia opened her china-blue eyes. "For a little thing like that? Why? We wouldn't miss a class. Besides, we'd say you asked me home to tea." Louise looked distressed. Their ideas of veracity had clashed before. Cynthia, watching mischievously, giggled. "Poor kid! Doesn't it want to tell lies, then?" "You see--English people don't! Of course, I know it's different abroad," said Louise delicately. "Haven't you ever, Louise?" Louise flushed crimson. "You have?" Cynthia was amused. "What was it, Louise? Oh, what was it? Tell! Oh, you needn't mind me--my average is--well, quite average. What was it?" Louise's lips closed. "I call you the limit, you know! 'English people don't!' With a red-hot tarradiddle on your little white conscience all the time. You're a good pupil, Louise." Louise, blushing, turned suspiciously. "What are you at now!" she demanded. "I was thinking of Clarissa." Cynthia smiled with intention. "Clarissa who?" "Clare, kid! Clare! Sweet Clare! Sugar-sweet Clare! Our dear Dame Double!" "I wish you wouldn't talk like that," said Louise, in her lowest voice. "You know I hate it." "All right, honey!" Cynthia rolled lazily on to her side and pulled a box of chocolates from the shelf beside her. The room was quiet for a while. "Cynthia?" "Um?" "What did you mean just now?" "Have a candy?" "No, thanks!" Cynthia munched on. "About Miss Hartill?" Louise's tone was half defiant, half guilty. She felt disloyal in re-opening the subject. Yet Cynthia's hints rankled. "I don't know. Nothing, I guess." "Oh, but you did mean something," said Louise uneasily. "Maybe." "Tell me." "Want to know?" "Yes." "Badly?" "It's not true, of course! But I'd like to know." Cynthia's eyes danced. She could be grave enough otherwise, but her eyes and her dimples could never be kept in order. "Tell about the tarradiddle first, and I will." But to Louise a lie was a lie and no joking matter. She fidgeted. "If you must know----" "I must." "Well--you know how Miss Hartill hates birthdays?" "Why?" "At least, school ones. You know, there's such a fuss at Miss Marsham's--a holiday, presents, and all that. So Miss Hartill won't let hers be known." "'Splendid Isolation' stunt." "If you're going to be a hatefully unjust pig, I won't tell you." "I apologise. Have a candy?" "Well, you know, Agatha found out that Miss Hartill was giving a party last week, and, of course, every one thought it was for hers. But it turned out it was Daffy's birthday: Miss Hartill gave it for her. It was Agatha's fault. She was so dead certain about it." "But what did it matter?" "Well, you see, I'd got some roses----" "Pale pink and yellow? Beauties?" "Yes." "Oho! So that's where they came from. I did Dame Double an injustice. I thought it was a best boy." Cynthia gurgled. "You saw them?" "I went to tea with her--it must have been that day--the eighth?" Louise nodded. "A party! Agatha is a coon. There was only Daffy there! I wonder she didn't ask you." Louise said nothing. Her face was expressionless. "Mean old thing!" Cynthia grew indignant as the situation dawned on her. "She can't ask every one. There was no reason whatever to ask me." But Louise's voice had a suspicious quiver in it, which Cynthia, with unusual tact, ignored. "Well--about the roses? They were beauties, kid!" "Oh, I brought 'em round, going to school. I thought she'd started, but she hadn't. She opened the door. So there I was, stuck." Louise began to laugh. "I'd meant to leave them, just without any name." "I see." Cynthia twinkled. "She was rather--rather breakfasty, you know--and I got flustered and forgot to wish her 'many happy.' Wasn't it lucky? I was thankful afterwards. I only said they were out of the greenhouse and I thought she'd like them. She did, too." Louise smiled to herself. "Well?" "That's all." "But where did the lie come in?" "Oh! Oh--well--I'd bought them, you see. As if Mamma would let me pick flowers. Besides, we haven't even got a greenhouse. But I had five shillings at Christmas, and sixpence in the pudding--and sixpence a week pocket-money--and I never have anything to buy. I could well afford it," said Louise, with dignity. "That's not a lie," said Cynthia, disappointed. "It's barely an--an evasion." "I didn't mean to--evade. I was only afraid she'd be cross, and yet I couldn't resist getting them. Do you know the feeling, when you ache to give people things? But it was a lie, of course." "Oh, well! You needn't mind. She tells plenty herself--acts them, at least----" Louise caught her up. "There! That's it! That's one of the things! You're always hinting things! Why do you? I won't have it! Of course, I know you're only in fun, but if anybody hears you----" "I'm not! Oh, but it's no use talking! You think she's a god almighty. What's the use of my telling you that she's a conceited----" "She's not!" "Oh, she's a right to be. She'd be a peach if I had the dressing of her----" "She doesn't like American fashions. We don't want her to. We like her as she is." "And she knows it--you bet your bottom dollar! There's not much she doesn't know. Why, she simply lives for effect! She's the most gorgeous hypocrite----" "You're a beastly one yourself--you pretend you like her----" "But I do! I admire her heaps! But I understand her. You don't. She likes to be top dog. She'll do anything for that. She likes to know every woman and child in the school is a bit of putty, to knead into shape. I know! I've met her sort before--only generally it was men they were after. And yet it bores her too----" parenthesised Cynthia shrewdly. "That's why she likes me. I don't care two pins for her tricks. That stings her up a bit. She'll be mighty bored when I go." Louise listened, angry, yet fascinated. It gave her a curious pleasure to hear Miss Hartill belied. She would hug herself for her own superior discernment. A phrase from a half-digested story often recurred to her: "One doesn't defend one's god! One's god is a defence in himself." But Cynthia was going too far--abandoning innuendo for direct assault. She struck back. "It's easy to say things. Just saying so doesn't make it so. And if it did, I shouldn't believe it." "Oh! I can prove it." Cynthia laughed. "Have you noticed the Charette comedy?" "Mademoiselle? Oh, she hates Miss Hartill. But she's French, of course." "Does she just? H'm----!" "Well, there was a French girl--she left last term--she told Marion that Mademoiselle had said things to her about Miss Hartill. Agatha told me. Agatha loathes Mademoiselle. Of course, Mademoiselle is rather down on her." "I don't wonder. You know how Agatha hazes her in class." "I can't stand Agatha." Louise shook herself. "Last French Grammar it was awful--silly, you know, not funny. One simply couldn't work. Mademoiselle kept her in. I suppose Agatha didn't like that. She's been a lamb since, anyway. About time too!" "Shucks! It wasn't being kept in. It was Clarissa. Oh, my dear, it was fun! There was poor little Mademoiselle, storming away in her absurd English, and Agatha cheeking her for all she was worth." "How did you hear?" "Why, I was in the studio! Agatha didn't know we were there, of course. The glass doors were open. You know, Daffy gives me extra drawing. And just when Agatha was in full swing, and Mademoiselle speechless with rage, Miss Hartill turned up--wanted Daffy." "Oh, go on!" Louise cried breathlessly. "It really was funny, you know. Miss Hartill was talking to Daffy and the row going on next door--you couldn't help hearing--and suddenly Daffy said--Daffy had been fidgeting for some time--'Listen!' and Clarissa said, 'Oho-o!' You know her way, with about ten o's at the end; and Daffy said, 'There! Now do you believe me?' kind of crowing. And Miss Hartill, she just smiled, like a cat with cream, and said, 'All right, Alwynne! All right, my dear!' and went into the next room. Say, it was exciting! She didn't raise her voice, but she just let herself go, and in about two minutes Agatha came out like a ripe cheese--literally crawling. I wish she hadn't shut the door. I couldn't hear any more. I could see, of course, and you bet I watched out of the tail of my eye. Daffy never noticed me." "What happened then?" "Oh! They stood and talked, and Mademoiselle was scarlet and seemed to be pitching into Miss Hartill, as far as I could see, and Miss Hartill was letting her talk herself out, and sometimes she smiled and said something; that always started Mademoiselle off again. And at last Mademoiselle went and sat in one of the window-seats, and I couldn't see her face, but I imagined she was howling. French people always do. Clarissa went and patted her shoulder." "She is a dear!" Loyally Louise bit back her instant jealousy. "Oh, she was enjoying herself," said Cynthia coolly. "You should have seen her face. Sort of smiling at her own thoughts. Have you ever seen a spider smile?" Louise disdained an answer. "Nor have I! Have a candy? But I bet I know what it looks like." "Well, what happened?" demanded Louise impatiently. "Oh, it was annoying! Daffy came and sat down in my place, to correct. I couldn't see any more. Only when Miss Hartill came out (she didn't notice me, I was putting away the group), she said to Daffy, 'She's coming to tea on Friday.' And Daffy said, 'Clare, you're a wonder!' And Miss Hartill said, 'I didn't do it for her, Alwynne!' And Daffy got pink. Clarissa did look pleased with herself." "Well, so she ought! Wouldn't you be--if you could make people happy?" Cynthia threw up her hands. "Happy! Oh, Momma! Are you happy?" Louise winced. "Is Daffy? Mademoiselle? Any of you fools? Oh, it's no use talking! You won't believe me when I tell you that she's a cat. Yes, a pussy-cat, Louise! A silky, purring pussy-cat, pawing you, pat--pat--so softly, like kisses. But if you wriggle--my! Look out for claws! Have a candy?" Louise gathered herself together. She came close to the bed, and leaning over the older girl, spoke-- "I don't understand what you're driving at--but you're wrong. It's you that's a fool. You misjudge her, utterly. You don't understand her--you're not fit to." "Are you?" Cynthia laughed at her openly. "Of course not. No one--Daffy does, of course. But us?--girls? Just because she's been heavenly to you, you take advantage, to watch her, to judge, to twist all she says and does. Why do you hate her so?" "I don't." Cynthia pulled herself upright. "My dear, you're wrong there. I like her immensely. She's a real treat. But I don't worship her like you do." "I don't! I--I just love her." Louise glowed. Cynthia laughed jollily. "Oh, well! You'll get over that. Wait till you get a best boy." "If you think I'd look at any silly man, after knowing her----" "My dear girl! Has it never occurred to you that you'll marry some day?" Louise shook her head. "I've thought it all out. I never could love anybody as much as I do Miss Hartill. I know I couldn't." "But it's not the same! Falling in love with a man----" "Love's love," said Louise with finality. "Where's the difference?" Cynthia sat up. "Where's the difference? Where's the----?" She giggled. But something in the quality of her laughter disturbed. Louise frowned. "I didn't say anything funny. You'll love your husband, I suppose, that you're always talking about having--and I'll stick to Miss Hartill. It's perfectly simple." But Cynthia was still laughing. Louise grew irritable under her amused glances, and would have turned away, but Cynthia flung her arm about her. "Stop! Don't you really know?" "What?" "The difference." Cynthia's eyes shone oddly. Louise moved uneasily, disconcerted by their expression. Cynthia continued. "Hasn't any one told you? Why, with the books you've read----Haven't you read the Bible ever?" "Of course!" Louise was indignant. "I've been right through--four times." "And you've never noticed? Good Lord! That's all I read it for." "I haven't an idea what you're driving at," said Louise. Cynthia was making her thoroughly uncomfortable. Cynthia was flushed, laughing, pure devilry in her eyes. Her lips were pouted, her little teeth gleamed. She looked a child licking its lips over forbidden dainties. She had pulled Louise into her lap and her voice had dropped to a whisper. "Shall I tell you? Would you like to know? You ought to--you're fourteen--it's absurd--not knowing about things--shall I tell you?" Louise fidgeted. Cynthia's manner had aroused her curiosity, but none the less she was repelled. Why, she could not have said. She hesitated, aroused, yet half frightened. "I'll tell you," said Cynthia lusciously. With a sudden effort Louise freed herself from the encircling arm. She edged away from the elder girl, stammering a little. "I don't think I want to know anything. It's awfully sweet of you. I'd rather--I always ask Daffy things. Do you mind?" Cynthia, good-tempered as ever, laughed aloud. "Lord, no! But what a little saint! Aren't you ever curious, Louise? All right! I won't tease. Have a candy?" And Louise, eating chocolates, was not long in forgetting the conversation and all the curious discomfort it had aroused. If a leaf had fallen on the white garment of her innocence--a leaf from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil--she had brushed it aside, all unconscious, before it could leave a stain. CHAPTER XVI The spring term was nearly over, holidays and a trip to Italy deliciously near; yet Clare Hartill sat at breakfast and frowned over a neatly-written letter. Clare Hartill did not encourage the re-entry of old friends into her life. She did not forget them. She would look back upon the far-off flaming intimacy with regret, would quote its pleasures to the friend of the hour with disconcerting enthusiasm; but she was never eager for the reappearance of any whose ways had once diverged from her own. Pleasant memories, if you will; but, in the flesh, old friends were tiresome. They claimed instant intimacy; were free-tongued, fond, familiar; could not realise that though they might choose to stand still, she, Clare, had grown out of their knowledge, beyond their fellowship. She, indeed, would find them terribly unaltered; older, glamourless, yet amazingly, humiliatingly the same. She would look at them furtively as she entertained them, and shudder at the lapse from taste that surely must have explained her former affection. She would be gracious, kind, yet inimitably distant, and would send them away at last, subdued, vaguely disquieted, loyal still, yet very sure that they would never trouble her again. Which was exactly what Clare Hartill intended. Yet she had her fits of remorse withal, her secret bitter railing at fate and her own nature, for that she could neither keep a friend nor live without one. Recovering, she would be complacent at having contrived, without loss of prestige, to rid herself of bores. There was one fly in her ointment. Who knows not that fly, earnest and well-intentioned, which, when it is dug out with a hairpin, cleanses itself exhaustively and forthwith returns to the vaseline jar? Such a fly, optimistic and persistent, was the correspondent who invariably signed herself, "Ever, dear Clare, your affectionate little friend, Olivia Pring. P.S. Do you remember...?" There would follow a reminiscence, at least twenty years old, that Clare never did remember. Olivia Pring was a school-mate. There had been a term together in the Lower Third. For a few weeks she had been Clare's best friend and she never let Clare forget it. Clare, with removes and double removes, had disappeared speedily from Olivia's world, but she never quite shook off Olivia. Olivia, amiable, admiring, impervious to snubs, refused to be shaken off. She went her placid way, became a governess, and an expert in the more complicated forms of crochet. She wrote to Clare about twice a year--dull, affectionate letters. Clare, that involute character, amazed herself by invariably answering them. At long intervals Olivia would be passing through London, and would announce herself, if quite convenient, as intending to visit her dear Clare that afternoon. She would describe the lengthy tussle between herself and her employer, before she had wrested the requisite permission to stay the night--and did Clare remember the last visit but three, and the amusing evening they had had? And the letter was invariably delayed in the posting, and its arrival would precede that of Olivia by a bare half-hour. Olivia, growing even fatter and more placid, would apologise breathlessly between broad smiles at the sight of Clare and recollections of the dear old days. And Clare, as one hypnotised, would go to her linen cupboard and give out sheets for the spare room. There would follow an evening of interminable small-talk for Clare, of sheer delight for Olivia Pring, who, consciously and conscientiously commonplace, enjoyed dear Clare's daring views as a youthful curate might enjoy, strictly as an onlooker, what he imagines to be the less respectable aspects of an evening in Paris. And Clare would retire to bed at ten-fifteen and sleep as she had not slept for weeks. Olivia would be regretfully obliged to catch the eight-eleven, and would depart amid embraces. And Clare would order up a second breakfast and wonder why she stood it. Yet the pile of unused doileys in her linen cupboard increased yearly. A doiley was Olivia's invariable tribute, and arrived, intricate and unlovely, within a week of her visit. Clare fingered her letter in quaint helplessness. She had a sleepless night behind her, and a big morning's work before, and her usual end-of-term headache. Olivia was arriving--she glanced at the hopelessly legible sheets--at three-fifty. No chance of mistake there. Clare decided that it was quite impossible for her to survive a seven hours' _tête-à-tête_ with her affectionate friend Olivia Pring. If only Alwynne could help her out. But Alwynne, she knew, was taking the skimmings of the Sixths and Fifths to a suitable Shakespeare performance. She had taken the pick of the classes herself the evening before. No chance of Alwynne, then. And Cynthia! Alack for Cynthia! who could have been trusted to amuse Olivia Pring as much as Olivia Pring would have amused her--Cynthia must be aboard ship by now. Clare, in regretful parenthesis, hoped Cynthia would send a few compatriots to Utterbridge.... Americans gave a fillip to one's duties.... Anyhow Alwynne and Cynthia were out of the question. There was Louise! She brightened. Louise, queer little thing, was always amusing.... Louise would serve her turn.... Louise would be so charmed to come.... Clare laughed a little consciously. Perhaps she had neglected Louise a trifle of late, perhaps it was not altogether fair of her. A happy thought buffered the prick of her yawning conscience. It was Alwynne's fault.... Alwynne, with her ridiculous, well-meaning objections.... She, Clare, had given in to them, for peace and quiet sake.... And now, most probably, Louise was not too content with life.... One knew what schoolgirls were.... Never mind! Clare would be very nice to Louise this evening.... Louise should enjoy herself, and, incidentally, preserve Clare from expiring of boredom at poor Olivia's large, flat feet. The invitation was given during the eleven o'clock break. Clare would occasionally join the school in Big Hall, and share its milk and biscuits. Often enough to make it any day's delightful possibility, not often enough for it to be other than an event. She would sit on the platform steps, watching the gay promenaders below, informal, approachable, tossing the ball to the daring few, hedged about, in turn, by the tentative many. Sometimes she would stroll about the hall with a girl on either side, or one only. She had a curious little trick of catching the girl she spoke with by the elbow, and pushing her gently along as she talked, bending over (she was very tall) and enveloping. Everybody knew the "Gendarme Stunt" as Cynthia Griffiths irreverently termed it, and no one would have dreamed of approaching or interrupting such a _tête-à-tête_. Nevertheless, Miss Hartill had not exchanged three sentences with Louise Denny on the morning of Olivia Pring's arrival, before every girl in Big Hall knew of it, and twice the number of eyes were following them, with an elaborately accidental gaze, in their progress. Possibly Clare was a little touched by Louise's delight at the invitation. At any rate she managed, in spite of her headache, to be a very charming companion. She confessed to the headache, and asked Louise for advice. And Louise, deeply concerned, could think of nothing but a recipe she had found in Clare's own Culpeper, in which rhubarb and powdered dormice figured largely. She suggested it in a doubtful little voice. The school would have given a good deal to know what made Miss Hartill laugh so. Miss Hartill told Louise all about her visitor, whom, she declared, she depended on Louise to entertain, and added a couple of comical tales of their mutual schooldays. Unfortunately Clare's _novelli_ owed their charm more to her inventive touches and graphic manner than to the actual underlying fact. Louise was left with the impression of an Olivia Pring who had been Friar Tuck to Clare's Robin Hood. She appreciated the honour of being asked to meet her to a degree that would have tickled Clare, had she guessed it. "Miss Olivia Pring!" Louise meditated all day over Miss Olivia Pring. Evidently Miss Hartill's best friend.... She hoped Miss Olivia Pring would like her.... How dreadful it would be if she didn't ... for what might she not say of her to Miss Hartill? Louise must be careful, oh, so careful, of her manners and her speech.... It was rather hard luck that she would not have Miss Hartill to herself.... It would be dreadfully uncomfortable--talking before a stranger.... Except for the delightfulness of being asked by Miss Hartill, she could have wished that Miss Hartill had not asked her. Rather an ordeal for a thirteen-year-old--supper with Miss Hartill and Miss Olivia Pring. Now shyness, like any other painful sensation, is inexplicable to such as have not experienced it, is at once forgotten by such as outgrow it, but to those at its mercy, to sheer suffering, paralysing, stultifying, a spiritual Torture of the Pear. Clare Hartill should have understood; she had her own furtive childhood for reference; but Clare Hartill had a headache, and she was very tired of Olivia Pring. Olivia was so placid, so shapeless, so ridiculous, in her pink flannel blouse, and the reckless glasses, that were ever on the point of toppling over the precipice of her abbreviated nose into the abyss of her half-open mouth. It certainly did not occur to Clare that Louise could feel the slightest discomfort on account of Olivia Pring. But Louise was blind to the flannel blouse, and the foolish face, and the unmanageable glasses. She was wearing glasses of her own, rose-coloured affairs, through which Miss Pring appeared, not only as a "grown-up" and a stranger, but as the intimate of Deity in Undress. Miss Pring did nothing to dispel the illusion--she had conscientiously flattened the high spirits out of too many little girls to be interested in a new specimen. She addressed herself chiefly to Clare--recalling incessantly, and enlarging upon, trifling incidents of their mutual past, which every fresh sentence of the badgered hostess contrived to recall to her elastic memory. Louise, always sensitive, her shyness growing with every word, could but take each unexplained allusion as a personal snub, and feeling herself entirely superfluous, began to imagine that Miss Hartill was already regretting the invitation. Panic-struck she tried to remedy matters by effacing herself as completely as possible. It was wonderful what a small and insignificant person Louise could sometimes look, and did look that evening in one of Clare's big arm-chairs. Her prim little whisper and deprecatory smile might have struck Clare as pathetic if Clare had not been so very tired of the affectionate reminiscences of Olivia Pring. As it was, she was annoyed. She had asked Louise of the bright eyes and quick stammer and extravagant imagery, to supper with her--the panther-cub, not the leveret. She had talked of Louise too--had looked forward to putting the child through its paces, if only for the benefit of Olivia Pring. She had even surmised that Louise would take Olivia's measure, and at a nod from Clare would be delicately, deliciously impertinent. Indeed, she had thought her capable of it. But it was only a schoolgirl after all--a silly tongue-tied schoolgirl--that she had for an instant compared with Alwynne: Alwynne, monstrously absent, a match for ten Olivias. She yawned, shrugged her shoulders, and suggested, in fine ironic fit, a game of "Old Maid." Olivia was extremely pleased. She so much preferred Old Maid--or Beggar-my-Neighbour, perhaps?--to Bridge. She did not approve of Bridge. In her position it did not do. Clare would remember that she had always said.... Clare fetched the cards. Louise! Louise! You have done yourself no good to-night. Shy? Nonsense! What is there to be shy about? A few words from Miss Hartill--a prompting or two--a leading question--could have broken the ice of your shyness for you, eh? And Miss Hartill knows it, as well as you, if not better. That shall not avail you. Who are you, to set Miss Hartill's conscience itching? Miss Hartill has a headache. Pull up your chair, and deal your cards, and stop Miss Hartill yawning, if you can. Believe me, it's your only chance of escape. Louise was a clumsy dealer. Her careful setting out of cards irritated Clare to snatching point. Olive triumphed in every game. On principle, Clare disliked losing, even at Beggar-my-Neighbour. And they played Beggar-my-Neighbour till ten o'clock. Louise grew more cheerful as the evening progressed, ventured a few sentences now and then. Clare was dangerously suave with both her guests; but Louise, taking all in good faith, hoped after all, that she had not appeared as stupid as she felt. It had been dreadful at first, she reflected, as she put on coat and hat. But it had gone better afterwards.... She didn't believe Miss Hartill was cross with her.... That had been a silly idea of her own.... Miss Hartill was just as usual. She made her farewells. Clare came out into the hall and ushered her forth. "Good-bye!" Louise smiled up at her. "It was so kind of you to have me. I have so much enjoyed myself." Then, the formula off her tongue: "Miss Hartill, I do hope your head's better?" "Thank you!" said Clare inscrutably. "Good-night!" Then, as the maid went down the stairs: "Louise!" "Yes, Miss Hartill?" Clare was smiling brilliantly. "Don't come again, Louise, until you can be more amusing. At any rate, natural. Good-night!" She shut the door. CHAPTER XVII Louise spent her Easter holidays among her lesson books. Miss Hartill and Miss Durand were in Italy, all responsibilities put aside for four blessed weeks, but for Louise there could be no relaxation. The examinations were to take place a few days before the summer term began, and their imminence overshadowed her. Useless for Miss Durand to extract a promise to rest, to be lazy, to forget all about lessons. Louise promised readily and broke her promise half-an-hour after she had waved the train out of the station. Impossible to keep away from one's History and Latin and Mathematics with examinations three weeks ahead. Miss Durand might preach; her overtaxed brain cry pax; her cramped body ache for exercise; but Louise knew herself forced to ignore all protests. She would rest when the examinations were over. Till then--revision, repetition--repetition, revision--with as little time as might be grudged to eating and sleeping and duty walks with Mrs. Denny. There was no time to lose. The nights swallowed up the days all too swiftly. Yet, waking one morning with a start to realise that the day of days had dawned at last, she found it incredible. The morning was exactly like other mornings, with the sun streaming blindingly in upon her, because she had forgotten, as usual, to drawn her blind at night, her head already aching a little, hot and heavy from uneasy sleep. All night long her brain had been alert, restless, beyond control. All night long it had tugged and fretted, like a leashed dog, at the surface slumber that tethered it. She felt confused, burdened with a half-consciousness of vivid, forgotten dreams. She dressed abstractedly, lesson books propped against her looking-glass, and wedged between soap-dish and pitcher. For the hundredth time she conned the technicalities of her work, and making no slips, grew more cheerful for it had been the letter, not the spirit, that had troubled her--little matters of rules and exceptions, of dates and derivations, that would surely trip her up. But she was feeling sure of herself at last, and thrilling as she was with nervous excitement, could yet be glad that the great day had dawned, and ready to laugh at all her previous despondencies. Things were turning out better than she had expected. There was bracing comfort in beginning with her own subject--Miss Hartill's own subject. She could have no fears for herself in the Literature examination. French in the afternoon, that was less pleasant. But she would manage--must, literally. "Miss Hartill expects----" She laughed. She supposed the sailors felt just the same about Nelson as she did about Miss Hartill. She wondered if Lady Hamilton had minded his only having one eye and one arm? Suppose Miss Hartill had only one eye and one arm? Oh! If anything happened to Miss Hartill...! She shivered at the idea and instantly witnessed, with all imaginable detail, the wreck of the train as it entered Utterbridge station, and she herself rescuing Miss Hartill, armless and blind, from the blazing carriage. She had her on the sofa, five years later, in the prettiest of invalid gowns, contentedly reliant on her former pupil. And Louise, blissfully happy, was her hands and feet and eyes, her nurse, her servant, her--(hastily Louise deprived her alike of income and friends) her bread-winner and companion. Here her French Grammar, slithering over the soap to the floor, woke her from that delicious reverie. She picked it up, and applied herself for a while to its dazing infinitives. But teeth-brushing is a rhythmic process: her thoughts wandered again perforce. She had got to be first.... Miss Hartill would be so pleased.... It would be heavenly to please Miss Hartill again as she used to do.... Nothing had been the same since Cynthia came.... She flushed to the eyes at the recollection of her last unlucky visit----"You needn't come again unless you can be more amusing. You might at least be natural...." Yet Miss Hartill had been so kind at the last ... had waved to her from the train.... The postman's knock startled her, disturbed her meditations anew. Letters! Was it possible? Would Miss Hartill have remembered? Have sent her, perhaps, a postcard? Stranger things had been. She had for weeks envisaged the possibility. She finished her dressing and tore downstairs. The maid was hovering over the breakfast-table. "Are there any letters, Baxter? Are there any letters?" But she had already caught sight of a foreign postcard on her plate, a postcard with an unfamiliar stamp. She scurried round the table, her heart thumping. But the big, adventurous handwriting was hatefully familiar. The postcard was from Miss Durand. She waited a moment, her lips parted vacantly, as was her fashion when controlling emotion; waited till the maid had gone. Then she crumpled and tore the thin cardboard in her hand and flung it at last on the floor, in a passion of disappointment. "She might have written!" cried Louise. "Oh, she might have written! It wouldn't have hurt her--a postcard." Presently a thought struck her. She groped under the table for the torn scraps of paper and spread them in her lap, piecing them eagerly, laboriously. Miss Hartill might have written on Miss Durand's postcard. She had the oblong fitted together at last and read the scrawl with impatient eagerness. Miss Durand was just sending her a line to wish her all imaginable luck. She and Miss Hartill were having a glorious time. They were sitting at that moment where she had made a cross on the picture postcard. She wished Louise could be with them to see the wonderful view over the valley and with good wishes from them both, was her Alwynne Durand.... Louise's eyes softened--"from them both." That was something! Miss Hartill had sent her a message. She sighed as she wrapped the scraps carefully in her handkerchief. Life was queer.... Here was Miss Durand, so kind, so friendly always--yet her kindness brought no pleasure.... And Miss Hartill, who could open heaven with a word--was not half so kind as Miss Durand. Louise marvelled that Miss Hartill could be so miserly. She was sure that if she, Louise, could make people utterly happy by kind looks and kind words, stray messages and occasional postcards, that she would be only too glad to be allowed to do it. To possess the power of giving happiness.... And with no more trouble to yourself than the writing of a postcard! Queer that Miss Hartill did not realise what her mere existence meant to people.... She couldn't realise it, of course ... that was it.... She thought so little about herself.... It was her own beautiful selflessness that made her seem, occasionally, hard--unkind even.... She didn't realise what she meant to people.... If she had, she would have written.... Of course she would have written ... just a word ... on Daffy's postcard.... Louise sighed again. One didn't ask much.... But it seemed the more humble one grew--the less one asked--the more unlikely people were to throw one even that little.... At any rate there was the examination to tackle.... If she did well--! She lost herself again in speculations as to the form Miss Hartill's approval might take. The family trooped in to breakfast as the brisk maid dumped a steaming dishful of liver and bacon upon the table. Louise occupied her place and began to spread her bread-and-butter, avoiding her father's eye. But, as she foresaw, she was not permitted to escape. Mr. Denny pounced upon the butter-dish. "Not with bacon," he remarked, with reproachful satisfaction, and removed it. Louise said nothing. She was careful not to look at her parent, for she knew that her expression was not permissible. His harmless tyrannies irritated her as invariably as her tricks of personality grated upon him. She thought him smug and petty, and despised him for his submissive attitude to her step-mother. His noisy interferences with her personal habits she thought intolerable, though she had learned to endure them stolidly. But most of all, she hated to see his fat, pudgy hands touching her food. She was accustomed to cut bread for the family. No one guessed why she had arrogated to herself that duty. And he, good man, would look at his daughter occasionally, and wonder why she was so unlike his satisfactory sons and their capable mother: would be vaguely annoyed by her silences, and by a certain expression that reminded him uncomfortably of his first "fine-lady" wife; would have an emotion of disquieted responsibility; would hesitate: would end by presenting his daughter with a five-shilling-piece, or be delivered from a dawning sense of responsibility by crumbs on the carpet, the muddy boots of a son and heir, or, as in the present instance, an unjustifiable predilection for butter. "Bread with your meat," he said firmly and handed her a full plate. Then he watched her with interest. His conception of the duties of fatherhood was realised in seeing that his children slightly over-ate themselves at every meal. He did as he would be done by. Louise picked up knife and fork unwillingly. She was dry-mouthed with excitement and the beginnings of a headache, and the liberal portion of hot, rich food sickened her. But anything was better than a fuss. She sliced idly at the slab of liver. Opportunity beckoned Mr. Denny. "Don't play with your food," said the father sharply. She ate a few mouthfuls, conscious of his supervision. Satisfied, he turned at last to his own breakfast. There was a peaceful interval. The children talked among themselves. Mrs. Denny, hidden behind her tea-cosy, was exclusively concerned with the table manners of the youngest boy. The moment was propitious. Softly Louise rose and slipped to the sideboard. Her plate once hidden behind the biscuit-tin.... Mr. Denny looked up. He was ever miraculously alert at breakfast. "More bacon, Louise?" "No, thank you, Father," said Louise fervently. "Have you finished your plate?" "Yes, Father." Her brothers gave tongue joyously. "Oh-h! You whopper!" "Oh, Father, she hasn't!" "Mother, did you hear? Louise says she's finished her bacon. She hasn't." "Not near!" "Not half!" "Not a quarter!" "Well--of all the whopping lies!" Mr. Denny sprang up, his eyes glistening. He, too, enjoyed a scene. The plate was retrieved from its hiding-place and its guilty burden laid bare. "Emma, do you see this? Emma! Leave that child alone and attend to me! Flagrant! Flagrant disobedience! Louise, I told you to eat it. Turning up your nose at good food! There's many a child would be thankful--Emma! Am I to be disobeyed by my own children? And a lie into the bargain! If that is the way you are taught at your fine school, I'll take you away. Disgraceful! Eat it up now. Emma! Are you or are you not going to back me up? Is all that food to be wasted?" Mrs. Denny's calm eyes surveyed the excited table. "Don't fuss, Edwin. Louise, eat up your bacon." "I can't," said Louise sullenly. "Then you shouldn't have taken so much." "I didn't. It was Father----" "Eat it up at once," said Mrs. Denny peremptorily, as the baby cast his spoon upon the carpet. The tone of her voice ended the discussion. Mr. Denny watched his daughter triumphantly, as she toiled over her task, called her attention to a piece of bacon she had left on the edge of her plate, and when she had finished told her she was a good girl and that it would do her good. After which he gave her a shilling. "I don't want it," muttered Louise. "You don't want it?" repeated Mr. Denny incredulously. Louise looked at him. There was a world of uncomprehending contempt in the eyes of father and child alike, though the father's were amused, where the child's were bitter. Mr. Denny laughed jollily. "I say, kids! Hear that? Your sister here hasn't any use for a shilling. Bet you haven't either! Eh? I don't think!" Ensued clamour, with jostling and laughter and clutching of coins, from which the head of the house retired to his chair by the fire, chuckling and content. He enjoyed distributing largesse, especially where there was no great need for it, though he was liberal enough to famous charities. He never gave to beggars, on principle. Louise slipped out of the room under cover of the noise, and was dressed and departing when her step-mother called her back. "Louise! You stay to lunch to-day, don't you?" "At school? Oh no, Mamma. Holidays, you know! They only open a class-room for the exam." "The fifty-pound job, eh?" Her father eyed her over the top of his paper approvingly. For once his daughter was showing a proper spirit. "Go in and win, my girl! I've given you the best education money could buy. If you don't get it, you jolly well ought to. Fifty quid, eh? I wasn't given the chance of earning fifty quid when I was thirteen. Shop-boy, I was. Started as shop-boy like me father before me." His wife cut in sharply. "Isn't there an afternoon examination? I understood----" "Yes, Mamma. But no dinners. It's all shut." Mrs. Denny frowned. "It's annoying. I wanted you out of the way. Nurse is taking the children for an outing. I've enough to do without providing lunches--you must take some sandwiches--spring cleaning--maids all busy----" "I'd rather take sandwiches!" Louise's face brightened. "I thought the cleaning was over--not a comfortable room in the house for the last fortnight." Mr. Denny was testy. His wife answered them thickly, her mouth full of pins as she adjusted her dusting apron. "Very well! Ask cook to--no, she's upstairs. Cut them yourself. There's plenty of liver. Perfectly absurd! Do you want the house a foot deep in dust? You leave the household arrangements to me! The top-floor hasn't been done for years--not thoroughly." "The top floor? Not the attics?" said Louise. "Yes! I'm re-arranging the rooms. John's getting too big for the nursery. He needs a room to himself. I'm putting him in cook's old room." Louise paused, the slice of bread half cut. "Where's cook going?" said her father. She awaited the answer, a fear catching at her breath. "Oh, in the lumber-room," said Mrs. Denny easily. "It only wants papering. A nice, big room! A sloping roof, of course. But with her wages, if she can't put up with a sloping roof--! But it'll take some clearing! You wouldn't believe what an amount of rubbish has collected." "It's not rubbish," said Louise. Her voice was low with passion. "It's not rubbish! You shan't touch it." Mrs. Denny spun round amazedly: Her step-daughter, the loaf clutched to her breast with an unconscious gesture, the big knife gleaming, was a tragi-comic figure. "What on earth----?" she began. Louise leaned forward, hot-eyed. "Mamma! You won't! You can't! You mustn't! Father, don't let her! That's Mother's room! If you put cook in Mother's room----" She choked. A priestess defending her altars could have used her accents. Mr. Denny put down his paper. "What's the matter with the girl?" he demanded. Mrs. Denny shrugged her shoulders. "I've no idea! I don't know what she means. Put down that knife; Louise--you'll cut yourself. And mind your own business, please." "You don't understand!" Louise fought for calmness, for words that should enlighten and persuade. "I didn't mean to interfere. But the big attic! Mamma! Father! That's my room. I always go there--do my lessons there--I love it! You don't know how I love it. You see----" She paused helplessly. "But you've got the nursery to sit in," said Mrs. Denny, equally helpless. "I'm sorry, Louise, if you've taken a fancy to the room--but I want it for cook." Louise made her way to the hearth and stood between the pair. "Mamma--please! Please! Please! There's the other attic for cook--not this one!" "Now be quiet, Louise!" Mrs. Denny was getting impatient. Suddenly Louise lost grip of herself. "It's not right! It's not right! You've got all the house! Every room is yours and you grudge me that one! Nobody's ever wanted it but me! It's mine! You've got your lovely rooms--drawing-room, and dining-room, and morning-room, and bedroom, and summerhouse, and the boys have got the nursery and the maids have got the kitchen, and yet you won't let me have the attic! It's not fair! It's mean! Why can't cook have the other attic? Not this one! Not this one!" "But why? Why?" Mrs. Denny was more bewildered than angry. She looked down at her step-daughter as a St. Bernard looks at an aggressive kitten. Desperately Louise tore off her veils. "Because of Mother. Can't you understand? All her things are there. She's there! So I've always played up there. Oh, won't you understand?" Mrs. Denny flushed. "You talk a lot of nonsense, Louise. Finish your sandwiches. You'll be late." "Then you will leave it, as it is?" "Certainly not. I told you--I need it for cook." Louise turned to her father with a frenzied gesture. "Father! Don't let her! Don't let her touch it! Oh, how can you let her touch it?" Mr. Denny put down his paper, staring from one to the other. "Emma? What's she driving at?" "To control the household, apparently. She's a very impertinent child," said Mrs. Denny impatiently. "Father! I'm not! I don't! Father! I only want her to leave my attic alone! Father----" "Don't worry your father now," began Mrs. Denny. "He's my father! I can speak to him if I choose," cried Louise shrilly. "Now then, now then!" reasoned Mr. Denny heavily. "Can't have you rude to your mother, you know." Louise gave herself up to her passion. "She's not my mother! I call her Mamma! She's not my mother! Mother wouldn't be so cruel! To take away all I've got like that. Her books are there! Her things! It's always been our room--hers and mine! And to take it away! To put cook--it's horrible! It's wicked! It's stealing! I hate her! I hate you--all of you! I'll never forget--never--never--never!" She stopped abruptly on a high note, stared blindly at the outraged countenances that opposed her, and fled from the room. They listened to the clatter of umbrellas in the hall stand, to the furious hands fumbling for mackintosh and satchel, to the bang of the hall door. Mr. Denny whistled. "Hot stuff! What? I never knew she had it in her." There was a curious element of approval in his tone. He respected volubility. His wife frowned; then, she, too, began to laugh. She was as incapable as he of imagining the state of nerves that could lead, in Louise, to such an outburst. To speak one's mind, noisily and emphatically, was a daily occurrence for her. Silence was stupidity, and meekness irritating. This "row" was unusual because Louise had taken part in it, but she certainly thought no worse of her step-daughter on that account. The child should be sent to bed early as a punishment, she decided, but good-humouredly enough. She was too thick-skinned to be pricked by Louise's repudiation. She dismissed it as "temper." Its underlying criticism of her character escaped her utterly. By the time the attic was cleared and the paperhanger at work, she had forgotten the matter. CHAPTER XVIII It is not impossible to sympathise with Ahab. It must have been difficult for him, with his varied possessions, to realise the value to Naboth of his vineyard. He had offered compensation. Naboth would undoubtedly have gained by the exchange. Ahab, owning half Palestine, must have been genuinely puzzled by this blind attachment to one miserable half-acre. One wonders what would have happened if they had met to talk over the matter. Ahab, convinced of the generosity of his offer, courteously argumentative, carefully repressing his not unnatural impatience, would have contrasted favourably with the peasant, black, fierce, dumb, incapable of explaining himself, conscious only of his own bitter helplessness in the face of oppression and loss. The Naboth mood is a dangerous one. Fierce emotions, unable to disperse themselves in speech, can turn in again upon the mind that bred them, to work strange havoc. The affair of the attic, outwardly so trivial, shook the child's nature to its foundation. Though one's house be built of cards, it is none the less bedazing to have it knocked about one's ears. To Louise, the loss of her holy place, but yet more the manner of its loss, was catastrophic. Her nerves, frayed and strained by weeks of overwork and excitement, snapped under the shock. Her sense of proportion failed her. Miss Hartill, the examination, all that made up her life, faded before this monstrous desecration of an ideal. She suffered as Naboth, forgetting also his greater goods of life and kith and kin, suffered before her. Before she reached the school the violence of her emotion had faded, and she was in the first stage of the inevitable physical reaction. She felt weak and shaken. She was going, she knew, to her examination. She wondered idly why she did not feel nervous. She tried to impress the importance of the occasion upon herself, but her thoughts eluded her--sequence had become impossible. She gave up the attempt, and her mind, released, returned to the scene of the morning in incessant, miserable rehearsal. Mechanically she made her way into the school by the unfamiliar mistresses' entrance, greeted the little knot of competitors assembled in the hall. But if she were introspective and distraught, so were they: her silence was unnoticed. The nervous minutes passed jerkily. Louise thought that the clock must be enjoying himself. He was playing overseer; he wheezed and grunted as her father did at breakfast; had just such a bland, fat face. Her father would be a fat, horrible old man in another ten years. She was glad. Every one would hate him, then, as she hated him, show it as she dared not do. Miss Vigers interrupted her meditations; Miss Vigers, utterly unreal in holiday smiles and the first hobble-skirt in which her decent limbs had permitted themselves to be outlined. She marshalled the procession. The Lower Fifth class-room, newly scrubbed and reeking of naphthaline, with naked shelves and treble range of isolated desks, was unfamiliar, curiously disconcerting. Louise, ever perilously susceptible to outward conditions, was dismayed by the lack of atmosphere. She wriggled uneasily in her desk. It was uncomfortable, far too big for her: Agatha's initials, of an inkiness that had defied the charwoman, stared at her from the lid. She was at the back of the room. Between Marion's neat head and the coiffure of the little Jewess, the bored face of the examiner peered and shifted. He was speaking-- "You will find the questions on your desks. Write your names in the top right-hand corner of each page. Full name. Kindly number the sheets. You are allowed two and a half hours." A pause. Some rustling of papers and the snap and rattle of pencil-boxes. Then the voice of the examiner again-- "You may begin." Instantly a furious pen-scratching broke the hush. Louise glanced in the direction of the sound, and smiled broadly. Agatha had begun. Miss Hartill would have seen the joke, but the examiner was already absorbed in the book he had taken from his pocket. Louise gazed idly about her. So this was what the ordeal was like! There were her clean, blank papers on the desk before her, and the printed list of questions. She supposed she had better begin.... But there was plenty of time. She had a curious sense of detachment. Her body surrounded her, rigid, quiescent, dreading exertion. Her mind, on the contrary, was bewilderingly active, consciously alive with thoughts, as she had once, under a microscope, seen a drop of water alive with animalculi: thoughts, however, that had no connection with real life as it at the moment presented itself: thoughts that admitted the fact of the examination with a dreamy impersonality that precluded any idea of participation. Her mind felt comfortable in its warm bed of motionless flesh, would not disturb its repose for all the ultimate gods might offer: but was interested nevertheless in its surroundings, gazing out into them with the detached curiosity of an attic-dweller, peering out and down at a dwarfed and distant street. Yet each trivial object on which her eyes alighted gave birth to a train of thought that led separately, yet quite inevitably, to the memories that would shatter her quietude, as conscious and subconscious self struggled for possession of her mind. She stared at the intent backs of her neighbours. One by one they hunched forward, as each in turn settled to work. Louise considered them critically. What ugly things backs were! It was funny, but girls with dark skirts always pinned them to their blouses with white safety-pins, and _vice versa_. It made them look skewered.... Yet Miss Durand had said that backs were the most expressive part of the whole body.... That was the day they had seen the Watts pictures. But then the draperies of the great white figure in "Love and Death" were not fastened up in the middle with safety-pins.... That had been a wonderful picture.... She knew how the boy felt, how he fought.... How long had he been able to hold the door? she wondered. Characteristically, she never questioned the ultimate defeat. It was terrible to be so weak.... But the Death was beautiful.... pitying.... One wouldn't hate it while one resisted it, as one hated Mamma.... Mamma, forcing her way into an attic.... Louise writhed as she thought of it. The girl in front of her coughed, a hasty, grudging cough, recovered herself, and bent again to her work. Louise was amused. What a hurry she was in! What a hurry every one was in! How hot Marion's cheeks were! And Agatha.... Agatha was up to her wrists in ink.... Like the women in the French Revolution.... Though that was blood, of course.... They were steeped in gore.... It would be fascinating to write a story about the knitting women ... click--click--clicking--like a lot of pens scraping.... What were they all scribbling like that for? Of course, it was the examination.... There was a paper on her own desk too.... How funny! "Distinguish between Shelley the poet, and Shelley the politician. Illustrate your meaning by quotations." Shelley? The name was familiar.... She sells sea-shells.... "Give a short account of the life of Shakespeare." He had a wife, hadn't he? A narrow, grudging woman, who couldn't understand him.... A woman like Mamma.... Mamma, who was turning out the attic and laughing at Louise.... Not that that mattered--but to clear the attic--to take away Mother's things.... What would Mother do--little, darling Mother...? It was holidays.... Mother would know.... Mother would be there, waiting for Louise. A hideous picture rose up in Louise's mind. With photographic clearness she saw the attic and the faint shadow of her mother wavering from visibility to nothingness as the sunlight caught and lost her impalpable outlines: there was a sound of footsteps--Louise heard it: the faint thing held out sweet arms and Louise strained towards them; but the door opened, and Mrs. Denny and the maids came in. Mamma pointed, while the maids laughed and took their brooms and chased the forlorn appearance, and it fled before them about the room, cowering, afraid, calling in its whisper to Louise. But the maids closed in, and swept that shrinking nothingness into the dark corner behind the old trunk: but when they had moved the trunk, there was nothing to be seen but a delicate cobweb or two. So they swept it into the dustpan and settled down to the scrubbing of the floor. The picture faded. Louise crouched over her desk, her head in her hands. About her the pens scratched rhythmically. For a space she existed merely. She could not have told how long it was before thoughts began once more to drift across the blankness of her mind like the first imperceptible flakes that herald a fall of snow. She moved stiffly in her seat. The thoughts came thicker--thoughts of her mother still, of the dream presence that she would not feel again.... Never again? There was the Last Judgment, of course.... She would see her then.... And who knew when the Judgment would come.... In a thousand years? In the next five seconds? She counted slowly, holding her breath: "One--two--three--four--five----" and stared out expectantly into space through the lashes of her dropped lids. All about her sat forms, bowed like her own, scarcely moving. Of course, of course--she nodded to herself--satisfied with her own acuteness. Obviously, the Last Judgment.... They were all waiting for God.... He hadn't arrived yet, it seemed.... Well, one might look about a little first.... How queer Heaven smelt! The heart of Louise leapt within her.... Now was the opportunity to find Mother.... Mother would be somewhere among the dead.... But they all had ugly backs.... But Mother.... Of course Mother would be standing on that high platform place like a throne.... It was her place.... She always stood there.... Or did she? Was there not some one else? very like her ... with eyes ... and a smile ... whom Louise knew so well? Wasn't it Mother? With patient deliberation she strove to disentangle the two personalities, that combined and divided and blurred again into one. There was Mother--and the Other--one was shape and one was shadow--but which was real? There was Mother--and the Other--who was Mother? No, who was--who was--The Other was not Mother--but if not, who?