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A CHANGE OF AIR
BY
ANTHONY HOPE \* .
AUTHOR OF “THE PRISONER OF zENDA,”
“RUPERT OF HENTZAU,” ETC.
NEW YORK
THE MERSHON COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
) ºl - 3-Q. 5
CON TENTS.
CIMAP, - JPAGE.
I. A Mission to the Heathen........ • . . . . . . . . . 5
II. The New Man at Little Hill........... • . . . . 11
III. Denborough Determines to Call............ 19
IV. A Quiet Sunday Afternoon............ . . . . . 29
V. The Necessary Scapegoat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
VI. Littlehill goes into Society.............. . . . 49
VII. “To a Pretty Saint,” .................. . . . . 59
VIII. An Indiscreet Disciple..................... 68
IX. Dale's own Opinion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . , 78
X. A Prejudiced Verdict................. . . . . . 88
XI. A Fable about Birds. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98
XII. A Dedication—and a Desecration.......... ... 106
XIII. The Responsibilities of Genius............. 114
XIV. Mr. Delane likes the Idea................. . 123
XV". Hºw it Seened to tho Doctor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132
XVI. “No more Kings "... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140
XVII. Dale tries bis Hand at an Ode. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151
XVIJI. Delilah Johnstone. . . . . . . . . . . . © º e º º 'º g . . . . . . . 158
XIX. A Well-paid Poem............ ............ . 165
XX. An Evening's End. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . , 172
iv. CONTENTS.
CHA P. PAGE.
XXI. “The Other Girl Did.”.................... 178
XXII. The Fitness of Things...................... 186
XXIII. A Morbid Scruple.......................... 195
XXIV. The Heroine of the Incident. ............... 202
XXV. The Scene of the Outrage. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 212
XXVI. Against her Better Judgment. ............. 222
XXVII. A Villain. Unmasked........... * * * * * e s e e s tº e 230
XXVIII. A Vision. • - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 237
A CHANGE OF AIR.
*sºns -º-º-e
CHAPTER I.
A MISSION TO THE HEATHEN.
WHEN the Great King, that mirror of a majesty
whereof modern times have robbed the world,
recoiled aghast from the threatened indignity
of having to wait, he laid his finger with a
true touch on a characteristic incident of the
lot of common men, from which it was seemly
that the state of God’s Vicegerents should be free.
It was a small matter, no doubt, a thing of man-
ners merely and etiquette; yet manners and eti-
quette are first the shadowed expression of facts
and then the survival of them, the reverence once
paid to power, and now accorded, in a strange
mixture of chivalry and calculation, to mere place
whence power has fled. The day of vicegerents
is gone, and the day of officers has come; and it
is not unknown that officers should have to wait,
or even, such is the insolence, no longer of office
but of those who give it, should altogether go
without. Yet, although everybody has now to
wait, everybody has not to wait the same length
of time. For example, a genius needs not wait
5
6 A CHANGE OF AIR.
so long for what he wants as a fool—unless, as
chances now and then, he be both a genius and
a fool, when probably his waiting will be utterly
without end.
In a small flat in Chelsea, very high towards
heaven, there sat one evening in the summer, two
young men and a genius; and the younger of the
young men, whose name was Arthur Angell, said
discontentedly to the genius,
“The brute only sent me ten and sixpence.
What did you get for yours?”
The genius blushed and murmured apologeti-
cally,
“That agent chap I’ve sold myself to got twenty
pounds for it.”
The second young man, who was not so young,
being, in fact, well turned of thirty, and growing
bald, took his pipe out of his mouth, and, point-
ing the stem first at the genius, then at Arthur
Angell, and lastly, like a knife, at his own breast,
said,
“Pounds—shillings—and pence. He sent me
nothing at all.”
A pause followed, and the genius began :
“Look here, you fellows”—But Philip Hume
went on: “Ten and sixpence is a good sum of
money, a comfortable sum of money, and, my
dear Arthur, I should say the full value of your
poem. As to Dale's poem, who knows the value
of Dale's poem 2 By what rod shall you meas-
ure—” He broke off with a laugh at Dale's gest-
ure of protest.
“I’m making the deuce of a lot of money,” said
Dale in an awestruck tone. “It’s rolling in. I
don’t know what to do with it.”
A CEIANGE OF AIR. 7
“Littlehill will swallow it,” said Philip.
“You don’t mean that he sticks to that idea?”
exclaimed Arthur. “You don’t, do you, Dale?”
“I do,” answered Dale. “I’m not going per-
manently. I’m not going to forsake our old ways
or our old life. I’m not going to turn into a rich
man.”
“I hope not, by Jovel” cried Arthur.
“But I want to see the country—I’ve not seen
it for years. And I want to see country people,
and—and—”
“It’ll end in our losing you,” prophesied Arthur
gloomily.
“Nonsense !” said Dale, flushing a little. “It’ll
end in nothing of the sort. I’ve only taken the
house for a year.”
“A gentleman’s residence,” said Philip : “five
sitting-rooms, twelve bedrooms, offices, stabling,
and three acres of grounds.”
Arthur groaned.
“It sounds a villa all over,” he said.
“Not at all,” said Dale sharply; “it’s a country
house.” *
f i. there any difference 2° asked Arthur scorn-
ully.
“All the difference,” said Philip, “as you would
know if you moved in anything approaching re-
pectable circles.”
“I’m glad I don’t,” said Arthur. “What will
respectable circles say to The Clarion, eh, Dale P”
“Who cares what they say?” laughed Dale.
“They seem to buy it.”
Arthur looked at him with revengeful eye, and
suddenly inquired,
“What about Nellie P’’
8 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“That's just the delightful part of it,” answered
Dale eagerly. “Nellie's been seedy ever so long,
you know. She was ordered perfect rest and
country air. But it didn’t run to it.”
“It never ran to anything here,” said Philip in
a tone of dispassionate acquiescence in facts, “till
you became famous.”
“Now I can help !” pursued Dale. “She and
Mrs. Hodge are coming to pay me a long visit.
Of course, Phil's going to be there permanently.
You’ll come too, Arthur P”
At first Arthur Angell said he would not go
near a villa, he could not breathe in a villa, or
sleep quiet O’ nights in a villa; but presently he
relented.