--who?--who?-- A chorus of angels took up the chant: Who? who? who? They had flat, faint voices, that gritted and whispered, like pens passing over paper. Who? who? who? The answer came thundering back out of infinite space in the awaited voice of God.... "You have ten minutes more." Louise gave a faint gasp. Reality enveloped her once more, licking up her illusion as instantly and fiercely as an unnoticed candle will shrivel up a woman's muslins. She stood naked amid the ashes of her dreams. She glanced wildly about her. The girls at her elbows were furiously at work. The little examiner had put away his book and was staring at her. Her eyes fell. Before her lay foolscap, fair and blank, save for her name in the corner, and a close-printed paper that she did not recognise, clamouring for information anent Shelley, and Carlyle, and the Mermaid Tavern. Because, of course, she was at the Literature examination, and there were ten minutes more. And she had written nothing. An instant she sat appalled. Then she snatched up her pen and wrote.... Her pen fled across the paper at Tam o' Shanter speed, leaving its trail of shapeless, delirious sentences. She never paused to consider--she wrote. She knew only that she had ten--twelve--fifteen questions to answer, and ten minutes in which to do it. Ten minutes for a two and a half hours' paper! No matter--if one stopped to think.... Hurry! hurry! Shelley was born in 1792--he was the son of Sir Timothy Shelley, of Field Place, near Horsham---- When the examiner collected the papers, she had written exactly two pages. CHAPTER XIX The examination had taken place early in May, but the summer term was nearly over before news of the results arrived. When it came, it made but a small sensation. The school had tired of waiting. Not only was its own more intimate examination drawing near, but its many heads were filled, to the exclusion of all else, with the excitements and rivalries of the summer theatricals. The school play was an institution. Of late years--ever since she had joined the staff indeed--it had grown into an annual personal triumph for Miss Hartill. Clare was blessed--cursed--with that sixth sense, the _sens du théâtre_. Her own nature was, in essence, theatrical; her frigid and fastidious reserve warring incessantly with her irrepressible love of the scene for its own sake. She was aware of the trait and humiliated by its presence in her character. Usually she would curb her inclination with a severity that was in itself histrionic: at times she indulged it with voluptuous recklessness. As a girl, the stage had appealed to her strongly; but her excessive squeamishness, with her acute sense of personal, bodily dignity, closed it to her as a career. Also her love of power. Though she knew little of stage life she had sufficient intuition to gauge correctly what she might become. Successful necessarily--dominant never. And she required a dais. But the compelling woman, she knew, is successful through her combination of intellectual strength with sexual charm. She must not scruple to use all the weapons at her service. Clare had told herself that there were some weapons to which she would never condescend. If sting had lain in the fact that, though she would, they were not hers to use, she did not acknowledge it, even to herself. Resolutely she put from her the idea of fostering a useless talent; and the desire to exploit it, save surreptitiously in social intercourse, dulled as she grew older. Nevertheless, the yearly plays were to Clare a source of excitement and gratification. She alone was responsible for the production. In five successful years they had become an event, a festival--not only to the school, but to the entire neighbourhood. Two, and then three public performances were given each summer, and the proceeds benefited the school charities. _As You Like It_, _Twelfth Night_, _Verona_, and _The Merchant of Venice_, followed upon the _Midsummer Night's Dream_, and exhausted the list of entirely suitable plays; but after some hesitation, Clare had devised for her next venture scenes from _King John_. Several forms were studying the period, the Sixths and Fifths were reading the play, politically also it was apropos. (Clare had ever sound reasons to gild her decisions.) Privately she had been slightly embarrassed by the fact that the classes she supervised had that year proved themselves unusually poor in dramatic ability. She could depend, indeed, on a score of keen and capable children, but in Louise Denny alone had she glimpsed an actress who could do her credit. The child's physique precluded her from rôles that, otherwise, she could easily have filled, but as Prince Arthur, she could be made the central, unforgettable figure of an otherwise trite performance. "_King John_," quoth Clare; "decidedly, the very play." And _King John_ was chosen. Since the beginning of the term, with Clare as generalissimo and Alwynne most ingenious of adjutants, staff and school had worked enthusiastically. Costumes were finished, staging painted and planned, and the various scenes were, at length, receiving their final polish. Alwynne was responsible for the interpretation of the minor parts, while Clare, in her spare time, devoted herself to the principals, attacking alternately the exaggerations of Agatha's "Constance," Marion's stolid "Hubert," a certain near-sighted amiability in the spectacled "King John." Clare was a born stage-manager, patient, resourceful, compelling. The children trusted her; she had the habit of success. Her air of authority cushioned them, denied the possibility of failure. Clare, wholly in earnest, Clare at usual hours, intimate and relaxed, Clare appealing, exhorting, inspiring, was irresistible. She got what she wanted from them and was not ill content. She knew to the last ounce their capabilities. With Louise alone she had difficulties. The child was almost too easily trained. Responsive, quickly fired or chilled, she was, in fact, too delicately and completely attuned to Clare herself. Clare could be crude: she had her gusty moods: the little æolian harp quivered to snapping point before them. Originally this extreme sensitiveness had fascinated Clare; she felt like a musician exploring the possibilities of an unknown instrument; but she tired of it in time. As Louise became saturated with the stronger personality, she had, in her passionate desire to satisfy Clare, grown into her mere replica; reproducing her phraseology, voicing her opinions, reflecting her moods, stifling, in the exquisite delight of abnegation, all in her that had originally attracted the older woman. That the effect had been, first to amuse, then to irritate, finally to bore Clare's fickle humour, was natural enough. Clare, had she cared, could have guided the child, despite the great disparity of age, into a pleasant path of affection and friendship, but that she did not choose. She was disappointed, and showed it: and there, for her, the matter ended. That she was in any way responsible, she would not admit. She did not, indeed, fully realise the extent of the change in Louise until the rehearsals began. For all her growing indifference, in spite of the marked deterioration that automatically it had caused in the girl's work, she had still a high and just opinion of her capabilities. She was positive that as Prince Arthur, Louise would give a fine and original performance, and anticipated with amused interest her initial rendering of the character. At the first rehearsal Louise did not disappoint her. She was neither stiff nor self-conscious, and her acting, which proved to be entirely instinctive, carried conviction. Though Clare worked from the head, she could appreciate the more primitive method, but even then, the character as portrayed by Louise amazed her. The deliberate pathos, the cloying charm, did not seem to exist for Louise. She played as in an ecstasy of terror. The text, Clare knew, could permit the reading, and the conception interested her; but the temptation to criticise, alter and improve, was natural. Here and there, as rehearsals progressed, she pulled and patched and patted--quite genuinely in the interest of the play as a whole. But the result was discouraging. The Louise of former days would have defended her own version, delighting Clare with shy impudences and flashes of insight, naïve parries and counter-attacks, till between them they had attained notable results. But the sparkle had been drilled out of Louise. She was humble, anxiously acquiescent, agreeing with every alteration, accepting every suggestion, however foreign to her own instinctive convictions, while the vividness faded slowly from her reading, leaving it lifeless and forced. "It's patchwork," said Clare disgustedly to Alwynne, at the end of the third week, "pure patchwork. She does everything I tell her--and the result is dire. What it will be like on the night, heaven knows! And there's nobody else. Yet she _can_ act. That first performance was quite excellent." "And she tries." "She slaves! She would be less irritating if she didn't. You know, Alwynne, I let myself go yesterday. I told her how impossible she was. And all she did was to look at me like a mournful monkey!" "Inarticulate. Exactly." Clare lifted her eyebrows. Alwynne looked at her quaintly. "You know perfectly well what's wrong. Why on earth don't you leave her alone?" "Uncoached?" "That as well, of course. You said yourself she was excellent at first. Why don't you leave her to herself? It's safe. She's not like the others. She's a nectarine, not a potato. Give her a free hand till the dress-rehearsal. It won't be your reading--I prefer yours, too; at least I think I do----" "I'm glad you say 'think.' But think again. There's no question of which you ought to prefer. But I, my good child, must consider my public! It wants to enjoy itself! It wants to weep salt tears! Louise's reading would cheat it of its emotions!" "At least it will be a reading, not a repetition. I don't mean that, though, when I say--leave her alone. Clare--you won't realise what you mean to people!" "I don't follow----" but Clare laughed a little. "You do. You know you've made Louise crazy about you." Clare shrugged impatiently. "I dislike these enthusiasms." "But you cause them. I think it is rather mean to shirk the consequences." "Really, Alwynne!" But Clare was still smiling. "You do. You begin by being heavenly to people--and then you tantalise them." "Does it hurt, Alwynne? Are you going to run away?" Alwynne smiled. "Oh, you won't get rid of me so easily. I'm a limpet. Do you know, I couldn't imagine existence without you now. I've never been so gloriously happy in my life. You wouldn't ever get really tired of me, would you?" "I wonder." "I know." "I've warned you that I'm changeable. Instance your Louise." "Oh, Clare, do be nicer to Louise." "Oh, Alwynne, do mind your own business. I'm as nice as is good for her. But I believe you're right about this acting. I'll wash my hands of her till the dress-rehearsal, if you like. You can tell her I said so." But Alwynne, whispering to Louise that perhaps the old way was better after all, that Miss Hartill had said she didn't mind, achieved little. "Oh, Miss Durand--don't let her think I'm hopeless. I shall get it right in time. I'd rather stick to the way she showed me. Miss Durand--do you think she's angry? Honestly, I will get it right. Miss Durand--I suppose there's no news?" The child's face was very drawn; her eyes seemed larger than ever; she looked like a little old woman! Alwynne was concerned; she felt vaguely responsible. She, too, wished that the news, good or bad, would come, and put an end at least to the tension. And one morning, all unexpectedly, the news did come. The performances were but two days away. The decorous Big Hall was in confusion. The school sat, picnic-fashion, for its prayers; and the head mistress, entering between half-hung cloths, mounted a battlemented rostrum to address it. She carried a sheaf of papers. Louise, sitting with her class at the further end of the hall, outwardly decorous enough, was in reality paying little attention. Her vague, unhappy thoughts were concerned with the coming rehearsal; she could not remember what Miss Hartill's last directions had been; she was sure she should stumble. Sometimes the mere words seemed to evade her. Yet the play was on her shoulders--Miss Durand had said so. She supposed Prince Arthur was really fond of Hubert? Not pretending, because he was afraid? But of course it was easy to love a person and yet be terrified of them. She stole a look at Clare, prominent in the grave group of mistresses. They were all very intent. It dawned on her that the head mistress had been speaking for several minutes. Suddenly there was an outburst of clapping. The spectacled girl at the end of the row grew pink and stared at her hands. "What is it?" breathed Louise. "Oh, what is it? What is it?" A neighbour caught the murmur and looked down at her curiously. "Are you asleep? It's the lists. Your exam. You'll be second, I expect." But Marion was second. The clapping crackled up anew. So the news was come! It was cruel to let it spring upon you thus.... You would have asked so little ... ten minutes ... a bare ... in which to brace yourself.... Surprise was horrible ... it caught you with your soul half-naked ... it shocked like sudden noise.... There came a fresh outburst. It was wicked to make such sounds ... like all the policeman's-rattles in the world.... The reading proceeded; it calmed her; it barely stirred the beautiful silence. But presently the neat voice altered. Old Edith Marsham was a kindly soul. She had not quite forgotten her own schooldays. She realised, perfunctorily, as the successful do, the blankness of defeat. Louise heard her name pronounced, a trifle hurriedly. Louise Denny--failed. She made no sign. She sat erect, listening to the conclusion of that matter, clapped in due course, stood, kneeled, rose again, as applause, hymns and prayers buzzed about her, filed with her class from the hall and added her shy word to the clamour of congratulation in the long corridors. Inwardly, she was stunned by the evil that was upon her. The irregular morning classes (the imminent entertainment had disorganised the entire system of work) gave her time to rouse, to review her position. She turned helplessly within herself, wondering how she should begin to think--and where. She wondered idly if this was how soldiers felt, when a shell had blown them to pieces? She wondered how they collected themselves afterwards? Where did they begin? Did an arm pick up the legs and head, or how? The picture thus conjured up struck her as excessively funny. She began to giggle. The mistress's astonished voice roused her to the necessity for self-control. She picked up her pen. The thoughts flowed more clearly--yes, like ink in a pen. So it had come. All along she had known that she must have failed: known it from the day of the examination itself. The burden of that knowledge had been upon her for weeks like a secret guilt. Daily she had gone to prayers in cold fear, thinking: "Now--now--now--they will read it out." Daily she had studied Clare's face, to each change of expression, each abstraction or transient sternness, her heart beating out its one thought: "She had heard! she knows!" And yet behind her academic certainty of failure had lain a little illogical hope. There was just a chance--an examiner more kind than just ... a spilled ink-bottle ... an opportune fire. The child in her could still pray for miracles, for help from fairyland, and half believe it on the way. And now the daily terrors, the daily reliefs, were alike over. Louise, who had learned, as she thought, to do without hope these many weeks, realised pitifully her self-deception. This hopelessness, this dead weight of certainty, was a new burden--a Sisyphus rock which would never roll for her. She was at the end. Her mind, for all its forced and hot-house development, had, in matters of raw fact, the narrow outlook of the schoolgirl, superimposed upon the passions, the more intense for their utter innocence, of the child. Her sense of proportion, that latest developed and most infallible sign of maturity, was embryonic. The examination, so intrinsically unimportant, appeared to her a Waterloo. She could not see beyond it. Clare, inexplicably altering, daily sterner and more indifferent, save for stray gleams of whimsical kindness, that stung and maddened the child by their sweetness and rarity, would, Louise considered, be effectually alienated. But Louise could not conceive life possible without Clare. The future was a night of black misery, without a hint of dawn. CHAPTER XX The morning wore to an end. Clare had come in at the mid-morning break to announce that the dress rehearsal would take place on the afternoon of the following day. All costumes were to be ready. The day-girls were to lunch at the school. She was brief and businesslike, inaccessible to questions. She did not look at Louise. Alwynne, later in the morning, supplementing her instructions, paused a moment at the child's desk. But Louise gave no sign. Alwynne hesitated. She herself was averse from verbal sympathy. Also she was pressed for time, and Clare, she knew, wanted her. The one o'clock bell shattered her indecision. She gave her directions and hurried away. Louise packed her books together and went home. She endured the cheerful noisy lunch; carried out some small commissions for her step-mother; shepherded the troop of small boys into the paddock behind the garden and saw them established at their games. She stayed a moment with the round two-year-old, sprawling by the pile of coats, but he, too, had his amusements. Every pocket tempted his enquiring fingers. He ignored her. She went back to the house. Habit brought her for the fiftieth time to the attic, and she had opened the door before she remembered. She looked about her. An iron bedstead, covered by a crude quilt, stood where the trunk of books had lain. A square of unswept carpet lay before it. There was a deal night-table and a candlestick of blue tin, with matches and a guttered candle. Across a chair lay a paper-back, face downwards, and a pair of soiled red corsets. The ivy had been cut away from the window, and the sunlight cast no fantastic frieze, but a squared, black shadow on the floor. The air was close, and a little rank. Louise shrank from it. "Mother?" she said; and then: "You've gone away, haven't you? It's no use calling?" She waited. The uneven water-jug rattled in its basin. She spoke again-- "Mother, I know it's all spoiled here, but couldn't you come? Just for a little while, Mother? I'm most miserable. Please, Mother?" There was no answer. "What shall I do?" cried Louise wildly. "What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?" She turned from that empty place, stumbled to her room, and flung herself across her bed. She was shaken by her misery, as a dog shakes a rat. She cried, her head on her arms, till she was sick and blinded. Loneliness and longing seared her as with irons. The clock ticked, and the sunshine poured into the room. The shouts of the children, the crack of the ball on bat sounded faintly. The house slept. Two hours passed. Somewhere a clock chimed and boomed. Four o'clock. Slowly and stiffly Louise roused herself and got off her bed. She was cramped and shivering. She stood in the middle of the room and held out her hands to the brassy sunlight, but it did not warm her. She felt dazed and giddy; her head burned as if there were live coals in it. Her thoughts flowed sluggishly; she found it impossible to hurry them; they split apart into fragments that were words and meaningless phrases, or stuck like cogged wheels. Her mind moved across immense spaces to adjust these difficulties, but she policed them in vain. There was one sentence, in particular, that she could not deal with. It would not move along and make room for other thoughts. It danced before her; its grin spanned the horizon; it inhabited her mind; it was reversible like a Liberty satin; it ticked like a clock: "What next? What next? What next? Next what? Next what? Next what?" What next?... Dully she reckoned it up. The tea-bell--homework--bedtime. Night--and the false dreams. Morning--and the anger of Miss Hartill. Day and week and month--and the anger of Miss Hartill. The years stretched out before her in infinite repetition of the afternoon's agony, till her raw nerves shrank appalled. Kneeling down, she told God that it was impossible for her to endure this desolation. She implored Him, if He should in truth exist, not to reckon her doubt against her, but to be merciful and let her die. It was not the first time that she had prayed thus, but never before with such fierce insistence. If He existed He could impossibly refuse.... Speaking her thoughts, even to so indefinite a Listener, steadied her. A ghost of hope had drifted through her mind. A ghost indeed; a messenger that whispered not of waking but of sleep, not of arduous renewing but of an end. Death was life upon his lips and life, death; yet he was none the less a hope. The familiar text upon the wall above her bed caught her eye. The message seemed no more miraculous than the pansies and mistletoe that wreathed about its gilt and crimson capitals. "God is our Refuge and Strength, a very present Help in Trouble." "Ask and it shall be given unto you" confirmed her from the other wall. She sat between those tremendous statements and considered them. God had never yet answered any prayer of hers.... Not, she supposed, that He could not, but because He did not choose.... He was rather like Miss Hartill.... But Miss Hartill would never understand.... At least one could explain things to God--if God were.... And she asked so little of Him--just to let her die and be at peace.... She thought He might--if He had even time for sparrows.... She wondered how He would manage it! If He would only be quick--because red-hot wires ran through her head when she tried to think, and she was afraid--afraid--afraid--of to-morrow and Miss Hartill.... The tea-bell pealed across the garden. She tidied her hair, and fetching the sponge and towel stood before the glass, trying to trim her marred face into some semblance of composure. The boys would be clamouring--and one never knew.... There might be tainted food--a loose baluster--a tag of carpet.... He had his ways.... She must not baulk Him.... She went downstairs. The children were tired and cross and quarrelsome--the heat had soured even cheerful Mrs. Denny. It was not a pleasant meal. But it could not oppress Louise. Outwardly docile and attentive, her mind had withdrawn into itself and sat aloof, inviolate, surveying its surroundings much as it would have watched the actors in a moving picture. She was impervious to bickerings and querulous comment. What did it matter? She would never have tea with them again.... She was going away from it all.... If only God did not forget.... All through the breathless evening she awaited His pleasure. Long after the house was quiet, and Mrs. Denny tucking up her children, had come and gone, Louise lay wakeful--still waiting. It was an airless night. Every other moment the little unaccountable noises of a sleeping building broke the warm silence. Shadows scurried across the counterpane and over her face like ghostly mice, as the trees outside her window bent and nodded to a radiant moon. She was weary to the point of exhaustion. Momently her body seemed to shrink away from her into the depths of the bed--warm, fathomless depths--leaving her essential self to float free and uncontained. She would resign herself luxuriously to the sensation of disintegration, but with maddening regularity her next breath clicked body and soul together anew. Yet, as she drowsed, the space between breath and breath lengthened slowly, till they lay divided by incredible æons in which her thoughts wandered and lost themselves, grew hoar and died and were born again; while the dead-weight of her body sank ever deeper into sleep, was recalled to consciousness with ever increasing effort. She speculated languidly upon her sensations. They recalled a day at the dentist's, years before. A tube had been placed over her mouth and she had struggled, remembering a hideous story of a woman--a French marquise--that she had read in a magazine. The name began with a "B" or a "V." "Brin--" something. The Funnel--_The Leather Funnel_--that was the name of the story.... But there came no choking water--only sweet, buzzing air.... And then her body had dropped away from her, as it was doing now.... She recalled the sensation of rest and freedom; she had passed, like a bird planing down warm breezes, into exquisite oblivion.... She had returned, centuries later, to a dull aching pain, harsh noises, and lights that were like blows.... But if she had not returned? She would have been dead.... They would have buried her.... Such things had happened.... So that was death--that cradling, beautiful sleep. And God was sending it to her now; flooding her, drowning her in its warm comfort.... God was very good.... She was sorry--sorry that she had often not believed in Him.... But Miss Hartill didn't.... But she would never see Miss Hartill any more.... Perhaps, years after, when she was tired of sleeping, she would go back and see her again.... There was All Souls' Night, when you woke up.... But she would not frighten Miss Hartill.... She laughed a little, to think that she could ever frighten Miss Hartill.... She would just kiss her, a little ghost's kiss that would feel like a puff of air ... and then she would go back and sleep and sleep and sleep ... with only the yew-berries pattering on to her gravestone to tell her when another year had drifted past.... It was funny that people could be afraid to die.... She wondered if ghosts snored, and if you heard them, if your grave were very close? It was her last thought as she slid into slumber. Instantly the breakfast gong came crashing across her peace. She fought against waking. Her eyelids lifted the weight upon them as violets press upwards against a clod of rotten leaves. She lay dazedly, her mind cobwebbed with dreams, her thoughts trickling back into the channels of the previous night. Slowly she took in her situation. There was the window, and a shining day without: she could hear the starlings quarrelling on the lawn, and the squeak of an angry robin.... There was her room, and the tidy pile of clothes by the bed ... the bed, and she herself lying in it.... So she was not dead! There was to-day to be faced, and Miss Hartill's anger, and all the other hundreds and thousands of days.... And she must get up at once. Her sick mind shrank from that, as from a culminating terror. She was desperately tired; her body ached as if it had been beaten. Dressing was a monstrous and impossible feat.... It could not be.... Yet her step-mother would come--she was between God and Mrs. Denny--and God had left her in the lurch. She lay shielding her eyes from the strong light. The pressure on her eyeballs was causing the usual kaleidoscopic ring of light to form within her closed lids. The phenomenon had always been a childish amusement to her; she was adept at the shifting pressure that could vary colour and pattern. She watched idly. Red changed to green, purple followed yellow, and the ring narrowed to a pin-point of light on its background of watered silk; then it broke up as usual into starry fragments. But they danced no dazzling fire-dance for her ere they merged again into the yellow ring; to her distracted fancy they were letters--fiery letters, that formed and broke and formed again. G--O--D--then an H and a P and an L. She puzzled over them. "God hopes?" "God helps?" But He hadn't.... "God helps?" A Voice in her ears exactly like her own took it up--"Those that help themselves." It spoke so loudly that she shrank. The universe echoed to Its boom: yet she knew so well that the Voice was only in her own head. No wonder her head ached, when it was all full of Lights and Voices.... And Miss Hartill would be angry if she took Them to school.... If only she need not go to school.... Why--why had God cheated her? "He helped those----" Was that what They meant? She looked about her, brightening yet uncertain; then her long plait of hair caught her eye. Lazily she lifted it, disentangled a strand no thicker than coarse string, and doubling it about her throat, began to tighten it, using her fingers as a lever, till the blood sang in her ears. She had sat upright in bed for the greater ease. Suddenly she caught sight of her face in the wardrobe mirror. It was growing pink and puffy; the eyes goggled a little. The sensation of choking grew unendurable. Instinctively her fingers freed themselves and the noose fell apart. She swung forward, panting, and watched her features grow normal again. "It's no good. Oh, I am a coward," cried Louise, wearily. Her mother's old-fashioned travelling clock, chiming the quarter, answered her, and for a moment forced her thoughts back from those borderlands where sanity ends. Habit asserted itself; she was filled with everyday anxieties. She was late, certainly for breakfast, probably for school. She jumped out of bed, washed and dressed in panic speed, collected her belongings and hurried from the house. Her father, hearing the gate clack, glanced up from his newspaper. "Has that child had any breakfast?" he demanded, uneasily. There was no answer. He was late himself, and his wife had poured his coffee and left the room. He could hear her heavy footfall in their bedroom overhead. He returned to his reading. CHAPTER XXI Louise ran up the steep hill, her satchel padding at her back, the soft wind disordering her hair and whipping a colour into her white cheeks. She gained the deserted cloakroom, flung off her hat, and fled upstairs. But she was later than she guessed. Racing, against all rules, through the upper hall and down the long corridor, the drone of voices as she passed the glass-panelled doors warned her that no hurrying could avail her. She was definitely late. Her speed slackened. The passage ended at right-angles to a small landing, into which her class-room opened. She paused, sheltering in the curve of the hall, listening. The class was still. The single voice of a mistress rang muffled through the walls. She could not distinguish the accents. It was Miss Durand's class; but when everything was so upset ... one never knew ... it might be Miss Hartill herself.... That would be just Louise's luck.... She hated you to be late.... But there was no point in hesitating.... Yet she hesitated, shifting her weight uneasily from foot to foot, till a far-off step in the corridor without, ended her uncertainty. Some one was coming.... That again might be Miss Hartill.... Louise must be in her place.... Yet surely it was Miss Hartill's voice in the form-room? She crept to the door and peered through the glass. Miss Durand was standing at the blackboard. Louise entered, brazen with relief, and began her apologies. But Alwynne was no Rhadamanthus, and her official reprobation was marred by a twinkle. She would have been late herself that morning, but for Elsbeth--poor dear Elsbeth, who conceded, without remotely comprehending, the joys of that extra twenty minutes. And when had Louise been late before? Little, good, frightened Louise! She entered the name in the defaulters' book, but her manner sent the child to her desk quieted. Alwynne, at sentry-go between blackboard and rostrum, dictating, supervising, expounding, yet found time to watch her. Louise was always a little on her motherly young mind. The child's shrinking manner worried her--and her pain-haunted eyes. Pain was Alwynne's devil. She was selfish, as youth must be, but at least, unconsciously. Hint trouble, and all of her was eager to serve and save. She was the instinctive Samaritan. But her perception was blurred by her profound belief in Clare. Louise, she knew, was in good hands, in wise hands; where she had known ten children, Clare had trained a hundred; if Clare's ways were not hers--so much the worse for hers. Yet this disciplining of Louise was a long business; she wished it need not make the child so wretched. Surely Clare forgot how young she was.... There would be new trouble over the affair of the papers.... If Clare would but be commonplace for once, laugh, and say it didn't matter, and perhaps ask Louise to tea.... The child would be radiant for another six months--and work better too.... But, of course, it was absurd for her to dictate to Clare.... Louise had had such a pretty colour when she came in; it was all gone now.... She looked dreadfully thin.... Alwynne wondered if it would do any good to speak to Clare again.... Dear Clare--she was so proud of her girls, so eager to see them successful.... Louise was a bitter disappointment to her.... Yet, if she could have been gentler--but, of course, Clare knew best.... Alwynne only hoped the rehearsal would be a success. If Louise did well, it might adjust the tension.... She watched the child, sitting apparently attentive, noted the moving lips, the little red volume half hidden in her lap. Shakespeare had no business in a physiology lesson, but Alwynne let her alone. The hour was over all too quickly for Louise. Earlier in the year, when she had been at her most brilliant, and Miss Hartill's classes the absorbing joy of her day, she had yet welcomed the hours with Miss Durand. They alone had not seemed, in comparison, a waste of priceless time. They were jolly hours, quick-stepping, cheerful, laughter-flecked; void of excitements, yet never savourless; above all restful. Unconsciously she had counted on them for their recuperative value. Even now, exhausted, overwrought, beyond all influence, the kindly atmosphere could at least soothe her. Wistfully her eyes followed Alwynne, as the young mistress left the room. Clamour arose; slamming of desk-lids, thud of satchels and rattle of pencil-cases mingling with the babble of tongues. The next lesson was French Grammar. The little Frenchwoman was invariably late. She dreaded the lesson as much as her audience enjoyed it. They welcomed it as a pleasant interlude--the hour for conversation. Agatha did not even trouble to keep an eye on the door, as she turned to Louise, immobile beside her. "I say, were you late?" "Didn't you see?" "Why were you late? Weren't you called? Didn't you wake up?" "No." "Why?" "Oh, the housemaid died in the night. Smallpox." Louise stooped over her book, her shoulders hunched against questions. "No, but tell me. Did you get in a row?" "You heard what Daffy said. I want to learn, Agatha." "Oh, not that. Did you get in a row about the rehearsal?" "What rehearsal?" "The rehearsal yesterday." Louise sat up, her eyes widening. "There was no rehearsal yesterday?" she said anxiously. "Wasn't there just!" "But I never heard; nobody told me." "Why, Daffy came in herself, yesterday morning. Every one was there. I suppose you were moonstruck as usual. Do you mean to say you didn't hear? I don't envy you." "Was she angry?" said Louise, in her smallest voice. Agatha began to enjoy herself. "Angry? She was raving!" "What did she say?" "Well, she didn't say much," admitted Agatha. "Just asked where you were, and if not, why not--you know her way. Then we got started and went all through it, and had a gorgeous afternoon. She read your part. I say, she can act, can't she? But she was pretty mad, of course." "Was she--" said Louise. But it was not a question. "Oh, and you're to go to her at break, this morning. Don't go and forget, and then say I didn't tell you." And she turned to greet the entering mistress with a flood of Anglo-French. Louise had three parts of an hour in which to assimilate the message. How unlucky she was! She remembered the previous morning as one remembers a nightmare.... Miss Durand had certainly drifted through its dreadfulness--but of what she had said or done, Louise remembered nothing. But it was certain that she had managed to annoy Miss Hartill more than ever. To miss a special rehearsal! Now she was to go to her, and Miss Hartill would be so angry already, that when the question of the papers arose, the last chance of her leniency was gone.... For, of course, she would speak of the examination.... What would she say? Her imagination stubbed; it could not pierce the terror of what Miss Hartill would say. The break was half over before she had wrenched herself out of her desk, along the length of the school, and up the staircase to Clare's little sanctum. She knocked timidly. Clare's answering bell, that invariably startled her, rang sharply. She hesitated--the bell rang again, a prolonged, shrill peal. She pulled herself together, opened the door, and went in. The floor was littered with gay costumes. Miss Durand, in a big apron, laughter-flushed, with her pretty hair tumbling down her back, was sorting them into neat heaps. Clare, at ease in a big arm-chair, directing operations, while her quick fingers cut and pasted at a tinsel crown, was laughing also. "How happy they look," thought Louise. Clare glanced up. "Well, Louise," she said, not unkindly. Louise stammered a little. "Miss Hartill--I'm very sorry--I'm most awfully sorry. They said--the girls said--there was rehearsal yesterday, and you wanted me. I honestly didn't know. I've only just heard there was one." Clare kept her waiting while she clipped at the indentations of the crown. The scissors clicked and flashed. It seemed an interminable process. Finally she spoke to Alwynne, her eyes on her work. "Miss Durand! You gave my message to the Fifths?" Yes, Alwynne had told the girls. "Wasn't Louise in the room at the time?" Alwynne's unwilling eyes took in every detail of the forlorn figure between them. She lied swiftly, amazing herself-- "As a matter of fact--I believe Louise was not in the room at the time. It was my fault: I should have seen that she was told. I'm so sorry." Louise gave a little gasp of relief--more audible than she realised. Clare roused at it. She disliked a check. She disliked also the obvious sympathy between the child and the girl. "No, it was my fault. I should have gone myself. It's always wiser. It saves trouble in the long run. Never mind, Louise. You couldn't help it. Are you sure of your words?" Louise, infinitely relieved, was quite sure of her words. "Very well. Shut the door after you--oh, Louise!" Louise turned in the doorway. "Yes, Miss Hartill." "I may as well explain to you now. I am re-arranging the classes." Louise questioned her mutely. "You will be in the Upper Fourth next term." Louise stood petrified. She had never thought of this. "You are moving me down? I am third still." "We think--Miss Marsham agrees with me--that the work in the Fifth is too much for you. It is not your fault." "Miss Hartill, I have tried--I am trying." Clare smiled quite pleasantly. "I am quite sure of it. I tell you that I'm not blaming you. I blame myself. If I expected more of you than you could manage--no one but myself is to blame. I am sure you will do well in the Fourth." Louise broke out passionately-- "It is because of the examination." Clare held out her crown at arm's length, and eyed it between criticism and approval as she answered Louise. "I think," said Clare smoothly, "we had better not discuss the examination." Louise stood in the doorway, her mouth quivering. Alwynne could stand the scene no longer. She jerked herself upright, and, going to the child, slipped her arm about her and pushed her gently from the room. Clare was still admiring her crown, as Alwynne shut the door again. Alwynne must try it on. It would suit Alwynne. Alwynne peeped at herself in the little mirror, but her thoughts were with Louise on the other side of the door. "Clare," said Alwynne uneasily, "you hurt that child." Clare looked at her oddly. "Do her good," she said. "Do you think no one has ever hurt me?" Alwynne was silent. At times her goddess puzzled her. CHAPTER XXII To the schoolgirls the dress rehearsal was, if possible, more of an ordeal than the performances themselves. The head mistress attended in state with the entire staff and such of the girls as were not themselves acting. Stray relatives, unable to be present at the play proper, dotted the more distant benches, or were bestowed in the overhanging galleries, while the servants, from portly matron to jobbing gardener, clustered at the back of the hall. The platform at the upper end had been built out to form a stage, and when, late in the afternoon, the final signal had been given and the improvised curtains drew audibly apart, Clare had fair reason to plume herself on her stage-management. The long blinds of the windows had been let down and shut out the sceptical sunshine; and the candle footlights, flickering unprofessionally, mellowed the paintwork and patterned the home-made scenery with re-echoing lights, pools of unaccountable shadow, and shaftlike, wavering, prismatic gleams, flinging over the crude stage-setting a veil of fantastic charm. The play opened, however, dully enough. The scenes chosen had had inevitably to be compressed, run together, mangled, and Clare had not found it easy work. Faulconbridge, bowdlerised out of all existence, could not tickle his hearers, and King John, not yet broken in to crown and mantle, gave him feeble support. But with the entrance of Constance, Arthur and the French court, actors and audience alike bestirred themselves. Agatha, her dark eyes flashing, her lank figure softened and rounded by the generous sweep of her geranium-coloured robes, looked an authentic stage queen. Her exuberant movements and theatrical intonation had been skilfully utilised by Clare, who, playing on her eager vanity, had alternately checked and goaded her into a plausible rendering of the part. She was the reverse of nervous; her voice rolled her opening speech without a tremor; her impatient, impetuous delivery (she hardly let her fellow-actors finish their lines) fitted the character and was effective enough. Yet to Clare, note-book in hand, prepared to pounce, cat-like, on deficiencies, neither she nor her foil dominated the stage, nor the row of schoolgirl princes. Her critical appreciation was for the little figure, wavering uncertainly between the shrieking queens, with scared anxious eyes, that swept the listening circle in faint appeal, quivering like a sensitive plant at each verbal assault, shrinking beneath the hail of blandishments and reproaches. The one speech of the scene, the reproof of Constance, was spoken with un-childlike, weary dignity-- "Good my mother, peace! I would that I were low laid in my grave; I am not worth this coil that's made for me." Yet it was not Arthur that spoke, nor Louise--no frightened boy or overwrought, precocious girl. It was the voice of childhood itself, sexless, aloof; childhood the eternal pilgrim, wandering passive and perplexed, an elf among the giants: childhood, jostled by the uncaring crowd, swayed by gross energies and seared by alien passions. "She's got it," muttered Clare to Alwynne, reporting progress in the interval; "oh, how she's got it!" She laughed shortly. "So that's her reading. Impudent monkey! But she's got her atmosphere. Uncanny, isn't it? It reminds me--do you remember that performance of hers last autumn with _Childe Roland_? I told you about it. Well, this brings it back, rather. Clever imp. I wonder how much of my coaching in this act she'll condescend to leave in?" "You gave her a free hand, you know," deprecated Alwynne. "I did. But it's impudence----" "Inspiration----" "Impudence all the same. When the rehearsal is over I must have a little conversation with Miss Denny." She showed her white teeth in a smile. Alwynne caught her up uneasily-- "Clare--you're not going to scold? It wouldn't be fair. You know you're as pleased as Punch, really." Clare shot a look at her, but Alwynne's face was innocent and anxious. She shrugged her shoulders. "Am I? I suppose I am. I don't know. On my word, Alwynne, I don't know! But run along, my deputy. There's an agitated orb rolling in your direction from the join of the curtains." Alwynne fled. The opening scene of the second division of the play--as Clare had planned it--showed Arthur a prisoner to John and the old queen. The child's face was changed, his manner strained; his startled eyes darted restlessly from Hubert to the king and back again to Hubert; the pair seemed to fascinate him. Yet he shrank from their touch and from Elinor's embrace, only to check the instinctive movement with pitiful, propitiatory haste, and to submit, his small fists clenched, to their caresses. His eyes never left their faces; you saw the tide of fear rising in his soul. Not till the interview with Hubert, however, was the morbid drift of the conception fully apparent. He hung upon the man, smiling with white lips; he fawned; he babbled; he cajoled; marshalled his poor defences of tears and smiles, frail defiance and wooing surrender, with an awful, childish cunning. He watched the man as a frightened bird watches a cat; turned as he turned, confronting him with every muscle tense. His high whisper premised a voice too weak with terror to shriek. Yet at the entrance of the attendants there came a cry that made Clare shiver where she sat. It was fear incarnate. Clare fidgeted. It was too bad of Louise.... And what had Alwynne been thinking of? A free hand, indeed! Too much of a free hand altogether! The fact that she was listening to a piece of acting, that, in a theatre, would have overwhelmed her with admiration, added to her annoyance. A school performance was not the place for brilliant improprieties. Certainly impropriety--this laborious exposure of a naked emotion was, in such a milieu, essentially improper--Louise must be crazy! And in what unholy school had she learned it all--this baby of thirteen? And what on earth would staff and school say? She stole a look at her colleagues. Some were interested, she could see, but obviously puzzled. A couple were whispering together. A third had chosen the moment to yawn. Her contradictory mind instantly despised them for fools that could not appreciate what manner of work they were privileged to watch. She saw her path clear--her attitude outlined for her. She would glorify a glorious effort (it was pleasant that for once justice might walk with expediency) and her sure, instant tribute would, she knew, suffice to quiet the carpers. But, for all that, the performances themselves should be, she promised herself, on less dangerous lines than the dress-rehearsal. She would have a word with Louise: the imp needed a cold douche.... But what an actress it would make later on! Clare sighed enviously. The scene was nearly over. With the glad cry--"Ah! now you look like Hubert," the enchantment of terror broke. A few more sentences and Arthur was left alone on the stage. As the door clanged (Alwynne was juggling with hardware in the wings) the child's strained attitude relaxed and the audience unconsciously relaxed with it. He swayed a moment, then collapsed brokenly into a chair. The long pause was an exquisite relief. But before long the small face puckered into frowns; a back-wash of subsiding fear swept across it. The hands twitched and drummed. You felt that a plan was maturing. At last, after furtive glances at the door, he rose with an air of decision, and crossed quickly to the alcove of the window. For an instant the curtains hid him, and the audience stared expectantly at an empty stage. When he turned to them again, holding the great draperies apart with little, resolute fists, his face was alight with hope, and, for the first time, wholly youthful. In the soft voice ringing out the last courageous sentences, detailing the plan of the escape, there was a little quiver of excitement, of childish delight in an adventure. He ended; stood a moment smiling; then the heavy folds hid him again as they swept into position. There was a tense pause. Suddenly as from a great distance, came a faint wailing cry. Thereon, silence. The curtains wheezed and rattled into place. Alwynne, hurrying on to the stage to shift scenery for the following act, nearly tripped, as she dismantled the alcove, over a huddle of clothes crouched between backing and wall. She stooped and shook it. A small arm flung up in instant guard. "Louise? Get up! The act's over. Run out of the way. Stop--help me with this, as you're here." Obediently the child scrambled to her feet. She gripped an armful of curtain, and trailed across the stage in Alwynne's wake. Till the curtains rose on the final act, she trotted after her meekly, helping where she could. With King John embarked on his opening speech, Alwynne drew breath again. She ran her eye over the actors, palpitant at their several entrances, saw the prompter still established with book and lantern, and decided that all could go on without her for a moment. She put her hand on Louise's shoulder and drew her into the passage. "What is it, Louise?" "Nothing." "What were you doing just now? Were you scared? Was it stage fright?" "Oh no." Louise smiled faintly. "Then what were you doing?" Louise considered. "I was dead. I had jumped, you know. I was finding out how it would feel." "Louise! You gruesome child!" "I liked it--it was so quiet. I'd forgotten about shifting the scenery. I'm sorry. Does it--did it hurt him, do you think, the falling?" Alwynne put both her hands on the thin shoulders and shook her gently. "Louise! Wake up! You're not Prince Arthur now! Gracious me, child--it's only a play. You mustn't take it so seriously." Louise made no answer; she did not seem to understand. Alwynne was struck by a new idea. She took the child's face in her hand and turned it to the gaslight. "Did I see you at lunch, Louise? I don't believe I did. Do you know you're a very naughty child to take advantage of the confusion?" "Miss Durand, I had to learn. I was forgetting it all. I slipped the last two lines as it was--you know, the 'My uncle's spirit is in these stones' bit. I wasn't hungry." "And you were very late, too. What did you have for breakfast?" An agitated face peered round the corner. "Miss Durand, which side do I come on from? Hubert's nearly off." "The left." Alwynne hurried to the rescue, dragging Louise after her. She hustled the anxious courier to his entrance, twitched his mantle into position, and saw him safely on the stage. Then she turned to Louise. "Louise, will you please go to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Random for two cups of tea and some buns--at once. There is some tea made, I know. I'm tired and thirsty--two cups, please. Bring it to me here, and don't run into any one with your hands full. Be quick--I'm dying for some." Louise darted away on her errand. Poor Daffy did look hot and flustered.... Daffy was such a dear ... every one worried her ... it was a shame.... Wouldn't Daffy have been a pleasant mother? Better than shouting Constance.... What was it she had asked for? A plum, a cherry and a fig? No, that wasn't it. Oh, of course, tea--tea and buns. Alwynne looked after her, smiling and frowning; she was not in the least thirsty. What a baby it was.... But nothing to eat all day! Mrs. Denny ought to be ashamed of herself.... She, Alwynne, would keep a vigilant eye on her to-morrow, poor little soul.... Had she really lost herself so entirely in the part--or was there a touch of pose? No, that was more Agatha's line.... Agatha was enjoying herself.... She listened amusedly, watching through a crack in the screen, till a far-away chink caught her ear. She went out again into the passage, and met Louise with a laden tray. Alwynne drank with expressive pantomime and motioned to the other cup. "Drink it up," she commanded. "It's a second cup--for you----" began Louise. "Be a good child and do as you're told! I must fly in a minute." The child looked doubtful; but the steaming liquid was tempting and the new-baked, shining cakes. She obeyed. Alwynne watched the faint colour flush her cheeks with a satisfaction that surprised herself. "Finish it all up--d'you hear? I must go." She hesitated: "Louise--you were very good to-day. I am sure Miss Hartill must have been awfully pleased." She went back to the stage. She had had the pleasure of bringing a look of relief to Louise's face. Alwynne could never remember that the kindest lie is a lie none the less. In the part of Arthur the child, unconsciously, had seen embodied her own psychological situation. She had enacted the spirit, if not the letter, of her own state of mind, and in the mock death had experienced something of the sensations, the sense of release, of a real one. Left to herself, she might gradually have dreamed and imagined and acted herself out of her troubles, have drifted back to real life again, cured and sane. But Alwynne, with her suggestion of good cheer, had destroyed the skin of make-believe that was forming healingly upon the child's sore heart. Louise awoke, with a pang of hope, to her real situation. "I am sure Miss Hartill must have been awfully pleased." ... So pleased that, who knew, she might yet forgive the crime of the examination? If it might be.... "What might be must be," cried the child within her. There came a crash of clapping; the rehearsal was over at last, and in a few moments flocks of girls, chattering and excited, came trouping past Louise on their way to tea. She did not follow them. She was suddenly aware of boy's clothes. She must change them.... She could not find Miss Hartill till she was tidy, and she had determined to speak with her. Miss Durand had said.... She would do as Arthur did to Hubert--she would besiege Miss Hartill, force her to be kind, till she could say, "Oh, now you look Miss Hartill! all this while you were disguised." She shivered at the idea of undergoing once more the emotional experience of the scene--but the vision of Miss Hartill transfigured drew her as a magnet pulls a needle. She went towards the stairs. The big music-room at the top of the house had been temporarily converted into a dressing-room, and she thought she would go quickly and change, while it was still quiet and spacious. But as she pushed open the swinging doors that divided staircase from passage, she saw Clare coming down the long corridor. There was no one else in sight. Again wild, unreasoning hopes flooded her. She would seize the opportunity ... she would speak to Miss Hartill there and then.... She would ask her why she was always angry.... Perhaps she would be kind? "I am sure Miss Hartill must have been awfully pleased...." She must have speech with her at once--at once.... She waited, holding open the door, her heart beating violently, her face steeled to composure. Clare, passing with a nod, found her way barred by a white-faced scrap of humanity, whose courage, obviously and pitifully, was desperation. But Clare could be very blind when she did not choose to see. "Miss Hartill, may I speak to you?" "I can't wait, Louise. I'm busy." "Miss Hartill, was it all right? Were you pleased? I tried furiously. Was it as you wanted it?" "Oh, you played your own version." Clare caught her up sharply. "But Miss Durand said--you said I was to." "I expect it was all right," said Clare lightly. "I'm afraid I was too busy to attend much, even to your efforts, Louise." She smiled crookedly. "And now run along and change." She pushed against the door, but Louise, beyond all control, caught back the handles. "Miss Hartill--you shall listen. Are you always going to be angry? What have I done? Will you never be good to me again as you used to be?" Clare's face grew stern. "Louise, you are being very silly. Let me pass." "Because I can't bear it. It's killing me. Couldn't you stop being angry?" Clare, ignoring her, wrenched open the door. Louise, flung sideways, slipped on the polished floor. She crouched where she fell, and caught at Clare's skirts. She was completely demoralised. "Miss Hartill! Oh, please--please--if you would only understand. You hurt me so. You hurt me so." Clare stood looking down at her. "Once and for all, Louise, I dislike scenes. Let me go, please." For a moment their eyes strove. And suddenly Louise, relaxing all effort, let her go. Without another look, Clare retraced her steps and entered the Common-room. Louise, still crouching against the wall, watched her till she disappeared. The doors swung and clicked into rigidity. There was a sudden uproar of voices and laughter and scraping chairs. A distant door had opened. Louise started to her feet, and sped swiftly up the stairs, flight on flight, of the tall old house, till she reached the top floor and the music-room. It was empty. She flung-to the door, and fumbled with the stiff key. It turned at last, and she leaned back against the lock, shaking and breathless, but with a sense of relief. She was safe.... Not for long--they would be coming up soon--but long enough for her purpose. But first she must recover breath. It was foolish to tremble so. It only hindered one ... when there was so little time to lose. Hurriedly she sorted out her little pile of everyday clothes--some irrelevant instinct insisting on the paramount necessity of changing into them. Mrs. Denny would be annoyed if she spoiled the new costume. She re-dressed hastily and, clasping her belt, crossed to the window. It was tall and divided into three casements. The centre door was open. A low seat ran round the bay. She climbed upon it and stood upright, peering out. How high up she was! There was a blue haze on the horizon, above the line of faint hills, that melted in turn into a weald, chequered like the chessboard counties in _Alice_. So there was a world beyond the school! Nearer still, the suburb spread map-like. She craned forward. Directly under her lay the front garden, and a row of white steps that grinned like teeth. It was on them that she would fall--not on the grass.... She imagined the sensation of the impact, and shuddered. But at least they would kill one outright.... One would not die groaning in rhymed couplets, like Arthur.... Clasping the shafts, she hoisted herself upwards, till she stood upon the inner sill. Instantly the fear of falling caught her by the throat. She swayed backwards, gasping and dizzy, steadying herself against the stout curtains. "I can't do it," whispered Louise hoarsely. "I can't do it." Slowly the vertigo passed. She fought with her rampant fear, wrenching away her thoughts from the terror of the death she had chosen, to the terror of the life she was leaving. She stood a space, balanced between time and eternity, weighing them. With an effort she straightened herself, and put a foot on the outer ledge. Again, inevitably, she sickened. Huddled in the safety of the window-seat, stray phrases thrummed in her head: "My bones turn to water"--"There is no strength in me." He knew--that Psalmist man.... She slipped back on to the floor, and walked unsteadily to the littered table. Her hands were so weak that she could hardly lift them to pour out a glass of water. She leaned against the table and drank thirstily. What a fool she was.... What a weak fool.... An instant's courage--one little second--and peace for ever after.... Wasn't it worth while? Wasn't it? Wasn't it? She turned again to her deliverance. As she pulled herself on to the seat, she heard a noise of footsteps in the passage without, and the handle of the door was rattled impatiently. In an instant she was on the sill. This was pursuit--Miss Hartill, and all the terrors! There must be no more hesitation. Once more she crouched for the leap, only, with a supreme effort, to swing herself back to safety again. Her hands were so slippery with sweat that they could barely grip the window-shafts. There was a banging at the door and a sound of voices calling. She swayed in a double agony, as fear strove against fear. She heard the voice of a prefect-- "Who is it in there? Open the door at once." They would break open the door.... They would find her.... They would stop her.... Coward that she was--fool and coward.... One instant's courage--one little movement! She stiffened herself anew. Poised on the extreme edge of the outer sill, she pushed her two hands through the belt of her dress, lest they should save her in her own despite. She stood an instant, her eyes closed. Then she sprang.... CHAPTER XXIII Clare was enjoying tea and triumph. She had worked hard for both, and was virtuously fatigued. The rocking-chair was comfortable, and the little gym mistress had brought her her favourite cakes. The Common-room, tinkling its tea-cups, buzzed criticism and approval. The rehearsal had been a success. The talk centred, while opinion divided, on the Constance and the Prince Arthur. The general standpoint seemed to be that Agatha had reached the heights. Her royal robes had been effective; she reminded nearly every one of a favourite actress. Louise was less popular. A curious performance--very clever, of course--only one had not thought of Arthur quite like that! Now the Constance---- Clare, watching and listening, purred like a sleepy cat. She wondered why Alwynne was absent ... she was missing a lot.... Louise was annoying--she had been excessively irritated with her ten minutes before--and there was the debacle of the scholarship papers--but to class her with Agatha! What fools these women were! The discussion had become argument, and was growing faintly acrimonious, when a deep voice cut across it. Miss Hamilton, a visiting music mistress, always had a hearing when she chose to speak. She was a big woman, with a fine massive head and shrewd eyes. She dressed tweedily and carried her hands in her pockets, slouching a little. It was her harmless vanity to have none. Teaching music was her business; her recreations, hockey, and the more law-abiding forms of suffrage agitation. She was a level-headed and convincing speaker, with a triumphant sense of humour that could, and had, carried her successfully through many a fantastic situation. Rumours of her adventures had spread among the staff, if not through the school, and beglamoured her; she could have had a following if she had chosen. But her healthy twelve stone crashed through pedestals, and she established comradeship, as she helped you, laughter-shaken, to pick up the pieces. A postponed lesson had given her time to attend the rehearsal, and she had afterwards joined the flock of mistresses at tea. Clare, who thought more of her opinion than she chose to own, had eyed her once or twice already, and at the sound of her voice she stopped her lazy rocking. "But they are not in the same category! Any schoolgirl could have played Constance as What's-her-name played it, given the training she has had." Miss Hamilton nodded pleasantly to the rocking-chair. She appreciated Clare's capacities. "But Arthur----" "Well, I thought Agatha was splendid," repeated a junior mistress stubbornly. "She was. An excellent piece of work! 'But the hands were the hands of Esau.'" "They always are," said the little gym mistress fervently. Clare gave her a quick, brilliant smile. She blushed scarlet. The music mistress laughed; she enjoyed her weekly glimpse of school interdependencies. "Why did you single out _King John_, Miss Hartill?" she inquired politely. Clare was demure, but her eyes twinkled. "The decision lay with Miss Marsham," she murmured. "Of course. But having a Cinderella on the premises--eh?" "If you know of a glass slipper----" "You fit it on! Exactly! Where did you discover her?" "Starving--literally starving, in the Lower Third." Clare thawed to the congenial listener. "It was an amazing performance, wasn't it? Of course, there was nothing of the actual Arthur in it----" Miss Hamilton nodded. "That struck me. It was a child in trouble--not a boy. Not a girl either--but, of course, only a girl would be precocious enough to conceive and carry out the idea. If she did, that is!" "Oh, it was original," Clare disclaimed prettily. "It had little to do with me. I had to let her go her own way." Miss Hamilton liked her generosity. "You're wise. It's all very well to trim the household lamps, but a burning bush is best left alone. I don't altogether envy you. Genius must be a disturbing factor in a school." "You think she has genius?" "It was more than precocity to-day--or talent. The Constance had talent." "And was third in the scholarship papers. Louise failed completely. Isn't it inexplicable? What is one to do? Of course, it was disgraceful: she should have been first. I expected it. I coached her myself. I know her possibilities. Frankly, I am deeply disappointed." Miss Hamilton pulled her chair nearer. She was interested; Clare was not usually so communicative. But their further conversation was interrupted by the opening of the door, and old Miss Marsham appeared on a visit of congratulation, accepting tea and dispensing compliments with equal stateliness. "An excellent performance! We must felicitate each other--and Miss Hartill. But we are accustomed to great things from Miss Hartill. There can be no uneasiness to-morrow. The child in the green coat, in that scene--ah, you remember? I thought her a trifle indistinct. Perhaps a hint----? Altogether it was excellent. Especially the Constance--most dramatic. If I may criticise--acting is not my department--but the Prince Arthur? Now, were you satisfied? Louise is a dear child, but hardly suitable, eh?" Clare stiffened. "I thought her acting remarkable." "Did you? Now I can't help feeling that Shakespeare never intended it like that. He makes him such a dear little boy. It's so pathetic, you know, where he begs the man not to put out his eyes. So childlike and touching. Like little Lord Fauntleroy. I know I cried when I saw it, years ago. Now this child was not at all appealing." Clare shrugged her shoulders. "It is not a pretty scene, Miss Marsham, though the managers conspire to make us think so. A child at the mercy of brutes, knowing its own danger, terrorised into the extreme of cunning, parading its poor little graces with the skill of a mondaine--it's not pretty! And Louise spared us nothing." Miss Marsham fidgeted. "If that is your view of the scene, Miss Hartill, I wonder that you consider it fit for a school performance." Clare hedged. "My private view doesn't matter, after all. Traditionally it is inadmissible, of course. But if you would like the treatment altered a little, I will speak to Louise. It is only the dress rehearsal, of course." Miss Marsham looked relieved. "Perhaps it would be better. A little more childlike, you know. But don't let her think me annoyed, Miss Hartill; I am sure she has worked so hard. Just a hint, you know. I should not like her feelings to be hurt. Poor child, the results were a sad disappointment to her, I'm afraid. You spoke to her about the change of class?" "Yes." "I hope she was not distressed?" Clare remembered the look on Louise's face. She hesitated. "She will get over it," she said. The kind old woman looked worried. "You must not let her feel that she has failed over this, Miss Hartill--on the top of the other trouble. You will be judicious?" A door slammed in the distance; there was a blurr of voices, a sound of hurrying footsteps. Clare rose impatiently; she was tired of the subject. "It will be all right, Miss Marsham. I understand Louise. What in the world is that disgraceful noise?" But the door was flung open before she could reach it. Alwynne stood in the aperture, panting a little. In her arms lay Louise, her head falling limply, like a dead bird's. Behind them, peering faces showed for a moment, white against the dusk of the passage. Then Alwynne, staggering beneath the dead weight, stumbled forward, and the door swung to with a crash. The roomful of women stared in horrified silence. "She's dead," said Alwynne. "I found her on the steps. She fell from a window. One of the children saw it. She's dead." She swayed forward to the empty rocking-chair, and sat down, the child's body clasped to her breast. She looked like a young mother. Clare, watching half stupified, saw a thin trickle of blood run out across her bare arm. It woke her. "Send for a doctor!" screamed Clare. "Send for a doctor! Will nobody send for a doctor?" CHAPTER XXIV The sudden death of Louise Denny had shocked, each in her degree, every member of the staff. The general view was that such a deplorable accident could and should have been impossible. Every one remembered having long ago thought that the old-fashioned windows were unsafe, and having wondered why precautions had never been taken. Every one, the first horror over, canvassed the result of the unavoidable inquest, and speculated whether any one would be censured for carelessness. The younger mistresses were so sure that it was nobody's business to be on duty in the dressing-room at that particular hour that they spent the rest of the hushed, horror-stricken day in telling each other so, proclaiming, a trifle too insistently, their relief that they at least had nothing, however remote, to do with the affair: while inwardly they ransacked their memories to recall if perchance some half-heard order, some forgotten promise of standing substitute or relieving guard could, at the last moment, implicate them. But the task of quieting and occupying the frightened children, and of clearing away, as far as might be, all traces of the dress rehearsal, was at least distraction. On the heads of the school, real and nominal, the strain was immeasurably greater. It was first truly felt, indeed, many hours later. Old Miss Marsham, in whom the shock had awakened something of her old-time decision of character, had conducted the interview with the decorously grieving parents with sufficient dignity; had overseen the temporary resting-place of the dead child; had communicated with doctors, lawyers and officials. But the spurt of energy had subsided with the necessity for it. She had retired late at night to her own apartments and the ministrations of her efficient maid, a broken old commander, facing tremulously the calamity that had befallen her life-work: foreseeing and exaggerating its effect on the future of the school, planning feverishly her defence from the gossip that must ensue. An accident ... of course, an accident ... a terrible yet unforeseeable accident.... That was the point.... At all costs it must be shown that it was an accident pure and simple, with never a whisper of negligence against authority or underling.... But she was an old woman.... She needed, she supposed bitterly, a shock of this kind to humble her into realising that her day was over.... She had been driving with slack reins this many a long year.... She had known it and had hoped that no one shared her knowledge. And none had known.... So there came this pitiful occurrence to advertise her weakness to the world.... The poor child! Ah, the poor little child! There had been a lack of supervision, no doubt ... some such gross carelessness as she, in her heyday, would never have tolerated.... And she was grown too old, too feeble to hold enquiry--to dispense strict justice.... She must depend on the lieutenants who had failed her, to hush the matter up--to make the administration of the school appear blameless.... They could do that, she did not doubt, and so she must be content.... But in the day of her strength she would not have been content.... But she was old.... It was time for her to abdicate.... She must put her affairs in order, name her successor--Clare Hartill or the secretary, she supposed.... They knew her ways.... There was that bright girl who had faced her to-day with the little child in her arms ... what was her name? Daughter or niece of some old pupil of her own.... She could more easily have seen her in her seat than either of her vice-regents.... So young and strong and eager.... She had been like that once.... Now she was a weak old woman, and because of her weakness a little child lay dead in her house.... Yes, Martha might put her to bed.... Why not? She was very tired. Henrietta Vigers had also her anxieties. She had so long claimed the position of virtual head that there was no doubt in her own mind that other people would consider her as responsible as if she had been the actual one. She worried incessantly. Should she have had bars put up to those old-fashioned windows? She, who was responsible for all the household arrangements? Ought she not to have foreseen the danger and guarded against it? And there was the matter of the dressing-room mistress.... For the school machinery she had made herself even more pointedly responsible.... She should have arranged for some one to oversee the children.... But the dressing-room had been a temporary one and she had overlooked the necessity.... Yet if some one had been in the room the accident could impossibly have happened.... She felt that she would be lucky to escape public censure, that loss of prestige in the eyes at least of the head mistress was inevitable. But the more or less selfish perturbation, as distinct from the emotion of sheer humanity, that was aroused by the death of the little schoolgirl in the two older women, was as nothing to the sensation of sick dismay that it awoke in Clare Hartill. She, too, through the night that followed on the accident, lay awake till sunrise, considering her position. She was stunned by the unexpectedness of the catastrophe; a little grieved for the loss of Louise, but, above all, intensely and quite selfishly frightened. She felt guilty. She remembered, remorselessly enlightened, the afternoon, the expression in Louise's eyes, and not for one instant did she share the general belief in the accidental nature of her death. Her conscience would not allow her the comfort of such self-deception. Later she might lull it to sleep again, but for the moment it was awake, and her master. This same keen-witted conscience of hers, this quintessence of her secret admirations and considered opinions, her epicurean appreciation of what was guileless and beautiful and worthy, co-existing, as it did, with the intellectualised sensuality of her imperious and carnal personality, was no small trial to Clare. Though it could not sway her decisions nor influence her actions by one hair's-breadth, it was at least cynically active, as now, to prick and fret at her peace. It was, indeed, at the root of the whimsical irritability that, for all her charm, made her an impossible housemate. Essentially, her attitude to life was simple. It was an orange, to be squeezed for her pleasure. It must serve her; but she owed it, therefore, no duty. She found that she achieved a maximum of pleasurable sensations by following the dictates of that mind which is the mouthpiece of body, while indulging, as Lucullus ate turnips, in austere flirtations with that other mind, which is the mouthpiece of spirit. So she served Mammon, or rather, she allowed Mammon to serve her, but she was, on occasions, critically interested in God. And this was her undoing. Could she have been content to be frankly selfish, she might have been happy enough, but her very interest in the kingdom of Heaven had created her conscience, and had laid her open to its attacks. She ignored it, and it made her wretched: she compromised with it, and became a hypocrite. She resented the death of Louise because it challenged her whole scheme of life. She was furiously angry with the dead child for what she felt to be an indictment of her legitimate amusements. Louise, so meek and ineffectual, had yet been able to steal a march on her, had stabbed in the back and run away, beyond reach of Clare's retaliation.... Louise had fooled her.... She, Clare, proud of her insight, her complete knowledge of character, her alert intuition, had yet had no inkling of what was passing in that childish mind.... If she had guessed, however vaguely, she could have taken measures, have scourged the mere suggestion of such monstrous rebellion out of that subject soul.... But Louise, secure in her insignificance, had tricked her, planned her sure escape.... But how unhappy she must have been!... In a sudden revulsion of feeling Clare grew faint with pity, as she tried to realise the child's state of mind during the past months. Her thoughts went back to the Christmas Day they had spent together. She had been happy enough then.... Half sincerely she tried to puzzle out the change in Louise, the gradual deterioration that had led to the tragedy. Had she been to blame? Louise had grown tiresome, and she had snubbed her.... There was the thing in a nutshell.... If she was to be so tender of the feelings of all the silly girls who sentimentalised over her, where would it end, at all? Poor little Louise.... She had been really fond of her at the beginning.... She had thought for a time that she might even supplant Alwynne.... But Louise had disappointed her.... She had let her work go to the dogs.... All her originality and charm fizzled out.... She had ceased to be interesting.... And she, Clare, had naturally been bored and had shown it.... Why couldn't the child take it quietly? If Louise had only known--and had conducted herself with tact--Clare had been preparing to be nicer to her again.... She had been deeply interested in her performance of the morning, had recognised its uncanny sincerity--had thought, with a distinct quickening of interest, that Louise was recovering herself at last, and that it might be as well to take her in hand again.... Oh, she had been full of benevolent impulses! But then Louise had been tiresome again ... had stopped her and made a scene.... She hated scenes ... at least (with a laugh) scenes that were not of her own devising.... She supposed she should have recognised that the child was overwrought--terribly overwrought by the emotions aroused by such an interpretation as she had insisted upon giving.... She ought never to have been allowed to play it like that.... That was Alwynne's doing.... Alwynne had persuaded Clare to leave Louise to her own devices.... Alwynne was so headstrong.... She hoped that Alwynne would never need to realise how much she was to blame.... Here she became aware that her conscience was convulsed with cynical laughter. She flushed in the darkness, her opportune sense of injury increasing. Alwynne might well be distressed.... If any awkward questions should be asked, Alwynne might find herself uncomfortably placed.... People would wonder that she had not noticed how unbalanced Louise was growing.... Every one knew how intimate, how ridiculously intimate, she and Louise had become.... Alwynne had fussed over her like an old hen ... had even on occasion questioned her, Clare's, method with her.... She must have known what was in Louise's mind.... Yet Clare had no doubt that people would be only too ready to accuse her, rather than Alwynne, of criminal obtuseness.... Henrietta Vigers, for instance.... Henrietta would be less prejudiced than many others, though.... She was no friend to Alwynne.... It might do no harm to talk over the matter with Henrietta Vigers.... A word or two would be enough.... Of course it would be considered an accident.... But if by any chance, vague suspicions were rife, a judicious talk with Henrietta would have served, at least, to prevent Clare from being made their object.... She had her enemies, she knew.... Alwynne, with her easy popularity, had none save Henrietta.... A few waspish remarks from Henrietta would not hurt Alwynne.... Clare would protect Alwynne from serious annoyance, of course.... If the mistresses--the school--oh, if the whole world turned against Alwynne, Clare would make it up to her.... What did Alwynne want, after all, with any one but Clare? The less the world gave Alwynne, the more she would be content with Clare, the more entirely she would be Clare's own property.... It was a good idea.... She would certainly speak to Miss Vigers.... She was outlining that conversation till she fell asleep. CHAPTER XXV On the following afternoon Clare and Henrietta were sitting together in the mistresses' room. The afternoon classes were over and the day pupils and mistresses had gone home. The boarders were at supper and the staff with them. But Henrietta had taken no notice of the supper-hour. She had more work in hand than she could well compass--letters to write and answer, of explanation, and enquiry, and condolence. She could have found time for her supper, nevertheless, but when she was overworked she liked her world to be aware of it. Clare, contrary to her custom, had stayed late. She was waiting for Alwynne. She had offered, perfunctorily enough, her assistance, but Henrietta had refused all help from her. Yet Henrietta had turned over the bulk of her formal correspondence to Alwynne, who sat, hard at work, in the adjacent office. She disliked Alwynne, but accepted the very necessary help from her more easily than from Clare Hartill. Yet she was softened by Clare's offer, which she had refused, and not at all grateful for Alwynne's help, though she accepted it. She wrote busily for more than an hour, and Clare, silent, scarcely moving, sat watching her. Henrietta had, for once, no feeling of impatience at her idle supervision. She did not experience her usual sensation of intimidated antagonism. It was as if the stress of the last twenty-four hours had temporarily atoned the two incongruous characters. Neither by look or gesture had Clare flouted any suggestion or arrangement of Henrietta's--indeed, her presence had been quite distinctly a support. Henrietta had appealed more than once, and even confidently, to her. Henrietta had thought, with a touch of compunction, how strangely trouble brought out the best in people. Miss Hartill had been very proud of Louise Denny; evidently felt her death. The shock was causing her to unbend. Not, as one would have expected, to Alwynne Durand--she hoped, by the way, that Miss Durand was addressing those envelopes legibly: she did so dislike an explosive handwriting--no, Miss Hartill was turning, very properly, to herself in the emergency.... She was pleased.... There should be free-masonry between the heads of the school.... And Clare Hartill, for all her lazy indifference, was influential and enormously capable.... Henrietta wondered if it would be safe to consult her.... She might, without acknowledging a definite uneasiness, find out cautiously whether it had occurred to Miss Hartill that she, Henrietta, might be considered to have been negligent. She glanced across at her inscrutable colleague. Clare was staring thoughtfully at her. Her lips were puffed a little, as if in doubt. Their eyes met for a moment in a glance that was almost one of understanding. Henrietta hesitated, for the first time not at all disconcerted by Clare's direct gaze. But the sparkle of gay malice that attracted half her world, and disconcerted the other half, was gone from Clare's eyes. Their expression, for the time being, was calm, possibly friendly; at any rate, irreproachably matter-of-fact. Henrietta flung down her pen with a sigh of fatigue, and bent and unbent her cramped fingers. But it was not fatigue that made her stop work. She wanted to talk to Clare Hartill, and had a queer conviction that Clare Hartill wanted to talk to her. "Finished?" Clare spoke from the shadow of her deep chair. Her back was to the light, but Henrietta faced the west window. The evening sun laid bare her face for Clare's inspection. Not a flicker of expression could escape her, if she chose to look. "More or less. I want half-an-hour's rest." "I don't wonder. You've had everything to see to." Clare's voice was delicately sympathetic. Henrietta unbent. "A secretary's work isn't showy, Miss Hartill, but it's necessary: and any happening that's out of the common doubles it. The correspondence over this unhappy affair alone----" "I know. Of course, at Miss Marsham's age----" "It all falls on me! People don't realise that. The extra work is enormous. Miss Marsham depends on me so entirely, of course." "Yes, yes," murmured Clare appreciatively. Henrietta played with her papers. "I feel the responsibility very strongly," she said abruptly; but her tone was confidential. Clare nodded. "Yet, of course--as far as nominal responsibility goes--I am not the head of the school. I cannot be held responsible--any oversight----" Clare nodded. "Oh, Miss Vigers--you merely carry out instructions, like the rest of us"--she hesitated imperceptibly--"officially," she added slowly. Henrietta looked relieved. "I am so glad you see what I mean." "Oh, I do, entirely," Clare assured her grimly. "I'm not heartless," said Henrietta suddenly, flushing. Her tone justified herself against unuttered criticism. "And the poor child's death was as much a shock to me as to any one. But I was not fond of her--as you were, for instance----" Clare's pose never altered. "I was very proud of her," she said gently. "I thought her an exceptional child. But, as Miss Durand said to me only a few days ago--I didn't really know her: not, at least, as she did. Alwynne, I know, thinks we have lost a genius. But you're right--it was a shock to me--a terrible shock." "It was that to everybody, naturally. But in a way it's curious," said Henrietta meditatively, "how much we all feel it--how oppressively, at least: for I don't think any one was very fond of Louise." "Oh, Miss Durand was deeply attached to her," Clare protested, her beautiful voice low with emotion. "Yes, of course! Oh, I've noticed that." Clare's unusual accessibility made Henrietta anxious to agree. Also, though she had noticed nothing unusual, she did not wish to appear lacking in penetration. She recalled Alwynne's haggard face; recollected how much she had had to do with the child; and decided that Clare was probably right. "But except for her," she went on, "and your interest in her----" "I've never had such a pupil," said Clare calmly. "Industrious--original--oh, I shall miss her, I know. But you're right--she was not popular----" "Yet everybody feels her death--among ourselves, I mean--to an extraordinary degree. After all--an accident is only an accident, however dreadful! But there's a sort of oppression on us--a kind of fear. Do you know what I mean? I think we all feel it. It draws us together in a curious way." "'The Tie of Common Funk,'" rapped out Clare, forgetting her rôle. Henrietta stiffened. "I don't think it is an occasion for slang," she said. "The child's not buried yet." Clare bit back a flippancy. "I thought you would realise," continued Henrietta severely, "that the situation is trying for us all----" "Of course I do." Clare hastened to soothe her. "But seriously, Miss Vigers, I do not think you need be anxious. The inquest--oh, a painful ordeal, if you like. But you, at least, can have no reason to reproach yourself." Henrietta relaxed again. "No! As I say, I'm not the head of the school. I'm not responsible for regulations--only for carrying them out. And accidents will happen." "I only hope," said Clare, as if to herself, "that it will be considered an accident----" Henrietta stared. "But Miss Hartill! Of course it was an accident!" Clare looked at her wistfully. "Yes! It was, wasn't it? Yes, of course! It must have been an accident." Her tone dismissed the matter. But Henrietta was on the alert. Her own anxieties had been skilfully allayed. Her mind was recovering poise. She nosed a mystery and her reviving sense of importance insisted on sharing the knowledge of it. "Miss Hartill--you are not suggesting----?" Her tone invited confidence. Clare gave a little natural laugh. "Oh, my dear woman--I'm all nerves just at present. Of course I'm not suggesting anything. One gets absurd ideas into one's head. I'm only too relieved to hear you laugh at me. Your common sense is always a real support to me, you know. I've grown to depend on it all these years. I'm afraid I've got into the way of taking it too much for granted." She gave a charming little deprecatory shrug. Henrietta flushed: she felt herself warming unaccountably to Clare Hartill. She wondered why she had never before taken the trouble to draw her out.... She was evidently a woman of heart as well as brain. She felt vaguely that she must constantly have been unjust to her. But these sensations only whetted her eager curiosity. She pulled in her chair to the hearth. "But what ideas, Miss Hartill? If you will tell me--I should be the last person to laugh. I have far too much respect for--I wish you would tell me what is worrying you. Does anything make you think it was not an accident?" Clare was the picture of reluctance. "Impressions--vague ideas--is it fair to formulate them? Even if Louise were unbalanced--but, of course, I did not see much of her out of class. I confess I thought her manner strained at times. But I teach. I have nothing to do with the supervision of the younger children." "That is Miss Durand's business," remarked Henrietta crisply. "Oh, but if she had noticed anything----" began Clare. Then, lamely, "Obviously she didn't----" "It was her business to. She should have reported to me. Why, she coached Louise, didn't she?" "Of course, if Louise had really overworked--badly----" reflected Clare, with the distressed air of one on whom unwelcome ideas are dawning. "One hears of cases--in Germany--but it's impossible!" Henrietta looked genuinely shocked, but none the less she was excited. "She failed in that exam.----" she adduced. "Yes! Miss Durand coached her for that, you know. Poor Miss Durand! How she slaved over her! She was dreadfully disappointed," said Clare indulgently. "Of course, she let her overdo herself!" cried Henrietta triumphantly. "But you coached her too--didn't you notice either?" "I coach the whole class. You know how busy I am. I'm afraid I left Louise a good deal to Alwynne," said Clare regretfully. "But she's supposed to be grown up--an asset to the school, according to Miss Marsham," said Henrietta tartly. "But, I must say, if she couldn't see that the child was doing too much, she's not fit to teach----" "Oh, my dear!" cried Clare, distressed. "You mustn't say such things. You've no idea how conscientious Alwynne is. She may have worked Louise too hard--but with the best intentions. She would be heartbroken if you suggested it." "Oh, you are always very lenient to Miss Durand," began Henrietta, with a touch of jealousy. "Ah! She's so young! So full of the zeal of youth. Besides, I'm very fond of her." Clare's smile took Henrietta into her confidence--confessed to an amiable weakness. Henrietta brooded. "Oh, Miss Hartill, you talk of my common sense. I wish--I wish you could see Miss Durand from my point of view for a moment." She eyed Clare, attentive and plastic in her shadows, and took courage. "This--appalling--probability----" "Possibility----" Clare deprecated. "Oh, but it seems terribly probable to me--only carries on my idea of Miss Durand. She is so ignorant--so inexperienced--so undisciplined--she cannot possibly have a good influence on young children----" "She is my friend!" Clare reminded her, with gentle dignity. "And if your suspicions are correct--if Louise's death were not accidental--if it had anything to do with her state of mind--if it were the effect of overwork--I consider--I must consider Miss Durand in some measure responsible. I feel that Miss Marsham should be told." Clare shook her head. Her solemn, candid eyes abashed Henrietta. "Miss Vigers--we are speaking in confidence. I should never forgive myself if anything I've said to you were repeated." "Of course, of course!" Henrietta appeased her hastily. "But I've had my own suspicions--oh, for a long time, I assure you. I've not been blind. And I might feel it my duty--on my account, you understand--after all Miss Marsham depends on me implicitly--to speak to her--for the sake of the school----" Clare considered. "That, of course--I can't prevent. But Miss Vigers--forgive me--but--don't let your sense of responsibility make you unfair. And for heaven's sake, don't let my vague uneasiness--it's really nothing more--affect your judgment. We may both be utterly mistaken. I am sure the result of the inquest will prove us mistaken after all--it will be found to have been an accident." Henrietta closed her lips obstinately. Clare rose in her place. "It was an accident!" she cried passionately. "In my heart I am sure. I wish I'd never said anything to you. I'd no right to be suspicious. Think of what Miss Durand's feelings would be if she realised----" She flung out her hands appealingly. "Oh, we're two overwrought women, aren't we? Sitting in the dusk and scaring ourselves with bogies. It was an accident, Miss Vigers--a tragic accident! Make yourself think so! Make me think so too!" Her beautiful eyes implored comfort. Henrietta, quite touched, patted her awkwardly on the arm. She enjoyed her transient superiority. "Of course, of course, we'll try to think so. Now you must go home. You are quite overwrought. It will be a trying day for us all to-morrow. I shall go to bed early too. Won't you go home now?" Clare nodded, mute, grateful. She went to her peg, and took down her hat and jacket. "Have you finished with Miss Durand? She was going home with me." "Oh! Miss Durand!" Henrietta's tone grew crisper. "Yes, of course. I'll see if she has done. I'll send her to you. And you mustn't let yourself worry, Miss Hartill. Leave it all to me. These things are more my province. Good-night!" said Henrietta cordially. She left the room. Clare, pinning on her hat, stared critically at herself in the inadequate mirror. "I think," she said confidentially, "we did that rather well." She smiled. The cynical lips smiled back at her. "You beast!" cried Clare, with sudden passion. "You beast! You beast!" She was still staring at herself when Alwynne came for her. CHAPTER XXVI Clare Hartill's precautions proved to be unnecessary as the alarms of her colleagues. The inquest was a formal and quickly concluded affair, and the only corollary to the verdict of accidental death was an expression of sympathy with all concerned. Whereon, there being no further cause for the detaining of Louise Denny above ground, she was elegantly and expeditiously buried. The whole school attended the funeral. The flowers required a second carriage, and for the first time in his life, Mr. Denny was genuinely proud of his daughter. He did not believe that his own death could have extracted more lavish tributes from the purses of his acquaintances. Clare Hartill, writing a card for her wreath of incredible orchids, did not regret her extravagance. After all--one must keep up one's position.... There would certainly not be such another wreath in the churchyard.... How Louise would have exclaimed over it! Poor child.... It was all one could do for her now. Clare hesitated, pen arrested--"With deepest sympathy." It was not necessary to write anything more.... Her name was printed already.... But Louise would have liked a message.... After all, she had been very proud of Louise.... She reversed the card, and wrote, almost illegibly, in a corner, "Louise--with love. C. H." She paused, lips pursed. Sentimental, perhaps? Possibly.... But let it go.... Hastily she impaled her card on its attendant pin, and thrust it, print upward, among the flowers. The message was for Louise; no one else need see it. Alwynne, too, sent flowers. But as usual she had spent all but a fraction of her salary. Seven and sixpence does not make a show, even if the garland be home-made. The shabby wreath was forgotten among the crowd of hot-house blooms. It lay in a corner till the day after the funeral. Then the housemaid threw it away. So Louise had no message from Alwynne. By the end of a fortnight Louise was barely a memory in the school. A month had obliterated her entirely. Yet her short career and sudden death had its influence on school and individual alike. Miss Marsham had had her lesson; she began to make her preliminary preparations for giving up her head mistress-ship, and selling her interest in the school; though it was the following spring before she began to negotiate definitely with Clare, on whom her choice had finally fallen. She would not be hurried; she would not appear anxious to settle her affairs; but she had determined, between regret and relief, that the next summer should be the last of her reign. Henrietta, though her anxieties were abated by the turn affairs had taken, was still doubtful whether Miss Marsham were as blindly reliant upon her as usual. But, though feeling her position still somewhat insecure, her spirits had risen, and her natural love of interference had risen with them. She could not forget her conversation with Miss Hartill: an amazing conversation--a conversation teeming with suggestions and possibilities.... Of course, Miss Hartill had had no idea, poor distracted woman, of how skilfully Henrietta had drawn her out.... Henrietta felt pleased with herself. Without once referring to Miss Hartill, she could follow out her own plans as far as Miss Durand was concerned.... Later, Miss Hartill might remember that apparently innocent conversation and realise that Henrietta had stolen a march on her.... Yet, though she might be loyally angry, for her friend's sake, she could not do anything to cross Henrietta's arrangements ... could not wish to do anything, because essentially, if reluctantly, she had approved them, had recognised that it was time to curtail Miss Durand's activities.... Henrietta felt virtuous. Miss Durand had brought it on herself.... She wished her no harm.... But it was right that Marsham should realise how far she was from an ideal school-mistress.... She had been engaged as scholastic maid-of-all-work.... Yet in a few terms she had become second only to Miss Hartill herself.... It was not fit.... Let her go back to her beginnings.... She, Henrietta, had only to open Miss Marsham's eyes.... But to that end there must be evidence.... For the rest of the term, patient and peering as a rag-picker, she went about collecting her evidence. Clare did not give another thought to her conversation with the gimlet-eyed secretary. It had served its purpose--had been a barrier between herself and the possibility of attack--had given her a feeling of security. She perceived, nevertheless, that her transient affability had made Henrietta violently her adherent. Clare was resigned to knowing that the change of face would be temporary--she could not allow a parading of herself as an intimate, and thither, she shrewdly suspected, would Henrietta's amenities lead. But she found it amusing to be gracious, as long as no more was expected of her. She did not like Henrietta one whit the better; felt herself, indeed, degraded by the expedient to which she had resorted, and fiercely despised her tool. Henrietta should be given rope, might attack Alwynne unhindered, nevertheless she should hang herself at the last.... Clare would ensure that.... Once--Henrietta had called her a cat.... Oh, she had heard of it! Well--for the present, she would purr to Henrietta, blank-eyed, claws sheathed.... Let her serve her turn. But Clare, beneath her schemes and jealousies, was, nevertheless, deeply and sincerely unhappy. The removal of the entirely selfish and cold-blooded panic that had been upon her since Louise's death, left her free to entertain deeper and sincerer feelings. She thought of Louise incessantly, with a growing feeling of regret and responsibility. She hated responsibility, though she loved authority--she had always shut her eyes to the effects of her caprices. But the more she thought of Louise, the more insistent grew her qualms. That the child was dead of its own will, she never doubted; but she fought desperately against the suggestion that her own conduct could have affected its state of mind, was ready to accept the most preposterous premise, whose ensuing chain of reasoning could acquit her. But nobody having accused her, no ingenuity of herself or another, could, for the time being, acquit her. She was merely a prey to her own intangible uneasinesses. Yet it needed but a key to set the whole machinery of her conscience in motion against her. The key was to be found. The term was drawing to an end, and Alwynne, rounding off her special classes and generally making up arrears, was proportionately busy. She still spent her week-ends with Clare, but she brought her work along with her. She had her corner of the table, and Clare her desk, and the two would work till the small hours. But by the last Sunday evening, Clare's piles of reports and examination papers had disappeared, and she was free to lie at ease on her sofa, and to laugh at Alwynne, still immersed in exercise books, and tantalise her with airy plans for the long, delicious holidays. It had been, in spite of the season, a day of rain and cold winds. The skies had cleared at the sunset, with its red promise of fine weather once more, but the remnant of a fire still smouldered on the hearth. Alwynne was flushed with the interest of her work, but ever and again Clare shivered, and pulled the quilted sofa-wrap more closely about her. She wished that Alwynne would be quick.... Surely Alwynne could finish off her work some other time.... It wouldn't hurt her to get up early for once, for that matter.... She was bored.... She was dull.... She wanted amusement.... She wanted Alwynne, and attention, and affection, and a little butterfly kiss or two.... Alwynne ought to be awake to the fact that she was wanted.... She watched her, between fretfulness and affection, æsthetically appreciative of the big young body in the lavender frock, and the crown of shining hair, pleased with her property, intensely impatient of its interest in anything but herself. "Alwynne----?" There was a hint of neglect in her voice. Alwynne beamed, but her eyes were abstracted. "Only another half-hour, Clare. I must just finish these. You don't mind, do you?" "I? Mind?" Clare laughed elaborately. She picked up a book, and there was silence once more. Leaves fluttered and a pen scraped. The light began to fade. Suddenly Alwynne gave a smothered exclamation. Clare looked up and pulled herself upright, angry enough. "Alwynne! Your carelessness--you've dropped your wet pen on my carpet. It's too bad." Alwynne groped hastily beneath the table. But even the prolonged stooping had not brought back the colour to her cheek, as she replaced her pen on the stand. "I'm sorry. I was startled. It hasn't marked it. Clare--just listen to this." "What have you got hold of?" demanded Clare irritably. She disliked spots and spillings and mess, as Alwynne might know. "It's Louise's composition book. I always wondered where it had got to, when I cleared out her desk. It must have lain about and got collected in with the rest, yesterday." "Well?" said Clare, with a show of indifference. "Here's that essay on King John and his times. Do you remember? You gave it to them to do just before the play. It's not corrected. Not finished." She hesitated. "Clare! It's rather queer." "Is it any good?" said Clare meditatively. "What for?" "The School Magazine. We're short of copy. The child wrote well. But I suppose it wouldn't do to use it--though I don't see why not." Suddenly Alwynne began to