“I can’t stand it for long, though,” he said.
“Still, I’m glad you’re going to have Nellie
there. She’d have missed you awfully. When
do you go?”
“Actually, to-morrow. I’m not used to it yet.”
h Arthur shook his head again, as he put on his
at.
“Well, good-night,” said he. “I hope it’s all
right.”
Dale waited till the door was closed behind his
guest, and then laughed good-humoredly.
“I like old Arth “,” he said. “He’s So keen
and in earnest about it. But it’s all bosh. What
difference can it make whether I live in London
or the country? And it's only for a little while.”
“He begins to include you in the well-to-do
classes, and suspects you accordingly,” replied
Philip.
There was a knock at the door, and a pretty
girl came in, wº
A CHANGE OF AIR. 9
“Oh, I ran up,” she said, “to ask whether this
hat would do for Denshire. I don’t want to dis-
grace you, Dale; ” and she held up a hat she car-
ried in her hand.
“It would do for Paradise,” said Dale. “Besides,
there isn’t going to be any difference at all in
Denshire. We are going to be and do and dress
just as we are and do and dress here. Aren’t we,
Phil?”
“That is the scheme,” said Philip.
“We shall care for no one's opinion,” pursued
Dale, warming to his subject. “We shall be
absolutely independent. We shall show them
that their way of living is not the only way of liv-
ing. We—”
“In fact, Nellie,” interrupted Philip, “we shall
open their eyes considerably. So we flatter our-
selves.”
“It’s not that at all,” protested Dale.
“You can’t help it, Dale,” said Nellie, smiling
brightly at him. “Of course they will open their
eyes at the great Mr. Bannister. We all open
our eyes at him, don’t we, Mr. Hume 2 Well,
then, the hat will do?—as a week-day hat, I
mean.”
“A week-day hat ?” repeated Philip. “Dear
old phrase ! It recalls one’s happy church-going
youth. Have you also provided a Sunday hat ?”
“Of course, Mr. Hume.”
“And, Dale, have you a Sunday coat?”
Dale laughed.
“It’s a pretty excuse for pretty things, Phil,”
he said. “Let Nellie have her Sunday hat.
doubt if they’ll let me into the church.” *
Philip stretched out his hand and took up
13 A CTHANGE OF AIR.
glass of whisky and water which stood near
him. #
“I drink to the success of the expedition,” said
he.
“To the success of our mission l’’ cried Dale
gayly, raising his glass. “We will spread the
light !”
“Here's to Dale Bannister, apostle in partibus /*
and Philip drank the toast. -
A CHANGE OF AIR. 14
CHAPTER II.
THE NEW MAN AT LITTLEBRA, L.
MARKET DENBOROUGH is not a large town.
Perhaps it is none the worse for that, and, if it
be, there is compensation to be found in its
picturesqueness, its antiquity, and its dignity;
for there has been a town where it stands from
time immemorial, it makes a great figure in
County histories and local guide-books, it is an
ancient corporation, an assize town and quarter-
Sessions borough. It does not grow, for country
towns, dependent solely on the support of the
rural districts surrounding, are not given to
growing much nowadays. Moreover, the De-
lanes do not readily allow new houses to be built,
and if a man lives in Market Denborough, he
must be a roofless vagrant or a tenant of Mr.
Delane. It is not the place to make a fortune;
but, on the other hand, unusual recklessness is
necessary to the losing of one there. If the
triumphs of life are on a small scale, the struggle
for existence is not very fierce, and a wise man
might do worse than barter the uncertain chances
and precarious joys of a larger stage, to play a
modest, easy, quiet part on the little boards of
Market Denborough.
It must not, however, be supposed that the
\
#2 A CHANGE OF AIR.
lion and the lamb have quite sunk their differ-
ences, and lain down together at Market Den-
borough. There, as elsewhere, the millennium
tarries, and there are not wanting fierce feuds,
personal, municipal, nay, even, within the wide
limits of Mr. Delane's tolerance, political. If it
were not so, the Mayor would not have been
happy, for the Mayor loved a fight; and Alder-
man Johnstone, who was a Radical, would have
felt his days wasted; and the two gentlemen
would not have been, as they continually were,
at loggerheads concerning paving-contracts and
kindred subjects. There was no want of interests
in life, if a man were ready to take his own part
and keep a sharp eye on the doings of his neigh-
bor. Besides, the really great events of exist-
ence happened at Market Denborough much as
they do in London: people were born, and married,
and died; and while that rotation is unchecked,
who can be seriously at a loss for matter of
thought or topic of conversation?
As Mr. James Roberts, member of the Royal
College of Surgeons, a thin young man, with
restless eyes and tight-shut lips, walked down
High Street one hot, sunny afternoon, it never
entered his head that there was not enough to
think about in Market Denborough. Wife and
child, rent, rates, and taxes, patients and pre-
scriptions, the relation between those old enemies,
incomings and outgoings, here was food enough
for any man’s meditations. Enough 2 Ay, enough
and to spare of such distasteful, insipid, narrow,
soul-destroying stuff. Mr., or, to give him the
brevet rank all the town gave him, Dr. Roberts
hated these sordid, imperious interests that gath-
A CHANGE OF AIR. 13
ered round him and hemmed him in, shutting out
all else—all dreams of ambition, all dear long-har-
bored schemes, all burning enthusiasms, even all
chance of seeking deeper knowledge and more com-
manding skill. Sadly and impatiently the Doctor
shook his head, trying to put his visions on One
side, and nail his mind down to its work. His first
task was to turn £300 a year into £600. It was
hard it should be so, and he chafed against neces-
sity, forgetting, as perhaps he pardonably might,
that the need was the price he paid for wife and
child. Yes, it was hard; but so it was. If only
more people would be—no, but if only more people
who were ill would call in Dr. Roberts | Then he
could keep two horses, and not have to “pad the
hoof,” as he phrased it to himself, about swelter-
ing streets or dusty lanes all the long afternoon,
because his one pony was tired out with carrying
him in the morning to Dirkham, a village five
miles off, where he was medical officer at a salary
of forty pounds by the year. That was forty,
and Ethel had a hundred, and the profits from his
paying patients (even if you allowed for the
medicine consumed by those who did not pay)
were about a hundred and fifty. But then the
bills—Oh, well, he must go on. The second horse
must wait, and that other dream of his, having
an assistant, that must Wait too. If he had an
assistant, he would have some leisure for research,
for reading, for studying the political and social
questions where his real and engrossing interest
lay. He could then take his part in the mighty
work of rousing—
Here his meditations were interrupted. He
had reached, in his progress down the street, a
14 A CHANGE OF AIR.
large plate-glass-window shop, the shop of a
chemist, and of no less a man than Mr. James
Hedger, Mayor of Market Denborough. The
member of the lower branch of their common art
was a richer man than he who belonged to the
higher, and when Mr. Hedger was playfully
charged with giving the young Doctor his med-
icines cheap, he never denied the accusation.