read aloud. "_Another way by which King John got money from the Jews was by threatening them with torture. He was all-powerful. He could draw their teeth, tooth by tooth, twist their thumbs, or leave them to rot in dark, silent prisons. They could not do anything against him. If he could not force them to yield up their treasure he would have them burned, or cause them to be pressed to death. This is a horrible torture. I read about a woman who was killed in this way in the 'Hundred Best Books'; and there was a man in Good King Charles's days whom they killed like this. It is the worst death of any. They tie you down, so that you cannot move at all, and there is a slab of stone that hangs a little above you. This sinks very slowly, so that all the first day you just lie and stare at it and wonder if it really moves. People come and give you food and laugh at you. You are scarcely afraid, because it moves so little and you think nobody could be really so cruel and hurt you so horribly, and that you will be saved somehow. But all the time the stone is sinking--sinking--and the day goes by and the night comes and they leave you alone. And perhaps you go to sleep at last. You are horribly tired, because of the weeks of fear that are behind you. Perhaps you dream. You dream you are free and people love you, and you have done nothing wrong and you are frightfully happy, and the one you love most kisses your forehead. But then the kiss grows so cold that you shrink away, only you cannot, and it presses you harder and harder, and you wake up and it is the stone. It is the sinking stone that is pressing you, pressing you, pressing you to death--and you cannot move. And you shriek and shriek for help within your gagged mouth, and no one comes, and always the stone is pressing you, pressing you, pressing you_----" Clare caught the exercise-book from Alwynne's hand and thrust it into the heart of the half-dead fire. It lay unlighted, charring and smouldering. The unformed handwriting stood out very clearly. Clare caught at a matchbox, and tore it open; the matches showered out over her hand on to the rug and grate. She struck one after another, breaking them before they could light. Silently Alwynne took the box from her shaking fingers, lit a match and held it to the twisting papers. A thin little flame flickered up, overran them eagerly, wavered a second, and died with a faint whistling sigh. "Do you hear that? Did you see that?" Clare knelt upright on the hearth. She held up her forefinger. "Listen! Like a voice! Like a child's voice! A child sighing! Light the candles--light all the candles! I want light everywhere. No room for any shadow." But as Alwynne moved obediently, she caught at her hand. "Alwynne! Stay with me! Don't go into another room. Alwynne, I'm frightened of my thoughts." Alwynne put her hand shyly on her shoulders, talking at random. "Clare, dear, do get up. Come on to the sofa. You mustn't kneel there. You'll strain yourself. I always get tired kneeling in church. It makes one's heart ache." Clare would not move. "Don't you think my heart aches?" she said. "Don't you think it aches all day? You're young--you're cold--you can sit there reading, reading--with a ghost at your shoulder----" An undecipherable expression flashed across Alwynne's face. It came but to go--and Clare, absorbed in her own passion, saw nothing. "It's Louise!" she cried, between sincerity and histrionics. "Calling to some one. Calling from her grave. They call it an accident, like fools. Oh, can't you hear? She died because she was forced. She's complaining--plaining--plaining----I tell you it's nothing to do with me. It wasn't my fault!" She flung her arms about Alwynne's waist and clutched her convulsively. She was sincere enough at last. "Alwynne! Alwynne! Say it was not my fault." Alwynne sank to her knees beside her and held her close. They clung to each other like scared children. But Clare's abandonment awoke all Alwynne's protective instincts. She crushed down whatever emotions had hollowed her eyes and whitened her cheeks in the last long weeks, and addressed herself to quieting Clare. Clare, stepped off her pedestal, unpoised, clinging helplessly, was a new experience. In the face of it she felt herself childish, inadequate. But Clare was in trouble and needed her. The very marvel of it steadied. All her love for Clare rose within her, overflowed her, like a warm tide. By sheer strength she pulled Clare into a chair and dropped on to the floor beside her, face upturned, talking fast and eagerly. "You're not to talk like that. Of course it's not your fault. If anything could be your fault. Clare, darling, don't look like that. You must lean back and rest. You're just tired, you know. We've talked of it so often. You know it was an accident. Why can't you believe it, if every one else does?" "Do you?" said Clare intently. Alwynne's eyes met hers defiantly. "I do. Of course I do. It's wicked to torment yourself. But if I didn't--if the poor baby was overtired and overworked--is it your fault? You only saw her in class at the last. You couldn't help it if the exams, and the play were suddenly too much--if something snapped----" "You see, you do think so," said Clare bitterly. "I've always known you did. Well--think what you like--what do I care?" She put up her clenched hands and rubbed and kneaded at her dry aching eyes. Alwynne watched her, desperately. Here was her lady wanting comfort, and she had found none. She wracked her brains as the sluggish minutes passed. Clare's hands dropped at last. She met Alwynne's anxious gaze and laughed harshly. "Well? The verdict? That I was a brute to Louise, I suppose?" Alwynne looked at her wistfully. "Clare, I do love you so." Clare stiffened. "Then I warn you--stop! I'm not good for you. I hurt people who love me. You always pestered me about hurting Louise. You needn't protest. You always did. And now you lay her death at my door. I see it in your face. Can't I read you like a book? Can't I? Can't I?" Her face was distorted by the conflict within her. Alwynne's simplicity was convinced. Here, she felt, was tragedy. Awe and pity tore at her sense of reality. Love loosened her tongue. Her words rushed forth in a torrent of incoherent argument. She was so eager that her fallacies had power to convince herself, much more Clare. "Clare, I won't have it. You don't know what you say. What is this mad idea you've got? What would poor Louise think if she heard? Why, she adored you. And you were kind--always kind--only when you thought it better for her, you were strict. It's folly to torment yourself. If you do--what about me?" "You?" Clare's eyes glinted suddenly. "Me! If you are to blame, how much more I? Oh, don't you see?" Alwynne's face grew rapt. Here was inspiration; her path grew suddenly clear. "Clare, don't you see? If she did--" she paused imperceptibly--"I ought to have seen what was coming. I knew her so much better than you." Clare repressed a denial. "Oh, darling--you mustn't worry. It's my responsibility. Try and think--at the play, for instance. Did you think her manner strained? No, of course you didn't. But I did. I thought at the time it had all been too much for her. I did notice--I did! I thought--that child will get brain-fever if we're not careful----I meant to speak to Elsbeth. I meant to speak to you. Oh, I'd noticed before. Only I was busy, and lazy, and put it off. She was unhappy at failing--I knew. I wanted to tell you that I know how much it meant to her--and I didn't. I was afraid----" She broke off abruptly; her eloquence ended as suddenly as it had begun. But she had succeeded in her desire. Clare was recovering poise; would soon have herself all the more rigidly in control for her recent collapse. She stiffened as she spoke. "Afraid of whom?" "I mean I was afraid all along of what might happen," Alwynne concluded lamely. "You see, it was my fault?" There was an odd half-query in her voice. "If you noticed so much and never tried to warn me, you are certainly to blame." Clare's voice was full of reluctant conviction. "I can't remember that you tried very hard." "Oh, Clare!" began Alwynne. Their eyes met. Clare's face was hard and impassive--all trace of emotion gone. Her eyes challenged. Alwynne's lids dropped as she finished her sentence. "That is--no, I didn't try very hard." "And why not?" Inconceivably an answer suggested itself to Alwynne, an unutterable iconoclasm. Her mind edged away from it horrified and in an instant it was not. But it had been. "I don't know," she stammered. "You realised the responsibility you incurred?" Clare went on. "I didn't. No, never!" Alwynne supplicated her. "You do now?" "Oh, yes," she said despairingly. She rejoiced that Clare could believe and be comforted, but it hurt her that she believed so easily. It alarmed her, too, made her, knowing her own motives, yet doubt herself. She felt trapped. "I'm sorry you told me," said Clare abruptly. They sat a moment in silence. A ray from the dying sun illuminated their faces. In Alwynne an innocent air of triumph fought with distress, and a growing uneasiness. Clare was expressionless. Clare put up her hand to shelter herself, and her face was scarcely visible as she went on. She spoke softly. "My dear, I can't say I'm not relieved. I feel exonerated--completely. Yet I wish you hadn't told me. I'd have rather thought it my fault than known it----" "Mine," said Alwynne huskily. Clare bent towards her, tender, gracious, yet subtly aloof; confessor, not friend. "Oh, Alwynne! Why will you always be so sure of yourself? Why not have come to me for advice as you used to? What are we elder folk for? I love your impetuosity--your self-reliance--and I believe, I shall always believe, that you wanted to spare me trouble and worry. I know you. But you're not all enough, Alwynne, to decide everything for yourself. You won't believe it, I suppose--oh, I was just the same. But doesn't all this dreadful business show you? A few words--and Louise might have been with us now. Of course you acted for the best, but----There, my dear, there, there----" for her beautiful, pitiful voice had played too exquisitely on Alwynne's nerves, and the girl was sobbing helplessly. And Clare was very kind to Alwynne, and let her cry in peace. And when she was tired of watching her, she braced her with deft praises of courage and self-control. Self-control appealed very strongly to Clare, Alwynne knew. While she dried her eyes, Clare whispered to her that the past was past and that one couldn't repair one's mistakes by dwelling on them. Let devotion to the living blot out a debt to the dead. She must try and forget. Clare would help her. Clare would try to forget too. They would never speak of it again. Never by word or look would Clare refer to it. It should be blotted out and forgotten. And after a discreet interval, when there was no chance of big, irrepressible tears dropping into the gravy, or salting the butter, Clare thought she would like her supper. She made quite a hearty meal, and Alwynne crumbled bread and drank thirstily, and watched her with humble, adoring eyes. Clare, in soft undertones, was delicately amusing, full of dainty quips that coaxed Alwynne gently back to smiles and naturalness. She spared no pains, and sent Alwynne home at last, with, metaphorically speaking, her blessing. But Alwynne stooped as she walked, as though she carried a burden. CHAPTER XXVII The summer holidays came and went, eight cloudless weeks of them. Clare loved the sun; was well content to be out, day after day, cushioned and replete, on the sunniest strip of sand in the sunniest corner of a parched and gasping England. She found it wonderfully soothing to listen with shut eyes to the purr of the sea and the distant cries of gulls and children, with Alwynne to fan her and shade her, and clamber up and down two hundred feet of red cliff for her when the corkscrew was forgotten, or the salt, or Clare's bathing-dress, or a half-read magazine. Clare grew brown and plump as the drowsy days went by. Alwynne grew brown, too, but she certainly did not grow plumper. But then the heat never suited Alwynne. She had often said so, as she reminded Elsbeth. For, when Alwynne came back to her for the three weeks at home that she had persuaded Clare were due to Elsbeth, Elsbeth was difficult to satisfy. Elsbeth was inclined to be indignant. What sort of a holiday had it been, if Alwynne could come back so thin, and tired, and colourless under her tan? What had Miss Hartill been about to allow it? But Alwynne's account of their pleasant lazy days was certainly appeasing.... It must have been the heat.... Not even the most suspicious of aunts could conscientiously suspect Clare of having anything to do with it.... Wait till September came, with its cooling skies.... Alwynne would be better then. In the meantime Elsbeth tried what care and cookery and coddling could do, and Alwynne submitted more patiently than usual. Alwynne, indeed, was unusually gentle with Elsbeth in the three weeks they spent together before the autumn term began. She was always good to Elsbeth, considerate of her bodily comforts, lovingly demonstrative. But Clare had taught Alwynne very carefully that she was growing up at last, becoming financially and morally independent, free to lead her own life, that if she stayed with Elsbeth it was by favour, not by duty. And Alwynne, immensely flattered by the picture of herself as a woman of the world, had lived up to it with her usual drastic enthusiasm. Elsbeth, not unused to disillusionment and hopes deferred, could sigh and smile and acquiesce, knowing it for the phase that it was and forgiving Alwynne in advance. But Clare, who owed her neither gratitude nor duty, she never forgave. She was a very human woman, for all her saintliness. She got her reward that summer, when Alwynne came back, quieted, grave, very tender with Elsbeth, clinging to her sometimes as if she were nearer nine than nineteen. But Elsbeth was fated never to have her happiness untainted. She was haunted by the conviction that Alwynne's subduement was not natural. Her pleasure in being with her aunt was so obvious that Elsbeth was worried, and knowing how infallibly Alwynne turned to her in any trouble, she expected revelations. But none came--only the manner was there that always accompanied them. Yet something was wrong.... A quarrel with Clare Hartill. But Alwynne, delicately questioned, chattered happily enough of their holiday, and there were frequent letters----She was over-anxious, too, to protest that she was perfectly well, and, in proof, exhausted herself in unnecessary housework. But she continued restless and abstracted, jumped absurdly at any sudden noise, and followed Elsbeth about like a homeless dog. And she had contracted an odd habit of coming late at night into Elsbeth's room, trailing blankets and a pillow under her arm, to beg to sleep on Elsbeth's sofa--just this once! She would laugh at herself and pull Elsbeth's face down to her for a kiss, but she never gave any good reason for her whim. But she came so often that Elsbeth had a bed made up for her at last, and she slept there all the holidays, or lay awake. Elsbeth suspected that she lay awake two nights out of three. With the autumn term Alwynne seemed to rouse herself, and flung herself into her work with her usual energy. Elsbeth saw less of her. The school claimed all her days, and Clare the bulk of her evenings. She had moved back into her own room again, and Elsbeth, her door ajar, would lie and watch the crack of light across the passage, and grieve over her darling's sleeplessness, and the shocking waste of electric light. She wondered if the girl were working too hard.... Could that be at the root of the matter? She grew so anxious that she could even consult Clare on one of the latter's rare and formal calls. "I am so glad to see you. Alwynne is changing; she'll be down in a minute. I made her lie down. Miss Hartill, I'm very distressed about the child. Do you think she looks well?" Clare, less staccato than usual, certainly didn't think so. "So thin--she's growing so dreadfully thin! Her neck! You should see her neck--salt-cellars, literally! And she had such a beautiful neck! But you've never seen her in evening dress." Yes, Clare had seen her. "And so white and listless! I don't know what to make of her. I don't know what to do." Clare, with unusual gentleness, would not advise Elsbeth to worry herself. Possibly Alwynne was doing a little too much. Clare would make enquiries. But she was sure that Elsbeth was over-anxious. But Elsbeth was not to be comforted. She nodded to the open door. "Look at her now--dragging across the hall." But Alwynne, in her gay frock, cheeks, at sight of Clare, suddenly aflame, did not look as if there were much amiss. She was thinner, of course.... Elsbeth, however, had made Clare uneasy. She attacked Alwynne on the following day. "Your aunt says you're dying, Alwynne. What's the matter?" "Dear old Elsbeth!" Alwynne laughed lightly. "_Is_ anything wrong?" Clare did not appear to look at her; nevertheless she did not miss the slight change in Alwynne's face, as she answered with careful cheeriness-- "What should be wrong in this best of all possible----" Clare caught her up. "I'm not a fool, Alwynne. What's the matter?" "I wish you wouldn't discuss me with Elsbeth," said Alwynne uneasily. "I don't like it. I won't have you bothered." "I'm not," said Clare coolly. "At the same time----" Alwynne braced herself. She knew the tone. "--I don't like any one about me with a secret grief and a pale, courageous smile. I can't stand a martyr." "I'm not!" Alwynne was wincing. Then, suddenly: "What has Elsbeth been saying? Honestly, I didn't know she'd noticed anything." "What is the matter?" said Clare again, gently enough. "Tell me, silly child!" Alwynne shrugged her shoulders. "Nothing! Just life!" Clare waited. "I'm sorry if I've been horrid--" she paused--"to Elsbeth." Clare opened her eyes. "What about me?" "I'm never horrid to you," said Alwynne with compunction. "That's what's so beastly of me." "Well, upon my word!" cried Clare blankly. "Oh, you know what I mean." Alwynne jumbled her words. "I always want to be nice to you. It's perfectly easy. And then I go home to Elsbeth, the darling, and am grumpy and snappy, and show her all the hateful side of me. Heaven knows why! Only yesterday she said, 'You wouldn't speak to Clare Hartill like that,' in her dear, hurt voice. I felt such a brute." A little smile hovered at the corners of Clare's mouth. "I was always so sorry," said Clare smoothly, "that you couldn't spend Christmas Day with me last year." Alwynne wrinkled her forehead. "What's that got to do----?" Clare caught her up. "With your secret griefs? Nothing whatever! You're quite right. But what are they, Alwynne? Who's been worrying you? Have you got too much to do?" "It's not that," said Alwynne unwillingly. "Then what?" "Oh, things!" "What things?" "Miss Vigers, for one," Alwynne began. Then she burst out: "Clare, I don't know what I've done to her. She never leaves me alone." Clare stiffened. "Miss Vigers? What has she to say to you? You're responsible to me--after Miss Marsham." "She doesn't seem to think so. It's nag, nag, nag--fuss, fuss, fuss. Are the girls working properly? Am I not neglecting this? Or overdoing that? Do I remember that Dolly Brown had measles three terms ago? Why is Winifred Hawkins allowed to sit with the light in her eyes? Do I make a habit of keeping So-and-so in? and if so, why so? And Miss Marsham doesn't approve of this, and Miss Marsham evidently doesn't know of that--and my manner is excessively independent--and will I kindly remember...? Oh, Clare, it's simply awful. I get no peace. And you know how driven I am, with Miss Hutchins away. You'd think I'd done something awful from the way she treats me. Everlastingly spying and hinting----" "Hinting what?" Clare's voice was icy. "That's what I can't make out. That's the maddening part of it. Do you think I'm such a failure? Do you think I'm not to be trusted? I get on with the children--they work well! Truly, Clare, I don't know why she dislikes me so. You'd think she was trying to worry me into leaving." "You should have told me before," said Clare curtly, and changed the subject so abruptly that Alwynne feared she was angry, and wished that she had held her tongue. She was right. Clare was angry. Clare had conveniently forgotten her little conversation with Henrietta on that panic-stricken summer day: was naturally surprised and indignant to find it bearing the fruit she had intended it to bear. This was what came of confiding in people! And Henrietta, she had no doubt, would be prepared to give chapter and verse for her surveillance, if Clare should, directly or indirectly, call it in question.... Henrietta would appear to have Clare in a cleft stick: and Alwynne was to suffer in consequence. Clare (a great deal fonder of Alwynne than she, or Alwynne, or any one save Elsbeth, guessed) laughed to herself, once, softly, and her eyes snapped. Wait a while, Henrietta ... wait a wee while! Thoughtfully she approached the question of the counter-attack. That was inevitable, a sop to her own conscience. Besides, it would be amusing.... It was necessary, however, to decide upon the weapon. It was a small matter--the refusal of a boarder for lack of space--that provided it. Quietly, she went to work. For the first time, for her own departments had allowed her energy its outlet, she set herself to disentangle the lines on which the school was run. She found many knots. Half day, half boarding school, grown from a timid beginning into one of the most flourishing of its kind, it was, indeed, like the five hundred-year-old town in which it stood, a marvellous compound of ancient custom and modern usage. The "Seminary for Young Ladies" of the 'seventies was three parts obliterated by the 'nineties High School regimen, on which, in its turn, was superimposed the cricket and hockey of the twentieth century's effemination of the public-school system; the whole swollen, patchwork concern held together by the personality of its creator, and its own reputation. Clare nodded. It was obvious to her, that with the retirement of Miss Marsham, accomplished already in all save name, the school would fall to pieces. A pity ... it had a fine past ... was a valuable property still.... With a vigorous woman at its head, judiciously iconoclastic, no stickler for tradition, it would revive its youth.... She herself, for instance.... She toyed with the idea. Miss Marsham was looking out for a successor.... She herself had been sounded.... Should she? She shook her head. Life was very pleasant as it was.... She knew that she hated responsibility as much as she liked power.... She sat on the school's shoulders, at present.... As head mistress the school would sit on hers.... No, thank you! She had better uses for her spare time.... There were books ... idleness ... Alwynne.... Imagine never having time to play with Alwynne! Nevertheless it would be fascinating to plan out the reorganisation of the school ... and carry it out, for that matter. She could do it, she knew. She would get all pat and then have some talks--some suggestive talks--with Miss Marsham.... She, Clare, had some little influence.... And there was life in the old warhorse yet.... Anything that she could be persuaded to believe would benefit her school would have her instant sanction.... She would be nominally responsible, of course, and would give Clare, nevertheless, a free hand.... And Clare, sweeping clean, would sweep away whatever withstood her.... Henrietta would have little energy left for Alwynne when Clare had finished her spring-cleaning.... For the next few weeks, Clare spent nearly all her spare time at the school. She would stay to supper, and even, on occasion, superintend "lights out." She would ask artless questions, and the matron and the young mistresses found her "so sympathetic when you really got her to yourself. So sensible, you know--always sees what you mean." Finally, Clare shut herself up for a Saturday and a Sunday with a neat little note-book, and drew up plans and made some calculations. Then she went to see Miss Marsham. She went to see Miss Marsham several times. The plan was certainly an excellent one.... Miss Marsham could not follow the details very well ... but that, of course, would be dear Clare's affair.... A great saving ... an immense improvement.... There would be changes, of course.... This idea of separate houses, for instance.... It would mean taking extra premises--but Clare was quite right, they were overcrowded--had had to turn away girls.... She quite agreed with Clare ... she had always preferred boarders herself; one had a freer hand.... With a mistress responsible for each house, though, what would there be left for Miss Vigers to do?... Yes--she might take over a house, of course.... But Miss Marsham paused uneasily. She anticipated trouble with Henrietta. She was justified. Henrietta refused utterly to discuss the suggested alterations. Miss Marsham must excuse her; she had her position.... One house? after controlling the entire school's economy? She did not suggest that Miss Marsham could be serious--that was impossible.... Miss Marsham was serious? Then there was no more to be said.... She said a good deal, however, and at considerable length; ended, breathless, waspish, leaving her resignation in her principal's hands. Neither she nor Miss Marsham dreamed that it would be accepted. But Clare Hartill, consulted by Miss Marsham, was puzzlingly relieved. Very delicately she congratulated her chief on being extricated from a difficult position; praised Miss Vigers's tact--or her sense of fitness. Unusual good sense.... People so seldom realised their limitations, unprompted ... poor Miss Vigers was certainly no longer young ... hardly the woman for a modern house-mistress-ship.... Old fashioned ... in these days of degrees and college-training so much more was expected ... and after that affair in the summer no doubt she had lost confidence in herself.... Clare was sure that Miss Vigers had appreciated Miss Marsham's forbearance, but of course, she must know, in her own heart, that if she had taken proper precautions--it was her business to arrange for a mistress to be on duty, wasn't it?--the accident could not have happened. Poor little Louise! Oh, and of course, poor Miss Vigers too!... Well, it was for the best, she supposed ... and Miss Vigers seemed to feel that it was time for her to go.... Perhaps it was.... But they would all be sorry to lose her.... Clare really thought that she would like to get up a presentation from the school.... Now what did Miss Marsham consider appropriate? So Henrietta found herself taken at her word. She left, passionately resentful, at the half-term; hoping, at least, to embarrass her employer thereby. (But Clare Hartill knew of such a nice suitable woman--Newnham.) Henrietta Vigers was forty-seven when she left. She had spent youth and prime at the school, and had nothing more to sell. She had neither certificates nor recommendations behind her. She was hampered by her aggressive gentility. Out of a £50 salary she had scraped together £500. Invested daringly it yielded her £25 a year. She had no friends outside the school. She left none within it. Miss Marsham presented her with a gold watch, decorously inscribed; the school with a handsomely bound edition of Shakespeare. Heaven knows what became of her. CHAPTER XXVIII Said Clare to Elsbeth at their next meeting-- "I found out what the trouble was. Henrietta Vigers has been slave-driving her. I should have guessed before, but you know that sort of thing can go on in a school unnoticed." "Oh, yes," said Elsbeth. Clare shot a suspicious glance at her, but Elsbeth's face was impassive. "But she'll be all right now. Miss Vigers is leaving us at half-term." "So I hear." Their eyes met. Clare flushed faintly. "I couldn't have Alwynne bullied." "I know exactly how you feel," said Elsbeth quietly. Then, with a direct glance, "Has Miss Vigers got another post?" "I haven't enquired." "You're a bad enemy," Elsbeth's tone was quaintly reflective, almost admiring. "But a good friend, I hope?" Clare laughed. "I hope so," said Elsbeth doubtfully, and Clare laughed again. It amused her to cross swords with Elsbeth. At times she felt, that had it not been for Alwynne--that bone of contention she could have liked her. "You can't be one without the other," she instructed her. "I don't pretend to be a saint. And you'll see how much better Alwynne will be next term." But the spring term came, and Alwynne was no better. She flagged like a transplanted tree. She went about her business as usual, but even Clare, not too willing to acknowledge what interfered with her scheme of things, realised that her efficiency was laborious, that her high spirits were forced, her comicalities not spontaneous, that she was in fact, not herself, but merely an elaborate imitation. But where Elsbeth grew anxious Clare grew irritated. She spied a mystery. Some obscure, yet powerful instinct prevented her from probing it, but she was none the less piqued at being left in the dark. It annoyed her too, that Alwynne should be obviously and daily losing her health and good looks. Clare required above all vitality in her associates. It had been, in her eyes, one of Alwynne's most attractive characteristics. This changing Alwynne, whitened, quieted, submissive, the sparkle gone from her eyes and the snap from her tongue, was less to her taste. Alwynne, very conscious of her shortcomings and of Clare's irritation at them, grew daily more nervously propitiatory--ever a fatal attitude to Clare. It roused the petty tyrant in her. There were jarrings, misunderstandings, exhausting scenes and more exhausting reconciliations. Yet the two were always together. Clare, viciously adroit as she grew in those days in piercing the armour of Alwynne's peace, exacted nevertheless her incessant service. And never had Alwynne so strained every nerve to please her. Elsbeth, guessing at the situation, could give thanks when influenza, sweeping over the school, claimed Alwynne as its earliest victim. Her turn had come. She nursed Alwynne through the attack, prolonged her convalescence, excluded all enquirers, censored messages and letters. When Alwynne grew better, and talked, restless yet unwilling, of fixing the date of her return, Elsbeth, lips firmly set, went out one afternoon to pay a call upon Miss Marsham, and returning, sat down to write a letter. She busied herself for the rest of that day and all the next over Alwynne's wardrobe, mending and pressing and freshening. Alwynne protested. "Elsbeth dear, do leave my things alone. I'll mend them some time--honestly. They're all right. I wish you wouldn't fuss." But Elsbeth fussed placidly on. In the evening came letters for them both. Alwynne read hers hurriedly. "Elsbeth, it's from Clare! She wants to know why I'm not coming back. What does she mean? Of course I'm coming back. Mademoiselle Charette is already, and she was ill after I was!" Elsbeth sniffed. "She was only in bed two days--Miss Marsham said so. You're not going back this term, Alwynne. I've seen Miss Marsham myself. I told her what the doctor said. I've arranged things. She agrees with me--you're not fit to. It's only a month to end of term. They can manage. You've simply got to have a change. So I wrote to Dene--to the Lumsdens, and Alicia's answer has just come. They're delighted to have you. I knew they would be, of course. They have asked us so often. Such a lovely place. Now, my dear, be a sensible child and don't argue, because I've made up my mind. It'll do you good to get away." For in Alwynne's face astonishment had been succeeded by indignation. Elsbeth prepared herself resignedly to face a storm of protest, if not a blank refusal. To be arranged for as if she were a child--unconsulted--Clare--the school--the coaching--leaving Elsbeth alone--Dene--utter strangers--perfectly well--simply ridiculous. Elsbeth saw it all coming. "My dear Elsbeth! What a preposterous----" began Alwynne. Then the weakness of convalescence swamped her. She sank back in her chair. "Perhaps it will," said Alwynne wearily. "All right, Elsbeth! I'll go if you want me to. Anyway, I don't much care." CHAPTER XXIX A week later Alwynne was sitting in a diminutive go-cart drawn by a large pony, and driven by a large lady with a wide smile and bulgy knees, with which, as the little cart jolted over the stony road, she unconsciously nudged Alwynne, imparting an air of sly familiarity to her pleasant, formal talk. This, Alwynne supposed, was Alicia. She liked her, liked her fat kind face, her comfortable rotundity, and her sweet voice. She liked her cool disregard of her own comical appearance, wedged in among portmanteaux and Alwynne and a basket of market produce, with an old sun-hat tied bonnet-fashion to shade her eyes, and her scarf ends fluttering madly, as she thwacked and tugged at the iron-mouthed pony. She was more than middle-aged, a woman of flopping draperies and haphazard hookings, and scatter-brained grey locks, that had been a fringe in the days of fringes. She moved, as Alwynne noticed later, like a hurried cow, and tripped continually over her long skirts. Yet, in spite of her ramshackle exterior, she was not ridiculous. The good-men and stray children they encountered greeted her with obvious respect. Alwynne, comparing the keen eyes and their cheerful crowsfeet, with the chin, firm enough in its cushion of fat, guessed her the ruling spirit of the Dene household, and wondered why she had not married a vicar. But Alicia, though Alwynne listened politely to her flow of talk, and answered prettily when she must, did not long occupy her attention. She was in her own country again. She loved the country--woods, fields, hedges and lanes--as she loved no city or sea-town of them all. London, Paris, Rome--Swiss mountains or Italian lakes--she would have given them all for Kent and Hampshire and the Sussex Weald. But Clare would never hear of a country holiday. Alwynne took deep breaths of the clean, kindly air, and wondered to herself that she had taken the proposal of her holiday so dully. She had not realised that she was going into the country--she had not realised anything, except that she was tired, and that Elsbeth would not leave her alone. She had shrunk painfully from the idea of meeting strangers, from the exertion of accommodating herself to them. But this good air made one feel alive again.... She stared over the pony's ears at the gay spring landscape. "Those are the Dene fields," said Alicia, following her glance. "There are two Denes, you know--Dene Village and Dene Fields. There's a couple of miles between them. We are in the hollow, where the road dips, at the foot of Witch Hill." "Witch Hill?" Alicia flourished her whip at the sky-line. The fields were spread over the hillside in sections of chocolate and magenta and silver-green, with here and again a parti-coloured patch, where oats and dandelions, pimpernel and sky-blue flax choked and strangled on an ash-heap. From the slopes Witch Hill lifted a brow of blank white chalk, crowned and draped in woodland, lying against pillows of cloud, for all the world like a hag abed, knees hunched, and patchwork quilt drawn up to ragged eyebrows. Round her neck the road wound like a silver riband; looped, dipped, disappeared, for two unfenced miles--to flash into view but a parrot's flight away, and swerve, with a steep little rush, round a house with French windows thatched in yellow jessamine. Alwynne's eyes lit up. "What a good name! Who was she before she was turned into that?" She stopped, flushing. Alicia would think her stupid. Alicia laughed pleasantly. "Do you like fairy tales? You've come to the right place--the country-side's full of them. There's a fairy fort--Roman I suppose, really, and a haunted barn out beyond Dene Compton, besides Witch Hill and the Witch Wood just behind our house. There's a story, of course. I don't know it--you must ask Roger. He's always picking up stories." "Roger?" "My nephew, Roger Lumsden. Hasn't Elsbeth----?" "Oh yes, of course." "He's away just now. Look, now you can see the house properly." "Behind the hill?" Alwynne had caught sight of a group of buildings crowning a secondary slope. "No, no--that's the school, Dene Compton." "A school?" Alwynne screwed up her eyes to look at it. "What a big place! Girls or boys?" "Both." "Oh! A board school!" Alwynne's interest flagged. "Scarcely!" Alicia laughed. "Haven't you heard of Dene Compton? And you a school-mistress!" Alwynne was politely blank. "The thin end of the co-educational wedge. It's unique--or was, till a few years ago. There are several now, dotted about England. You ladies' seminaries should be trembling in your shoes." "Boys and girls! What a mad idea! Yes, I believe Clare--I believe I did hear something about it. It's all cranks and simple lifers and socialists though, isn't it?" "You'd better come up one day and see. I'll take you." "Why, do you know them?" "I teach there." "You? Oh--I beg your pardon," cried Alwynne strickenly. Alicia laughed. "I'm accustomed to it. Jean will be delighted with an ally. She pretends to disapprove. But Roger and I are generally too much for her." "Is he a master, then?" "Good gracious, no! But he has a lot of friends at the school. He ought to be interested--it's his land, you know. His people lived there for generations--the Lumsdens of Dene Compton. The head master has the old house, but the school itself is new--all those buildings you see. No, not those--" Alwynne's eyes were caught by a glitter of glass roofs--"those are Roger's houses. He's a gardener, you know. He lives for his bulbs and his manures." The tiny cart rocked as the pony bucketed down the dip of the road and whirled it through the gates and up the short drive. Alwynne clutched the inadequate rail. "He will do it," said Alicia resignedly. "He wants his tea. There's Jean. Mind the door." She pulled up the rocketing pony as the ridiculous little door burst open and Alwynne and her baggage were precipitated on to the gravel. A little woman ran out from the porch. "Are you hurt? It always does that. I'm always asking Alicia to tell Bryce to take it to be seen to. Alicia--I shall speak to Roger if you don't. My dear, I hope you haven't hurt yourself. That pretty frock--but it will all brush off. And how is Elsbeth, and why didn't you bring her with you? Come in at once and have some tea. Alicia has driven round to the stables. It's Bryce's afternoon off." Jean was a prim little red-haired woman, some years younger than Alicia, with brisk ways, and a clacking tongue. She had Alwynne in a chair, had given her tea, deplored her white looks, suggested three infallible remedies, recounted their effect on her own constitution and Alicia's and her nephew's, and, digressing easily, was beginning a detailed history of Roger's health since, at the age of five or thereabouts, he had come under her care, before Alwynne had had time to realise more than that the room was very cheerful, Jean very talkative, and she herself very, very tired. She could not help being relieved when Alicia returned. Jean, with her neat dress and knowledgeable ways and little air of apologising for her slap-dash elder, should, by all the rules, have been the more reliable of the cousins. Yet Alwynne turned instinctively to Alicia; and Alicia, spread upon a chair, fanning herself cyclonically with her enormous hat, did not fail her. "Jean! The child's as white as a sheet. You can ask about Elsbeth to-morrow, and Roger will keep. Take her up to her room, leave her to unpack and lie down in peace and quiet, and come back and give me my tea. Supper's at seven, Alwynne. Take my advice and have a good rest. There are plenty of books--oh, yes, I know all about your likes and dislikes. Elsbeth's a talker too--on paper! Jean--if you're not down in five minutes, I'll come and fetch you." Alwynne, half an hour later, curled comfortably upon a sofa, in front of a blazing fire, with a lazy hour before her and a Copperfield upon her knee, thought that Alicia was a perfect dear. And Jean? Jean, pulling out the sofa, poking the fire, pattering about her like a too intelligent terrier--Jean was a dear too.... They were a couple of comical dears. And "The Dears" was Alwynne's name for them from that day on. CHAPTER XXX Alwynne settled down with an ease that surprised herself. Much as she loved the country, a country life would have bored her to death, Clare had often assured her, as a permanent state; but for a few weeks it was certainly delightful. She enjoyed pottering about the garden with Jean, and jogging into the village on her own account behind the obstinate pony, who, approving her taste in apples, allowed her to believe that she more or less regulated his direction and pace. She enjoyed the complicated smells of the village store, half post office, half emporium, and the taste of its gargantuan bulls'-eyes. She sent, in the first enthusiasm of discovery, a tinful heaped about with early primroses to Clare; but Clare was not impressed. Clare disapproved strongly of Alwynne's holiday, needed her too much to allow it necessary. Her first letters were a curious mixture--half fretfulness over Alwynne's absence, half assurance of how perfectly well she, Clare, got on without her. Alwynne would have been exquisitely amazed could she have known how eagerly Clare awaited her bi-weekly budget. Alwynne was afraid her letters were dull enough. She apologised constantly-- _Of course, Clare, this will seem very small beer to you--but little things are important down here. It's all so quiet, you see. I've been perfectly happy this morning because I found a patch of white violets in a clearing, and Jean and Alicia were just as excited when I told them at lunch: and we went off with a tea-basket afterwards, and dug violet roots for an hour, or more, and then spread our mackintoshes over a felled trunk and made tea. The ground was sopping, but it was fun. You'd love my cousins. They're as old as Elsbeth but full of beans, and they've travelled and are interesting--only they will talk incessantly about this nephew they've got. It's "Roger" this and "Roger" that--he seems to rule them with a rod of iron--can't do wrong! He comes back next week. I rather wonder what he'll be like. The Dears make him out a paragon; but I'm expecting a prig, myself! There are photographs of him all over the place. He's quite good-looking._ But before Alwynne could tire of the lanes and village, of gardening with Jean, and hints of how Roger stubbed up roots and handled bulbs, Alicia had provided her with a new interest. She remembered her promise one morning and took her up to Dene Compton. Alicia gave Italian lessons twice a week, and from her Alwynne had gleaned many quaint details of the school and its workings. What she heard interested her, though she was prepared to be merely, if indulgently, amused. She looked forward to the visit if only to get copy for a letter to Clare. Clare, too, liked to be amused. The gong was clanging for the mid-morning break when Alicia, Alwynne in her wake, led the way into the main building, and waving her airily towards a mound of biscuits, bade her help herself and look about her for a while, because she, Alicia, had got to speak to--She dived into the crowd. Alwynne, thus deserted, stood shyly enough in a roofed corner of the great brick quadrangle, munching a fair imitation of a dog-biscuit, and watching the boys and girls who swarmed past her as undisturbed by her presence as if she were invisible. At the boys she smiled indulgently as she would have smiled at a string of lively terriers, but of the girls she was sharply critical. They wore curious, and as she thought hideous, serge tunics: she jibbed at their utilitarian plaits: but she conceded a good carriage to most of them and was impressed by a certain pleasant fearlessness of manner. A couple of men, Alicia, and a bright, emphatic woman in a nurse's uniform, wandered through the crowd, which made way courteously enough, but seemed otherwise in no degree embarrassed by their propinquity. Alwynne had a sudden memory of Clare's triumphal processions; compared them uneasily with the fashion of these quiet people. She watched a small girl dash panting to the loggia at the opposite side of the quadrangle, where a slight man in disreputable tennis-shoes, leaned against a shaft and observed the pleasant tumult. There was a moment's earnest consultation, and the small girl darted away again and disappeared down a corridor. The man resumed his former pose--head on one side, smiling a little. Alwynne ventured out of her corner and caught at Alicia as she passed. "Cousin Alice! I like all this. I'm glad you brought me. Who's that?" She nodded towards the man in tennis-shoes. "The Head." "The head-master?" "Why not?" "But--but--when Miss Marsham comes in--you can hear a pin drop----Is he nice?" Alicia laughed. "I'll introduce you." She did. "Well," said Alicia with a twinkle as they walked home together later, "what did you think of him?" Alwynne flushed, but she laughed too. "Cousin Alice--it was too bad of you. He just said 'How do you do?' and smiled politely. Then he said nothing at all for five minutes, and then he clutched at one of the girls and handed me over to her with another smile--an immensely relieved one--and drifted away. I've never been so snubbed in my life." "You're not the first one. So you didn't like him?" "Oh--I liked him," conceded Alwynne grudgingly. They walked on in silence for a while. "What's that?" Alwynne pointed to a large grey building half way down the avenue. "The girls' house, Hill Dene. They sleep there; and have the needlework classes, and housewifery, I believe." "Do they have everything else with the boys?" "Practically." "Does it answer?" "Why not? Girls with brothers and boys with sisters have an advantage over the solitary specimens, everybody knows. This is only extending the principle." Alwynne giggled suddenly. "You know that girl he dumped me on to--she was showing me round, and we ran into some boys in the gym. I couldn't make out why, but she jolly well sent them flying." "Out of hours, I expect." "But the coolness of it, Cousin Alice! She was a bit of a thing--the boys were half as high again!" "But not prefects." "Oh, I see." Alwynne meditated. "Oh, Cousin Alicia, that girl asked me to go with them next Saturday for a tramp. Over Witch Hill. She and another girl and some boys. Imagine! they're going by themselves--without a master or a mistress or anything!" "Why not?" "We don't. We crocodile. Two and two, and two and two, and two and two. And I trot along at the side and see that they don't take arms. But of course, you can't control the day-girls. One of them asked two of the boarders out for the day one Sunday, at least her mother did, and we met them after church on the promenade, arm in arm--all three! I tell you, there was a row. They were locked up in their bedrooms for three days, and nobody might speak to them for the rest of the term. Miss Marsham said it was defiance and that they might remember they were ladies." "I don't think they want 'ladies' here," said Alicia. "They're quite content if they produce gentlewomen. Your school must be peculiar." "Oh, no," said Alwynne, opening her eyes. "There are dozens of schools like Utterbridge. I was at two myself when I was young. It's this place that's peculiar. It's like nothing I've heard of. I want to explore. He said I could. Yes, I forgot--he did say that--that I was to come up whenever I liked." And for the next week Alwynne spent a good half of her days at Dene Compton. She clung to Alicia's skirts at the first, afraid of appearing to intrude. But she soon found that she might go where she would without arousing curiosity or even notice, though boys and girls alike were friendly enough when she spoke to them. Accustomed to her mistress-ship, she was half-piqued, half-amused to find herself so entirely unimportant. But the great school fascinated her. It was scarce a third larger than her own in point of numbers, but the perfection of its proportions made it impressive. The arrangements for the children's physical well-being reflected the methods employed for their spiritual development. There was an insistence on sunlight and fresh air and space--above all, space. There was no calculation of the legal minimum of cubic feet: body and mind alike were given room in which to turn, to stretch themselves, to grow. Gradually she realised that she had been living for years in a rabbit warren. With her discoveries she filled many sheets of notepaper. But Clare's letters were nicely calculated to divert enthusiasm. Their tone was changing; they allowed Alwynne to guess herself missed. There was in them a hint of appeal: a suggestion of lonely evenings----Never a word of Alwynne's doings. Yet, by implication, description of her new friends and their outlook was dismissed as unnecessary. Clare, Alwynne was to realise, would smile pleasantly as she read, and think it all rather silly. Elsbeth--_so pleased that they are so kind to you at Alicia's school_--was more genuinely uninterested. Dene Compton had been the home of a certain John Lumsden for Elsbeth. She did not care for descriptions of its metamorphosis. She wanted to hear about Dene, and her cousins, and how Alwynne was eating and sleeping, and if Roger Lumsden had come back yet. She asked twice if Roger Lumsden had come back yet. But Alwynne had an annoying habit of leaving her questions unanswered through eight closely written sheets. It was not only Clare who was very tired of co-education and Dene Compton. But Elsbeth got her news at last, and was satisfied with it as Macchiavellis usually are, whose plots are being developed by unconscious and self-willed instruments. Alwynne, who in her spare time had discovered what spring in the country could mean, tucked in the news at the end of an epistle that was purely botanical---- _... and cuckoo-pint and primroses and violets! Have you ever seen larches in bud? Oh, Elsbeth, why can't we live in the country? Every collection of buildings bigger than Dene Village ought to be razed by Act of Parliament. I expect the earth hates cities as I hated warts on my hands when I was little. Well, I must stop. Oh--the Lumsden man turned up a day or two ago. The Dears were in ecstasies, and he let himself be fussed over in the calmest way, as if he had a perfect right to it. I think he's conceited. I don't think you'd like him. He's back for good, apparently, but he won't worry me much. I'm only in at meals. The Dears are always busy and let me do as I like, and I either go up to Compton, or prowl, or take a rug and book into the garden. It's quite hot, although it's barely April--so you needn't worry. The garden is jolly, big and half wild: only "Roger" is beginning to trim it--the vandal! He's by way of being a gardener, you know. Great on bulbs and roses, I believe._ _By the way_ is _he a relation? Even The Dears are only very distant cousins, aren't they? Because he will call me "Alwynne" as if he were. I call it cheek. I was very stiff, but he's got a hide like a rhinoceros. When I said "Mr. Lumsden," he just grinned. So now I say "Roger" very markedly whenever he says "Alwynne." I can't see what Jean and Alicia see in him; but of course I have to be polite. They are dears, if you like--are giving me a lovely time._ _I hope you're not very dull, Elsbeth dear. You must try and get out this lovely weather. Why not have Clare to tea one day? You'd both enjoy it. I heard from her yesterday--such a jolly letter!_ _Heaps of love from Jean and Alicia--and you know what a lot from me._ ALWYNNE. _P.S.--I found these violets to-day on a bank behind the church. They'll be squashed when you get 'em, but they'll smell still._ _P.S.--The Lumsden man saw me writing, and said, would I send you his love, and do you remember him? I told him I'd scarcely heard you mention his name, so it wasn't probable--but he just smiled his superior smile. He reminds me of Mr. Darcy in P. and P. I can't say I like him._ CHAPTER XXXI Roger Lumsden had been home a week. Alwynne, save at meals, had seen little of him, and that little she did not intend to like. There was a memory of a passage of arms at their first meeting which rankled. Roger had been inquiring when the Compton holidays began. Alicia hesitated-- "Let me see--the play's Tuesday week----" "Wednesday week," put in Alwynne. "Tuesday----" "No, Wednesday," Alwynne persisted. "Because, you know, Mr. Bryant is so afraid that Gertrude Clarke won't be out of the 'San.' He says he can never coach up another Alkestis in the time. Besides, there isn't any one. He's been tearing his hair." Alicia laughed. "She knows more about it than I do, Roger! She's been half living there, haven't you, Alwynne?" Roger turned to her with a smile and the first touch of personal interest that he had shown. "Jolly place, isn't it? You teach, don't you? I wonder how it strikes you!" But he was a stranger and Alwynne was nervous. She answered flippantly, as she always did when she was not at her ease-- "Oh, I can't get over their dresses! Appalling garments! Imagine that poor girl trying to rehearse Alkestis in a pea-green potato sack! It must be delicious. And their hair! Doesn't anybody ever teach them to do their hair?" He eyed her thoughtfully, from her carefully dressed head to her shining shoe-buckles, and shrugged his shoulders. "Is that all you see?" said Roger dispassionately, and withdrew interest. Alwynne grew hot with annoyance. Idiot! All she saw.... As if she had meant anything of the kind.... One said things like that.... One just said them.... Especially when one was nervous.... Taking a remark like that seriously.... Oh well, if he liked to think her a fool--let him! Silly prig! She endeavoured to put him out of her mind. But his mere existence disturbed her. She was not accustomed to tobacco, for instance ... and it was disconcerting to find him in her favourite corner of the library or occupying the writing-table that no one had seemed to use but herself. He appeared to have forgotten that he had snubbed her and was unquenchably friendly. She found herself being pleasanter than she intended, but she made it a point of honour never to agree with him. That, at least, she owed herself. She watched him furtively, alert for justification of her ill-humour. She told herself that it would be easier to be nice to him if everybody else did not fuss over him so.... It was ridiculous to see how Jean, especially, brightened at the sight of him.... He was good to her, certainly: she was argumentative, without being shrewd, but he never lost patience, as Alwynne, in secret was inclined to do. Even Alicia, so stoutly the head of her household, submitted every difficulty, from an unexpected legacy to a dearth of eggs. And he would sit down solidly and think the matter out. And his advice, from a flutter in rubber to pepper in the chicken pail, would be followed literally, and generally, Alwynne admitted, with success. But she jibbed furiously when the sisters began to consult him about her personal affairs. "Roger, don't you think that Alwynne----?" But here Roger was invariably offhand and non-committal. Curiously, however, this attitude, correct as it was, did not appease Alwynne. But she was forced, at least, to admit that he could, on occasion, be tactful. The last week of the term had begun. Alicia, at breakfast behind the coffee urn, was making her plans. "It's a busy week. The Swains want us to go to lunch, Jean, only we haven't a day before Sunday, have we? At least--there's Tuesday; it's only the dress-rehearsal. I can get out of that. Alwynne can represent me." She nodded benevolently. There was a slight pause. Roger, glancing up, stared openly. Alwynne had turned as white as paper. Her words came stickily. "Cousin Alice, I can't. I mean--I'd rather--I don't want to go much, if you don't mind." Alicia blessed herself. "But, my dear! Why not? I thought you'd be looking forward----Oh, I suppose you've watched it so often, already." "No--I haven't seen it; I'm afraid rehearsals bore me----" Alwynne broke off with an attempt at a light laugh. "But you've been up to Compton so much," Alicia's tone was reproachful. "I should have thought you would have been sufficiently interested----" "Oh, I am! Only--you see I've got letters to write--to Elsbeth----" "Well, you've got all the week to write in! Are you so afraid of being bored? Compton wouldn't be flattered. We rather pride ourselves on our acting, you know! My dear, we're expected to go--must give the performers some sort of an audience to get them into training for the night. You ought to understand, of all people! Don't you ever give plays at your school?" Alwynne was silent, but prompted by an instinct she could not have explained, she turned to Roger, stolid behind his eggs and bacon. She said nothing, but she looked at him desperately. He gave an imperceptible nod. He had been watching her intently. "But, dear Alwynne----" Jean was chirruping her version of Alicia's remarks when Roger's calm voice interrupted-- "I say, Alicia! I thought you and Jean were coming with me! I can't go on the night itself. Of course you must come. Go to your lunch on Sunday--I'll look after Alwynne. But I'm not going up to Compton without you. Spoil all the fun." "Of course, if Roger wants us----" began Jean quickly. "Oh, I didn't want to miss it," retreated Alicia hastily. "I only thought the Swains----But of course Sunday would do." "I met old Swain yesterday," said Roger, "travelled up to town with him. He was very full of his daughter's engagement." "Engagement!" Alicia and Jean swooped to the news, like gulls to a falling crust. It kept them busy till breakfast was over. And Roger returned to his eggs and bacon with never a glance at Alwynne. Alwynne, half an hour later in her own room, fighting certain memories, arguing herself fiercely out of her weakness, had yet time to puzzle her head over Roger Lumsden. How quick he had been--and how kind.... Or had he noticed nothing? Had that adroit change of subject been accidental? That was much more likely. She dismissed him from her mind. She wished she could dismiss all the thoughts that filled her mind as easily. Alwynne was grateful enough to Roger, however, when Tuesday came and he set out for Compton, an aunt on either arm: but on Sunday she had to pay for her non-attendance. Hurrying down, a little late, to lunch, she was half-way through her usual apologies before she realised that neither Jean nor Alicia were in their places. Of course--they were going to the Swain's.... Their nephew, however, waiting gravely behind his chair, admitted her excuses with a little air of acknowledging them to be necessary that ruffled her at once, though she had promised herself to be pleasant. After all, she was staying, as she had told herself several times already, with Jean and Alicia. Once more she applied herself, quite unsuccessfully, to snubbing his air of host. Roger listened to her in some amusement; her ungracious ways disturbed him no more than the rufflings and peckings of an angry bird, and her charming manner to his aunts and occasional whim of friendliness to himself, had prevented him from pigeon-holing her definitely as a pretty young shrew. He was inclined to like her, for Jean and Alicia had confessed themselves absurdly taken with the girl, and he was accustomed to be influenced by their judgment; but the touch of hostility that usually showed itself in her manner to him puzzled as much as it amused him. He enjoyed baiting her, yet he thought, carelessly, that it was a pity she should have inaugurated guerilla warfare. She looked as if she could have been pleasant company for his spare time if she had chosen. However, he would have little enough spare time, for the next few weeks, anyhow ... he had promised Jean to set to work seriously at the renovation of her garden.... He should be thankful for a visitor requiring neither escort nor attention. Yet, naturally, her independence piqued him. He eyed her swiftly, as she sat at his right hand. She was a curious girl, he thought, to be so pretty and well-dressed, and yet so self-sufficing. Girls, apparently of her type, (he thought of his American cousins) usually needed a good deal of admiration to keep them contented. She did not look altogether contented, though ... there were lines and puckers at the corners of her large eyes, that were surely out of place ... nineteen, wasn't she? She had had a breakdown, of course ... rather absurd, for such a child.... Jean had hinted a guess at some trouble.... A love affair, he supposed. That would account for her thorniness, her occasional air of absence and depression, that contrasted with her usual cheerfulness.... Yet that curious whim the other day--what had it meant? More than a whim, he imagined--her very lips had grown white.... He was quite sure that he had helped her out of a hole.... She might at least show a certain decent gratitude.... He wondered what she was thinking about, sitting there so silently ... she was generally talkative enough ... pretty quarrelsome, too. He supposed she was having a fit of the blues.... He had better talk to her, perhaps.... Alwynne, eating her wing of chicken, was merely and sheerly shy. She was garrulous enough with women, but she did not in the least know how to talk to men. Therefore and naturally she was full of theories. She had vague ideas that they had to be amused as babies have to be amused, but confronted with the prospect of a prolonged _tête-à-tête_, without Alicia or Jean to retire upon, she had nothing whatever to say. Yet she had been taught by Elsbeth to consider a lack of table-talk as a lack of manners, and was irritated with herself for her silence, and still more irritated with Roger for his. She met his belated attempts at a conversation none too graciously--was bored by the boat-race, and would have nothing to say to the weather; though she thawed to his catalogue of copses and plantations in the neighbourhood, where certain wild flowers she had not yet discovered might be found. But it was impossible for Alwynne to be silent long, and by the time they had adjourned to the drawing-room, the pair were talking easily enough. Roger did not find himself bored. He had, from the beginning, recognised that she was no fool, that her remarks owed their comicality to her phrasing of them, and that essentially they were shrewd, her acrobatic intellect swinging easily across the gaps in her education. The gaps were certainly there. He would marvel at her amazing ignorance, only to be tripped up by her unexpected display of authoritative knowledge. Gradually he began to analyse and discriminate, to see that she was naturally observant. Her remarks on life as she knew it, were as illuminating as original. She had humour and a nice sense of caricature. But when she, as it were, hoisted herself on the shoulders of the women about her, and from that level peered curiously at an outer, alien world, her insight failed her, her views grew distorted and merely grotesque. He thought he guessed the reason. She was no longer gazing, critical and clear-eyed, at known surroundings, but, still supported by the opinions of the women of her circle, was seeing what she had expected to see, what she had been told by them that she would see. For all her air of modern girl, her independence, her store of book experience, she was comically conventual in her curiosities and intolerances, in her prim company manners and uncontrollable lapses into unconventionality. She had an air of not being at her ease; yet he guessed that it was merely the unaccustomed environment that disturbed her poise. He could see her handling surely enough a crowd of schoolgirls. He was equally certain that she ruled through sheer, easy popularity. She had dignity in spite of her whimsies, but he could not imagine her intimidating even a schoolgirl. But most of all her attitude to himself amused him. She had a certain veiled antagonism of manner, that was allied to the antagonism of the small child to any innovation. She talked to him readily enough (and he, for that matter, to her) yet she was always on the defensive, inquisitive yet wary. He felt that if she had been ten years younger, she would have circled about him and poked. A stray phrase explained her to him. They had discussed the latest raid. At Alwynne's age and period all conversational roads led to the suffrage question, and he had found her re-hash of Mona Hamilton's arguments sufficiently entertaining. He guessed a plagiarism of the matter, but the manner was obviously her own. She was full of second-hand indignation over the conduct of a certain Cabinet Minister. "He won't even see them!" she explained grievously. "Not even a deputation from the constitutional section! Just because some women are fools--and burn things----" The pause was eloquent. "It's so utterly unreasonable," declaimed Alwynne. "But of course men are unreasonable," said Alwynne, pensively reflective. "Are they?" "All I know are, anyhow." He considered her ingenuous countenance-- "If it's not a delicate question--how many do you know?" said Roger softly. She looked at him, mildly surprised. "Hundreds! In books, that is." "Oh--books! I meant real life." "Surely a page of Shakespeare is more real than dozens of real people's lives." "Side issue! I'm not to be deflected. How many men do you know, in real life, well enough to discuss the suffrage with?" "I'm always kept at school the day the vicar comes to tea," she said suggestively. "Who else?" She saw his drift, but defended herself, smiling. "The assistants are most intelligent at the circulating library." "Who else?" "There were music masters at school. I didn't mean _you_ were unreasonable," she deprecated. He began to laugh, openly, mischievously, delighting in her discomfiture. "Anyhow, I know a lot about women," said Alwynne heatedly. He eyed her respectfully. "I'm sure you do. But we were talking of men. And on the whole--you make me a polite exception--as a result of your wide knowledge, your complicated experience of Us--as a class--you consider that we are unreasonable?" But he spoke into space. Alwynne had retired, pinkly, to a sofa and a novel. But he thought, as he settled to his own reading, that he heard a strangled chuckle. Alwynne, caught napping, always tickled Alwynne. Over the top of his book, he considered her bent head approvingly. He liked her sense of fun. It was not every girl who could appreciate the smut on her own nose ... quite a pretty nose too ... indeed the whole profile was unexceptionable.... He noticed how well the patch of sky and the slopes of Witch Hill framed it ... and her hair ... it regularly mopped up the sunlight! He felt that he wanted to take the great heavy rope and twist it like a wet cloth till the gold dropped out on to the floor in shining pools. He supposed she would be called a beautiful woman.... He had always looked upon a beautiful woman as an improbable possibility, like a millionaire or an archbishop--whom you might meet any day, but somehow never did.... Yet he was in the same house with one--and she his semi-demi cousin.... Yes--she was certainly beautiful.... Here Alwynne, who had not been entirely absorbed, looked up and caught his eye. Neither quite knew how to meet the other's unexpected scrutiny. Roger, less agile than Alwynne, stared solemnly until she looked away. Alwynne gave a little inaudible sigh. She was boring him, of course.... It was pretty obvious.... Yet he had been quite nice all through lunch.... It was a pity.... She wondered if he wanted to read, or if she ought to go on talking? She racked her brains for something to say to him. It was not so easy to talk if he would not do his share.... She supposed she had talked too much about the suffrage.... Men never liked to be contradicted.... She glanced at him swiftly, and met his look once more, and once more he stared, till her dropping lids released him. Then he lit his pipe. She shrugged her shoulders. She thought it very rude of him to leave off talking.... Silence was oppressive unless you knew people well.... It snubbed you.... Especially when you had been, as Alwynne feared she had, holding forth a trifle.... She supposed he had put her down as a talkative bore.... Elsbeth always said that strangers thought her enthusiasms were pose ... as if it mattered what strangers thought! She hated strangers.... She was always fantastic with new acquaintances.... It was the form her shyness took. If Roger chose to think she was posing.... It didn't affect her anyway.... She was only too glad to be able to read in peace.... Hang Roger! She settled herself to her reading. For five long minutes they both read steadily. But Alwynne's book was not interesting; she began to flutter the pages, her thoughts once more astray. It was rather a shame of The Dears to desert her ... to leave her to entertain a strange man who didn't like her.... It made her look a fool.... She hated boring people.... If she bored their precious nephew as much as the book on her lap bored her!... She wondered why, with all the library to choose from, she had pitched on it. Of course, it was Roger's suggestion.... Well, she didn't think much of his taste.... Or perhaps he imagined it was the sort of stuff to appeal to her? She flung up her chin indignantly, to find his serious and critical eyes once more concerned with her. She met them with a raising of eyebrows--a hint of cool defiance. It was Roger's turn to retire into his book. He was an odd sort of a man.... She wondered what Clare would think of him? As if Clare would bother her head.... But then he wasn't Clare's cousin. But Clare would be out in the woods after the wild hyacinths.... Somebody had said it was blue with them in the little wood behind the house.... She must send Clare a boxful to-morrow ... or to-day? She supposed there was an evening post.... It was a pity to waste such a heavenly afternoon.... She stole yet another glance at Roger; he was evidently engrossed at last. It would not be rude? After all, what did it matter? He wasn't too polite himself! She drove her book viciously down the yielding side of the Chesterfield, swished to the open French window, and so out. The gravel crunched moistly beneath her thin shoes; she could feel every pebble. She glanced back into the drawing-room. All quiet. But by the time she had changed, the man might have come out.... She would change afterwards.... The smooth lawn sloped invitingly--beyond lay the rose walk and the wood, little Witch Wood that she had never yet explored, just because it was always at hand. She picked up her silken skirts and took to her heels. It was exactly half an hour later that Roger's book also grew dull to the point of imbecility. He shut it with a bang, stirred the sun-drowned fire, and knocked out his pipe against the shining dogs. Then he too walked out on to the terrace. He wondered where the girl had got to. Then he frowned. Little half-moons dinted the wet yellow path and the stretch of grass beyond it. It was very careless, cutting up the turf like that.... If there was one thing he hated.... Of course she was town-bred ... could not be expected to realise the sacredness of a lawn.... But he must certainly tell her.... He might as well find her and tell her at once.... Then he laughed. Alwynne's high heels had betrayed her. The tracks led straight to the wood. So that was the lure.... He remembered saying that the hyacinths would probably be out.... He wondered if she knew her way.... It wasn't a large wood.... Perhaps he had better go and see ... and warn her off the lawn coming back? He hesitated. His eyes fell on Jean's forgotten bodge, lying by the border. If the hyacinths were out, she would need a basket.... She had not taken one.... Trust her to forget such a detail.... She would be glad of it though.... He tipped out the weeds into a neat pile and jumping the narrow bed, ran down in his turn, towards the wood. Alicia and Jean, home to tea, were annoyed to find the fire out. The gardener, rolling the lawn next day, thought as ill of hobnailed boots as of high French heels. CHAPTER XXXII Alwynne left the garden behind her and crossed the stretch of grass, half lawn, half paddock, that lay between kitchen-garden and wood. It was fenced with riotous hedges, demure for the moment in dove-grey honeysuckle and star of Bethlehem, with no hint in their puritan apparel of the brionies and eglantines that were to follow. About the hedge borders the grass grew tall and rank, and, as she watched, the wind would stir it into a sea of emerald and the parsley-blossoms sway above it like snatches of drifting foam. Beyond the hedge shadow, "Nicholas Nye," the one-eyed donkey, reposed Celestially among the buttercups, which, making common cause with the afternoon sun, had turned his grazing ground into a Field of the Cloth of Gold. For a moment she was minded to content herself with all the buttercups on earth to gather, and to go no further that day; but staring down the dazzling slope, her eyes rested once more upon the pleasant darkness of the goal for which she had been bound. Among the nearer tree trunks were stripes and chequerings of blue--the blue that is lovelier than the sea, the one blue in the world to the flower-lover. At once, indifferently, she left the buttercups to Nicholas Nye and hurried on and into the wood. There were hyacinths everywhere, hyacinths by the million. It was as if the winds had torn her robes from the faint, spring sky, and had flung them to earth, and she now bent above them naked and shivering. Alwynne wandered from patch to patch in an ecstasy of delight. As usual, her pleasure shaped itself into exclamations, phrases, whole sentences of the letters she would write to Clare Hartill of her experiences. If only she could have Clare with her, she thought, to see and hear and touch and smell--to share the loveliness she was enjoying. Her thoughts flew to Italy, to their crowded month of beautiful sights together. She laughed--she would discard all those memories for love of this present vision.... If only Clare could see it.... She could never describe it properly ... adjectives welled up in her mind and dispersed again, like bubbles in a glass of water. The stalks and the hoarse ring of the hyacinth bells fascinated her. Clare was forgotten. She began to pick for the sake of picking. The hot silence of early afternoon lay upon tree and bird and air. Alwynne, moving from blue clump to blue clump, grew ashamed of the rustle of her dress and the scrunch of twigs and soaked leaves beneath her feet, and trod softly; even her own calm breathing sounded too loudly for the perfect peace of the place and the hour. She picked steadily, greedily--she had never before had as many flowers as she wanted, and there was inexpressible pleasure in filling her arms till she could hold no more; yet, some twenty minutes later, as she straightened herself at last, a little giddily, and looked about her over the pile of azure bells, there was no sign of bareness, for all she had gathered; she still stood to her knees in a lake of blue and green and gold. She stretched herself lazily as she considered the flowers about her and wondered at their luxuriance. They were thicker and longer-stemmed than the mass of those she carried: the leaves were juicy and shining like dark swords: the last dozen of her armful had flecked her hands and dress with milky syrup. The ground, too, was black and boggy, and sucked at her feet as she moved. Suddenly she realised that the trees grew thick and close together--that the patches of sunlight were far apart--and that she had wandered farther into the wood than she had intended. She thought that she had picked enough, more than enough for Elsbeth as well as Clare; that it was time to be getting home. She had no idea of the hour.... It would not do to risk being late.... She moved forward uncertainly. She had had a blessed afternoon: she had surrendered herself to the sounds and sights and smells of the spring, to the warmth of the sun and the touch of the wind, till every sense was drunken with pleasure. But her ecstasy had been impersonal and thoughtless: she had enjoyed too completely to have had knowledge of her enjoyment. With the return to realisation of place and time, her mood was changing. She was no longer of the wood, but in it merely; wandering in the dark heart of it, no dryad returned and welcome, but a stranger, one Alwynne Durand, in thin shoes and an unsuitable dress, with the wood's flowers, not her own, in her hands. Stolen flowers--their weight was suddenly a burden to her. She felt guilty, and had an odd, sudden wish to put them down tenderly at the foot of a tree, hide them with grasses and run for her life. She laughed at the idea as she looked for the path--what were flowers for, but picking? Yet she could not get rid of the feeling that she had been doing wrong, and that even now she was being watched, and would, in due time, be caught and punished, her stolen treasures still in her hands. But wild flowers are free to all--and the wood was Roger Lumsden's wood! He had told her that he rented it. She moved backwards and forwards, turning hurriedly hither and thither, trampling the hyacinths and stumbling on the uneven ground, unreasonably flurried that she could not find any path. She could not even track her own footsteps. It was very strange, she thought, when she had penetrated so easily the depths of the wood, that the return should be so difficult. She had thought it a mere copse. She put her free hand to her eyes, scanning the wall of greenery in all directions. She fancied that at one point the trees grew less densely, and set out, scrambling over rough ground towards the faint light. But in spite of her hurry she advanced slowly. The thin switches of the undergrowth whipped her as she pushed them aside, and the huge briars twisted themselves about her like live things. Twice the slippery moss brought her to her knees, and the faint light grew no stronger as she pressed forward. She began to feel frightened, though she knew the sensation to be absurd. It was impossible to be lost in a little wood, half a mile across.... It was merely a question of walking straight on till one emerged on open fields.... She told herself so, and tried to be amused at her adventure, and hummed a confident little tune as she plodded on, very careful not to look behind her. Her shoes, thudding and squelching in the wet mess of mould and green stuff, made more noise than one would have thought possible for one pair of feet, and woke the oddest echoes. Of course, it was impossible that any one could be following her.... But the wood was so horribly silent that her own breathing and clumsy footfalls (there could be nothing else) counterfeited the noises of pursuit.... She could have sworn there was a presence at her elbow, in her rear, moving as she moved, stumbling as she stumbled. Twice she faced round abruptly, standing still--but she saw nothing but the wall of vegetation, motionless, silent, yet insistently alive. She felt that every tree, every leaf, every blade of grass, was watching her with green, unwinking eyes. There was nothing more in the wood than there had been a pleasant hour ago--less indeed, for she realised suddenly that the sun had gone in and that it was cold; yet she owned to herself at last that she was nervous, vaguely uneasy. Instantly, by that mere act of recognition, fright was born in her--unreasonable and unreasoning fright, that, in the length of a thought, pervaded her entire personality, crisping her hair, catching at her throat, paralysing her mind. The wood-panic had her in its grip--the age-old terror that still lies in wait where trees are gathered together, though the god that begot it be dead these nineteen hundred years. She began to run. It was impossible to pass quickly through the tangled undergrowth; but sheer fright gave her skill to avoid real obstacles, strength to crash over and through the mere wreckage of the wood. She turned and doubled like a hare, yet desperately, with the hare's terror of the sudden turn that might confront her with the presence at her heels. She could endure its pursuit, but she knew that its revelation would be more than she could bear. She was so far merely and indefinitely frightened, but to face the unknown would be to confront fear itself. And she was more frightened of fear than of any evil she knew. She could, she thought, meet pain or sickness, or any mere misery, with sufficient calmness, but the fear of fear was an obsession. She tore through the wood, shaken and gasping with terror of the greater terror she every moment expected to be forced to undergo; for almost the only clear thought remaining to her, in that onrush of panic, was the realisation that there was, at her elbow, in her heart, physical or metaphysical, she knew not which, some as yet veiled fact waiting to be revealed, in view of which her present agitation was trivial and meaningless. She ran on, blind and blundering; yet her feet were so clogged by the weight of earth and wet, her thoughts by the sweat of the fear that was on them, that neither seemed to move for all her willing. And all the while, another part of her consciousness sat aloof, critical and detached, laughing at her for an excitable fool, analysing, in Clare's crispest accents, the illusions which were bewildering her, and wondering coolly that any girl of her age could so let her imagination run away with her. She pulled herself together with an immense effort of will. That was the truth.... It was her own imagination that was literally and physically running away with her, whipping her tired body into unnecessary exertion, flogging her into mad flight from this pleasant, harmless place, with its hideous and horrible suggestion of evil at hand.... But the evil was in her own mind.... There was nothing pursuing her, no vague ghost at her elbow.... The horror was in herself, to be faced, and fought, and trampled.... Running would not help her ... she would only carry her terror with her.... For an instant she had a lightning glimpse of the reasons of the Sadducean attitude to personality, and its desperate denials of future existence. She was suddenly appalled at the hideous possibility of existing eternally with her own undying thoughts for company. She wondered if there were really such a thing as soul suicide, and thought that, if so, many must have chosen to commit it. Here her shifting, crowding thoughts blotted out the glimmer of understanding, as flies clustering on a window-pane can blot out light; yet the word _suicide_ remained in her mind, disturbing, vaguely suggestive. It was connected with something terrible--she could not remember what--that in its turn was one with the vague horror at her elbow, that walked with the echo of her footsteps and panted with the echoes of her breaths, and yet was not real at all, but only in her mind. She did not believe she should ever find her way out of the wood.... The hyacinths in her arms were so heavy--a queerly familiar weight: and the sun had gone in, which had, somehow, something to do with the trouble.... She felt the black depression of the winter months that she had left Utterbridge to escape settling down on her once more. She turned hopelessly to elude it, but it surrounded her like a fog, as indeed she half believed it to be. She supposed they had sudden fogs in the country, when the sun went in.... And the sun had gone in because she had picked all the hyacinths.... She remembered the story clearly enough now.... The sun had played at quoits with a child, and had thrown amiss, and killed it, and the purple blood had trickled down from the child's forehead.... So the sun had turned it into purple hyacinths.... But she, Alwynne, had been gathering all the hyacinths, and they were a heavy bunch, heavy as a dead child's body ... and in another minute they would be disenchanted, and she would be carrying a dead child's body in her arms.... She stood still, gazing down at the flowers, white and glassy-eyed with terror, wondering that she was still alive and not yet mad. For she knew that the fear she had feared was upon her at last. She dared not blink lest in that second the change should take place, and she should find Louise, long buried, in her arms. Because, of course, it was Louise who had been following her all the while.... Louise--who had committed suicide.... She was following Alwynne, because it was Alwynne's fault.... Clare had said so.... Well--at least she could tell Louise that she had meant no harm.... She waited, swayed back against a tree trunk, the flowers a dead weight over her arm. She held them gently, lest a rough movement should wake the horror they hid. With what was left of sanity she prayed. The trees encircled her, watching. From far away there came once more a sound of footsteps. CHAPTER XXXIII Roger set out at a quick pace for the wood, the basket rattling lightly on his arm; but the track of Alwynne's shoes was lost in the deep grass of the paddock, and he hesitated, wondering where he should look for her. Followed a cupboard-love scene with Nicholas Nye, who accompanied him to the boundary of his kingdom, snuffling windily in the empty bodge. He brayed disgustedly when Roger left him, his ancient lips curling backward over yellow stumps, in a smile that was an insult. He had the air of knowing exactly where Roger was going, and of being leeringly amused. For ten minutes Roger wandered about, starting aside from the pathway half a dozen times, deceived by a swaying branch, or the deceptive pink and white of distant birch bark. He tramped on into the thickness of the wood, till at last, through a thinning of trees, a hundred yards to his left, he caught a glimpse of gold, that could only, he told himself, be Alwynne's hair. He frowned. It was just like the girl to go floundering into the only boggy bit of the wood, when two thirds were drained and dry, and thick with flowers.... It was sheer spirit of contradiction! She would catch cold of course; and he would, not to mince matters, be stunk out with eucalyptus for the next ten days ... and The Dears would fuss ... he knew them! His fastidiousness was always revolted by a parade of handkerchiefs and bleared eyes. He was accustomed to insist that disease was as disgraceful as dirt: and that there was not a pin to choose between Dartmoor and the London Hospital as harbourage for criminals. But he could always dismount from his hobby-horse for any case of suffering that came his way. He could give his time, his money, or his tenderness, with a matter-of-course promptitude that relieved all but a tender-skinned few of any belief that they had reason to be grateful to him. Roger, his eye on the distant halo, crashed through the undergrowth at a great rate, emerging into a little natural clearing, to find Alwynne facing him, a bare half-dozen yards away. The full sight of her pulled him up short. She was standing--lying upright, rather, for she seemed incapable of self-support--flattened against a big grey oak. One arm, flung backwards, clutched and scrabbled at the bark; the other, crooked shelteringly, supported a mass of bluebells. Her face was grey, her mouth half open, her eyes wide and pale. Very obviously she did not see him. "Alwynne!" he exclaimed. She cowered. He exclaimed again, astonished and not a little alarmed---- "Alwynne! Are you ill? What on earth has happened?" She flung up her head, staring. "Roger?" she said incredulously. Then her face began to work. He never forgot the expression of relief that flowed across it. It was like the breaking up of a frozen pool. "Why, it's you!" cried Alwynne. "It's you! It's only you!" The flowers dropped lingeringly from her slack hands, and she swayed where she stood. He crossed hastily to her and she clung helplessly to his arm. She looked dazed and stupid. "Of course it is," he said. "Who did you think it was?" Alwynne looked at him. "Louise," she said, "I thought it was Louise. She's come before, but never in the daytime. A ghost can't walk in the daytime. But this place is so dark, she might think it was night here, don't you think?" He gave her arm a gentle shake. "Let's get out of this, Alwynne," he began persuasively. "I think you're rather done for. There's been a hot sun to-day, and you've been stooping till you're dizzy. Come on. What a lot of flowers you've picked! Come, let's get out of this place." "Yes," she said; "let's get out of this place." "What about your bunch?" he questioned, glancing down at the hyacinths' heaped disorder. "Don't you want it?" He felt her shiver. "No," she said, "no." She hesitated. "Could we hide it? Cover it up? It ought to be buried. I can't leave it--just lying there----" There was a catch in her voice. He concealed his astonishment and looked about him. "Of course not," he said cheerfully. "Here--what about this?" A huge tussock of bleached grass, its sodden leaves as long as a woman's hair, caught his eye. He parted the heavy mass and showed her the little cave of dry soil below. "What about this? They'll be all right here," he suggested gravely. Alwynne nodded. "Yes--put it in quickly," she said. Without a word, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he did as she asked. Then, rising and slipping her arm through his own, he pushed on quite silently, holding back the strong pollard shoots, clearing aside the brambles, till they reached the uneven footpath once more, that led them in less than five minutes to the further edge of the wood. As they emerged into the open fields, he felt the weight on his arm lessening. He glanced at his companion, and saw that there was once more a tinge of colour in her cheek. She drew a deep breath and looked at him. "I thought I should never get out again," she said dispassionately, as one stating a bald fact. "Get where?" "Out of that wood. You were just in time. I thought I was caught. I should have been, if you hadn't come." Then she grew conscious of his expression, and answered it-- "I suppose you think I'm mad." "I do rather." "I don't wonder. It doesn't much matter----" Her voice flagged and strained. They walked on in silence. She began again abruptly. "Of course you thought I was mad. I knew you would. I do myself, sometimes. Any one would. Even Clare. That's why I never told any one. But it never happened when I was awake before." "I wonder if you would tell me exactly what happened?" "I was frightened," she began irresolutely. "For a moment I wondered if a tramp----" She laughed shakily. "I'm a match for the average tramp, I think. I'm head of the games." He was amused. "You'd tell him what you thought of him, I'm sure." But already her smile had grown absent; she was relapsing into her abstraction. They had crossed the field as they talked, and struck into the little gravelled path that led to the monster glass-houses on the other side of the hedge. A wide gate barred their progress. Roger manipulated the rusty chain in silence for a moment, then, as the gate yawned open, turned to her pleasantly---- "Won't you have a look round, as we've come so far? You're in my territory now, and I've a houseful of daffodils just bursting." His calm matter-of-fact manner had its effect. Alwynne absorbed in her sick thoughts, found herself listening to his account of his houses and his experiments, as one listens subconsciously to the slur of a distant water-course. She did not take in the meaning of his words, but his even voice soothed her fretted nerves. Roger was perfectly aware of her inattention. He was not brilliant, but he was equipped with experience and common-sense and kindness of heart; and above all he was observant. The Alwynne of his acquaintance, pretty, amusing, clever, had attracted him sufficiently, had even, as he admitted to himself as he went in search of her, been able to entice him from his Sunday comfort to wander quarrelling in wet fields. But the Alwynne he had come upon half-an-hour later was a revelation; at a glance every preconceived notion of her character was swept away. His first idea was that she had been frightened by roughs, but her manner and expression speedily contradicted it. She was, he perceived, struggling, and not for the first time, with some overwhelming trouble of the mind. He had been appalled by the fear in her eyes. He remembered Jean's account. Elsbeth had been worried about her for a long time: ill-health and depression: she believed there had been some sort of a shock--a child had died suddenly at the school.... Alwynne's gay and piquant presence had made him forget, till that moment, such rudiments of her history as he had heard. But seeing her distress, he was angry that he had been obtuse, and amazed at her skill in concealing whatever trouble it might be that was oppressing her. All the kindliness of his nature awoke at sight of her haunted, hunted air; he bestirred himself to allay her agitation; he resolved then and there to help her if he could. He had recognised at once that she was in no state for argument or explanation, and had devoted himself to calming her, falling in with her humour, and showing no surprise at the extravagance of her remarks. He had her quieted, almost herself, by the time they had reached his nursery and descended brick steps into a bath of sweet-smelling warmth. Alwynne exclaimed. The glass-house was very peaceful. Above a huge Lent lily the spring's first butterfly hovered and was still awhile, then quivered again and fluttered away, till his pale wings grew invisible against the aisles of yellow bloom. The short, impatient barks of Roger's terrier outside the door came to them, dulled and faint. The sun poured down upon the already heated air. Alwynne walked down the long narrow middle way, hesitating, enjoying, and moving on again, much, Roger thought, as the butterfly had done. She said little, but her delight was evident. Roger was pleased; he liked his flowers to be appreciated. But he, too, said little; he was considering his course of action. At the end of the conservatory was a square of brick flooring on which stood a table with a tobacco jar, and a litter of magazines; beside it an ancient basket-chair. Roger pulled it forward. "This is my sanctum," he said. "Won't you sit down? I do a lot of work here in the winter." Alwynne sank into the creaking wicker-work with a sigh of relief. "I shall never get up again," she said. "It's too comfortable. I'm tired." "Of course." He smiled at her. "Don't you worry. You needn't budge till you want to. I'll get some tea." "You mustn't bother. It'll be cold. It's miles to the house," said Alwynne wearily. He made no answer, but began to clear away the rubbish on the table. He moved deftly, light-footed, without clumsy or unnecessary noise; in spite of his size, his movements were always silent and assured. She closed her eyes indifferently. She had said that she was tired; the word was as good as another where none were adequate to express her utter exhaustion. She felt that, in a sense, she was in luck to be so tired that she could not think.... She knew that later she must brace herself to an examination of the nightmare experience of the afternoon, to renew her struggle against the devils of her imagination; but for the moment her weakness was her safe-guard, and she could lie relaxed and thoughtless, mesmerised by the flooding sunshine and the pulsing scents and the quick movements of the man beside her. She wondered what he was doing, but she was too tired to open her eyes, or to interpret to herself the faint sounds she heard. She thought dreamily that he was as kind as Elsbeth. She was grateful to him for not talking to her. He was a wonderfully understanding person.... He might have known her for years.... He made her feel safe ... that was a great gift.... If she, Alwynne, had been like that, kind and reassuring, to poor little Louise--if only she had understood--Louise would have come to her, then, instead of brooding herself to death.... Poor Louise.... Poor unhappy Louise.... And after all she had not been able to kill herself.... She was still alive, lying in wait for her, though she knew that Alwynne could not help her.... She would never go away, though they had left her outside in the cold--in the cold of the wood--and were safe in this warm summerland ... she would be waiting when they came out again.... She shuddered as she thought of retracing her steps. She would ask Roger to take her home another way.... She would not have to explain.... He had not wanted explanation.... She was passionately grateful to him because he had not overwhelmed her with questions at their meeting. She could never explain, of course, because people would think her mad.... They might even send her to an asylum, if she told them.... She longed for the relief of confession, yet who would believe that she was merely a sane woman rendered desperate by evil dreams? Not Clare, certainly--not Elsbeth, though they loved her.... She would just have to go on fighting her terrors as best she could, till she or they were crushed.... She sighed hopelessly and opened her eyes. "Had a doze? Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to laugh, but now, since Louise died, it scares me, though I am grown up. I've no convictions--and she is certain--and then I get these nightmares. I hear her calling--for water." The flat matter-of-fact tone alarmed him more than emotion would have done. "Water?" "_For I am tormented in this flame._ I hear her every night--wailing." Her eyes strained after something that he could not see. He found no words. She returned with an effort. "Of course, when it's over--I know it's imagination. My sense tells me so--in the daytime. Only I can't be sure. If only I could be sure! If some one would tell me to be sure. It's the reasoning it out for myself--all day--and going back to the dreams all night." "How long has this been going on?" he asked curtly. "Ever since--when I came home from Clare's--that night. I'd slept like a log. Then I woke up suddenly. I thought I heard Louise calling. I'd forgotten she was dead. Every night it happens--as soon as I go to sleep, she comes. Always trying to speak to me. I hear her screaming with pain--wanting help. Never any words. Do you think I'm mad? I know it's only a dream--but every night, you know----" "You're not going to dream any more," he said, with a determination that belied his inward sense of dismay. "But go on--let's have the rest of it." "There isn't much. Just dreams. It's been a miserable year. I couldn't be cheerful always, you know--and I used to dread going to bed so. It made me stupid all day. And Clare--Clare didn't quite understand. Oh--I did want to tell her so. But you can't worry people. I'm afraid Elsbeth got worried--she hates it if you don't eat and have a colour. She packed me off here at last." She drew a long breath. "This blessed place! You don't know how I love it. I feel a different girl. All this space and air and freedom. What is it that the country does to one's mind? I've slept. No dreaming. Sleep that's like a hot bath. Can you imagine what that is after these months? Oh, Roger! I thought I'd stopped dreaming for good--I was forgetting----" "Go on forgetting," he said. "You can. I'll help you. You had a shock. It made you ill. You're getting well again. That's all." "I'm not," she said. "I'm going mad. To-day, in that wood.... Louise came running after me--and I was awake...." Suddenly she gave a little ripple of high-pitched laughter. "Oh, Mr. Lumsden! Isn't this a ridiculous conversation? And your face--you're so absurd when you frown.... You make me laugh.... You make me laugh...." She broke off. Roger, with a swift movement, had turned and was standing over her. "Now shut up!" he said sharply. "Shut up! D'you hear? Shut up this instant, and sit down." He put his hand on her shoulder and jerked her back into the chair. The shock of his roughness checked her hysterics, as he had intended it should. She sat limply, her head in her hand, trying not to cry. He watched her. "Pull yourself together, Alwynne," he said more gently. Her lips quivered, but she nodded valiantly. "I will. Just wait a minute. I don't want to make a fool of myself." Then, with a quavering laugh, "Oh, Roger, this is pleasant for you!" He laughed. "You needn't mind me," he said calmly. "Any more than I mind you. Except when you threaten hysterics. I bar hysterics. I wouldn't mind if they did any good. But we've got lots to do. No time at all for them. We've got to work this thing out. Ready?" Alwynne waited, her attention caught. "Now listen," he said. "First of all, get it into your head that I know all about it, and that I'm going to see you through. Next--whenever you get scared--though you won't again, I hope--that you are just to come and talk it over. You won't even have to tell me--I shall see by your face, you know. Do you understand? You're not alone any more. I'm here. Always ready to lay your ghosts for you. Will you remember?" He spoke clearly and patiently--very cheerful and reassuring. "You've got to go home well, Alwynne. Because, you know, though you're as sane as I am, you've been ill. This last year has been one long illness. You had a shock--a ghastly shock--and, of course, it skinned your nerves raw. My dear, I wonder it didn't send you really mad, instead of merely making you afraid of going mad. If you hadn't put up such a fight----Honestly, Alwynne! I think you've been jolly plucky." The sincere admiration in his voice was wonderfully pleasant to hear. Alwynne opened her eyes widely. "I don't know what you mean," she began shyly. "I'm not imaginative," he said, "but if I'd been hag-ridden as you have----" He broke off abruptly. "But, at least, you've fought yourself free," he continued cheerfully. "Yes, in spite of to-day." And his complete assurance of voice and manner had its effect on Alwynne, though she did not realise it. "You're better already. You say yourself you're a different girl since you got away from--since you came here. And when you're quite well, it'll be your own work, not mine. I'm just tugging you up the bank, so to speak. But you've done the real fighting with the elements. I think you can be jolly proud of yourself." Alwynne looked at him, half smiling, half bewildered. "What do you mean? You talk as if it were all over. Shall I never be frightened again? Think of to-day?" "Of course it's all over," he assured her truculently. "To-day? To-day was the last revolt of your imagination. You've let it run riot too long. Of course it hasn't been easy to call it to heel." "You think it's all silly imaginings, then?" "Alwynne," he said. "You've got to listen to this, just this. You say I'm not to talk about your friend, that I don't know her--that I'm unjust. But listen, at least, to this. I won't be unfair. I'll grant you that she was fond of the little girl, and meant no harm, no more than you did. But you say yourself that she was miserable till you relieved her mind by taking all the blame on yourself. Can't you conceive that in so doing you did assume a burden, a very real one? Don't you think that her fears, her terrors, may have haunted you as well as your own? I believe in the powers of thought. I believe that fear--remorse--regret--may materialise into a very ghost at your elbow. Do you remember Macbeth and Banquo? Do you believe that a something really physical sat that night in the king's seat? Do you think it was the man from his grave? I think it was Macbeth's thoughts incarnate. He thought too much, that man. But let's leave all that. Let's argue it out from a common-sense point of view. You said you believed in God?" "Yes," she said. "And the devil?" "I suppose so." "Well--I'm not so sure that I do," he remarked meditatively. "But if I do--I must say I cannot see the point of a God who wouldn't be more than a match for him: and a God who'd leave a baby in his clutches to expiate in fire and brimstone and all the rest of the beastliness----Well, is it common sense?" he appealed to her. "If you put it like that----" she admitted. "My dear, would you let Louise frizzle if it were in your hands? Why, you've driven yourself half crazy with fear for her, as it is. Can't you give God credit for a little common humanity? I'm not much of a Bible reader, but I seem to remember something about a sparrow falling to the ground----Now follow it up," he went on urgently. "If Louise's life was so little worth living that she threw it away--doesn't it prove she had her hell down here? If you insist on a hell. And when she was dead, poor baby, can't you trust God to have taken charge of her? And if He has--as He must have--do you think that child--that happy child, Alwynne, for if God exists at all, He must exist as the very source and essence of peace and love--that that child would or could wrench itself apart from God, from its happiness, in order to return to torment you? Is it possible? Is it probable? In any way feasible?" Alwynne caught her breath. "How you believe in God! I wish I could!" Roger flushed suddenly like an embarrassed boy. "You know, it's queer," he confided, subsiding naïvely, "till I began to talk to you, I didn't know I did. I never bother about church and things. You know----" But Alwynne was not attending. "Of course--I see what you mean," she murmured. "It applies to Louise too. Why, Roger, she was really fond of me--not as she was of Clare--of course--but quite fond of me. She never would have hurt me. Hurt? Poor mite! She never hurt any one in all her life." "I wonder you didn't think of that before," remarked Roger severely. "I hope you see what an idiot you've been?" "Yes," said Alwynne meekly. She did not flash out at him as he had hoped she would: but her manner had grown calm, and her eyes were peaceful. "Poor little Louise!" said Alwynne slowly. "So we needn't think about her any more? She's to be dead, and buried, and forgotten. It sounds harsh, doesn't it? But she is dead--and I've only been keeping her alive in my mind all this year. Is that what you mean?" "Yes," he said. "And if it were not as I think it is, sheer imagination--if your grieving and fear really kept a fraction of her personality with you, to torment you both--let her go now, Alwynne. Say good-bye to her kindly, and let her go home." She looked at him gravely for a moment. Then she turned from him to the empty house of flowers. "Good-bye, Louise!" said Alwynne, simply as a child. About them was the evening silence. The sun, sinking over the edge of the world, was a blinding glory. Out of the flowers rose the butterfly, found an open pane and fluttered out on the evening air, straight into the heart of the sunlight. They watched it with dazzled eyes. CHAPTER XXXVI Alwynne had gone to bed early. She confessed to being tired, as she bade her cousins good-night, and, indeed, she had dark rings about her eyes; but her colour was brilliant as she waited at the foot of the stairs for her candle. Roger had followed her into the hall and was lighting it. The thin flame flickered between them, kindling odd lights in their eyes. "Good-night," said Alwynne, and went up a shallow step or two. "Good-night," said Roger, without moving. She turned suddenly and bent down to him over the poppy-head of the balustrade. "Good-night," said Alwynne once more, and put out her hand. "You're to sleep well, you know," he said authoritatively. She nodded. Then, with a rush-- "Roger, I do thank you. I do thank you very much." "That's all right," said Roger awkwardly. Alwynne went upstairs. He watched her disappear in the shadows of the landing, and took a meditative turn up and down the long hall before he returned to the drawing-room. He felt oddly responsible for the girl; wished that he had some one to consult about her.... His aunts? Dears, of course, but ... Alicia, possibly.... Certainly not Jean.... Nothing against them ... dearest women alive ... but hardly capable of understanding Alwynne, were they? Without at all realising it he had already arrived at the conviction that no one understood Alwynne but himself. He caught her name as he re-entered the room. "Ever so much better! A different creature! Don't you think so, Roger?" "Think what?" "That Alwynne's a new girl? It's the air. Nothing like Dene air. But, of course, you didn't see her when she first came. A poor white thing! She'd worked herself to a shadow. How Elsbeth allowed it----" Jean caught her up. "Overwork! Fiddlesticks! It wasn't that. I'm convinced in my own mind that there's something behind it. A girl doesn't go to pieces like that from a little extra work. Look at your Compton women at the end of a term. Bursting with energy still, I will say that for them. No--I'm inclined to agree with Parker. I told you what she said to me? 