Anyhow, the two were good friends, and the
Mayor, who was surveying his dominions from
his doorstep, broke in on Dr. Roberts’ train of
thought with a cheerful greeting.
“Have you heard the news?” he asked.
“No; I’ve no time for the news. I always
look to you for it, Mr. Mayor.”
“It mostly comes round to me, being a centre,
like,” said the Mayor. “It’s natural.”
“Well, what is it this time ’’’ asked the Doctor,
calling up a show of interest. He did not care
much for Denborough news.
“Littlehill’s let,” replied the Mayor.
Littlehill, the subject of Philip Hume's half-
ironical description, was a good house, standing
on rising ground about half a mile outside the
town. It belonged, of course, to Mr. Delane,
and had stood empty for more than a year. A
tenant at Littlehill meant an increase of custom
for the tradespeople, and perchance for the
doctors. Hence the importance of the Mayor’s
piece of news,
“Indeed 2 * said Roberts. “Who’s taken
it 2 °
“Not much good—a young man, a bachelor,”
said the Mayor, shaking his head. “Bachelors
do not require, or anyhow do not take, many
A CHANGE OF AIR. 15
chemists' drugs. “Still, I hear he's well-off, and
p’r'aps he’ll have people to stop with him.”
“What’s his name P”
“Some name like Bannister. He’s from
London.”
“What's he coming here for.” acked Roberts,
who, if he had been a well-to-do-oachelor, would
not have settled at Market Denborough.
, “Why shouldn’t he?” retorted the Mayor, who
º never lived, or thought of living, anywhere
€1S6.
“Well, I shouldn’t have thought he’d have
found much to do. He wouldn’t come in the
summer for the hunting.”
“Hunting? Not hel He's a literary gentle-
man—writes poetry and what not.”
“Poetry? Why, it’s not Dale Bannister, is
it * *
“Ay, that's the name.”
“Dale Bannister coming to Littlehill! That is
an honor for the town l’’
“An honor ? What do you mean, sir?”
“Why, he’s a famous man, Mr. Mayor. Ali
London’s talking of him.”
“I never heard his name in my life before,”
said the Mayor.
“Oh, he’s a genius. His poems are all the rage.
You'll have to read them now.” .
“He’s having a lot done up there,” remarked
the Mayor. ‘Johnstone's got the job. Mr.
Bannister don’t know as much about Johnstone
as some of us.”
“How should he 7" said Roberts, smiling.
“Johnstone's buildin’’im a room. It’ll tumble
down.”
16 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“Oh, come, Mr. Mayor, you’re prejudiced.”
“No man can say that of me, sir. But I
knows—I know Johnstone, Doctor. That’s where
it is
“Well, I hope Johnstone’s room won’t fall on
him. We can’t spare Dale Bannister. Good-
day, Mr. Mayor.”
“Where are you goin’?”
“To Tom Steadman’s.”
“Is he bad again?” inquired the Mayor, with
interest. -
“Yes. He broke out last week, with the usual
result.” -
“Broke out? Yes! He had two gallons of
beer and a bottle o' gin off the ‘Blue Lion’ in
one day, the landlord told me.”
“They ought to go to prison for serving him.”
“Well, well, a man drinks or he don’t,” said
the Mayor tolerantly; “and if he does, he’ll get
it some’ow. Good-day, sir.”
The Doctor completed his rounds, including
the soothing of Tom Steadman’s distempered
imagination, and made his way home in quite a
flutter of excitement. Hidden away in his study,
underneath heavy medical works and voluminous
medical journals, where the eye of patients could
not reach, nor the devastations of them that tidy
disturb, lay the two or three little volumes which
held Dale Bannister’s poems. The Doctor would
not have admitted that the poems were purposely
concealed, but he certainly did not display them
ostentatiously, and he undoubtedly told his wife,
with much decision, that he was sure they would
not prove to her taste. Yet he himself almost
worshipped them; all the untamed revolt, the
A CHANGE OF AIR. 17
recklessness of thought, the scorn of respecta-
bility, the scant regard to what the world called
propriety, which he had nourished in his own
heart in his youth, finding no expression for
them, and from which the binding chains of fate
seemed now forever to restrain his spirit, were
in those three slim volumes. First came The
Clarion and other Poems, a very small book,
published by a very small firm,-published for
the author, though the Doctor did not know this,
and circulated at the expense of the same; then
Sluggards, from a larger firm, the source of some
few guineas to Dale Bannister, of hundreds more
if he had not sold his copyright; and lastly, The
Hypocrite's Heaven, quite a lengthy production,
blazoning the name of the leading house of all the
trade, and bearing in its train a wealth of gold,
and praise, and fame for the author: yes, and of
rebuke, remonstrance, blame, and hands uplifted
in horror at so much vice united to so much genius.
Praise and rebuke alike brought new bricks to
build the pyramid of glory; and on the top of it,
an object of abhorrence and of worship, stood
the young poet, prodigally scattering Songs,
which, as one critic of position said of them,
should never have been written, but, being written,
could never die. Certainly the coming of such a
man to settle there was an event for Market
Denborough; it was a glorious chance for the
poet's silent, secret disciple. He would see the
man; he might speak with him ; if fortune
willed, his name might yet be known, for no
merit of his, but as that of Dale Bannister's
friend.