'She must have been crossed in love, poor young lady, the way she fiddle-faddles with her food!'" Alicia laughed. "When you and Parker get together there's not a reputation safe in the three Denes. If there had been anything of the kind, Elsbeth would have given me a hint." "I should have thought Elsbeth would be the last person----" Jean broke off significantly. Roger glanced at her, eyebrows lifted. "What's she driving at, Aunt Alice?" "Lord knows!" said Alicia shortly. Jean grew huffed. "It's all very well, Alicia, to take that tone. You know what I mean perfectly well. Considering how reticent Elsbeth was over her own affairs to us--she wouldn't be likely to confide anything about Alwynne. But Elsbeth always imagined no one had any eyes." Alicia moved uneasily in her chair. "Jean, will you never let that foolish gossip be? It wasn't your business thirty years ago--at least let it alone now." Jean flushed. "It's all very well to be superior, Alicia, but you know you agreed with me at the time." Roger chuckled. "What are you two driving at? Let's have it." Alicia answered him. "My dear boy, you know what Jean is. Elsbeth stayed with us a good deal when we were all girls together--and because she and your dear father were very good friends----" "Inseparable!" snapped Jean. She was annoyed that the telling of the story was taken from her. "Oh, they had tastes in common. But we all liked him. I'm quite certain Elsbeth was perfectly heart-whole. Only Jean has the servant-girl habit of pairing off all her friends and acquaintances. I don't say, of course, that if John had never met your dear mother--but she came home from her French school--she'd been away two years, you know--and turned everybody's head. Ravishing she was. I remember her coming-out dance. She wore the first short dress we'd seen--every one wore trains in those days--white gauze and forget-me-nots. She looked like a fairy. All the gentlemen wanted to dance with her, she was so light-footed. Your father fell head over ears! They were engaged in a fortnight. And nobody, in her quiet way, was more pleased than Elsbeth, I'm sure. Why, she was one of the bridesmaids!" "She never came to stay with them afterwards," said Jean obstinately, "always had an excuse." "Considering she had to nurse her father, with her mother an invalid already----" Alicia was indignant. "Ten years of sick-nursing that poor girl had!" "Anyhow, she never came to Dene again till after John died. Then she came, once. When she heard we were all going out to Italy. Stayed a week." "I remember," said Roger unexpectedly. "You! You were only five," cried Jean. The clock struck as she spoke. She jumped up. "Alicia! It's ten o'clock! Where's Parker? Why hasn't Parker brought the biscuits? You really might speak to her! She's always late!" She flurried out of the room. Roger drew in his chair. "Aunt Alice, I say--how much of that is just--Aunt Jean?" Alicia sighed. "My dear boy! How should I know? It's all such a long while ago. Jean's no respecter of privacy. I never noticed anything--hate prying--always did." "She never married?" "She was over thirty before her mother died. She aged quickly--faded somehow. At that visit Jean spoke of--I shall never forget the change in her. She was only twenty-six, two years older than your mother, but Rosemary was a girl beside her, in spite of you and her widow's weeds. And then Alwynne was left on her hands and she absorbed herself in her. She's one of those self-effacing women--But there--she's quite contented, I think. She adores Alwynne. Her letters are cheerful enough. I always kept up with her. I'd like to see her again." "Why didn't you ask her with Alwynne?" "I did. She wouldn't come. Spring-cleaning, and one of her whimsies. Wanted the child to have a change from her. That's Elsbeth all over. She was always painfully humble. I imagine she'd sell her immortal soul for Alwynne." "Well--and so would you for me," said Roger, with a twinkle. "Don't you flatter yourself," retorted Alicia with spirit. Then she laughed and kissed him, and lumbered off to scold Jean up to bed. Roger sat late, staring into the fire, and reviewing the day's happenings. There was Alwynne to be considered.... Alwynne in the wood.... Alwynne in the daffodil house.... Alwynne hanging over the bannisters, a candle in her hand.... And Elsbeth.... Elsbeth had become something more than a name.... Elsbeth had known his mother--had been "pals" with his father.... He chuckled at the recollection of Jean's speculations.... Poor old Jean! She hadn't altered much.... He remembered her first horror at Compton and its boys and girls.... But Elsbeth was evidently a good sort ... appreciated Alwynne.... He would like to have a talk with Elsbeth.... He would like to have her version of that disastrous summer; have her views on Alwynne and this school of hers ... and that woman ... what was her name?... Hartill! Clare Hartill! Yes, he must certainly get to know Alwynne's Elsbeth.... In the meantime.... He hesitated, fidgeting at his desk; spoiled a sheet or two; shrugged his shoulders; began again; and finally, with a laugh at his own uncertainty, settled down to the writing of a long letter to his second cousin Elsbeth. Elsbeth, opening a boot-boxful of daffodils on the following evening, had no leisure for any other letter till Alwynne's was read. _I hope they'll arrive fresh. Roger packed them for me himself. He's frightfully clever with flowers, you know; you should just see his greenhouses! But he goes in chiefly for roses; he's going to teach me pruning and all that, he says, later on. The Dears were out all day, but he looked after me. He's really awfully nice when you get to know him. One of those sensible people. I'm sure you would like him_, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Elsbeth smiled over her daffodils. She had to put them in water, and arrange them, and re-arrange them, and admire them for a full half-hour before she had time for the rest of her post, for her two circulars and the letter in the unfamiliar handwriting. But when, at last, it was opened, she had no more eyes for daffodils; and though she spent her evening letter-writing, Alwynne got no thanks for them next day. "Not even a note!" declaimed Alwynne indignantly. "She might at least have sent me a note! It isn't as if she had any one else to write to!" Roger was most sympathetic. CHAPTER XXXVII Alwynne's visit had been prolonged in turn by Alicia, Jean and Roger; and Elsbeth had acquiesced--her sedate letters never betrayed how eagerly--in each delay. Alicia was flatteringly in need of her help for the Easter church decorations, and how could Alwynne refuse? Jean was in the thick of preparations for the bazaar: Alwynne's quick wits and clever fingers were not to be dispensed with. Alwynne wondered what Clare would say to her interest in a bazaar and a mothers' meeting, and was a little nervous that it would be considered anything but a reasonable excuse for yet another delay. Clare's letters were getting impatient--Clare was wanting her back. Clare was finding her holidays dull. Yet Alwynne, longing to return to her, was persuaded to linger--for a bazaar--a village bazaar! That a bazaar of all things should tempt Alwynne from Clare! She felt the absurdity of it as fully as ever Clare could do. Yet she stayed. After all, The Dears had been very good to her.... She should be glad to make some small return by being useful when she could.... And Alwynne was pleasantly conscious that she was uncommonly useful. A fair is a many-sided gaiety. There are tableaux--Alwynne's suggestions were invaluable. Side-shows--Alwynne, in a witch's hat, told the entire village its fortunes with precision and point. Alwynne's well-drilled school-babies were pretty enough in their country dances and nursery rhymes; and the stall draperies were a credit to Alwynne's taste. Alwynne's posters lined the walls; and her lightning portraits--fourpence each, married couples sixpence--were the success of the evening. The village notabilities were congratulatory: The Dears beamed: it was all very pleasant. Her pleasure in her own popularity was innocent enough. Nevertheless she glanced uneasily in the direction of Roger Lumsden more than once during the evening. He was very big and busy in his corner helping his aunts, but she felt herself under observation. She had an odd idea that he was amused at her. She thought he might have enquired if she needed help during the long evening, when the little Parish Hall was grown crowded. Once, indeed, she signed to him across the room to come and talk to her, but he laughed and shook his head, and turned again to an old mother, absorbed in a pile of flannel petticoats. Alwynne was not pleased. But when the sale had come to its triumphant end, and the stall-holders stood about in little groups, counting coppers and comparing gains--it was Roger who discovered Alwynne, laughing a trifle mechanically at the jokes of the ancient rector, and came to her rescue. She found herself in the cool outer air, hat and scarf miraculously in place. "Jean and Alicia are driving, they won't be long after us. I thought you'd rather walk. That room was a furnace," said Roger, with solicitude. She drew a deep breath. "It was worth it to get this. Isn't it cool and quiet? I like this black and white road. Doesn't the night smell delicious?" "It's the cottage gardens," he said. "Wallflowers and briar and old man. Better than all your acres of glass, after all," she insinuated mischievously. Then, with a change of tone, "Oh, dear, I am tired." "You'd better hang on to my arm," said Roger promptly. "That's better. Of course you're tired. If you insist on running the entire show----" "Then you did think that?" Alwynne gave instant battle. "I knew you did. I saw you laugh. I can walk by myself, thank you." But her dignity edged her into a cart-rut, for Roger did not deviate from the middle of the lane. He laughed. "You're a consistent young woman--I'm as sure of a rise----You'd better take my arm. Alwynne! You're not to say 'Damn.'" A puddle shone blackly, and Alwynne, nose in air, had stepped squarely into it. She ignored his comments. "I wasn't interfering. I had to help where I could. They asked me to. Besides--I liked it." "Of course you did." She looked up quickly. "Did I really do anything wrong? Did I push myself forward?" "You made the whole thing go," he said seriously. "A triumph, Alwynne. The rector's your friend for life." "Then why do you grudge it?" She was hurt. "Do I?" "You laugh at me." "Because I was pleased." "With me?" "With my thoughts. You've enjoyed yourself, haven't you?" She nodded. "I never dreamed it would be such fun." She laughed shyly. "I like people to like me." "Now, come," he said. "Wasn't it quite as amusing as a prize-giving?" She looked up at him, puzzled. He was switching with his stick at the parsley-blooms, white against the shadows of the hedge. "I suppose your goal is a head mistress-ship?" he suggested off-handedly. "Why?" began Alwynne, wondering. Then, taking the bait: "Not for myself--I couldn't. I haven't been to college, you know. But if Clare got one--I could be her secretary, and run things for her, like Miss Vigers did for Miss Marsham. We've often planned it." "Ah, that's a prospect indeed," he remarked. "I suppose it would be more attractive, for instance, than to be Lady Bountiful to a village?" "Oh, yes," said Alwynne, with conviction. "More scope, you know. And, besides, Clare hates the country." "Ah!" said Roger. They walked awhile in silence. But before they reached home, Roger had grown talkative again. He had heard from his aunts that she was planning to go back to Utterbridge on the following Saturday--a bare three days ahead. Roger thought that a pity. The bazaar was barely over--had Alwynne any idea of the clearing up there would be to do? Accounts--calls--congratulations. Surely Alwynne would not desert his aunts till peace reigned once more. And the first of his roses would be out in another week; Alwynne ought to see them; they were a sight. Surely Alwynne could spare another week. Alwynne had a lot to say about Elsbeth. And Clare. Especially Clare. Alwynne did not think it would be kind to either of them to stay away any longer. It would look at last as if she didn't want to go home. Elsbeth would be hurt. And Clare. Especially Clare. But the lane had been dark and the hedges had been high, high enough to shut out all the world save Roger and his plausibilities. By the time they reached the garden gate Alwynne's hand was on Roger's arm--Alwynne was tired--and Alwynne had promised to stay yet another week at Dene. On the following day, labouring over her letters of explanation, she wondered what had possessed her. Wondered, between a chuckle of mischief and a genuine shiver, what on earth Clare would say. But if Roger had gained his point, he gained little beside it. The week passed pleasantly, but some obscure instinct tied Alwynne to his aunts' apron-strings. He saw less of her in those last days than in all the weeks of her visit. He had assured her that The Dears would need help, and she took him at his word. She absorbed herself in their concerns, and in seven long days found time but twice to visit Roger's roses. Yet who so pleasant as Alwynne when she was with him? Roger should have appreciated her whim of civility. It is on record that she agreed with him one dinner-time, on five consecutive subjects. On record, too, that in that last week there arose between them no quarrel worthy of the name. Yet Roger was not in the easiest of moods, as his gardeners knew, and his coachman, and his aunts. The gardeners grumbled. The coachman went so far as to think of talking of giving notice. Alicia said it was the spring. Jean thought he needed a tonic--or a change. Roger, cautiously consulted, surprised her by agreeing. He said it was a good idea. He might very well take a few days off, say in a fortnight, or three weeks.... Only Alwynne, very busy over the finishing touches of Clare's birthday present, paid no attention to the state of Roger's temper. She was entirely content. The anticipation of her reunion with Clare accentuated the delights of her protracted absence. Indeed, it was not until the last morning of her visit that she noticed any change in him. That last morning, she thought resentfully, as later she considered matters in the train, he had certainly managed to spoil. Roger, her even-minded, tranquil Roger--Roger, prime sympathiser and confederate--Roger, the entirely dependable--had failed her. She did not know what had come over him. For Roger had been in a bad temper, a rotten bad temper, and heaven knew why.... Alwynne didn't.... She had been in such a jolly frame of mind herself.... She had got her packing done early, and had dashed down to breakfast, beautifully punctual--and then it all began.... She re-lived it indignantly, as the telegraph poles shot by. The bacon had sizzled pleasantly in the chafing-dish. She was standing at the window, crumbling bread to the birds. "Hulloa! You're early!" remarked Roger, entering. "Done all my packing already! Isn't that virtue?" Alwynne was intent on her pensioners. "Oh, Roger--look! There's a cuckoo. I'm sure it's a cuckoo. Jean says they come right on to the lawn sometimes. I've always wanted to see one. Look! The big dark blue one." "Starling," said Roger shortly, and sat himself down. "First day I've known you punctual," he continued sourly. "I'm going home," cried Alwynne. "I'm going home! Do you know I've been away seven weeks? It's queer that I haven't been homesick, isn't it?" "Is it?" said Roger blankly. "So, of course, I'm awfully excited," she continued, coming to the table. "Oh, Roger! In six hours I shall see Clare!" "Congratulations!" He gulped down some coffee. Alwynne looked at him, mildly surprised at his taciturnity. "I've had a lovely time," she remarked wistfully. "You've all been so good to me." Roger brightened. "The Dears are such dears," continued Alwynne with enthusiasm. "I've never had such a glorious time. It only wanted Clare to make it quite perfect. And Elsbeth, of course." "Of course," said Roger. "So often I've thought," she went on: "'Now if only Clare and Elsbeth could be coming down the road to meet us----'" she paused effectively. "I do so like my friends to know each other, don't you?" Roger was cutting bread--stale bread, to judge by his efforts. His face was growing red. "Because then I can talk about them to them," concluded Alwynne lucidly. "Jolly for them!" he commented indistinctly. Alwynne looked up. "What, Roger?" "I said, 'Jolly for them!'" "Oh!" Alwynne glanced at him in some uncertainty. Then, with a frown-- "Have you finished--already?" "Yes, thank you." "I haven't," remarked Alwynne, with sufficient point. Roger rose. "You'll excuse me, won't you? I've a busy morning ahead of me." He got up. But in spite of his protestations of haste he still stood at the table, fidgeting over his pile of circulars and seed catalogues, while he coughed the preliminary cough of a man who has something to say, and no idea of how to say it. Alwynne, meanwhile, had discovered the two letters that her napkin had hidden, and had neither ears nor eyes for him and his hesitations. Roger watched her gloomily as she opened the envelopes. The first enclosure was read and tossed aside quickly enough, but the other was evidently absorbing. He shrugged his shoulders at last, and, crossing the room, took his warmed boots from the hearth. The supporting tongs fell with a crash. Alwynne jumped. "Oh, Roger, you are noisy!" "Sorry," said Roger, but without conviction. She looked across at him with a hint of perturbation in her manner. She distrusted laconics. "I say--is anything the matter?" "Nothing whatever!" he assured her. "Why?" He bent over his boots. "I don't know. You're rather glum to-day, aren't you?" "Not at all," said Roger, with a dignity that was marred by the sudden bursting of his over-tugged bootlace. His ensuing exclamation was vigorous and not inaudible. Alwynne giggled. It is not easy to tie a knot in four-sided leather laces. She watched his struggles without excessive sympathy. Presently a neat twist of twine flicked through space and fell beside him. "'Just a little bit of string,'" murmured Alwynne flippantly. But getting no thanks, she returned to her letter. Roger fumbled in silence. "The Dears are late," remarked Alwynne at last, as she folded her sheets. "No--it's we who are early. I got down early on purpose. I thought you might be, too. I wanted----" he broke off abruptly. "Yes, I always wake up at daybreak when I'm excited," she said joyously. "Oh, Roger! How I'm looking forward to getting home! Clare says she may meet me--if she feels like it," she beamed. "Oh!" said Roger. Alwynne tapped her foot angrily. "What's the matter with you?" she demanded. "Why on earth do you sit there and grunt at me like that? Why won't you talk? You're an absolute wet blanket--on my last morning. I wish The Dears would come down." "I think I hear them moving," he said, and stared at the ceiling. "I hope you do." Alwynne flounced from the table and picked up a paper. He stood looking at her--between vexation and amusement, and another sensation less easily defined. "Well, I must be off," he said at last. He got no answer. "Good-bye, Alwynne. Pleasant journey." Alwynne turned in a flash. "Good-bye? Aren't you coming to see me off?" she demanded blankly. He hesitated, looking back at her from the open window, one foot already on the terrace. "I'm awfully busy. It's market-day, you know--and the new stuff's coming in. The Dears will see you off." "Oh, all right." Alwynne was suddenly subdued. She held out a limp hand. He disregarded it. "Do you want me to come?" He spoke more cheerfully. "One always likes one's friends to see one off," she remarked sedately. "And meet one?" He glanced at the letter in her hand. "And meet one. Certainly." Her chin went up. "I hadn't to ask Clare. But you needn't come. Good-bye!" "Oh, I'm coming--now," he assured her, smiling. Alwynne's eyebrows went up. "But it's market-day, you know----" "Yes." "You're awfully busy." "Yes." "The new stuff's coming in." "Yes." "Are you coming, Roger?" "Yes, Alwynne." "Then, Roger dear--if you are coming, and it's no bother, and you can spare them, would you bring me a tiny bunch of your roses? Not for me--for Clare. She does love them so. Do, Roger!" "I'm hanged if I do," cried Roger, and went his wrathful way. But he did. A big bunch. More than enough for Clare. CHAPTER XXXVIII Alwynne was out of the train a dangerous quarter minute before it came to a standstill, and making for the bunch of violets that bloomed perennially in Elsbeth's bonnet. There followed a sufficiency of kissing. It was like a holiday home-coming, thought Alwynne, of not so very long ago. But not so long ago she would have been exclusively occupied with Elsbeth, and her luggage, and her forgotten compartment; would not have turned impatiently from her aunt to scan the length of the platform. Not a sign of Clare? And Clare had promised to meet her.... She prolonged as long as she might her business with porters and ticket collectors and outside-men, but Clare did not appear; and she left the station at last, at her aunt's side, sedately enough, with the edge off the pleasure of her home-coming. A telegram on the hall stand, however, contented her. Clare was sorry; Clare was delayed; would be away another four days; was writing. Alwynne shook off her black dog, and the meeting with Clare still delightfully ahead of her, was able to devote herself altogether to Elsbeth. Elsbeth spent a gay four days with an Alwynne grown rosy and cheerful, affectionate and satisfyingly garrulous again; found it very pleasant to have Alwynne to herself, her own property, even for four days. Elsbeth might know that she was second fiddle still, but though it cost her something to realise that she could never be first fiddle again, she could be content to give place to Roger Lumsden. She shook her head over her inconsistency. She could school herself, rather than lose the girl's confidence, to accept Clare Hartill as the main theme of Alwynne's conversation, till she was weary of the name, but she could not hear enough of Roger. All that Alwynne let fall of incident, description, or approval--Roger, Elsbeth discovered, had, in common with Clare, no faults whatever--she stored up to compare, when Alwynne had gone to bed, with letters, half-a-dozen by this time, that she kept locked up, with certain other, older letters, in the absurd little secret drawer of her desk. And she would patter across into Alwynne's room at last, to tuck in a sheet or twitch back a coverlet or merely to pretend to herself that Alwynne was a baby still, and so, with a smile and a sigh, to her own room, to make her plain toilet and to say her selfless prayers to God and her counterpane. Happy days and nights--four happy days and nights for Elsbeth. Then Clare came back. It was natural that Alwynne should meet her and go home with her, portmanteau in hand, to spend a night or two.... Elsbeth agreed that it was natural.... Three nights or even four.... But when a week passed, with no sign from Alwynne but a meagre, apologetic postcard, Elsbeth thought that she had good cause for anger. Not, of course, with Alwynne ... never, be it understood, with Alwynne ... but most certainly with Clare Hartill. Alwynne was so fatally good-natured.... Clare, she supposed, had kept the child by a great show of needing her help.... Of course, school was beginning, had begun already.... Clare would find Alwynne useful enough.... No doubt it was pleasant to have some one at her beck and call again in these busy first days of term.... Possibly--probably--oh, she conceded the "probably"--Clare had missed Alwynne badly.... Had not Elsbeth, too, missed Alwynne? But she answered Alwynne's postcard affectionately as usual. If Alwynne were happier with Clare, Elsbeth would given no hint of loneliness. A hint, she knew, would suffice. Alwynne had a sense of duty. But she wanted free-will offering from Alwynne, not tribute. In spite of herself, however, something of bitterness crept into her next note to Roger Lumsden, who had inveigled her, she hardly knew how, into regular correspondence. Her remark that _Alwynne has been away ten days now_, was set down baldly, with no veiling sub-sentences of explanation or excuse. Had she but known it, however, she was not altogether just to Alwynne. The first hours of reunion did certainly drive her aunt out of Alwynne's mind, but after a couple of days she was ready to remind herself and Clare that Elsbeth, too, had some claim on her time. It is possible, however, that had she been happier, she would have been less readily scrupulous. Clare had certainly been glad to see her, had, for an hour or two, been entirely delightful. But with the resumption of their mutual life Clare was not long in falling back into her old bad ways, and in revenge for her two months' boredom, in sheer teasing high spirits at Alwynne's return, as well as in unreasoning, petulant jealousy, led Alwynne a pretty enough dance. For Clare was jealous, jealous of these eight weeks of Alwynne's youth that did not belong to her, and between her jealousy and her own contempt for her jealousy, was in one of the moods that she and Alwynne alike dreaded. The mornings at the school came as a relief to them both, but no sooner were they together again than Clare's pricking devil must out. Scenes were incessant--wanton, childish scenes. Yet Alwynne, sore and bewildered as she was by Clare's waxing unreasonableness, was yet not proof against the sudden surrenders that always contrived to put her in the wrong. She would repeat to herself that it must be she who was unreasonable, that she should be flattered rather than distressed, for instance, that Clare would not let her go home.... She would rather be with Clare than Elsbeth, wouldn't she? Of course! well, then!... Nevertheless she could not help wondering if any letters had come for her; if Elsbeth, expecting her daily, would bother to send them on.... Roger had promised to write.... She thought that really she ought to go home. But Clare would not hear of her leaving. Elsbeth wanted Alwynne? So did she. Didn't Elsbeth always have Alwynne? Surely Alwynne was old enough to be away from Elsbeth for a fortnight, without leave granted! Really, with all due respect to her, Alwynne's aunt was a regular Old Man of the Sea. "Clare!" Alwynne's tone had a hint of remonstrance. "Oh, I said 'with all respect.' But if she were not your aunt I should really be tempted to get rid of her--have you here altogether. You would like that, Alwynne, eh?" Alwynne refused to nod, but she laughed. "'Get rid'? Clare, don't be absurd." Clare looked at her, smiling, eyes narrowed in the old way. "Do you think I couldn't get rid of her if I wanted to? I always do what I set out to do. Look at Henrietta Vigers." Alwynne sat bolt upright. "Miss Vigers? But she resigned! She had been meaning to leave! She told us so! Do you mean that she didn't want to leave? Do you mean that she had to?" "Have you ever seen a liner launched? You press an electric button, you know--just a touch--it's awfully simple----" She paused, eyes dancing. But Alwynne had no answering twinkle. "I wouldn't have believed it," she said slowly. Then, distractedly, "But why, Clare, why? What possessed you?" "She got in my way," said Clare indolently. Alwynne turned on her, eyes blazing. "You mean to say--you deliberately did that poor old thing out of her job? If you did----But I don't believe it. If you did----Clare, excuse me--but I think it was beastly." "_Demon! With the highest respect to you_----" quoted Clare, tongue in cheek. But Alwynne was not to be pacified. "Clare--you didn't, did you?" "My dear, she was in the way. She worried you and you worried me. I don't like being worried." Alwynne shivered. "Don't, Clare! I hate you to talk like that--even in fun. It's--it's so cold-blooded." "In fun!" Clare laughed lightly. Alwynne's youthful severity amused her. But she had gone, she perceived, a trifle too far. "Well, then, in earnest--joking apart----" Alwynne's face relaxed. Of course, she had known all along that Clare was in fun.... "Joking apart--it was time for Miss Vigers to go. I admit saying what I thought to Miss Marsham. I am quite ready to take responsibility. She was too old--too fussy--too intolerant--I can't stand intolerance. She had to go." Alwynne looked wicked. "Clare, you remind me of a man I met, down at Compton. You ought to get on together. He's great on tolerance too. So tolerant that five hundred years ago he'd have burned every one who wasn't as tolerant as he. As it is, he shrugs them out of existence, _à la_ Podsnap. Just as you did Miss Vigers just now." "Who was he?" "Don't know--only met him once. But he tickled me awfully. He hadn't the faintest idea how funny he was." "Did he shrug you out of existence?" "My dear Clare--could any one snub me? You might as well snub a rubber ball." "Yes, you're pretty thick-skinned." Clare paid her back reflectively. Alwynne winced. "Am I? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be. How, just now?" Clare yawned. "Well, for one thing, you needn't flavour your conversation exclusively with Denes. They bore me worse than if they had an 'a' in them." "I'm sorry." Alwynne paused. Then she plucked up courage. "Clare, I stayed there two months. The Dene people are my friends, my great friends. I don't think you need sneer at them." Clare yawned again. "I wonder you ever came back, if they're so absorbing. What is the particular attraction there, by the way? The old women or the young men?" Alwynne's lips quivered. "Clare, what has happened? What is the matter with you nowadays? Why are you grown so different? Why are you always saying unkind things?" Clare shrugged her shoulders. "Really, Alwynne, I am not accustomed to be cross-examined. Such a bore, giving reasons. Besides, I haven't got any. Oh, don't look such a martyr." "I think I'll go home," said Alwynne in a low voice. "I don't think you want me." "But Elsbeth does, doesn't she?" Clare settled herself more comfortably in the comfortable Chesterfield as she watched Alwynne out of the room. She lay like a sleepy cat, listening to the muffled sounds of Alwynne's packing; let her get ready to her hat and her gloves and the lacing of her boots, before she called her back, and played with her, and forgave her at the last. Yet she found Alwynne less pliable than usual: convicted of sin, she was yet resolved on departure, if not to-day--no, of course she would not go to-day, after behaving so ill to her Clare--then, the day following. That would be Friday--a completed fortnight--and Saturday was Clare's birthday--had Clare forgotten? Alwynne hadn't, anyhow. Oh, she must come for Saturday, and what would Elsbeth say to that? There must be one evening, at least, given to Elsbeth in between. After all, it was jolly dull for Elsbeth all by herself. Clare, good-tempered for the first time that afternoon, supposed it was, rather. But on that particular day, Alwynne's qualms of conscience were unnecessary. Elsbeth was not at all dull. Elsbeth, on the contrary, was tremendously excited. And Elsbeth had forgotten all about Alwynne, was not missing her in the least. Elsbeth had received a letter from Dene that morning, and was expecting Roger Lumsden to supper. CHAPTER XXXIX Elsbeth spent her day in that meticulous and unnecessary arrangement and re-arrangement of her house and person, with which woman, since time was, has delighted to honour man, and which he, the unaccountable, has as inevitably failed to notice. The clean cretonnes had arrived in time and were tied and smoothed into place; the vases new-filled; and the fire, though spring-cleaning had been, sprawled opulently in a brickless grate. The matches, with the fifty cigarettes Elsbeth had bought that forenoon, hesitating and all too reliant upon the bored tobacconist, lay, aliens unmistakable, near Roger's probable seat, and the knowledge of the supper laid out in the next room fortified Elsbeth as, years ago, a new frock might have done. Alwynne, in every age and stage, dotted the piano and occasional tables, and a photograph that even Alwynne had never seen was placed on the mantelshelf, that Roger, greeting Elsbeth, might see it and forget to be shy. But it was Elsbeth that was shy, when Roger, very punctual, arrived amid the chimes of the evening service. Yet Elsbeth had been ready since five. They greeted each other in dumb show and sat a moment, smiling and taking stock, while the clamour swelled, insisted, ebbed and died away. Roger, still silent, began to fumble at a case he carried, while Elsbeth found herself apologetically and for the thousandth time wondering to her guest why she had taken root so near a church, while within herself a hard voice cried exultantly, "He's his father, his father over again! Nothing of Rosemary there!" and she tasted a little strange flash of triumph over the dead woman she had been too gentle to hate. But suddenly her lap was filled with roses, bunch upon tight masculine bunch, and the formal sentences broke up into incoherence as Roger stooped and kissed his second cousin Elsbeth. They soon made friends. Roger, who had never quite forgotten her, found the pleasant-faced spinster as attractive as the pretty lady of his childhood. He examined her as he ate his supper. A spare figure, soft grey hair, and square, capable hands; a kind mouth, not a strong one, set in lines firmer than were natural to it; gentle eyes, no longer beautiful, and a cheerful, tired smile; a sweet face, thought Roger, not a happy one. Yet she had Alwynne! She fluttered a little over the meal, and was anxious about his coffee, and full of little enquiries and attentions that were never irritating. There was a faint scent of verbena as she moved about him, and her silk gown did not crackle like younger women's dresses. She listened well, but he guessed her no talker, and later in the evening, gauged her affection for Alwynne by her breathless fluency. He thought her charming and a little pathetic, and wondered why nobody had ever insisted on marrying her. Elsbeth's shyness soon dwindled; she slipped quickly into the informal "aunt and nephew" attitude that he evidently expected, and found his friendliness and obvious pleasure in her as delightful as it was astonishing. She supposed, with a wistful little shrug, that she was near the rose! Nevertheless she enjoyed herself. They talked in narrowing circles: of his father a little; more of his mother; of Dene, and Elsbeth's former visits. He described Compton and The Dears, and his gardens and his roses. Then, with a chuckle, an unauthorised attempt of Alwynne at pruning that had ended in disaster; and so plunged into confidences. "I expect you've guessed that I intend--that I want to marry Alwynne,--with her permission," he added hastily, smiling down at her. Elsbeth envied him his inches. For Alwynne's sake she did not intend to be dominated; but she found his mere masculinity a little overpowering, and did not guess that her frail dignity had made its own impression. She smiled back at him. "I'm glad you put that in. You should respect grey hairs." "But I do." "No. You imply that I'm a very blind and foolish guardian! My dear boy," her pretty voice shook a little, "I've hoped and prayed for this. You, John's boy, and--and dear Rosemary's, of course--and Alwynne, who's dearer to me than a daughter! Why, that's why I sent her down to Dene!" She blushed the rare blush of later middle age. "Oh, my dear--it was shameless! I was matchmaking! I was! And I've always considered it so indelicate. But I wished so strongly that you two might come together. When Alwynne wrote of you so often, I hoped: and then your letters made me sure. You had got on so well without me these twenty-five years--and then to feel the ties of kinship so very strongly all of a sudden--it was transparent, Roger." He laughed. "I hadn't forgotten really--though it's the vaguest memory. You gave me a rabbit in a green cabbage that opened. And one Sunday we shared Prayer Books. You had a blue dress--a pale blue that one never sees nowadays, and very pink cheeks." "Ah! the _crêpe de Chine_," said Elsbeth absently. "I always remembered--though I'd forgotten I did. Alwynne brought it back. She's like you in some ways, you know. She made me awfully curious to see you again. From the way she talked I knew you'd be decent to me." He smiled. "Elsbeth--I'm tremendously in love." "Have you told her so?" "Alwynne's rather difficult to get hold of. She doesn't understand anything but black and white." "Clare Hartill--I suppose you've heard of Clare Hartill?" "Have I not!" "Clare Hartill says she has an uncanny ear for nuances." "Also that she's thick-skinned! The woman's a fool." "Oh, she's quite right, Roger, though I expect she was in a temper when she said it. But it only means that Alwynne has been trained to listen to women. She can't follow men yet. She has been advised that they are grown-up children and that her rôle is to be superior but tactful." He chuckled. "Yes. When Alwynne's tactful--she's tactful! You can't mistake it, can you? Have you ever seen her sidling out of a room when she thought she wasn't wanted? Still, she can hold her own, on occasion. She simply walked through my hints. But--how does she talk of me, Elsbeth, if she does at all, that is?" "She likes you, in the 'good old Roger' fashion." "But you do think I have a chance?" "That's why I wanted to see you. Frankly, at present I don't think you have." He looked at her coolly, not at all depressed. "Why not?" "Clare Hartill." "Ah!" He sat down at the table again, his chin in his fist. "You think her the obstacle?" "I taught her once. Alwynne has been absorbed in her for two years. Alwynne talks----" they both smiled. "I could compare. I ought to know her pretty well." "Yes. But how can she affect Alwynne and me? Of course I know what a lot Alwynne thinks of her. She's rather delightful on the subject. Thinks her perfection, and so on. Alwynne is naïve; conveys more than she knows or intends, sometimes. And she never looks at her god's feet, does she? 'Clare' and 'Clare' and 'Clare.' Personally, I imagine her a bit of a brute." "I try to be fair. She is fond of Alwynne." "Why not? But what's that got to do with Alwynne's caring for me, if I am lucky enough to make her? And I'm--conceitedly sure--that it's only a question of waking Alwynne up." "You don't know Clare. If once she knows, she'll never let the child go." "But if Alwynne were engaged to me?" "She'll never allow it. She'll play on Alwynne's affection for her." "But why? I shouldn't interfere with their friendship." "My dear Roger--marriage ends friendship automatically. Clare would be shrewd enough to see that. And even--otherwise--she would never share. You don't guess how jealous women are." Roger leant back in his chair with a gesture of bewilderment. "My dearest cousin! The age of sorcery is over. You talk as if Alwynne were under a spell." "Practically she is. Of course Clare would put it on the highest grounds--unsuitability--a waste of talents. She pretends to despise domesticity. Alwynne would be hypnotised into repeating her arguments as her own opinion." "Hypnotism?" "Oh, not literally. But she really does influence some women, and young girls especially, in the most uncanny way. I've watched it so often." "She's not married?" "She hardly ever speaks to a man. I've seen her at gaieties, when she was younger. She was always rather stranded. Men left her alone. Something in her seems to repel them. I think she fully realised it. And she's a proud woman. There's tragedy in it." "Does she repel you?" "Not in that way. I dislike her. I think her dangerous. I'm intensely sorry for her. And I do understand something of the attraction she exercises, better than you can, though it has never affected me. You see--eccentricity--abnormality--does not affect women as it does men. And she's brilliantly clever." "So is Alwynne--you wouldn't call her abnormal?" "Alwynne? Never! She's as sound and sweet as an apple. But--and it means a good deal at her age--she's in abnormal hands. Clare Hartill is abnormal, spiritually perverse--and she's fastened on the child. They adore each other. It's terribly bad for Alwynne. As it is, it will take her months to shake off Clare's influence, even with you to help her. That is, if you succeed in detaching her. I'm useless, of course. Loving--just loving--is no good. You can only influence if you are strong enough to wound. I merely irritate. I'm weak. But you could do as you like, I believe. Take her away from that selfish woman, Roger! It's blighting her." "You think," he said, "that she would be content with me--with marriage as a career? Of course, Miss Hartill's right about her talents." "Alwynne? I don't think--I know. All her gifts are so much surface show; she's a very simple child underneath. Content? Can't you see her, Roger--with children? Her own babies?" Roger beamed. "It's rather a jolly prospect. Well, I must take my chance." "Of course, you must wait; it's too soon yet. Even later, if Clare really wants her--wants her enough to suppress her own perverse impulses--I'm afraid you've little chance. But it's possible that she will not want her as much as that." "I don't follow." "I mean that Clare, with that impish nature of hers, may hurt Alwynne." "I should think she has already, often enough." "Yes--but Alwynne has never realised it, never realised that it was deliberate. She is always so sure that it was her fault somehow. If once she found out that Clare was hurting her for--for the fun of it, you know--for the pleasure of watching her suffer--as I'm sure she does--it might end everything. Alwynne hates cruelty. That poor child's death shook her. A little more, and she will be disillusioned." "But loyal still?" "Probably. But the glamour would be gone. She would be extremely unhappy. There your chance would come. Though I don't think Clare will give it you--for I believe Alwynne does mean more to her than most things. But she's an unaccountable person: there is the chance." "I see," Roger rose and straightened himself. "Practically I'm not to depend on my own--attractions--at all." He laughed a little. "I am to watch the whims of this--this unpleasant school-marm, and be grateful to her for forcing Alwynne to prefer my deep sea to her devil. The situation is hardly dignified." Elsbeth laughed too. "Love is always undignified, Roger. What does it matter if you want her?" But she watched him anxiously as he walked to the window, and stood staring out. There was a silence. At last he turned-- "Elsbeth, dear, it's a beautiful scheme, and a woman could carry it through, I daresay--but it's no good to me. It's too--too tortuous, too feminine. I don't mean anything rude. It's merely that I'm not--subtle enough, or patient. At least, I haven't got that cat-and-mouse kind of patience. I can wait, you know. That's different. I can wait all right. But I can't intrigue." Elsbeth flushed. "There is no intrigue. It's a question of understanding Alwynne and of using the opportunity when it comes." "To trick and surprise and over-persuade her into caring for me! It's no good, Elsbeth. It isn't possession I want--it's Alwynne. Can't you see? We should neither of us be happy. She would always distrust me and remember that I'd taken an advantage. I should end by hating her, I believe. Can't you see?" Elsbeth was shaken by her own thoughts. "I see," she said finally. "And I see that you don't love her--or you'd take her on any terms." "Would you?" "Yes." "Well, I wouldn't. And I do love her. But I want Alwynne on my terms. Do I sound an awful prig? Cousin Elsbeth, hear my way! I'm going to have it out with Alwynne." "At once?" "At once. As soon as I see her--no beating about the bush." "Roger--she may be utterly out of the mood." "Hang moods! I beg your pardon, Elsbeth. But I'm going to tell her--certain things. If she doesn't like it I'm going back to Dene. She'll know where to find me when she changes her mind. Elsbeth, don't look so hopeless." "You don't understand Alwynne." "I don't want to understand her--I want to marry her. I must stick to my own way. Can't you conceive that all this consideration, all this deference to moods and dissection of motives, this horribly feminine atmosphere that she seems to have lived in, of subtleties, and reservations, and simulations--may be bad for her? It seems to me that she's always being thought about. You, with your anxious affection--that unholy woman with her lancet and probe--you neither of you leave her alone for a second. She's always being touched. Well, I'm going to leave her alone. It gives her a chance." "I've never spoiled her." Elsbeth was off at a tangent. "I'm sure of it. I can remember Father holding you up to Mother once. He said you were the most judicious woman with children that he knew." "Did he?" said Elsbeth. "Mother was awfully annoyed." Roger chuckled. "I'd been bawling for my fourth doughnut--and got it." "I've never spoiled Alwynne," repeated Elsbeth tonelessly. "No one could," remarked Roger with conviction. Elsbeth looked up and laughed at him. "So you are human!" she said. "I was beginning to doubt it." "When I get on the subject of Alwynne's adorableness----" he laughed back at her, "we're obviously cousins, aren't we? But, really, I've been trying to be detached, and critical, and analytical, and all the things you feel are important. I wanted to see what you meant, Cousin Elsbeth; and I do see that we both want the same thing. But as to the means--I believe I must go my own way." She eyed him doubtfully. But he looked very big and solid in the little room, comfortingly sure of himself. "You think me a frantic old clucking hen, don't you? And are just a little sorry for the duckling." "I think you're a perfect dear," said Roger. "You'll come to-morrow? Alwynne will be back, I hope." "What time is she likely to turn up?" "About four, if she comes. She would lunch with Clare, I expect." He nodded whimsically. "Very well. To-morrow, at four precisely, there will be a row royal. To-morrow I am calling on Miss Hartill to fetch Alwynne home. Good-bye, Cousin Elsbeth." He turned again in the doorway. "Elsbeth, there's a house at Dene I've got my eye on. There's a turret room. My best roses will clamber right into it. That's to be yours. And Elsbeth! Nobody but you shall run the nursery." He had shut the door before she could answer, and she heard him laugh as he ran, two at a time, down the shallow steps. She went to the window and watched till his strong figure had disappeared in the dusk. "He is very like his father," said Elsbeth wistfully, glancing across at the faded likeness. The dusk deepened and the stars began to twinkle. "He will never be the man his father was," cried Elsbeth, suddenly and defiantly. Her hands shook as she cleared away the remnants of the meal. She swept up the hearth, picked the coals carefully apart, and tidied the tidy room. Roger's roses still lay in a heap in the basket chair. She gathered them up and carried them into the tiny bathroom, that they might drink their fill all night. Their scent was strong and sweet. Then she lit her candle and prepared for bed. The sheets were very cold. She tried not to think of Roger's father lying in the grave she had never seen. The old, cruel longing was upon her for the sound of his voice and the sight of his face and the sweetness of his smile. She broke into painful weeping. The hours wore past. Of course he would marry Alwynne.... Alwynne would be happy ... there was comfort in that.... Roger would be kind to her.... A good boy ... a dear boy.... "And he might have been my son," cried out Elsbeth to the uncaring night. CHAPTER XL Roger never fought his battle-royal with Clare, for at the turn of Friar's Lane he met Alwynne herself, dragging wearily along the cobblestones, weighed down by paper parcels and the heavy folds of the waterproof hanging on her arm. Her hair was roughened by the wind that tugged and strained at her loosened hat; her face was drawn and shadowy; she had an air of exhaustion, of indefinable demoralisation that Roger recognised angrily. He had seen it in the first weeks of her visit to Dene. Her thoughts were evidently far away, and she would have passed him without a look if he had not stopped her. She started violently as he spoke--it was like rousing a nightmare-ridden sleeper--then her face grew radiant. "Roger!" she cried, and beamed at him like a delighted child. He possessed himself of her parcels and they walked on, Alwynne's questions and exclamations tumbling over each other. Roger at Utterbridge! Why had he come? How long was he staying? How were The Dears and how did Dene spare him? When had he arrived? Roger dropped his bomb. "Yesterday. I went to supper with Elsbeth. We had a long talk." His tone conveyed much. The brightness died out of Alwynne's face. She looked surprised and excessively annoyed. "She knew you were coming?" "She did." "Why on earth didn't she let me know? Why, she doesn't know you! She hasn't seen you since you were a kid! It's extraordinary of Elsbeth." "I wouldn't let her." "Wouldn't let her?" Alwynne looked at him blankly. "Roger--I think you're cracked." "Terse and to the point! Don't you worry. Elsbeth and I understand each other. Besides, we've been corresponding." "You and Elsbeth?" "Yes. That's partly why I came. I wanted to get to know her. You see, your description and her letters didn't tally. So I came. We got on jolly well. I burst in on her again at breakfast this morning. She didn't fuss--took it like a lamb. I fancy you underrate our cousin--in more ways than one. She knows it too; she's no fool! I found that out when we talked about you." "Elsbeth discussed me?