Women have very often, and the best of women
~&
18 A CHANGE OF AIR.
imost often, a provoking sedateness of mind. Mrs.
Roberts had never read the poems. True, but
she had of course read about them, and about
their author, and about their certain immortality;
yet she was distinctly more interested in the tid-
ings of Tom Steadman, a wretched dipsomaniac,
than in the unparalleled news about Dale Bannis-
ter. In her heart she thought the Doctor a
cleverer, as she had no doubt he was a better, man
than the poet, and the nearest approach she made
to grasping the real significance of the situation
was when she remarked,
“It will be nice for him to find one man, at all
events, who can appreciate him.”
The Doctor smiled; he was pleased—who would
not be 2—that his wife should think first of the
pleasure Dale Bannister would find in his society.
It was absurd, but it was charming of her, and
as she sat on the edge of his chair, he put his arm
round her waist and said,
“I beat him in one thing, anyhow.”
“What's that, Jim 2 ”
“My wife. He has no wife like mine.”
“Has he a wife at all?” asked Mrs. Roberts,
with increased interest. A wife was another
matter.
“I believe not, but if he had—”
“Don’t be silly. Did you leave Tom quiet”
“Hang Tom he deserves it. And give me
my tea.”
Then came the baby, and with it, an end, for
the time, of Dale Bannister.
A CHANGE OF AIB, 19
CHAPTER HII.
DENBoRoUGH DETERMINEs To CALL.
“I will, awake the world,” Dale Bannister had
once declared in the insolence of youth and talent
and the privacy of a gathering of friends. The
boast was perhaps as little absurd in his mouth
as it could ever be; yet it was very absurd, for
the world sleeps hard, and habit has taught it to
slumber peacefully through the batterings of im-
patient genius at its door. At the most, it turns
uneasily on its side, and, with a curse at the
meddlesome fellow, snores again. So Dale Ban-
nister did not awake the world. But, within a
month of his coming to Tittlehill, he performed
an exploit which was, though on a smaller scale,
hardly less remarkable. He electrified Market
Denborough, and the shock penetrated far out
into the surrounding districts of Denshire, even
Denshire, which, remote from villas and season-
tickets, had almost preserved pristine simplicity.
Men spoke with low-voiced awe and appreciative
twinkling of the eye of the “doings ’’ at Little-
hill; their wives thought that they might be
better employed; and their children hung about
the gates to watch the young man and his guests
come out. There was disappointment when no
one came to church from Littlehill; yet there
20 A CEIANGE OF AIR.
would have been disappointment if any one had :
it would have jarred with the fast-growing popu-
lar conception of the household. To the strict-
ness of Denborough morality, by which no sin
was leniently judged save drunkenness, Littlehill
seemed a den of jovial wickedness, and its inhab-
itants to reck nothing of censure, human or divine.
As might be expected by all who knew him, the
Mayor had no hand in this hasty and uncharitable
judgment. London was no strange land to him ;
he went up four times a year to buy his stock;
London ways were not Denshire ways, he ad-
... mitted, but, for all that, they were not to be con-
demned offhand nor interpreted in the worst light
without some pause for better knowledge.
“It takes all sorts to make a world,” said he, as
he drank his afternoon draught at the “Delane
Arms,” where the civic aristocracy was wont to
gather. gº A.
“He’s free enough and to spare with 'is money,”
said Alderman Johnstone, with satisfaction.
“You ought to know, Johnstone,” remarked the
Mayor significantly.
“Well, I didn’t see no 'arm in him,” said Mr.
Maggs, the horse-dealer, a rubicund man of pleas-
ant aspect; “and he's a rare 'un to deal with.”
Interest centred on Mr. Maggs. Apparently he
had spoken with Dale Bannister.
“He’s half crazy, o' course,” continued that
gentleman, “but as pleasant-spoken, 'earty a
young gent as I’ve seen.”
“Is he crazy?” asked the girl behind the bar.
“Well, what do you say? He came down a day
or two ago, 'e and 'is friend Mr. 'Ume—”
“Hume,” said the Mayor, with emphasis. The
A CHANGE OF AIR. 21
Mayor, while occasionally following the worse,
saw the better way.
“Yes, ’Ume. Mr. Bannister wanted a 'orse.
‘What's your figger, sir?” says I. He took no
notice, but began looking at me with 'is eyes wide
open, for all the world -as if I’d never spoke.
Then he says, “I want a 'orse, broad-backed and
fallen in the vale o' years.” Them was 'is very
Words.”
“You don’t say?” said the girl.
“I never knowed what he meant, no more than
that pint-pot; but Mr. 'Ume laughed and says,
‘Don’t be a fool, Dale,” and told me that Mr.
Bannister couldn’t ride no more than a tailor,
so he said, and wanted a steady, quiet 'orse. He
got one from me—four-and-twenty year old, war-
ranted not to gallop. I see 'im on her to-day—
and it’s lucky she is quiet.”
“ Can’t he ride 2 ”
“No more than "-a fresh simile failed Mr.
Maggs, and he concluded again—“that pint-
pot. But Mr. 'Ume can. 'E's a nice set on a -
’Orse.”
The Mayor had been meditating. He was a
little jealous of Mr. Maggs’ superior intimacy with
the distinguished stranger, or perhaps it was
merely that he was suddenly struck with a sense
of remissness in his official duties.
“I think,” he announced, “of callin' on him and
welcomin’ him to the town.”
There was a chorus of approbation, broken only
by a sneer from Alderman Johnstone.
“Ay, and take 'im a bottle of that cod-liver
oil of yours at two-and-three. 'E can afford
it.”
22 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“Not after payin' your bill, Johnstone,” retorted
the Mayor, with a triumphant smile. A neat rep-
artee maketh glad the heart of the utterer.
The establishment at Littlehill and the proper
course to be pursued in regard to it were also the
subject of consideration in circles more genteel
even than that which gathered at the “Delane
Arms.” At Dirkham Grange itself the topic was
discussed, and Mr. Delane was torn with doubts
whether his duty as landlord called upon him to
make Dale Bannister's acquaintance, or his duty
as custodian-general of the laws and proprieties
of life in his corner of the world forbade any sanc-
tion being given to a household of which such
reports were on the wing. People looked to the
Squire, as he was commonly called, for guidance
in Social matters, and he was aware of the re-
sponsibility under which he lay. If he called at
Littlehill, half the county would be likely enough
to follow his example. And perhaps it might not
be good for half the county to know Dale Bannis-
ter.