--with you?" Alwynne's tone foreboded a bad half-hour to Elsbeth. "Why not? You're not sacred, are you?" Roger chuckled. Alwynne felt inclined to box his ears. Here was a new Roger. Roger--her own property--to take such an attitude--to ally himself with Elsbeth--to leave her in the dark! Roger! It was unthinkable.... And she had been so awfully glad to see him ... absurdly glad to see him ... he had made her forget even Clare.... Clare.... She began to occupy her mind once more with the scene of the previous day, recalling what she had said; contrasting it with what she had intended to say; stabbed afresh by Clare's manner; writhing at her own helplessness; when Roger's slow voice brought her thoughts back to the present. "You've been away from Elsbeth a fortnight," he said accusingly, as they entered the Town Gardens. She flared anew at his tone. "Certainly. I've been staying with friends. Have you any objection?" "A friend," he corrected. She flushed. "Clare Hartill is my best friend----" "Your worst, you mean." She turned on him. "How dare you say that? How dare you speak of my friends like that? How dare you speak to me at all?" He continued, quite unmoved-- "Don't be silly, Alwynne. Your best friend is your Aunt Elsbeth--you ought to know that. You don't treat her well, I think. You've been away a fortnight with that--friend of yours; you stayed on without consulting her----" "I telephoned," cried Alwynne, in spite of herself. "Since then you've sent her one post card. She isn't even sure that you're coming back to-day; she's just had to sit tight and wait until it's your--no, I'll give you your due--until it's your friend's pleasure to send you back to her, fagged out, miserable--just like my dog after a thrashing. And Elsbeth's to comfort you, and cosset you, and put you to rights--and then you'll go back to that woman again, to have the strength and the spirit drained out of you afresh--and you walk along talking of your best friend. I call it hard luck on Elsbeth." Alwynne's careful dignity was forgotten in her anger. She turned on him like a furious schoolgirl. "Will you stop, please? How dare you speak of Clare? If Elsbeth chooses to complain----What affair is it of yours anyhow? I'll never speak to you again--never--or Elsbeth either." Her voice broke--she was on the verge of tears. Roger took her by the arm, and drew her to a seat. "You'd better sit down," he said. "We've heaps to talk over yet, more than you've a notion of. And if we're to have a row, let's get it over in the open--far less dangerous. Never get to cover in a thunderstorm. I know what you want." He had watched her fumbling unavailingly in the bag and pocket and had chuckled. He knew his Alwynne. He produced a clean silk handkerchief and dangled it before her. She clutched at it with undignified haste. "'Thank you,' first," he said, holding it firmly. A moment victory hung in the balance. Then-- "Oh! Oh, thank you," said Alwynne, with fine unconcern, and secured it. Their eyes met. It was impossible not to smile. "At the same time," remarked Alwynne, a little later, "you've no right to talk to me like that, Roger, whatever you choose to think. You're not my cousin." "I'm Elsbeth's. It strikes me she needs defending." Alwynne laughed. "You know I'm awfully fond of Elsbeth. You know I am. I am a beast sometimes to her, you're quite right--but she doesn't really need defending. Honestly." "Not from you, I know. But frankly, without wanting to be rude to your friend--I think she makes you careless of Elsbeth's feelings. Elsbeth was awfully hurt this week, and she's the sort of dear one hates to see hurt." Alwynne looked at him wistfully. "Roger," she said hesitatingly, "suppose some one were unkind to me--hurt me--hurt me badly, very often, almost on purpose--would you defend me? Would you care at all?" "I shouldn't let 'em," he grunted. "If you couldn't help it?" "I shouldn't let 'em," he repeated doggedly. "But should you care?" "Of course I should. What rot you talk. Of course I should. But I shouldn't let them." "Oh, Roger," she cried, suddenly and pitifully, "they do hurt me sometimes--they do, they do." Roger looked around him with unusual caution. The Gardens were empty. There was not even a loafer in sight. He put his arm round her, and drew her clumsily to him. She yielded like a tired child, and lay quietly, staring with brimming eyes at the gaudy tulip-bed on the further side of the walk. "I believe you're about fed up with that school of yours," he said, after a time, as if he had not followed the allusion to Clare. She nodded. "I'm not lazy, Roger; you know it's not that. It's just the atmosphere, and the awful crowding. Such a lot of women at close quarters, all enthusiasm and fussing and importance. They're all hard-working, and all unselfish and keen--more than a crowd of men would be, I believe. But that's just it--they're dears when you get them alone, but somehow, all together, they stifle you. And they all have high voices, that squeak when they're keenest. D'you know, that was what first made me like you, Roger--your voice? It's slow, and deep, and restful--such a reasonable voice. You mustn't think me disloyal to the school. The girls are all frightfully interesting, and the women are dears, and there's always Clare--only we do get on each other's nerves." "A boys' school is just the same." "Is it? I've only seen Compton. I don't know how co-education affects the boys, but I'm sure it's good for the girls, and the mistresses too. Of course, they're not really different to my lot, but they seemed so. They had room to move. They weren't always rubbing up against each other like apples in a basket. It all seemed so natural and jolly. Fresh air everywhere. And since I've been back, I've felt I couldn't breathe. I believe it's altered me, just seeing it all; and I can't make Clare understand. She thinks I liked Dene because I wanted to flirt." "That type would." "Yes, I know you think that," she answered uneasily, "but she isn't--that horrid type. That's why it hurts so that she can't understand. As if I ever thought of such a thing until she talked of it! Only I like talking to men, you know, Roger; because they've often got quite interesting minds, and it's easier to find out what they really think than with women. But they bore Clare." "Do they?" Roger had his own opinion on the question. But he found that it was difficult to refrain from kissing Alwynne when she looked at him with innocent eyes and made preposterous statements; so he stared at the tulips. "You see, she thinks--we both think, that if you've got a--a really real woman friend, it's just as good as falling in love and getting married and all that--and far less commonplace. Besides the trouble--smoking, you know--and children. Clare hates children." "Do you?" Roger looked at her gravely. "Me? I love them. That's the worst of it. When I grew old, I'd meant to adopt some--only Clare wouldn't let me, I'm sure. Of course, as long as Clare wanted me, I shouldn't mind. To live with Clare all my life--oh, you know how I'd love it. I just--I love her dearly, Roger, you know I do--in spite of things I've told you. Only--oh, Roger, suppose she got tired of me. And, since I've been back, sometimes I believe she is." "Poor old girl!" "It's a shame to grizzle to you; it can't be interesting; and, of course, I don't mean for one moment to attack Clare; only everything I do seems wrong. When she sneers, I get nervous; and the more nervous I get, the more I do things wrong--you know, silly things, like spilling tea and knocking into furniture. And she gets furious and then we have a scene. It's simply miserable. We had one yesterday, and again this morning. It's my fault, of course--I get on her nerves." "You never get on my nerves," said Roger suggestively. "Not when I chop up your best pink roses?" She looked at him sideways, dimpling a little. "As long as you don't chop up your own pink fingers--you've got pretty fingers, Alwynne----" "Roger, you're a comforting person. I wish--I wish Clare would treat me as you do, sometimes. You pull me up too, but you never make me nervous. I'm sure I shouldn't disappoint her so often, if she did." "Alwynne," he returned with a twinkle, "stop talking. I've made a discovery." "Well?" "You're ten times fonder of me than you are of that good lady. Now, own up." "Roger!" Alwynne was outraged. She made efforts to sit upright, but Roger's arm did not move. It was a strong arm and it held her, if anything, a trifle more firmly. "You're talking rot. Please let me sit up." "You're all right. It's quite true, my child, and you know it. Ah, yes--they're a lovely colour, aren't they?" For Alwynne was gazing at the tulips with elaborate indifference. Secretly she was a little excited. Here was a new Roger.... He was quite mad, of course, but rather a dear.... She wondered what he would say next.... "To examine our evidence. You were very glad to see me--now weren't you?" "I'm always pleased," remarked Alwynne sedately to the tulips, "to see old friends." "Yes--but we're not old friends exactly, if you refer to length of acquaintanceship. If to age--I was thirty last March. I'm not doddering yet." "I wasn't speaking of ages. Thirty is perfectly young. Clare's thirty-five. You do fish, Roger." "Yes. I'm going to have a haul some day soon, I hope. But to resume. Firstly, you were jolly glad to see me. Secondly, you took your lecture very fairly meekly--for you! and you've already had one talking-to to-day during which, I gather, you were anything but meek." "I never told you----" "But there was a glint in your eye----You've no idea how invariably your face gives you away, Alwynne. Thirdly, you've hinted quite half-a-dozen times that Miss Hartill would be all the better for a few of my virtues. Tenth, and finally, you've made my coat collar thoroughly damp--you needn't try to move--and I don't exactly see you spoiling your Clare's Sunday blouse that way, often, eh?" Alwynne was obliged to agree with the tulips. "I thought so. Therefore I say, after considering all the evidence--in your heart of hearts you are ten times fonder of me than of Miss Clare Hartill." The trap was attractively baited. Impossible for an Alwynne to resist analysis of her own emotions. She walked into it. "I don't know--I wonder if you're right? Perhaps I am _fonder_ of you. I love Clare--that's quite a different thing. One couldn't be fond of Clare. That would be commonplace. She's the sort of wonderful person you just worship. She's like a cathedral--a sort of mystery. Now you're like a country cottage, Roger. Of course, one couldn't be fond of a cathedral." "A cottage," remarked Roger to the tulips in his turn, "can be made a very comfortable place. Especially if it's a good-sized one--Holt Meadows, for instance. My tenants leave in June, did you know? There's a south wall and a croquet ground." "Tennis?" Roger was afraid the tulips would find it too small for tennis. "But a court could be made in Nicholas Nye's paddock," Alwynne reminded them. Roger thought it would be rather fun to live there, tennis or no tennis--didn't the tulips think so? The tulips did, rather. "One could buy Witch Wood for a song, I believe; you know it runs along the paddock. Think of it, all Witch Wood for a wild garden." "And no trespassers! No trampled hyacinths any more! Or ginger-beer bottles! Oh, Roger!" A delighted, delightful Alwynne was forgetting all about the tulips; but they nodded very pleasantly for all that. "A footpath through to The Dears' garden, and my glass-houses. And chickens in a corner of the paddock. You'd have to undertake those." "All white ones!" "Better have Buff Orpingtons. Lay better. Remember Jean's troubles: 'Really, the Amount of Eggs----'" "Dear Jean. And besides, I shall want some for clutches. I adore them when they're all fluff and squeak; and ducklings too, Roger. We won't have incubators, will we?" "Rather not. Lord, it will be sport. You're to wear print dresses at breakfast, Alwynne--lilac, with spots." "You're very particular----" "Like that one you wore at the Fair----you know." "Oh, that one! Do you mean to say----All right. But I shall wear tea-gowns every afternoon--with lace and frillies. Elsbeth says they're theatrical." "All right! We'll eat muffins----" "And read acres of books----" "May I smoke?" "It'll get into the curtains----" "I'll get you a new lot once a week----" "And we won't ever be at home to callers----" "Just us two." Alwynne sighed contentedly. "Oh, Roger, it would be rather nice. You can invent beautifully." He laughed. "Then we'll consider that settled." He bent his head and kissed her. A very light kiss--a very airy and fugitive attempt at a kiss--a kiss that suited the moment better than his mood; but Roger could be Fabian in his methods. Alwynne rather thought that it was a curl brushing her forehead: the tulips rather thought it wasn't. Roger could have settled the matter, but they did not like to appeal to him. They were all a little disturbed--more than a little uncertain how to act. The tulips' attitude was frankly alarming to Alwynne, who (if the kiss had really happened) was prepared to be dignified and indignant. The tulips, however, appeared to think a kiss a pleasant enough indiscretion. "To some one, at any rate, we are worth the kissing," quoth the tulips defiantly, with irreverent eyes on a vision of Clare's horrified face. Then, veering smartly, they reminded Alwynne, that from a patient, protective Roger it was the most brotherly and natural of sequels to their make-believe. Alwynne was not so sure; Roger was developing characteristics of which the kiss (had it taken place) was not the least exciting and alarming symptom. He was no longer the Roger of Dene days, not a month dead; or rather, the Dene Roger was proving himself but a facet of a many-sided personality--big, too--that was more than a match for a many-sided Alwynne, with moods that met and enveloped hers, as a woman's hands will catch and cover a baby's aimless fist. More than his strength, his gentleness disturbed her. So long a prisoner to Clare, ever bruising herself against the narrow walls of that labyrinthine mind--she would have been indifferent to any harshness from him; but his kindliness, his simplicity, unnerved her. He had been right--she had her pride. Clare did not often guess when her self-control was undermined. But with Roger--what was the use of pretending to Roger? It had been comforting to have a good cry. His kiss had been comforting too. She remembered the first of Clare's rare kisses--the thin fingers that gripped her shoulders; the long, fierce pressure, mouth to mouth; the rough gesture that released her, flung her aside. But Roger--if, indeed, she had not dreamed--had been comforting. Here the tulips broke in whimsically with the brazen suggestion that it would be delightful to put one's arms round Roger's neck and return that supposititious kiss. A remark, of course, of which no flower but a flaunting scarlet tulip could be capable. Alwynne was horrified at the tulips. Horrified by the tulips, worried by her own uncertainties, puzzled by the imperturbable face smiling down at her. Certainly not a conscience-stricken face. Probably the entire incident was a wild imagining of the tulips. She had watched those nodding spring devils long enough. Time to go home: at any rate it was time to go home. It puzzled her anew that Roger's arm was no longer about her, that he should make no effort to detain her, or to reopen the conversation; that he should walk at her side in his usual fashion, originating nothing. Once or twice, glancing up at him, she surprised a smile of inscrutable satisfaction, but he did not speak; he merely met her eyes steadily, still smiling, till she dropped her own once more. A month ago she would have challenged that smile, cavilled and cross-examined. To-day she was quaintly intimidated by it. Indeed a new Roger! She never dreamed of a new Alwynne. Yet for all her perplexity and very real physical fatigue, Alwynne walked with a light step and a light heart. As usually she was absurdly touched by his unconscious protective movements--the touch on her arm at crossings--the juggle of places on the fresh pathway--the little courtesies which the woman-bred girl had practised, without receiving, appealed to her enormously. She felt like a tall school-child, "gentleman" perforce at all her dancing lessons, who, at her first ball, comes delightedly into her own. She gave Roger little friendly glances as they walked home, but no words; though she could have talked had he invited. But Roger was resolutely silent, and for some obscure reason this embarrassed her more than his previous loquacity. Gradually she grew conscious of her crumpled dress and loosened hair; that a button was missing on her glove! trifles not often wont to trouble her. She wondered if Roger had noticed the button's absence; she hoped fervently that he had not. She glanced obscurely at shop-windows, whose blurred reflections could not help her to the conviction that her hat was straight. Also it dawned upon her that Roger was weighed down by preposterous parcels; that the parcels were her own. She was sure the string was cutting his fingers. She was penitent, knowing that she would not be allowed to relieve him, and hugely annoyed with herself. She had been scolded often enough for her parcel habit, and had laughed at Elsbeth; and here was Elsbeth proved entirely right. Weighing down Roger like this! What would he think of her? He had not spoken for ten minutes.... Of course--he was annoyed.... They had better get home as quickly as might be.... CHAPTER XLI Elsbeth, sitting at the window, had seen them come down the street, and was at the door to welcome them. Alwynne was kissed, rather gravely, but Elsbeth and Roger greeted each other like the oldest of trusted friends. Alwynne's eyebrows lifted, but Elsbeth ignored her. She scolded Roger for being late, showed him his roses, revived and fragrant in their blue bowls; and when Alwynne turned to go and dress, declared that he looked starved, that supper was long overdue, and must be eaten at once. Roger seconded her, and to supper they went. Alwynne raged silently. What was the matter with Elsbeth? She had barely greeted her.... And now to be so inconsiderate.... To insist on sitting down to supper then and there, without giving her time to make herself decent! Couldn't she see how tired Alwynne was, how badly in need of soap and water and a brush and comb, let alone a prettier frock? It wasn't fair! Elsbeth might know she would want to look nice--with Roger there.... She did not choose to look a frump, however Elsbeth dressed herself.... It dawned on her, however, as Elsbeth, resigning the joint to Roger, began to mix a salad under his eye, after some particular recipe of his imparting, that Elsbeth, on this occasion, was looking anything but a frump. She wore her best dress of soft, dark purple stuff, and the scarf of fine old lace, that, as Alwynne very well knew, saw the light on high and holy days only; and a bunch of Roger's roses were tucked in her belt. Her hair was piled high in a fashion new to Alwynne: a tiny black velvet bow set off its silvery grey; it was waved, too, and clustered becomingly at the temples. Alwynne, gasping, realised that Elsbeth must have paid a visit to the local coiffeur. She realised also, for the first time, how pretty, in delicate, pink-may fashion, her aunt must once have been. At any other time Alwynne would have been delighted at the improvement, for she was proud of Elsbeth, in daughterly fashion, and had wrestled untiringly with her indifference to dress. She knew she should have hailed the change, but, to her own annoyance, she found it irritating. It displeased her that she herself should be dishevelled and day-worn, while Elsbeth faced her, cool and dainty and dignified. Roger was obviously impressed.... Roger, to whom Elsbeth had been so carefully, deprecatingly explained.... It made Alwynne look such a fool.... How was she to know that Elsbeth would have this whim? She had never guessed that Elsbeth could make herself look so charming.... And she to be in her street clothes ... with her hair like a mouse's nest! It was too bad! However, it didn't seem to matter.... Roger, it was clear enough, had no eyes for her.... Her resentment grew. She attempted to join in the conversation, but though Roger listened gravely, and answered politely--she never caught the twinkle in his eye--he invariably flung back the ball to Elsbeth as quickly as might be. She mentioned Dene; made intimate allusions to their walks and adventures; and he turned to explain them, to include Elsbeth, with a pointedness that made Alwynne pink with vexation. She began to long to get him to herself ... to quarrel or make peace, as he pleased ... but anyhow to get him to herself.... Couldn't one have a moment's conversation without dragging Elsbeth into it? So absurd of Roger.... Slowly she realised that neither Roger nor Elsbeth were finding her indispensable, and her surprise was only rivalled by her indignation. Elsbeth particularly--it was simply beastly of Elsbeth--was being, in her impalpable way, unapproachable.... She was angry about something.... Alwynne knew the signs.... She, Alwynne, supposed that she ought to have written.... But she did write a postcard.... One couldn't be everlastingly writing letters.... Any one but Elsbeth would have waived the matter, with a visitor present, but Elsbeth was so vindictive.... Here Alwynne's rebellious conscience allied itself with her sense of humour, to protest against the picture of a vindictive Elsbeth. They bubbled with tender laughter at the idea. Alwynne must needs laugh with them, a trifle remorsefully, and admit that the idea was fantastic; that Elsbeth, in all the years she had known her, had been the most meek and forgiving of guardians; and that she, Alwynne, had been undeniably negligent. Nevertheless, why must Elsbeth show Roger the kitchen? What was he saying to her out there? And why were they both laughing like that? "Cackle, cackle, cackle," muttered Alwynne viciously; "awfully funny, isn't it?" She continued her reflections. Fussing over clearing the supper still! One of Elsbeth's absurd ideas, just because it was the maid's evening out.... Let her do it when she came back! Such a fuss and excitement always! What would Roger think of them? What a long time they were! She might take the opportunity of going to change her frock.... She hesitated. What was that? What was Roger saying? She caught the murmur of his deep voice and her aunt's staccato in answer, but the words were blurred. After all--why should she bother to change? Elsbeth would be sure to make unnecessary remarks.... And Roger wouldn't care--he was too occupied with Elsbeth.... Nobody cared--nobody wanted her.... She would go back to Clare to-morrow.... But if Clare were in to-day's humour still? What a wretched week it had been.... Even if Clare had not been so moody, Alwynne would have felt ill at ease ... she had known perfectly well that she owed the first weeks of her return to her aunt ... but at a hint from Clare she had stifled her conscience and stayed.... And now Elsbeth, she could tell, was deeply hurt.... Once away from Clare, Alwynne could reflect and be sorry.... She wouldn't have believed that she could be so careless of Elsbeth's feelings.... She was suddenly and generously furious with herself. How selfish, how abominably selfish she had been.... No wonder Roger had been shocked! Of course neither he nor Elsbeth could ever understand how difficult it was to withstand Clare.... It had been possible once.... Her thought strayed to that early Christmas when she had resisted all Clare's arguments.... But now she had no choice.... However determined one might be beforehand--and she had intended to return that first day--one's will was beaten aside, blown about like a straw in a strong wind.... If only Roger would understand that.... She hated him to think her so selfish.... Elsbeth needn't have told him, she thought resentfully ... it was not like Elsbeth to give her away.... She supposed she had hurt Elsbeth's feelings pretty badly.... Why, oh why, hadn't she been firmer with Clare? She had only to say, quite quietly, that she must do what she felt to be right.... Clare couldn't have eaten her.... She began to rehearse the conversation; it soothed her to compose the telling phrases she might have uttered. They sounded all right ... but, of course, face to face with Clare she could never have said them.... Clare, in indifference, displeasure or appeal, would have conquered without battle given ... in her heart she knew that. She moved uneasily about the room, deep in thought. For the first time her attitude to Clare struck her as contemptible.... What had Roger said? "Like a dog after a thrashing." Intolerable! She flung up her head, her pride writhing under the phrase. So that was how it struck outsiders! Outsiders? She didn't care a dead leaf for outsiders.... Let them think what they chose! But Roger? And Elsbeth? Did they really think her weak and enslaved? It stung her that Roger should think so meanly of her. She told herself that the loss of his opinion in no way affected her--and instantly began to revolve within herself phrases, explanations, actions, wherewith to regain it. And there was Elsbeth.... He had thought her unkind to Elsbeth.... He was right there! She saw, remorsefully, with her usual thoroughness, that she had been, for many a long year, as the plagues of Egypt to her Elsbeth. She flung herself on the prim little sofa, and stared at the closed door uncertainly. She was too proud to do what she wanted to do--invade the kitchen, and regardless of Roger's eyes and presence, confess to Elsbeth, and receive absolution. A word, she knew, would be enough.... If Elsbeth felt as miserable as she did--a word would be more than enough.... Elsbeth and Roger, returning to the sitting-room, ended her indecision. Their manner had changed--Roger was quieter--less talkative--but Elsbeth was so radiant that Alwynne decided that contrition could wait. More than ever she realised that two were company.... Her anger grew again as she watched and listened. Elsbeth had produced cards, and suggested three-handed bridge. Alwynne excused herself, and Roger, who had been her partner on occasion at Dene, was obviously relieved. His Alwynne was the One Woman--but she could not play bridge! He settled down to double-dummy with Elsbeth. The conversation became a rapt and technical duet, punctuated with interminable pauses. Alwynne fumed. So this was Elsbeth's idea of a really pleasant evening! Cards! Beastly, idiotic cards! Roger, her Roger, had come up all the way from Dene to play cards with Elsbeth! Had he just? All right then! He should have all the cards he wanted--and more! As for Elsbeth--catch Alwynne telling her she was sorry now! The striking of the clock gave her her opportunity. She rose, yawning elaborately. "I'm going to bed," she remarked to the card-table. "Are you, dear?" said Elsbeth. "Oh! Oh, good-night," said Roger casually rising, and sitting down again. "Your shout, Elsbeth." Elsbeth went "no trumps." Alwynne lingered. "Of course the kitchen fire's out?" she said, with sour suggestiveness. "Do you want a bath? Yes, of course. Do you know, my dear, you're looking rather grubby?" Elsbeth paid her sweetly. "I expect the water will still be hot, if you're quick. Don't forget to turn the light off, will you, when you've finished?" Alwynne made no answer, but she still lingered. Elsbeth, finishing her hand, spoke over her shoulder-- "Alwynne, dear, either go out, or come in and sit down. There's such a draught." There was a swish of skirts, and all the innumerable ornaments rattled on their shelves. Alwynne had permitted herself the luxury of banging the door. Roger laughed like a schoolboy. "'All is not well!'" he quoted. Elsbeth laughed too, yet half against her will. "My poor Alwynne! She hates me to be annoyed with her. It infuriates her. She'll be awfully penitent to-morrow. It's really rather comical, you know. She'll take criticism from any one else--but I must approve implicitly! And you being here didn't improve matters. She was longing to be nice, and I didn't help her. She was quite aware that she was showing you her worst side, and quite unable to get out of the mood. I knew, bless her heart!" She looked at him with a quick little gesture of appeal. "Roger--you do understand? That--tantrum--meant nothing. She's such an impulsive child." He smiled. "I know. Don't you worry. Besides, it was my fault. I was teasing her all the evening. It was not what she expected. Oh, I'm growing subtle enough to please even you, Elsbeth. You know, she's had rather a full day. Evidently a scorching afternoon with that delightful friend of hers, to start with----" "Ah?" said Elsbeth, her eyes brightening. "Oh, yes; she was distinctly chastened. I improved the occasion, and you've about finished her off, the poor old girl! I was expecting that little exhibition." "I believe--I believe you enjoy upsetting her," began Elsbeth, rather indignantly. "Of course I do. It's as good as a play!" Elsbeth sighed. "Well--I suppose it's all right. You'll have to manage her for the future, not I." "Oh, she'll do all the managing," said Roger ruefully. "I foresee that this is my last stand. She's just a trifle in awe of me, at present, you know, though she doesn't know it. But it won't last. And then--heaven help me! But, you know, Cousin Elsbeth--to be henpecked by Alwynne--don't you think it will be quite pleasant?" "It is. She's bullied me since she was three. Oh, Roger, I shall miss her." She blinked rapidly. Roger stared away from her in awkward sympathy. "You shan't, not very much," he said. "We'll fix things. You'll have to come and settle with us." Elsbeth fidgeted. "You know, you took my breath away in the kitchen just now," she said. "Are you quite sure it's all right? Does Alwynne _know_ she's engaged to you?" He perpended. "Well, frankly--I don't think she did quite take it in." "Roger!" "But I'm buying the engagement ring to-morrow," he added hastily. "That'll clear things up." Elsbeth looked at him helplessly. "Roger, either you're a genius or a lunatic. I'm not sure which--but, I think, a lunatic." "Oh, well! We shall know to-morrow," he observed consolingly. "I shall turn up about eleven. Keep Alwynne for me, won't you?" Elsbeth struck her hands together. "It's Clare Hartill's birthday! I'd almost forgotten her! Alwynne will be engrossed. Oh, Roger! You've been telling me fairy tales. We've forgotten Clare Hartill!" Roger picked up the scattered cards. With immense caution he poised a couple, tent fashion, and builded about them, till a house was complete. He added storey after storey, frowning and absorbed. At the sixth, the structure collapsed. He looked up and met Elsbeth's eyes. "People in card-houses shouldn't raise Cain. It's an expensive habit," he remarked sententiously. "Elsbeth, don't worry! But keep Alwynne till I come to-morrow, won't you?" "I'll try." "Of course, if she's still in a temper----Hulloa!" The door had been softly opened. Alwynne, in her gay dressing-gown stood on the threshold. Her hair was knotted on the top of her head, and small damp curls strayed about her forehead. The folds of her wrapper, humped across her arm, with elaborate care, hinted at the towels and sponges concealed beneath. She looked, in spite of her bigness, like an extremely small child masquerading as a grown-up person. Her eyes sought her aunt's appealingly. Roger, she ignored. "Elsbeth," she said meekly, "please won't you come and tuck me up?" She disappeared again. Elsbeth laughed as she rose. "I knew she wouldn't be content. Isn't she a dear, Roger, for all her little ways?" "She's all right," said Roger, with immense conviction. CHAPTER XLII Alwynne was spending a contented morning. She had made her peace with Elsbeth over-night, and at the ensuing breakfast had been something of a feasted prodigal. Elsbeth had made no objection to her plans for the afternoon, but had suggested that, as Roger was coming to lunch, Alwynne might take him for a walk in the morning. He was sure to arrive by twelve. Alwynne, her head full of Clare's birthday and Clare's birthday present, acquiesced graciously. Indeed, she was herself anxious to talk to him again, to show him how completely she and Elsbeth were in accord, to prove to him, once and for all, though with kindly firmness, how uncalled for his comments had been. She believed that they had not parted the best of friends last night.... A pity--Roger could be such a dear when he chose.... Yesterday afternoon, for instance.... She found herself blushing hotly, as she recalled the details of yesterday afternoon. Her thoughts were divided evenly between Roger and Clare as she sat at her work-table, running the last ribbon through the foamy laces and embroideries. She was proud of her work, and thrilled with pleasurable anticipations of Clare's comments. Clare would be pleased, wouldn't she? Elsbeth, helping her to fold the dainty garment, and wondering wistfully if Alwynne would ever be found spending a tenth of the time and trouble on her own trousseau that she lavished on presents for people who did not appreciate them, was quite sure that Clare would be more than pleased. She could not cloud Alwynne's happy face; but she hoped to goodness that Roger would come soon.... She was sick of the word Clare. Alwynne despatched her parcel by messenger-boy. She would not trust it to the post--yet it must arrive before she did. Clare hated to be confronted with you and your gift together. She hoped that Clare would not be in a mood when gifts were anathema. You never knew with Clare. She paid the boy with a bright shilling and a slice of inviolate company cake, and was guiltily endeavouring so to squeeze and compress its girth, that Elsbeth would not notice the enlarged gap at tea-time, when Roger arrived. She slid the tin hastily back into the cupboard. "I won't shake hands," she said. "But it's stickiness, not ill-feeling." Roger frowned aside the remark. He was looking excited, extremely pleased with himself, yet a trifle worried. He had the air of a man who had been priding himself on doing the right thing, and is suddenly stricken with doubt as to whether, after all, he had not made a mess of the business. He confronted her. "I expect I've got it wrong," he remarked, with gloomy triumph. "I hate coloured stones myself." "What are you talking about?" demanded Alwynne. "Which is it, anyhow?" "Which is what?" "Which is your favourite stone?" Alwynne gazed at him blankly. "What on earth----?" she began. Roger frowned anew. "Don't argue with me. Which is your favourite stone?" "I don't know--emeralds, I think." He gave a sigh of relief, not entirely make-believe. "Of course! I knew I was right. Elsbeth swore to pearls." "Oh, I've always coveted her string. She's going to give it to me when I'm forty. I'd like to know what you're talking about, Roger, if you don't mind?" "Why forty?" "Years of discretion! You are tidy and never lose anything once you're forty. But why? Were you having a bet?" "Not exactly." Roger searched his pockets. "Here, catch hold!" He had produced a small package, gay with sealing-wax and coloured string. He handed it to her awkwardly, with immense detachment. She opened it curiously. In a little white kid case lay an emerald, round and shining like a safety signal. It was set in silver, quaintly carven. Alwynne exclaimed. "Oh, Roger! How gorgeous! How perfectly ripping! Where did you pick it up? Was it awfully expensive?" Roger had been beaming in a gratified fashion, but at her question his jaw dropped. "Well," he began. "Well--I----" His expression struck her. "Do you mind my asking? It's only because it is so exactly what I've always longed to give Clare. I'm saving. I'm going to, some day. Clare loves emeralds." "Perhaps," said Roger, with elaborate irony, "you'd like to give her this? Don't mind me." She glanced up at him, startled, puzzled. "This?" "It happens to be your engagement ring," he remarked offendedly. Alwynne began to laugh, but a trifle uncertainly. To laugh without accompaniment or encouragement is uneasy work, and Roger's face was entirely expressionless. She felt that her laughter was sounding affected, and ceased abruptly, her foot tapping the floor, a glint of annoyance in her eye. "What are you talking about?" she attacked him. "Your engagement ring, wasn't it?" he said. "Are you by any chance serious?" "Perfectly." Roger's schoolboy awkwardness, due to his encounter with an unexpectedly facetious jeweller, was wearing off. "_My_ engagement ring?" "We'll change it, of course," he said, with maddening politeness, "if you really prefer pearls." "Presupposing an engagement?" Alwynne was on her high horse. "To me. That was the idea, I think. Elsbeth is delighted." Alwynne dismounted hastily again, though she kept a hand on the bridle. "Roger--this is beyond a joke. What have you been saying to Elsbeth?" "Why, my dear," he said gently, "very much what I told you yesterday afternoon." Alwynne grew scarlet. "Roger--we were in fun yesterday. We were joking. I forget what it was all about. There was nothing to tell Elsbeth." "Yes, you do forget," he said. "Yes. I have. I want to," she answered unsteadily. "You know you weren't serious. Why, you were laughing at me--you know you were." "Do you never laugh when you're serious?" "Never!" said Alwynne earnestly. "Well, then, we're like the Cheshire cat and dog. But I laugh when I'm most amazingly serious sometimes, Alwynne. I was yesterday, and I think you knew it." "I didn't," said Alwynne stubbornly. "We only just talked nonsense. All about Holt Meadows--you know it was nonsense." "I didn't," said Roger, with equal stubbornness. "You did," said Alwynne. "I didn't," said Roger. "Oh, of course, if you're going to lose your temper----" cried Alwynne. Roger shrugged his shoulders. It was deadlock. Alwynne looked at him. He was grave enough now. "I didn't mean to be rude," she said unhappily. "Didn't you?" He was all polite surprise. "I expect I was----" she ventured. "It all depends on what one's used to," he returned philosophically. "Yes, I know I was. But you are so horrid to-day." "Sorry," said Roger stiffly. She turned to him impulsively. "Roger--I've missed you awfully since I came back. It was quite absurd, when I'd got Clare all to myself. But I did. It was so nice seeing you. I was simply miserable yesterday, and then you turned up and were perfectly sweet. It cheered me up. And then you turned horrid. All the evening you were horrid. And now you're horrid, quarrelling and arguing. Why can't you be nice to me always?" She was very close to him. Her hand was on the arm of his chair. Her skirts swished against his knee. "Alwynne, you're too illogical for a school-marm. Haven't you been bullying me since I came on account of yesterday?" "Roger," she said unsteadily, "don't tease me. I do so want to be friends with you." He put his arms about her as she stood beside him, and looked up at her, with laughing, tender eyes. "And I do so want to marry you. Why not, Miss Le Creevy? _Let's be a comfortable couple._" She struggled away from him. "No, Roger! No. No. I don't want to get married. Why aren't you content to be friends, as we were at Dene? Friendship's a lot. If I can see you very often, and write to you twice a week, and tell you everything--I should be awfully content. Wouldn't you?" He looked at her with amusement. "Your idea of friendship is pretty comprehensive. What's wrong with getting married, Alwynne?" "Oh--I don't know." "What's wrong with getting married, Alwynne?" "How can I get married," cried Alwynne, in sudden exasperation, "when I'm not in love with you? You're silly sometimes, Roger." "I suppose you're quite sure about it," he ventured cautiously. "Oh, yes." He looked utterly unconvinced. "Why, I've hardly ever even dreamed about you," she remonstrated. "And I know all your faults." "Oh, you do, do you? Out with the list." "It would take too long." Alwynne dimpled. "Love must be blind--is that the idea? Couldn't that be got over? One uses blinkers, you know, in double harness. I never dream, Alwynne, normally. Must I eat lobster salad every night?" "There--you see!" Alwynne waved her hand complacently. "You're just as bad. You couldn't talk like that if----" "If what?" "Nothing!" "If what?" Alwynne looked at him. "If what, Alwynne?" Roger's tone was a little stern. She had taken a rose from the bowl at her elbow, and was slowly pulling off the petals. Her eyes were on her work. He waited. Her hands cupped the little pile of rose-leaves. She buried her face in them--watching him an instant, through her fingers. "They are very sweet, Roger--are they from home--from Dene, I mean? Smell!" She held out her hands to him. He caught them in his own. The red petals fluttered noiselessly to the ground. "If what, Alwynne?" he insisted. "Oh, Roger! Do you really care--so much?" "Yes, dear," he said soberly, "so much." Alwynne looked up at him anxiously. She was very conscious of the big warm hands that held hers so firmly. She wished that he would not look so intent and grave; he made her feel frightened and unhappy. No--not frightened, exactly. There was something strong and serene about him, that upheld her, even when she opposed him; but certainly, unhappy. She realised suddenly how immensely she liked him--how entirely his nature satisfied hers. "Oh, Roger!" she said wistfully. "I do like you. It isn't that I wouldn't like to marry you." His face lit up. "Would--liking awfully--do, Roger? Would it be fair? Must one be in love like a book?" His face relaxed. "I shall be content," he said. Then, impetuously, "Alwynne, I'll make you so happy. You shall do--nearly everything--you want to. Alwynne, if you only knew----" She stopped him hurriedly, pulling away her hands. "Don't, Roger! Don't! I didn't mean that. I only meant I'd like to. But I can't, of course. Of course, I can't. There's Clare." "Clare!" His tone abolished Clare. Alwynne flushed. "Why do you sneer at Clare? You always sneer. I won't have it." Her tone, in spite of her sudden anger, was unconsciously and comically proprietary. He repressed a smile as he answered her. "All right, dear. But I wasn't sneering--not at Clare." "At me, then?" "Not sneering--chuckling. My dear, what has Clare--oh, yes, she's your dearest friend--but what has any friend, any woman, got to say to us two? We're going to get married." "We're not. It's no good, Roger." Alwynne spoke slowly and emphatically, as one explaining things to a foreigner. "Why won't you understand? Clare wants me. We've been friends for years." "Two years!" he interjected contemptuously. "Well! You needn't talk! I've known you two months," she flashed out. "Do you think I'm going to desert Clare for you, even if--even if----" She stopped suddenly. He beamed. "You do. Don't you, darling?" he said. "I don't. I don't. I don't want to. I mustn't. I don't know why I'm even talking to you like this. It's ridiculous. Of course, there can never be any one but Clare." "Yes, it is ridiculous," he said impatiently. She faced him angrily. "Yes, very ridiculous, isn't it? Not to leave a person in the lurch--a person whom you love dearly, and who loves you. You can laugh. It's easy to laugh at women being friends. Men always do. They think it funny, to pretend women are always catty, and spiteful, and disloyal to each other." "I've never said so or thought so," said Roger. "You have! You do! Look at the way you've talked about Clare. That looks as if you thought me loyal and a good friend, doesn't it? What would Clare think of me--when I've let her be sure she can have me always--when I've promised her----" "At nineteen! Miss Hartill's generous to allow you to sacrifice yourself----" "It's no sacrifice! Can't you understand that I care for her--awfully. Why--I owe her everything. I was a silly, ignorant schoolgirl, and she took me, and taught me--pictures, books, everything. She made me understand. Of course, I love my dear old Elsbeth--but Clare woke me up, Roger. You don't know how good she's been to me. I owe her--all my mind----" "And your peace?" he asked significantly. She softened. "You know I'm grateful. I don't forget. But she's such a dreadfully lonely person. You've got The Dears, at least. She's queer. She can't help it. She doesn't make friends, though every one adores her. She's only got me. She wants me. How could I go when she wants me--when she's so good to me?" "Is she?" he said. "Yesterday----" "I was a fool yesterday," said Alwynne quickly. "Of course, I get on her nerves sometimes. But it's always my fault--honestly. You don't know what she's like, Roger, or you wouldn't say such things. I hate you to misunderstand her. How could I care for her so, if she were what you and Elsbeth think?" He looked at her innocent, anxious face, and sighed. "All right, my dear. Stick to your Clare. As long as you're happy, I suppose it's all right. Well, I'd better be off. Where's Elsbeth?" "Be off? Where?" Alwynne looked startled. "To pack my traps. I'm going home." "Oh, Roger, you're not angry with me?" "I am, rather," he said. "But you needn't mind me. You don't, do you?" She looked at him piteously. "Good-bye," he said. He shook hands perfunctorily and turned away. "You're angry--oh, you are!" cried Alwynne, following him. He laughed. "You can't pay Clare without robbing Roger. Don't worry, Alwynne." "Are you really going?" she said wistfully. "Yes. Any message?" "You'll write to me, won't you?" "Good Lord, no!" said Roger, with immense decision. Alwynne jumped. It was not the answer she had expected. "But--but you must write to me," she stammered. "How shall I know about you, if you don't write to me?" He was silent. A new idea struck Alwynne. "D'you mean--you don't want to hear from me either?" she asked incredulously. "I think it would be better," he said. "Oh, Roger--why? Aren't you going to be friends?" Alwynne was looking alarmed. "I wonder," he began, with elaborate patience, "if you could contrive, without straining yourself, to look at things from my point of view--for a moment--only a moment?" "That's mean. You make me feel a beast." "That won't hurt you----" "Roger!" "Alwynne?" "You're being very rude." "You kick at the privileges of friendship already? I knew you would. Let's drop it, Alwynne. You've got your good lady: you're quite satisfied. I've not got you: I'm not. So the best thing I can do is to go back to Dene and forget about you." "If you can," said Alwynne's widening, indignant eyes. "After all," he said meditatively, "you're a dear, but you aren't the only woman in the world, are you?" "Oh, no," said Alwynne. "I might go back to America," he said, "for a time. I've heaps of friends out there." "Oh?" said Alwynne. "Yes, I shall get over it," he concluded comfortably. "You mustn't worry, my child. Well, good-bye again--wish me good luck, Alwynne." "Good luck," said Alwynne. He took up his hat--looked at her--smiled a little, and walked to the door. But before he could open it, he felt a touch on his arm. "Roger," said a soft and wheedling voice, "wouldn't you _like_ to write to me? Now and then, Roger?" He dissented with admirable gravity. "All right! Don't then!" cried Alwynne wrathfully. She turned her back on him and sat down. The luncheon-bell tinkled across the ensuing pause, like a peal of puckish laughter. CHAPTER XLIII Elsbeth's voice, raised tactfully at the further end of the passage, warned them of her approach. Said Alwynne over her shoulder-- "Anyhow, you must stay to lunch now, Elsbeth would be furious if you went. She'll say I've driven you away or something. Unless you want to get me into another row?" She spoke ungraciously enough, for she disliked having to ask a favour of him at such a juncture; but she disliked even more the notion of a _tête-à-tête_ lunch with Elsbeth. Elsbeth, by right of aunthood, would ask questions, demand confession.... Elsbeth, she knew instinctively, would be on Roger's side.... She told herself that she did not mind being bullied by Roger, because, after all, it was Roger's affair; but she would not be otherwise interfered with.... Elsbeth had a way of putting you in the wrong.... She would rather not talk with Elsbeth until she had seen Clare.... Clare would fortify her.... If only Roger would keep Elsbeth occupied till she got away to Clare.... "You must stay, you know," she repeated uneasily. "You made me forget about lunch," he said cheerfully. "Of course I must! You know, you're a terror, Alwynne. I never know which makes me hungrier, a football match or an argument with you. I'm ravenous." Alwynne was speechless. "Is no one coming in to lunch?" asked Elsbeth, entering. She looked quickly from one to the other. Alwynne was at the glass, tidying her hair, and Roger seemed cheerful. Elsbeth smiled a significant smile: her eyebrows were question-marks. Roger shook his head, but not before Elsbeth had caught sight of the scattered rose and disarranged vases. She was instantly engaged in restoring order, and missed the movement. Suddenly she exclaimed, and pounced on a small object lying on the floor, half hidden in petals. "Oh! Oh, how lovely! What an exquisite ring! Why, Roger--why, Alwynne--look! I might have trodden on it. How careless of you both." But she beamed on them with immense satisfaction, as she held out the emerald ring. "It's not mine," said Alwynne icily. "Nothing to do with me," Roger assured her. Elsbeth looked bewildered. "One of you must have dropped it," she began. "No!" said Alwynne. "Oh, no!" said Roger. But there was a glimmer of fun in his eye, that enlightened Elsbeth, or she thought, at least, that it did. "In my young days," she remarked severely, "young people didn't leave a valuable engagement ring lying about on the floor." "A disengaged engagement ring," he corrected her sadly. "At least, it's disengaged at present." "I think, Elsbeth," said Alwynne firmly, "that the lunch must be getting cold." And preceded them in all dignity to the dining-room. Alwynne found the meal a trying one. Roger was talkative, and Elsbeth, though obviously puzzled, was too much occupied with him, to be critical of her niece. Alwynne was divided between gratitude to Roger for relieving the situation, and pique that he could be equal to so doing. A man in his position should be far too crushed by disappointment for social amenities. She would have been genuinely distressed, yet undeniably gratified, if his appetite had failed him; but she noticed that he was able to eat a hearty meal. He could laugh, too, with Elsbeth, and make ridiculous jokes, and draw Alwynne, silent and unwilling, into the conversation. He seemed to have no objection to catching her eye, though she found it difficult to meet his. He was a queer man.... She supposed he wasn't very much in love with her, really, that was the truth of it.... She found the idea depressing. She wondered if he were really going back to Dene at once, and was relieved to hear her aunt challenging his decision. Elsbeth was expostulating. She had plans for the next day ... there was a concert that evening.... Roger appeared to waver. Alwynne, contemptuous that he could be so easily turned, annoyed that Elsbeth should sway him where she herself had failed, was yet conscious of a feeling of relief. At least she should see him again, if only to quarrel with him.... She was due to supper with Clare as well as tea, though she had not told Elsbeth so.... It would be quite simple--she would run round to Clare at once, and spend a long afternoon, and get back for another peep at Roger in the evening.... Clare wouldn't mind.... She hesitated. Clare would be rather surprised if she didn't stay.... She had never been known to curtail a visit to Clare before.... But she would explain things to her.... Clare would be as sorry for Roger as she herself ... for, of course, she must tell Clare all about it.... She hoped Clare would not say she had been flirting.... But she must make her at least understand what a dear Roger was.... She should like Clare to appreciate Roger ... she was afraid she would never be able to make Roger appreciate Clare.... It was a great pity!... If it had not been for Roger's unlucky prejudice, she might have introduced them to each other, and it would have all been so jolly.... She would have loved to show Clare to Roger, if Clare had been in a good mood, and had worn her new peacock-coloured frock and had looked and been as adorable as she sometimes could be. They might have gone to-day--and now Roger had spoiled everything.... But at least he was not going till to-morrow.... She would slip away at once while he and Elsbeth were talking--she would be back all the sooner.... She left the pair at their coffee, and hurried to her room to put on her new coat and skirt and her prettiest hat. It was Clare's birthday ... and Clare liked her to be fine.... She wondered, with a