“I must consider the matter,” he said at break-
fast. f
“Well, one does hear strange things,” remarked
Mrs. Delane. “And aren't his poems very odd,
George?”
The Squire had not accorded to the works
referred to a very close study, but he answered,
off-hand. “,
“Yes, I hear so—not at all sound in tone. But
then, my dear, poets have a standard of their
OWn.”
la “Of course, there was Byron,” said Mrs. De-
Yle.
A CHANGE OF AIR. 23
“And perhaps we mustn't be too hard on him,”
pursued the Squire. “He’s a very young man,
and no doubt has considerable ability.”
“I daresay he has never met anybody.”
“I’m sure, papa,” interposed Miss Janet Delane,
£6 that it would have a good effect on him to meet
us.”
Mr. Delane smiled at his daughter.
“Would you like to know him, Jan?” he asked.
“Of course I should ! He wouldn’t be dull, at
all events, like most of the men about here. Tora
Smith said the Colonel meant to call.”
“Colonel Smith is hardly in your father's posi-
tion, my dear.”
“Oh, since old Smith had his row with the
War Office about that pension, he'll call on any-
body who's for upsetting everything. It's enough
for him that a man’s a Radical.”
“Tora means to go too,” said Janet.
“Poor child! It's a pity she hasn’t a mother,”
said Mrs. Delane.
“I think I shall go. We can drop him if he
turns out badly.”
“Very well, my dear, as you think best.”
“I’ll walk over on Sunday. I don’t suppose he
objects to Sunday calls.”
“Not on the ground that he wants to go to
church, at all events,” remarked Mrs. Delane.
“Perhaps he goes to chapel, mamma.”
“Oh no, my dear, he doesn’t do that.” Mrs.
Telane was determined to be just.
“Well, he was the son of a Dissenting minister,
mamma. The Critic said so.” Y
“I wonder what his father thinks of him,” said
the Squire, with a slight chuckle, not knowing
24 A CHANGE OF AIR.
that death had spared Dale's father all chance of
trouble on his son’s score.
“Mrs. Roberts told me,” said Janet, “that her
husband had been to see him, and liked him
awfully.”
“I think Roberts had better have waited,” the
Squire remarked, with a little frown. “In his
position he ought to be very careful what he
does.” * {
“Oh, it will be all right if you call, papa.”
“It would have been better if he had let me
go first.”
Mr. Delane spoke with some severity. Apart
from his position of overlord of Denborough,
which, indeed, he could not but feel was pre-
carious in these innovating days, he thought he
had special claims to be consulted by the Doctor.
He had taken him up ; his influence had gained
him his appointment at Dirkham and secured
him the majority of his more wealthy clientèle ;
his goodwill had opened to the young unknown
man the doors of the Grange, and to his wife the
privilege of considerable intimacy with the Grange
ladies. It was certainly a little hasty in the Doctor
not to wait for a lead from the Grange, before
he flung himself into Dale Bannister’s arms.
All these considerations were urged by Janet in
her father’s defence when his title to approve, dis-
approve, or in any way concern himself with Dr.
Roberts’ choice of friends and associates was
vigorously questioned by Tora Smith. Colonel
Smith—he had been Colonel Barrington-Smith, but
he did not see now what a man wanted with two
names—was, since his difference with the author-
ities, a very strong Radical; on principle he
A CHANGE OF AIR. 25
approved of anything of which his friends and
neighbors were likely on principle to disapprove.
Among other such things, he approved of Dale
Bannister’s views and works, and of the Doctor’s
indifference to Mr. Delane's opinion. And, just
as Janet was more of a Tory than her father,
a Tory—she had been unhappily baptized in the
absurd names of Victoria Regina in the loyal days
before the grievance, but nothing was allowed to
survive of them which could possibly be dropped
—was more Radical than her father, and she rid-
iculºd the Squire's pretensions with an extrava-
gance which Sir Harry Fulmer, who was calling at
the Smiths’ when Janet came in, thought none
the less charm; g for being very unreasonable.
Sir Harry, however, suppressed his opinion on
both these points, as to its being charming,
because matters had not yet reached the stage
when he could declare it, and as to its being un-
reasonable, because he was by hereditary right
the head of the Liberal party in the district, and
tried honestly to live up to the position by a con-
stant sacrifice of his dearest prejudices on the
altar of progress.
“I suppose,” he said in reply to an appeal from
Tora, “that a man has a right to please himselfin
such things.”
“After all papa has done for him ' Besides,
Sir Harry, you know a Doctor ought to be par-
ticularly careful.”
“What is there so dreadful about Mr. Ban-
mister ?” asked Tora. “He looks very nice.”
“Have you seen him, Tora?” asked Janet
eagerly.
“Yes; we met him riding on such a queer old
26 A CHANGE OF AIR.
horse. He looked as if he was going to tumble
off every minute; he can’t ride º bit. But he's
awfully handsome.”
“What’s he like 2 °
“Oh, tall, not very broad, witn beautiful eyes
and a lot of waving auburn hair; he doesn’t wear it
clipped like a tooth-brush. And he's got a long
moustache, and a straight nose, and a charming
smile. Hasn’t he, Sir Harry 2”
“I didn’t notice particularly. He’s not a bad-
looking chap. Looks a bit soft, though.”
“Soft P why he's a tremendous genius, papa
says.” i
“I didn’t mean that: I mean flabby and out of
training, you know.”
“Oh, he isn’t always shooting or hunting, of
course,” said Tora contemptously.
“I don’t suppose,” remarked Janet, “that in his
position of life—well, you know, Tora, he's of
quite humble birth—he never has the chance.”
“He’s none the worse for that,” said Sir Harry
stoutly. -
“The worse? I think he's the better. Papa is
going to ask him here.”
“You’re quite enthusiastic, Tora.”
sº I love to meet new people. One sees the same
faces year after year in Denshire.”
Sir Harry felt that this remark was a little
unkind.
“I like old friends,” he said, “better than new
ones.” ſº {
Janet rose to go. |
“We must wait and hear papa's report,” she
said, as she took her leave. º
Tora Smith escorted her to the door, kissed
A CHANGE OF AIR. 27
her, and, returning, said, with a snap of her
fingers,
“I don’t care that for “papa's report.’ Jan is
really too absurd.”
“It’s nice to see her—”
“Oh, delightful. I hate dutiful people !”
“You think just as much of your father.”
“We happen to agree in our opinions, but
papa always tells me to use my own judgment.
Are you going to see Mr. Bannister ?”
“Yes, I think so. He won’t hurt me, and he
may subscribe to the hunt.”
“No ; he may even improve you.”
“Do I want it so badly, Miss Smith ?”
“Yes... You’re a weak-kneed man.”
“Oh, I say I Look here, you must help me.”
“Perhaps. I will, if Mr. Bannister is not too
engrossing.” *
“Now you’re trying to draw me.”
“Was I? And yet y u looked pleased. Per-
haps you think it a comp. ment.”
“Isn’t it one 2 It shows you think it worth
While to—”
“It shows nothing of the kind,” said Tora
decisively.
Thus, for one reason or another, from one
direction and another, there was converging on
Littlehill a number of visitors. If your neighbor
excites curiosity, it is a dull imagination that
finds no plausible reason for satisfying it. Prob-
ably there was more in common than at first
sight appeared between Mr. Delane’s sense of
duty, the Mayor's idea of official courtesy, Colonel
Smith's contempt for narrowness of mind, Sir
28 A CHANGE OF AIR.
Harry Fulmer’s care for the interests of the hunt,
and Dr. Roberts’ frank and undisguised e-gerness
to see and speak With Dale Bannistey face to
face.
A CHANGE UF Aitº. 29
CHAPTER IV.
A QUIET SUNDAY AFTERNOON.
To dissolve public report into its component
parts is aever a light task. Analysis as a rule
reveals three constituents, truth, embroidery, and
mere falsehood, but the proportions vary infinitely.
TXenborough, which went to bed, to a man, at
ten o’clock, or so soon after as it reached home
from the public-house, said that the people at
Littlehill sat up very late: this was truth, at
least relative truth, and that is all we can expect
here. It said that they habitually danced and
sang the night through: this was embroidery;
they had once danced and sung the night through,
when Dale had a party from London. It said
that orgies—if the meaning of its nods, winks,
and smiles may be summarized—went on at
Littlehill : this was falsehood. Dale and his
friends amused themselves, and it must be al-
lowed that their enjoyment was not marred, but
rather increased, by the knowledge that they did
not command the respect of Denborough. They
had no friends there. Why should they care for
Denborough’s approval 2 Denborough's approval
was naught, whereas Denborough's disapproval
ministered to the pleasure most of us feel in
giving gentle shocks to our neighbors’ sense of
30 A CHANGE OF AIR.
propriety. No doubt an electric eel enjoys itself.
But, after all, if the mere truth must be told,
they were mild sinners at Littlehill, the leadin
spirits, Dale and Arthur Angell, being j
young men whose antinomianism found a harm-
less issue in ink, and whose lawlessness was best
expressed in metre. A cynic once married his
daughter to a professed atheist, on the ground
that the man could not afford to be other than
an exemplary husband and father. Poets are not
trammelled so tight as that, for, as Mrs. Delarie
remarked, there was Byron, and perhaps one or
two more ; yet, for the most part, she who mar-
ries a poet has nothing worse than nerves to
fear. But a little lawlessness will go a long way
in the right place,—for example, lawn-tennis on
Sunday in the suburbs,-and the Littlehill party
extorted a gratifying meed of curiosity and frowns,
which were not entirely undeserved by some of
their doings, and were more than deserved by
what was told of their doings.
After luncheon on Sunday, Mr. Delane had a
nap, as his commendable custom was. Then he
took his hat and stick, and set out for Littlehill.
The Grange park stretches to the outskirts of
the town, and borders in part on the grounds of
Littlehill, so that the Squire had a pleasant walk
under the cool shade of his own immemorial elms,
and enjoyed the satisfaction of inspecting his own
most excellent shorthorns. Reflecting on the
elms and the shorthorns, and on the house, the
acres, and the family that were his, he admitted
that he had been born to advantages and oppor-
tunities such as fell to the lot of few men ; and,
inspired to charity by the distant church-bell
A CHANGE OF AIR. 3?
sounding over the meadows, he acknowledged a
corresponding duty of lenient iudgment in re.
spect of the less fortunate. Thus he arrived at
|littlehill in a tolerant temper, and contented
himself with an indulgent shake of the head when
he saw the gravel fresh marked with horses'
hoofs.
“Seen riding instead of going to church, the
young rascals,” he said to himself, as he rang
, the bell.
A small, shrewd-faced man opened the door
and ushered Mr. Delane into the hall. Then he
stopped. -
“If you go straight on, sir,” said he, “through
that baize door, and across the passage, and
through the opposite door, you will find Mr
Bannister.” g
Mr. Delane's face expressed surprise.
“Mr. Bannister, sir,” the man explained, “don’t
like visitors being announced, sir. If you would
be so kind as walk in—”
It was a harmless whim, and the Squire nodded
assent. He passed through the baize door,
crossed the passage, and paused before opening
the opposite door. The sounds which came from
behind it arrested his attention. To the accom-
paniment of a gentle drumming noise, as if of
sticks or umbrellas bumped against the floor,
a voice was leclaiming, or rather chanting,
poetry. The voice rose and fell, and Mr. Delane
could not distinguish the words, until it burst.
forth triumphantly with the lines— (
“Love grows hate for love's sake, life takes death for guide,
Night hath none but one red star—Tyrannicide.”
32 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“Good gracious !” said Mr. Delane.
The voice dropped again for a few moments,
then it hurled out—
“Down the way of Tsars awhile in vain deferred,
Big the Second Alexander light the Third.
How for shame shall men rebuke them 2 how may we
Blame, whose fathers died and slew, to leave us free?”