little skip of excitement, if Clare had got her parcel yet? She was no sooner gone than Roger turned to Elsbeth, his laughing manner dropped from him like a mask. "It's all off, Elsbeth," he said. "You were right. It's that woman. She's infatuated." The pleasure died out of Elsbeth's face. "I was afraid so," she said. "I saw something had happened. But you were so comical, I couldn't be sure." "I didn't want an explanation just then----" "Of course not," she interpolated hastily. "But I think I'll go straight back to Dene. Have you a time-table?" "Have you quarrelled badly?" "Not exactly! Alwynne's rather annoyed with me, though." "Annoyed? With you?" "Well, you see," he explained, with a touch of amusement, "I think she rather wants to retain me as a tame cat----" "Oh, but Alwynne's not like that," Elsbeth protested. "Don't you think every woman is, if she gets the chance? She has to kow-tow to the Hartill woman, and it would be a relief to have some one to do the same to her--as well as an amusement. But she's had to understand that I won't be her friend's whipping-boy. I decline the post." "Oh,--well, if you put it that way--but it's hardly fair to Alwynne. Of course, you're angry and disappointed----" "I'm not!" he protested heatedly. "Oh, but you are. Don't pretend you're not human. I don't blame you; I'm angry too. But you must be fair. Alwynne's motives are obvious enough. There's no cat-and-mouse business about it. She simply can't bear the idea of losing you." "Yet she won't marry me." "She would, if it weren't for Clare. Didn't you get that impression? Roger, if you really care, wait here a little longer. Stay with us. Let her have a chance of contrasting you with Clare Hartill." "No, I won't," he said obstinately. "You care more for your own dignity than for Alwynne, I think," said Elsbeth, in her lowest voice. "Cousin Elsbeth, I care more for Alwynne than for anything else in the world. You know that. Also, though you'll call me a conceited ass, I believe I know your ewe-lamb ten thousand times better than you do. And I've simply got to sit tight for a bit. The less she sees of me at present, the more she'll think of me--in two senses. If I can make her miss me, it'll be a profitable exile. Oh, you dear, worried woman," he cried, laughing at her intent face, "do you think I want to go away from Alwynne? Nevertheless--where's the time-table?" She rose and fetched it, and gave it him, without a word. He ran his finger down the page. "There's a four o'clock," he announced. "If only I could do something," mused Elsbeth. He smiled at her gratefully. "You're a pretty staunch friend," he said. "What more can one ask?" "Oh, but I ought to think of something," she said impatiently. "I sit here and let you go--I see two people's lives being spoiled--for the want of a----" "What?" "That's it! What? What can I do? Nothing, nothing, nothing. Oh, Roger, it's hard. It's very hard to see people you love unhappy, and not to be able to help them. It's the hardest thing I know. It would be such happiness to be allowed to bear things for them. But to watch.... It's harder for us than for men, you know--we're such born meddlers. We think it's our mission to put things to rights." "When we've made a mess of 'em. I'm not sure that it isn't!" "I've got to do something," she went on, without heeding him. "There you'll be at Dene, miserable--you will be miserable, Roger?" she interrupted herself, with a faint twinkle. "Don't you worry," he reassured her. "It was bad enough when she left. She's managed to make every nook and corner of the place remind one of her. I don't know how she does it. Oh, it will be rotten, all right." "Then there will be Alwynne here," she continued, "pretending she doesn't care. Working herself into a fever each time Clare is unkind to her--and pretending she doesn't care. Watching the posts for a letter from you--I know her--and pretending she doesn't care. Thoroughly miserable, and quite satisfied that I see nothing, as long as she laughs and jokes at meals. Oh, life's a comedy," cried Elsbeth. "You young folk have your troubles, and think we are too old and blind to see them; and we old folk have our troubles, and know you are too young and blind to see them. Yes, Roger--I'm having a grumble, and it's doing me good. One suffers vicariously as one gets older, but one suffers just the same. You children forget that." "Do we?" he said gently. "I won't again--we won't, later on, Elsbeth--Alwynne and I." "I want you two to be happy," she cried piteously. "I want it so. Oh, Roger, what can I do?" "Nothing," he said. She was silenced. But he was touched and a little amused to see how entirely she was unconvinced. He admired her persistence, and wondered if she had fought as vehemently for her own happiness, as she now fought for Alwynne's. Failure was instinct in her, in her faded colouring and eager, unassured manner. He thought it probable that the memory of failure was spurring her now. He roused her gently. "Elsbeth! It's past three o'clock. Will you come and see me off? I must go back to the White Horse for my bag first. Shall I call for you? I shan't be more than twenty minutes." She nodded assent and promised to be ready. Left to herself, she went to her room and dressed with mechanical care. Her mind tossed the while like an oarless boat in the sea of her restless thoughts. What could she do? Wait--wait and hope, and watch things go wrong.... Roger was in love now, and prepared to be patient; but Roger was only a man.... He would get over it in time; and Alwynne, finally released from Clare's influence--that, too, surely, was only a question of time--would find out what she had lost.... She understood Alwynne well enough to know that if she cared, however unconsciously, for Roger, she would never be content to attach herself to any later comer.... Alwynne was terribly tenacious. So she, too, would waste and spoil her life; and for the sake of an infatuation, a piece of girlish quixotry.... It was criminal of Clare Hartill to allow it.... She supposed that the situation amused Clare; at least, if Alwynne's version had allowed her to guess it.... She wondered exactly how much Alwynne would tell Clare.... Suddenly and wonderfully she was illumined by an idea. Roger, returning punctually with his bag, found Elsbeth awaiting him on the step, in calling costume, pulling and patting at a new pair of gloves with extraordinary energy. Her cheeks were bright; she had the air of frightened bravery of a cornered sheep. "Come away quickly, Roger," she whispered, with a glance at the windows. "I don't want Alwynne to catch me. I can't come with you to the station, Roger. I'm going to see Clare Hartill." CHAPTER XLIV Alwynne, for all her eagerness, took more than her usual breathless ten minutes in reaching Clare Hartill's flat. Underneath her pleasure at seeing Clare again ran a little current of uneasiness. There was so much to be told, not only in deference to the intimacy of their relationship, but in order to procure the proof that had never before seemed necessary, that Roger's, and incidentally Elsbeth's, view of that relationship was wrong.... Clare, of course, was reserved, undemonstrative, not, Alwynne was prepared to admit, so kindly or considerate a companion as--well, as Roger.... But why it should therefore follow that Roger loved her better, and was more worthy--preposterous word--of her own love, Alwynne could not see.... Clare Hartill cared for her, had told her so, had--had not as yet proved it, because there had been no need of proof.... Alwynne could love for two.... But to-day she felt only an aching desire that Clare should realise the importance of what she had just done; should reward her sacrifice with little softenings and intimacies, some such signs as she had shown her in the earlier days of their friendship, of affection and sympathy.... She did not ask much, she told herself; if Clare were only a little kind, she should not miss Roger. Even as she so decided, her cheek flushing at the idea of Clare's kindness, at the possibility of a return to their earlier relationship, she saw suddenly, with flashlight distinctness, how much, even then, she should miss Roger, how great her sacrifice would still be.... She saw, as in a vision, the man and woman drowning in waste seas, and she herself at rescue work with room for one and one only in the boat beside her.... She felt herself torn by the agony of choice, knowing the while, that a year ago it had not been so; that a year ago she would have outstretched arms for Clare alone; that even now, Elsbeth, The Dears, all alike might drown in that dream sea, so long as Clare were saved.... She acknowledged, she exulted in the narrowness of her affection.... Clare before the world! But Clare before Roger? Clare safe and Roger drowning? She chuckled as it occurred to her that Roger would certainly be able to swim.... Yes, he would swim comfortably alongside and spare her the fantastic trouble of a choice.... Blessed old Roger! As she passed the little kiosk at the corner of Friar's Lane, where a red-haired girl sat behind branches of white and mauve lilac, and high-piled mounds of violets, she hesitated and turned back. It was a breaking of unwritten rules, and Clare would give her no thanks, but to-day at least she would not scold.... She would say nothing, but how big her dear eyes would grow at sight of that armful of scented colour! She bought lavishly, and forgot to stay for change, for she was picturing her own arrival as she hurried on: the open door; the pell-mell of flowers and sunlight; Clare's smile; Clare's kiss. In spite of moods Clare could not do without her! She tore up the stairs and pealed the bell, with never another thought of Roger. Clare was at her writing-table and had but a bare nod for Alwynne, as she stood in the doorway, flushed, smiling, expectant. The girl was accustomed to finding her preoccupied; there was a time, indeed, when there had been subtle flattery in the cavalier welcome, when the lack of ceremony had seemed but a proof of intimacy, and she would bide her time happily enough, exploring book-shelves, darning stockings, tiptoeing from parlour to pantry to refill vases and valet neglected plants, or, curled in the big arm-chair, would sketch upon imaginary canvases Clare's profile, dark against the sun-filled window, or stare half-hypnotised, at the twinkling diamond on her finger. But to-day, for the first time, Clare's reception of her jarred. She sat down quietly, the flowers in a heap at her feet, her excitement subsiding and leaving her jaded and sorehearted. She felt herself disregarded, reduced to the level of an importunate schoolgirl.... She wondered how much longer Clare intended to write, and told herself, with a little, petulant shrug, that for two pins she would surprise Clare, wrench away her pen, take her by the shoulders and anger her into attention. Roger was right.... One could be too meek.... She rose with a little quiver of excitement, her irrepressible phantasy limning with lightning speed an imaginary Clare--a Clare beleaguered, with barriers down, a Clare with wide maternal arms, enclosing, comforting, sufficing.... The real Clare shifted in her seat and Alwynne sank back again. No, that was not the way to take Clare.... One must be patient, only patient, like Roger.... Clare would give all one needed, that was sure, but in her own time, her own way.... One must be patient.... She loosed her coat.... How close the room was.... She would have liked to fling open the window, but Clare always protested.... She heard Elsbeth's voice: "Fresh air? Her idea of fresh air is an electric fan." ... Queer, how those two jarred! But Elsbeth was not just.... Her head throbbed. Listlessly she picked up a spray of lilac and crushed it against her face. It was deliciously cool.... She supposed that the lilacs were out by now at Dene.... Tic, tac! Tic, tac! The tick of the clock would not keep time with the scratch of Clare's pen.... How stupid! Stupid, stu--pid, stu--pid, stu---- "Clare!" she cried desperately, "won't you even talk to me?" Clare wrote on for a moment as if she had not heard her, finished her letter, blotted it, stamped and addressed the cover and wiped her pen deliberately; then she rose, smiling a little. She had been perfectly conscious of Alwynne's unrest. "What is it?" she said. Alwynne flushed and gathered up her flowers. "It's your birthday," she apologised. "Look, Clare, aren't they darlings? I know you hate the school fusses, but your own birthday is important. Must you go on writing? It ought to be a holiday. May I get vases? Clare, I've such heaps to tell you, heaps and heaps, only I can't if you stand and look at me from such a long way off. Won't you sit down and smell your lilacs and let me talk to you comfortably?" With enormous daring she put her arm round Clare and drew her on to the sofa. Clare made no resistance, but she sat stiffly, unsupported, still smiling, her eyes glittering oddly. But the acquiescence was enough for Alwynne and she slid to the ground and sat there sorting her flowers, her face level with Clare's knee, radiant and fearless again. "I wonder what you will say? It's about Roger." Clare raised her eyebrows. "Oh, Clare, don't you know? I wrote such a lot about him from Dene." "I am to remember every detail of your epistles?" Alwynne looked up quaintly-- "I suppose there is a good deal to wade through. There always seems so much to say to you. Do you really mind?" "You remind me that I've letters to finish." Alwynne looked at the clock in sudden alarm. "Am I awfully early? You did expect me to tea?" "And you're never on the late side, are you?" Clare was still smiling, but her tone stung. Alwynne got up quickly. "I'm very sorry. Don't bother about me. I'll arrange these things while you finish. I didn't know you were really busy." Clare put out her hand to the table behind her. "I'm not busy. It seems one mayn't tease you since you've stayed at Dene." Alwynne's eyes flashed. "That's not fair. It's only that--that sometimes now you tease with needles--you used to tease with straws." "So I had better not tease at all?" "You know I don't mean that." Clare lifted an opened parcel from the table. Alwynne recognised it and beamed. So Clare was pleased! "If I tease with needles," she smoothed the paper and began to straighten the little heap of knotted string, "it's because you annoy me so often. Why did you send me this, Alwynne?" She shrugged her shoulders. "It was your birthday." "I hate birthdays." "I know." She spoke flatly, a lump in her throat. She might have known and saved herself her trouble and her pleasure.... She thought of the weeks of careful work and her delight in it; of the little sacrifices; the early rising; the walks with Roger curtailed and foregone.... Everybody had admired it, even Elsbeth had been sure that Clare would be charmed.... But Clare was angry.... Perhaps it was only that Clare did not understand.... She roused herself. "Clare, it's different. Don't you remember?" Clare gave no sign. She had disentangled the string and was retying it with elaborate care. Alwynne spoke with eyes fixed upon the dexterous fingers-- "You challenged me, don't you remember, Clare? When Marion showed us the things she was making for her sister's trousseau? And you said, would I ever have the patience, let alone my clumsy fingers? And I said I could, and you said you would wear all I made. And you did laugh at me so. So I thought I'd surprise you, and Elsbeth taught me the pillow-lace, and I was frightfully careful. It's taken months and months, and you love lace, and oh, Clare! I thought you would be a little bit pleased." Her lip quivered; she was very childlike in her eagerness and disappointment. "Did you think I should wear it?" Alwynne dimpled. "It's your size, Clare. Wouldn't you just try it?" Clare looked at her inscrutably. "You've taken great pains," she said. "I've been pleased to see it. But you've shown it to me and I've told you that you've learned to work well, so it has fulfilled its purpose, hasn't it? And now you'd better take it back with you. I'm sure you will be able to use it." She held out the neatly fastened package. Alwynne's face hardened. She put her hands behind her back. "I shall do nothing of the kind," she said. Clare did not seem ruffled. "Of course you will. And you'll look very pretty in it." She smiled amiably. But Alwynne's face did not relax. "I won't take it back. I gave it to you. I made it to give you pleasure. If you don't want it, burn it, give it to your maid, throw it away. Do you think I care what becomes of it? But I won't take it back. That is an insult. You say that to hurt me." "You'll take it back because I wish you to." "I won't. You shouldn't wish me to." "You know I dislike presents." "I never labelled it a present in my mind. You talk as if we were strangers." "Perhaps, then," murmured Clare, still smiling, "I dislike the hint that you consider my wardrobe inadequate." Alwynne caught her breath. For the last ten minutes she had been growing angry, not in her usual summer-tempest fashion, but with a slow, cold anger that was pain. She felt Clare's attitude an indelicacy--the discussion a degradation. She sickened at its pettiness. She seemed to be defending, not herself, but some shrinking, weaponless creature, from attack and outrage.... The fight had been sudden, desperate; but at Clare's last sentence she knew herself vanquished, knew that the first love of her life had been most mortally wounded. She turned blindly. She had no tears, no regret: her sensations were purely physical. She was numbed, breathless, choking, conscious only of an overpowering desire for fresh air, for escape into the open. But first she must say good-bye, head erect, betraying nothing ... say good-bye to the dark figure that was no longer Clare.... A sentence from a child's book danced through her mind in endless repetition, _They rubbed her eyes with the ointment, and she saw it was only a stock._ Of course! And now she must go away quickly.... She should choke if she could not get into the air.... She heard her own voice, flat and tiny-- "Have you finished with me? May I go now?" Clare's laugh was quite unforced. "You're not to go yet!" "Yes. Yes--I think so. May I go now, please?" She had retreated to the door and clung to the handle looking back with blank eyes. "But, you foolish child, you've had no tea. Why are you running away? Are you going to spoil my afternoon?" She lied blunderingly, mad to escape. "But I told you I couldn't stay long. Because--because of Elsbeth. She's to meet me. I only ran up for a minute. Really, I have to go." She made a tremendous effort: "I--I can come back later." Clare shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, very well. Will you come to supper?" Alwynne forced a smile. "Yes." She crossed the threshold, Clare watching from the doorway. "I shall wait for you, we'll have a lazy evening. Supper at eight." There was no answer. Alwynne was stumbling down into the darkness of the stairs and did not seem to hear. Clare turned back into her flat, hesitated uneasily, and came out again. She leaned far over the balustrade, peering down. "Alwynne!" she cried. "Alwynne! Wait a moment, Alwynne!" But Alwynne was gone, gone beyond recall. CHAPTER XLV Alwynne fled down Friar's Lane in amazement, conscious only of the need of escape. She had heard the outer door of the flat close behind her, yet she felt herself pursued. Clare's voice rang in her ears. Momently she awaited the touch of Clare's hand upon her shoulder. She felt herself exhausted; knew that, once overtaken, she would be powerless to resist; that she would be led back; would submit to reconciliation and caresses. And yet she was sure that she would never willingly see Clare again. She was free, and her terror of recapture taught her what liberty meant to her. There was the whole world before her, and Elsbeth--and Roger.... She must find Roger.... She was capable of no clear thought, but very sure that with him was safety. She hurried along in the shadow of the overhanging lilac-hedge, ears a-prick, eyes glancing to right and left. Oblivious of probabilities she saw Clare in every passer-by. At the turn of the blind lane she ran into a woman, walking towards her. She bit back a cry. But it was only Elsbeth--Elsbeth in her Sunday gown, very determined, gripping her card-case as if it were a dagger. She spoke between relief and distress. "Alwynne! Why did you disappear? Where have you been?" "With Clare." "It was more than rude. You could surely have foregone one afternoon. No one to see Roger off! After all his kindness to you at Dene!" "See Roger off?" Elsbeth was pleased to see her concern. "I should have gone myself, of course, but he would not allow it. The heat--as I have to pay a call. So he saw me on my way and then went off by himself, poor Roger!" "Where is he going? Why is he going?" "Back to Dene. The four-five. I am afraid, Alwynne, he has been hurt and upset. Alwynne!" But Alwynne, tugging at her watch-chain, was already running down the road with undignified speed. The four-five! Another ten minutes ... no, nine and a half.... Cutting through the gardens she might do it yet.... She prayed for her watch to be fast--the train late. She ran steadily, doggedly, oblivious of the passers-by, oblivious of heat and dust and choking breathlessness, of everything but the idea that Roger was deserting her. As she bent round the sweep of the station yard past the shelter with its nodding cabmen, and ran down the little wall-flower-bordered asphalt path, she heard the engine's valedictory puff. The platform was noisy and crowded, alive with shouting porters, crates of poultry and burdened women, but at the upper end was Roger, his foot on the step of the carriage, obviously bribing a guard. She pushed past the outraged ticket collector, and darted up the platform. Roger had disappeared when she reached the door of his compartment, and the whistle had sounded, but the door was still a-swing. The train began to move as she scrambled in. The door banged upon their privacy. "Roger!" cried Alwynne. "Roger!" She was shaking with breathlessness and relief. "You were right. I was wrong. It's you I want. I will do everything you want, always. I've been simply miserable. Oh, Roger--be good to me." And for the rest of his life Roger was good to her. CHAPTER XLVI Clare had paused a moment, half expecting Alwynne to return; but it was draughty on the landing and she did not wait long. Silly of Alwynne to dash off like that.... She had wanted to discuss Miss Marsham's letter with her before writing her answer.... Not that she was really undecided, of course.... The offer was an excellent one no doubt, and it was fitting that it should have been made.... But to accept the head mistress-ship was another matter.... Life was pleasant enough as it was.... She had plenty of money and Alwynne was hobby enough.... She wondered what Alwynne would say to it ... urge her to accept, probably.... Alwynne was so terribly energetic.... Well, she would let Alwynne talk ... (she picked up her pen) and when she had expended herself, Clare would produce her already written refusal.... Alwynne would pout and be annoyed.... Alwynne hated being made to look a fool.... Clare laughed as she bent over her letter. She had achieved preliminary compliments and was hesitating as to how she should continue, when a violent rat-tat, hushing immediately to a tremulous tat-a-tat-tat, as if the success of the attack upon Clare's door had proved a little startling to the knocker, announced a visitor, and to their mutual astonishment, Elsbeth Loveday fluttered into the room. Though Elsbeth's naïve amazement at herself and her own courage was more apparent, it was scarcely greater than Clare's politely veiled surprise at the invasion, for since Alwynne's attempts to reconcile the oil and water of their reluctant personalities had ceased with her absence, there had been practically no intercourse between them. With a crooked smile for her first fleeting conviction of the imminence of a church bazaar or Sunday-school treat on gargantuan lines, Clare applied herself to the preparation of Elsbeth's tea, in no great hurry for the disclosure of the visit's object, but already slightly amused at her visitor's unease, and foreseeing a whimsical half-hour in watching her pant and stumble, unassisted, to her point. Elsbeth was dimly aware of her hostess's attitude, and not a little nettled by it. She waved away cake and toast with a vague idea of breaking no bread in the enemy's house, but she was not the woman to resist tea, though Hecate's self brewed it. Fortified, she returned the empty cup; readjusted her veil, and opened fire. "My dear Miss Hartill," she began, a shade too cordially, "I've come round--I do hope you're not too busy; I know how occupied you always are." Clare was not at all busy; entirely at Miss Loveday's service. "Ah, well, I confess I came round in the hope of finding you alone--in the hope of a quiet chat----" Clare was expecting no visitors. But would not Miss Loveday take another cup of tea? "Oh no, thank you. Though I enjoyed my cup immensely--delicious flavour. China, isn't it? Alwynne always quotes your tea. Poor Alwynne--she can't convert me. I've always drunk the other, you know. Not but that China tea is to be preferred for those who like it, of course. An acquired taste, perhaps--at least----" She finished with an indistinct murmur uncomfortably aware that she had not been particularly lucid in her compliments to Clare's tea. Might Clare order a cup of Indian tea to be made for Miss Loveday? It would be no trouble; her maid drank it, she believed. "Oh, please don't. I shouldn't dream----You know, I didn't originally intend to come to tea. But you are so very kind. I am sure you are wondering what brings me." Clare disclaimed civilly. "Well, to tell you the truth--I am afraid you will think me extremely roundabout, Miss Hartill----" Clare's mouth twitched. "But it is not an easy subject to begin. I'm somewhat worried about Alwynne----" "Again?" Clare had stiffened, but Elsbeth was too nervous to be observant. "Oh, not her health. She is splendidly well again--Dene did wonders." Clare found Elsbeth's quick little unexplained smile irritating. "No, this is--well, it certainly has something to do with Dene, too!" "Indeed," said Clare. Elsbeth continued, delicately tactless: she was always at her worst with her former pupil. "I daresay you are surprised that I consult you, for we need not pretend, need we, that we have ever quite agreed over Alwynne? You, I know, consider me old-fashioned----" She paused a moment for a disclaimer, but Clare was merely attentive. With a little less suavity she resumed: "And of course I've always thought that you----But that, after all, has nothing to do with the matter." "Nothing whatever," said Clare. "Exactly. But knowing that you are fond of Alwynne, and realising your great, your very great, influence with her, I felt--indeed we both felt--that if you once realised----" "We?" "Roger. Mr. Lumsden." "Oh, the gardener at Dene." "My cousin, Miss Hartill." "Oh. Oh, really. But what has he to do with Alwynne?" "My dear, he wants to marry her. Didn't she tell you?" Elsbeth had the satisfaction of seeing Clare look startled. "Now I was sure Alwynne had confided the matter to you. Hasn't she just been here? That is really why I came. I was so afraid that you, with the best of motives, of course, might incline her to refuse him. And you know, Miss Hartill, she mustn't. The very man for Alwynne? He suits her in every way. Devoted to her, of course, but not in the least weak with her, and you know I always say that Alwynne needs a firm hand. And between ourselves, though I am the last person to consider such a thing, he is an extremely good match. I can't tell you, Miss Hartill, the joy it was to me, the engagement. I had been anxious--I quite foresaw that Alwynne would be difficult, though I am convinced she is attached to him--underneath, you know. So I made up my mind to come to you. I said to myself: 'I am sure--I am quite sure--Miss Hartill would not misunderstand the situation. I am quite sure Miss Hartill would not intend to stand in the child's light. She is far too fond of Alwynne to allow her personal feelings----' After all, feminine friendship is all very well, very delightful, of course, and I am only too sensible of your goodness to Alwynne--and taking her to Italy too--but when it is a question of Marriage--oh, Miss Hartill, surely you see what I mean?" Clare frowned. "I think so. The gard----This Mr. Lumpkin----" "Lumsden." "Of course. I was confusing him----Mr. Lumsden has proposed to Alwynne. She has refused him, and you now wish for my help in coercing her into an apparently distasteful engagement?" "Oh no, Miss Hartill! No question of coercion. I think there is no possible doubt that she is fond of him, and if it were not for you----But Alwynne is so quixotic." Clare lifted her eyebrows, politely blank. "Oh, Miss Hartill--why beat about the bush? You know your influence with Alwynne. It is very difficult for me to talk to you. Please believe that I intend nothing personal--but Alwynne is so swayed by you, so entirely under your thumb; you know what a loyal, affectionate child she is, and as far as I can gather from what Roger let fall--for she is in one of her moods and will not confide in me--she considers herself bound to you by--by the terms of your friendship. All she would say to Roger was, 'Clare comes first. Clare must come first'--which, of course, is perfectly ridiculous." Clare reddened. "You mean that I, or you, for that matter, who have known Alwynne for years, must step aside, must dutifully foster this liking for a comparative stranger." Elsbeth smiled. "Well, naturally. He's a man." "I am sorry I can't agree. Alwynne is a free agent. If she prefers my friendship to Mr. Lumsden's adorations----" "But I've told you already, it's a question of Marriage, Miss Hartill. Surely you see the difference? How can you weigh the most intimate, the most ideal friendship against the chance of getting married?" Elsbeth was wholly in earnest. Clare mounted her high horse. "I can--I do. There are better things in life than marriage." "For the average woman? Do you sincerely say so? The brilliant woman--the rich woman--I don't count them, and there are other exceptions, of course; but when her youth is over, what is the average single woman? A derelict, drifting aimlessly on the high seas of life. Oh--I'm not very clear; it's easy to make fun of me; but I know what I mean and so do you. We're not children. We both know that an unmated woman--she's a failure--she's unfulfilled." Clare was elaborately bored. "Really, Miss Loveday, the subject does not interest me." "It must, for Alwynne's sake. Don't you realise your enormous responsibility? Don't you realise that when you keep Alwynne entangled in your apron strings, blind to other interests, when you cram her with poetry and emotional literature, when you allow her to attach herself passionately to you, you are feeding, and at the same time deflecting from its natural channel, the strongest impulse of her life--of any girl's life? Alwynne needs a good concrete husband to love, not a fantastic ideal that she calls friendship and clothes in your face and figure. You are doing her a deep injury, Miss Hartill--unconsciously, I know, or I should not be here--but doing it, none the less. If you will consider her happiness----" Clare broke in angrily-- "I do consider her happiness. Alwynne tells you that I am essential to her happiness." "She may believe so. But she's not happy. She has not been happy for a long time. But she believes herself to be so, I grant you that. But consider the future. Shall she never break away? Shall she oscillate indefinitely between you and me, spend her whole youth in sustaining two old maids? Oh, Miss Hartill, she must have her chance. We must give her what we've missed ourselves." Clare appeared to be occupied in stifling a yawn. Her eyes were danger signals, but Elsbeth was not Alwynne to remark them. "In one thing, at least, I do thoroughly agree with you. I don't think there is the faintest likelihood of Alwynne's wishing to marry at all at present, but I do feel, with you, that it is unfair to expect her to oscillate, as you rhetorically put it, between two old maids. I agree, too, that I have responsibilities in connection with her. In fact, I think she would be happier if she were with me altogether, and I intend to ask her to come and live here. I shall ask her to-night. Don't you think she will be pleased?" Clare's aim was good. Elsbeth clutched at the arms of her chair. "You wouldn't do such a thing." Clare laughed shrilly. "I shall do exactly what your Mr. Lumsden wants to do. I'm not poor. I can give her a home as well as he, if you are so anxious to get her off your hands. She seems to be going begging." Elsbeth rose. "I'm wasting time. I'll say good-bye, Miss Hartill. I shouldn't have come. But it was for Alwynne's sake. I hoped to touch you, to persuade you to forego, for her future's sake, for the sake of her ultimate happiness, the hold you have on her. I sympathised with you. I knew it would be a sacrifice. I knew, because I made the same sacrifice two years ago, when you first began to attract her. I thought you would develop her. I am not a clever woman, Miss Hartill, and you are; so I made no stand against you; but it was hard for me. Alwynne did not make it easier. She was not always kind. But hearing you to-day, I understand. You made Alwynne suffer more than I guessed. I don't blame her if sometimes it recoiled on me. You were always cruel. I remember you. The others were always snails for you to throw salt upon. I might have known you'd never change. Do you think I don't know your effect on the children at the school? Oh, you are a good teacher! You force them successfully; but all the while you eat up their souls. Sneer if you like! Have you forgotten Louise? I tell you, it's vampirism. And now you are to take Alwynne. And when she is squeezed dry and flung aside, who will the next victim be? And the next, and the next? You grow greedier as you grow older, I suppose. One day you'll be old. What will you do when your glamour's gone? I tell you, Clare Hartill, you'll die of hunger in the end." The small relentless voice ceased. There was a silence. Clare, who had remained quiescent for sheer amaze at the attack from so negligible a quarter, pulled herself together. Rather white, she began to clap her hands gently, as a critic surprised into applause. "My dear woman, you're magnificent! Really you are. I never thought you had it in you. The Law and the Prophets incarnate. How Alwynne will laugh when I tell her. I wish she'd been here. You ought to be on the stage, you know, or in the pulpit. Have you quite finished? Quite? Do unburden yourself completely, you won't be given another opportunity. You understand that, of course? If Alwynne wishes to see you, she must make arrangements to do so elsewhere. That is the one condition I shall make. This is the way out." Elsbeth rose. She was furious with herself that her lips must tremble and her hands shake, as she gathered up scarf and reticule; but she followed her hostess with sufficient dignity. Clare flung open the door with a gesture a shade too ample. Elsbeth laughed tremulously as she passed her and crossed the hall. "Oh, you are not altered," she said, and bent to fumble at the latch. "But it doesn't impress me. You've not won yet. You count too much on Alwynne. And you have still to reckon with Mr. Lumsden." "And his three acres and a cow!" Clare watched her contemptuously. It did not seem worth while to keep her dignity with Elsbeth. She felt that it would be a relief to lose her temper completely, to override this opponent by sheer, crude invective. She let herself go. "What a fool you are! Do you flatter yourself that you understand Alwynne? Go back to your Coelebs and tell him from Alwynne--I tell you I speak for Alwynne--that he's wasting his time. Let him take his goods to another market: Alwynne won't buy. I've other plans for her--she has other plans for yourself. She doesn't want a husband. She doesn't want a home. She doesn't want children. She wants me--and all I stand for. She wants to use her talents--and she shall--through me. She wants success--she shall have it--through me. She wants friendship--can't I give it? Affection? Haven't I given it? What more can she want? A home? I'm well off. A brat to play with? Let her adopt one, and I'll house it. I'll give her anything she wants. What more can your man offer? But I won't let her go. I tell you, we suffice each other. Thank God, there are some women who can do without marriage--marriage--marriage!" Elsbeth, as if she heard nothing, tugged at the catch. The door swung open, and she stepped quietly into the sunny passage. Then she turned to Clare, a grey, angry shadow in the dusk of the hall. "Poor Clare!" she said. "Are the grapes very sour?" She pulled-to the door behind her. * * * * * Later in the evening, as she sat, flushed, tremulous, utterly joyful over Roger's telegram, she considered the manner of her exit and was shocked at herself. "I don't know what possessed me," said Elsbeth apologetically. "And if I had only known. It was unladylike--it was unwomanly--it was unchristian." She shook her head at her mild self in the glass. "But she made me so angry! If I'd only known that this was coming!" She fingered the pink envelope. "She'll think I knew. She'll always think I knew. And then to say what I did? It was unpardonable. "But I was right, all the same," cried Elsbeth incorrigibly; "and I don't care. I'm glad I said it--I'm glad--I'm glad!" CHAPTER XLVII The sun slid over the edge of the sweating earth. Its red-hot plunge into the sea behind the hills was almost audible. The black cloud, fuming up from its setting-place, was as the steam of the collision. In great clots and coils it rolled upwards, spreading as it thinned, till it was a pall of vapour that sheeted all the lemon-coloured sky. Suddenly a cold wind sprang up, raced down the silent heavens, and, by way of Eastern Europe and the North Sea and the straight Roman road that drives down England, tore along the Utterbridge byways, and into the open window of Clare Hartill's parlour. A touch of its cold lips on her hair, and brow, and breast, and it was out again, driving the dust before it. Clare shivered. She was very tired of waiting.... It was inexplicable that Alwynne should be late; but Clare with a half laugh, promised Alwynne to forego her scolding if she would but come.... The dusk and the wind and the silence were getting on her nerves.... The tick of the hall clock, for instance, was aggressive, insistent, maddening in its precise monotony.... Oh, unbearable! With a gesture that was hysterical in its abandonment, Clare rose suddenly and flung into the hall, plucked open the clock door, and removed the pendulum. The released wire waggled foolishly into silence, like an idiot, tongue a-loll. As the quiet hunted Clare into her sitting-room again, a little silver wire flickered down the sky like a scared snake, and for an instant she saw herself reflected in a convex mirror, a Clare bleached and shining and askew, like a St. Michael in a stained-glass window. Dusk and the thunder followed. The storm was beginning. Clare moved about restlessly. She disliked storms. Her eyes ached, and she was cramped with waiting, and Alwynne had not come. She would, of course.... That woman had detained her, purposely, no doubt, and now there was the storm to delay her.... But Alwynne would come.... Clare smiled securely. Again the lightning whipped across the heavens, and thunder roared in its wake. Clare went to the window and watched the sky. The pane of glass was grateful to her hot forehead. She was too tired, too bruised and shaken by her own recent anger to arrange her thoughts, to pose for the moment, even to herself--of all audiences the most critical. The interview with Elsbeth Loveday rehearsed itself incessantly, pricking, probing, bludgeoning, in crescendo of intonation, innuendo, open attack, to the final triumphant insult. Triumphant, because true. The insult could cut through her defences and strike at her very self, because it was true. Her pride agonised. She had thought herself shrouded, invulnerable. And yet Elsbeth, whom of all women she had reckoned negligible, had guessed, had pitied.... Yet even her enemy was forgotten, as she sat and shuddered at the wound dealt; plucked and shrank, and plucked again at the arrow-tip rankling in it still. The hours had passed in an evil mazement. But Alwynne was to come.... She thought of Alwynne with shifting passions of relief and longing and sheer crude lust for revenge. Alwynne would come.... Alwynne would soothe and comfort, intuitive, never waiting for the cry for help. And Alwynne should pay.... Oho! Alwynne should pay Elsbeth's debts ... should wince, and shrink, and whiten. _Scientific vivisection of one nerve._ Wait a little, Alwynne!--Ah, Alwynne--the dearest--the beloved--the light and laughter of one's life.... What fool is whispering that Clare can hurt her?... Alwynne shall see when she comes, who loves her.... There shall be a welcome, the royalest welcome she has ever had.... For what in all the world has Clare but Alwynne, and having Alwynne, has not Clare the world? Ah, well.... Perhaps, she had not been always good to Alwynne.... To-day, for instance, she might have been kinder.... But Alwynne always understood.... That was the comfort of Alwynne, that she always understood.... Why didn't she come? Wasn't there an echo of a step far down the street? When Alwynne came, they would make plans.... It would not be easy to wean the girl from her aunt, at least while they lived in the same town, the same country.... But one could travel, could take Alwynne quite away.... Italy.... Greece.... Egypt.... they would go round the world together, shake off the school and all it stood for.... In a new world, begin a new life.... Why not? She had money enough to burn.... It would not be hard to persuade Alwynne, adventurous, infatuate.... Once gone, Elsbeth might whistle for her niece.... They would talk it over to-morrow ... to-night ... as soon as Alwynne came.... Was that thunder or a knocking? Rat-tat! Rat-tat! She had not been mistaken after all.... Alwynne! Alwynne! And Clare, with an appearance on her that even Alwynne had never seen, ran like a child to open the door. On the threshold stood a messenger boy, proffering a telegram. She took it. "Any answer, Miss!" for she had offered to close the door. "Oh, of course!" She frowned, and pulled open the flimsy sheet. The boy waited. He peered past her, interested in the odd pictures on the walls, and the glimpse of a table luxuriously set. The minutes sped. He had soon seen all he could, and began to fidget. "Any answer, Miss?" he hinted. "Oh!" said Clare vaguely. "Answer? No. No answer. No answer at all." The boy knuckled his forehead and clattered away down the staircase. Mechanically Clare shut the door, locked and bolted it and secured it with the chain. Then she returned to the sitting-room and crossed to her former station by the open window. The storm was ending in a downpour of furious tropical rain. It beat in unheeded upon her thin dress and bare neck and the open telegram in her hands, as, with lips parted and a faint, puzzled pucker between her brows, she conned over the message-- _I cannot come to-night.--I have gone to Dene. I am going to marry Roger._ She read it and re-read, twisting it this way and that, for it was barely visible in the wet dusk. It seemed an eternity before its full meaning dawned upon her. And yet she had known all there was to know when she confronted the messenger boy (Oh, Destiny is up to date) and took her sentence from his grimy hand. _I am going to marry Roger._ "Very well, Alwynne!" Clare flung up her head, up and back. Her face was drowned in the shadows of the crimson curtain, but her neck caught the last of the light, shone like old marble. The whole soul of her showed for an instant in its defiant outline, in the involuntary pulsation that quivered across its rigidity, in the uncontrollable flutter beneath the chin. The thin, capable fingers twisted and clenched over the sodden paper. She moved at last, spoke into space. Passion, anger, and the cool contempt of the school-mistress for a mutinous class, mingled grotesquely in her voice. "Very well, Alwynne! Just as you please, of course. There is no more to be said." She tossed away the little ball of paper as she spoke. She wandered aimlessly about the room; turned to her book-shelves after a while, and stood a long time, pulling out volume after volume, opening each at random, reading a page, closing the book again, letting it slide from her hand, never troubling to replace it. She was tired at last and turned to her writing-table. It was piled high with exercise-books, and she corrected a couple before she swept them also aside. The rain had not faltered in its swishing downfall. It beat against the panes, and on to the sill, and dripped down into a pool beneath the open window. "She will have to come back on Monday," said Clare suddenly. "She can't go off like that. There's the school----" She broke off abruptly, as a gust of wind soughed by. _I cannot come. I have gone to Dene. I am going to marry Roger._ She could hear Alwynne's voice in it, answering. "But why?" cried Clare piteously. "Why? What is it? What have I done?" "S'hush!" sighed the rain. "S'hush!" "I loved her," cried Clare. "I loved her. What have I done?" "S'hush!" sobbed the rain. "S'hush! S'hush!" She turned to the darkening windows, and started, and shuddered away again, stricken dumb and shaking. A pool of something red and wet was spreading over the polished boards, and a thin trickle was stealing forward to her feet. Blood? Fool.... The red of the curtains reflected, tingeing a pool of rain-water.... Blood, nevertheless.... She had forgotten Louise. What had Alwynne heard? A garbled version of that last interview? Fool again--unless the dead can speak.... But Alwynne knew.... Something had been revealed to her, suddenly, during their idle talk.... But when? But how? She had come as a lover ... she had left as a stranger ... what in any god's name, had she guessed? Clare's subconscious memory reproduced for her instantly, with photographic accuracy, details of the scene that she had not even known she had observed. Alwynne had changed, in an instant, between a word and a reply.... What was it that Clare had said--what trifling, teasing nothing, flung out in pure wantonness? But Alwynne's face, her dear face, had become, for an instant--Clare strained to the memory--as the face of Louise.... Louise had looked at her like that, that other day.... What had they seen then, both of them? Was she Gorgon to bring that look into their faces? Louise--yes--she could understand Louise.... She did not care to think about Louise.... But Alwynne--what had she ever done to Alwynne? At least Alwynne might tell her what she had done.... She would not submit to it.... She would not be put aside.... She would at least have justice.... _I am going to marry Roger._ Useless! All useless! The struggle was over before she had known she was fighting.... She knew that in Alwynne's life there was no longer any part for her. And Clare had travelled far that evening, to phrase it thus. Sharing was a strange word for her to use. But she recognised dully that even sharing was out of her power. What had she to do with a husband, and housewifery, and the bearing of children? Alwynne married was Alwynne dead. Alwynne in love.... Alwynne married.... Alwynne putting any living thing before Clare! She broke into bitter laughter at the idea. What had happened? What had Clare done or left undone? She realised grimly that of this at least she might be sure--it had been her own doing.... No influence could have wrought against her own.... Alwynne, at least, was where she was, because Clare had sent her, not because another had beckoned.... And that was the comfort she had stored up for herself, to last her in the lean years to come.... What was the use of regretting? Alwynne was gone.... Then forget her.... There were other fish in the sea.... There was a promising class this term.... That child in the Fourth.... She wondered if Alwynne had noticed her.... She must ask Alwynne.... Alwynne had gone away, had gone to Dene, was going to marry Roger.... Well, there was always work.... Where was that letter to Miss Marsham? She moved stiffly in her seat, lit a candle, and drew towards her the half-written sheet that lay open on the blotter. She re-read it. _You will, I am sure, understand how much I appreciate your offer of the partnership, but after much consideration I have decided_---- She hesitated, crossed out the _but_ and wrote an _and_ above it, and continued-- --_to accept it. I will come to tea to-morrow, as you kindly suggest._ She finished the letter, signed it, stamped and addressed, and sat idle at last, staring down at it. The neat handwriting danced, and flickered, and grew dim. With an awkward gesture she put her hands to her eyes, and brought them away again, wet. She smiled at that, a twisted, mocking smile. She supposed she was crying.... She did not remember ever having done such a thing.... So her future was decided.... It was to be work and loneliness--loneliness and work ... because, it seemed, she had no friends left.... Yet Alwynne had promised many things.... What had she done to Alwynne? What had she done? She turned within herself and reviewed her life as she remembered it, thought by thought, word by word, action by action. Faces rose about her, whispering reminders, forgotten faces of the many who had loved her: from her old nurse, dead long ago, to Louise, and Alwynne, and foolish Olivia Pring. The candle at her elbow flared and dribbled, and died at last with a splutter and a gasp. She paid no heed. When the dawn came, she was still sitting there, thinking--thinking. _March 1914--September 1915._ THE END PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA * * * * * Transcriber's Note: Punctuation and formatting markup have been normalized. "_" surrounding text represents italics. Apparent printer's errors have been retained, unless stated below. Page 22, "critise" changed to "criticise". ("Excuse me, Miss Vigers, but I hardly see that it is your business to criticise my way of teaching.") Page 26, "inacessible" changed to "inaccessible". (Miss Hartill, who had been, indeed, surrounded, inaccessible, from the instant of her entrance until the prayer bell rang, did not look her way a second time.) Page 29, "Tallyerand" changed to "Talleyrand". (Marengo--Talleyrand--never heard of 'em!) Page 30, "returned" changed to "return". (But to return to Napoleon and the Lower Third----) Page 31, "warned" changed to "warmed". (And how it warmed the cockles of one's heart to her!) Page 43, "all all" changed to "all". (Clare thanked the gods of her unbelief, and, relaxing all effort, settled herself to enjoy to the full the cushioning sense of security;) Page 47, "shouldnt'" changed to "shouldn't". (Well, I thought I shouldn't get it done under forty--an essay on _The Dark Tower_.) Page 83, "scretly" changed to "secretly". (and she would pay any price for apple-wood, ostensibly for the quality of its flame, secretly for the mere pleasure of burning fuel with so pleasant a name;) Page 88, "a a" changed to "a". (She could not believe in simplicity combined with brains: a simple soul was necessarily a simpleton in her eyes.) Page 89, "negligble" changed to "negligible". (So that negligible and mouse-like woman had been aware--all along ...) Page 100, "eucalyplyptus" changed to "eucalyptus". (Before the evening was over Alwynne reeked of eucalyptus.) Page 108, "Clarke" changed to "Clare". ("Of course not," said Clare, with grave sympathy.) Page 135, "Louise's" changed to "Clare's". (And Alwynne's eyes grew big, and she forgot all about Louise, as Clare's "loveliest voice" read out the rhyme of _The River_.) Page 152, "Cnythia" changed to "Cynthia". ("And yet it bores her too----" parenthesised Cynthia shrewdly.) Page 155, "Wail" changed to "Wait". ("Wait till you get a best boy.") Page 186, "then" changed to "them". ("You begin by being heavenly to people--and then you tantalise them.") Page 250, "phrase" changed to "phase". (Elsbeth, not unused to disillusionment and hopes deferred, could sigh and smile and acquiesce, knowing it for the phase that it was and forgiving Alwynne in advance.) Page 370, "so" changed to "to". (She had only to say, quite quietly, that she must do what she felt to be right....) Page 413, "Alwyne" changed to "Alwynne". (She thought of Alwynne with shifting passions of relief and longing and sheer crude lust for revenge.)