The voice was interrupted and drowned by
the crash of the pianoforte, struck with remorse-
less force, and another voice, the voice of a
woman, cried, rising even above the crash,
“Now, one of your own, Dale.”
“I think I’d better go in,” thought Mr. Delane,
and he knocked loudly at the door.
He was bidden to enter by the former of the
two voices, and, going in, found himself in a
billiard-room. Five or six people sat round the
wall on settees, each holding a cue, with which
they were still gently strumming on the floor.
A stout, elderly woman was at the piano, and a
young man sat cross-legged in the middle of the
billiard-table, with a book in one hand and a
cigar in the other. There was a good deal of
tobacco smoke in the room, and Mr. Delane did
inot at first distinguish the faces of the company.
The young man on the table uncoiled himself
with great agility, jumped down, and came for-
Ward to meet the new-comer with outstretched
hands. As he outstretched them, he dropped
the book and the cigar to the ground on either
side of him.
“Ah, here you are l Delightful of you to
come!” he cried. “Now, let me guess you!”
“Mr. Bannister?—Have I the pleasure?”
f
A CHANGE OF AIR. 33
“Yes, yes. Now let's see—don’t tell me your
name.”
He drew back a step, surveyed Mr. Delane's
portly figure, his dignified carriage, his plain
solid watch-chain, his square-toed strong boots.
“The Squire l’” he exclaimed. “Mr. Delane,
isn’t it 22°
“I am Mr. Delane.”
“Good! You don’t mind being guessed, do you?
It's so much more amusing. What will you
have?”
“Thank you, I’ve lunched, Mr. Bannister.”
“Have you? We’ve just breakfasted—had a
ride ...before, you know. But I must introduce
you. ,”
He searched the floor, picked up the cigar,
looked at it regretfully, and threw it out of an
open window.
“This,” he resumed, waving his hand towards
the piano, “is Mrs. Ernest Hodge. This is Miss
Fane, Mrs. Hodge's daughter—No, not by a first
marriage—everybody suggests that. Profes-
sional name, you know—she sings. Hodge really
wouldn’t do, would it, Mrs. Hodge? This is
Philip Hume. This fis Arthur Angell, who writes
verses—like me. This is—but I expect you know
these gentlemen?”
Mr. Delane peered through the smoke which
Philip Hume was producing from a long pipe,
and to his amazement discerned three familiar
faces—those of Doctor Roberts, the Mayor, and
Alderman Johnstone. The doctor was flushed
and looked excited; the Mayor was a picture of
dignified complacency; Johnstone appeared em-
barrassed and uncomfortable, for his bald head
3
34 A CHANGE OF AIR.
was emoellished with a flowery garland. Dale
saw Mr. Delane's eye rest on this article.
“We always crown anybody who adds to our
knowledge,” he explained. “He gets a wreath of
honor. The Alderman added to our knowledge of
the expense of building a room. So Miss Fane
Crowned him.” "
An appreciative chuckle from the Mayor fol.
lowed this explanation ; he knocked the butt of
his cue against the floor, and winked at Philip
Hume. *
The last-named, seeing that Mr. Delane was
somewhat surprised at the company, came up to
him and said,
“Come and sit down ; Dale never remembers .
that anybody wants a seat. Here's an arm-
chair.” - -
Mr. Delane sat down next to Miss Fane, and
noticed, even in his perturbation, that his neigh-
bor was a remarkably pretty girl, with fair hair
clustering in a thick mass on the nape of her neck,
and large blue eyes which left gazing on Dale
Bannister when their owner turned to greet him.
Mr. Delane would have enjoyed talking to her,
had not his soul been vexed at the presence of the
three Denborough men. One did not expect to
meet the tradesmen of the town ; and what busi-
ness had the Doctor there 2 To spend Sunday
in that fashion would not increase his popularity
or his practice. And then that nonsense about
the wreath ! How undignified it was—it was
even worse than yelling out Nihilistic verses by
way of Sabbath amusement.
“I shall get away as soon as I can,” he thought,
“ and I shall say a word to the Doctor.”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 35
He was called from his meditations by Miss
-Fane. She sat in a low chair with her feet on a
stool, and now, tilting the chair back, she fixed
her eyes on Mr. Delane, and asked,
“Are you shocked ?”
No man likes to admit that he is shocked.
“I am not, but many people would be.”
“ I suppose you don’t like meeting those
men 2 °
“Hedger is an honest man in his way of life,
I have no groat opinion of Johnstone.”
“This is your house, isn’t it 2 ”
« Yes.”
“All the houses about here are yours, aren't
they 2 °
“Most of them are, Miss Fane.”
“Then you are a great man 2 ”
The question was put so simply, that Mr.
Delane could not suspect a sarcastic intent.
“Only locally,” he answered, smiling.
“Have you any daughters ?” she asked.
“Yes, one.”
“ What is She like P”
“Fancy asking her father I think Janet a
beauty.” *
“ Fair or dark 2 °
& Dalek.” *-
“Dale likes dark girls. Tall or short”
« Tall.”
“Good eyes 2"
“I like them.”
“Oh, that'll do. Dale will like her; ” and
Miss Fane nodded reassuringly. Mr. Delane had
not the heart to intimate his indifference to Dale
Bannister's opinion of his daughter.
36 A CEIANGE OF AIR.
“Do you know this country P” he asked, by
way of conversation.
“We’ve only been here a week, but we’ve rid-
den a good deal. We hold Dale on, you
know.”
“You are on a visit to Mr. Bannister ??
“Oh yes, mother and I are here.”
Mr. Delane could not help wondering whether
their presence was such a matter of course as her
tone implied, but before he could probe the matter
further, he heard Dale exclaim,
“Oh, it's a wretched thing ! Read it yourself,
Roberts.”
“Mount him on the rostrum,” cried the young
man who had been presented to Mr. Delane
as Arthur Angell, and who had hitherto been
engaged in an animated discussion with the
JDoctor.
Laughing, and only half resisting, the Doctor
allowed himself to be hoisted on to the billiard-
table, sat down, and announced in a loud voice—
“ Blood for blood: by Dale Bannister.”
The poem which bore this alarming title was
perhaps the most outrageous of the author's
works. It held up to ridicule and devoted to
damnation every person and every institution
which the Squire respected and worshipped.
And the misguided young man declaimed it
with sparkling eyes and emphasizing gestures, as
though every wicked word of it were gospel.
And to this man’s charge were committed the
wives and families of the citizens of Denborough I
The Squire's self-respect demanded a protest.
He rose with dignity, and went up to his
host.
A CHANGE OF AIR, 37
“Good-bye, Mr. Bannister.”
“What? you're not going yet? What? Does
this stuff bore you?”
“It does not bore me. But I must add—ex-
cuse an old-fashioned fellow—that it does some-
thing worse.”
“What? Oh, you’re the other side? Of course
you are!” A
“Whatever side I was, I could not listen to
that. As an older man, let me give you a word
of advice.”
Dale lifted his hands in good-humored protest.
“Sorry you don’t like it,” he said. “Shut up,
Roberts. If I'd known, we wouldn’t have had
it. But it's true—true—true.”
The Doctor listened with sparkling eyes.
“I must differ utterly—I must indeed. Good-
bye, Mr. Bannister. Hedger!”
The Mayor started.
“I am walking into the town. Come with
me.”
The Mayor wavered. The Squire stood and
waited for him.
“I didn’t think of goin' yet, Mr. Delane, sir.”
Dale watched the encounter with a smile.
“Your wife will expect you,” said the Squire.
“Come along.”
The Mayor rose, ignoring Johnstone's grin and
the amusement on the faces of the company.
“I’ll come and look you up,” said Dale, press-
ing the Squire's hand warmly. “Oh, it's all
right. Tastes differ. I’m not offended. I’ll
come some day this week.”
He showed them out, and, returning, said to
the Doctor, “Roberts, you’ll get into trouble.”
38 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“Nonsense !” said the Doctor. “What busi-
ness is it of his 2 ”
Dale had turned to Johnstone.
“Good-bye,” said he abruptly. “We close at
five.”
“I’ve 'ad a pleasant afternoon, sir.”
“It will be deducted from your bill,” answered
Dale. A
After ejecting Johnstone, he stood by the table,
łooking moodily at the floor.
“What's the matter, Dale 2% asked Miss Fane.
“I suppose he thought we were beasts or
lunatics.” *
“Probably,” said Philip Hume. “What then?”
“Well, yes,” answered Dale, smiling again.
“You’re quite right, Phil. What then?” t
A CHANGE OF AIR. 39
CHAPTER V.
THE INECESS ARY SCAPEGOAT.
IF men never told their wives anything, the
condition of society would no doubt be pro-
foundly modified, though it is not easy to fore-
cast the precise changes. If a guess may be
hazarded, it is probable that much less good
would be done, and some less evil said: the loss
of matter of interest for half the world may
be allowed to sway the balance in favor of the
present practice—a practice so universal that Mr.
Delane, the Mayor, and Alderman Johnstone one
and all followed it by telling their wives about
their Sunday afternoon at Littlehill. Dr. Roberts,
it is true, gave a meagre account to his wife, but
the narratives of the other three amply filled the
gaps he left, and as each of them naturally dwelt
on the most remarkable features of their enter-
tainment, it may be supposed that the general
impression produced in Market Denborough did
not fall short of the truth in vividness of color.
The facts as to what occurred have been set down
without extenuation and without malice: the
province of Market Denborough society was to
supply the inferences arising therefrom, and this
task it fulfilled with no grudging hand. Before
eight-and-forty hours had passed, there were re-
ports that the Squire had discovered a full-blown
f
40 A CHANGE OF AIR.
Saturnalia in process at Littlehill—and that in
these scandalous proceedings the Mayor, Alder-
man Johnstone, and Dr. Roberts were participa-
tors.
Then ensued conduct on the part of the Mayor
and the Alderman deserving of unmeasured
scorn. They could not deny that dreadful things
had been done and said, though they had not
seen the deeds nor understood the words: their
denial would have had no chance of credit. They
could not venture to say that Squire Delane had
done anything except manfully protest. They
began by accusing one another in round terms,
but each found himself so vulnerable that by an
unholy tacit compact they agreed to exonerate
one another. The Mayor allowed that Johnstone
was not conspicuous in wickedness; Johnstone
admitted that the Mayor had erred, if at all, only
through weakness and good-nature. Public opin-
ion demanded a sacrifice; and the Doctor was
left to satisfy it. Everybody was of one mind in
holding that Dr. Roberts had disgraced himself,
and nobody was surprised to hear that the
Squire's phaeton had been seen standing at his
door for half an hour on Wednesday morning.
The Squire was within, and was understood to
be giving the Doctor a piece of his mind.
The Doctor was stiff-necked.
“It is entirely a private matter,” said he, “and
no one has a right to dictate to me.”
“My dear Roberts, I spoke merely in your own
interest. It would ruin you if it became known
that you held those atrocious opinions; and be-
come known it must, if you openly ally yourself
with this young man.” º w
A CHANGE OF AIR. 41
“I am not the servant of the people I attend.
I may choose my own opinions.”
“Yes, and they may choose their own doctor,”
retorted the Squire.
The two parted, almost quarrelling. Perhaps
they would have quite quarrelled had not the
Squire thought of Mrs. Roberts and the baby.
He wondered that the Doctor did not think of
them too, but he seemed to Mr. Delane to be
under such a spell that he thought of nothing but
Dale Bannister. It was not as if Roberts were
the only medical man in the place. There was
young Doctor Spink—and he was a real M. D.—
up the street, ready and eager to snap up stray
patients. And Doctor Spink was a church-
warden. The Squire did not like him overmuch,
but he found himself thinking whether it would
not be well to send for him next time there was a
case of illness at the Grange.
The Squire meditated, while others acted. On
her walk the same afternoon, Ethel Roberts heard
news which perturbed her. The Vicar's wife
was ill, and Dr. Spink had been sent for. The
Vicar was a well-to-do man. He had a large
family, which yet grew. He had been a constant
and a valuable client of her husband’s. And
now Dr. Spink was sent for.
“Jim,” she said, “ did you know that Mrs.
Gilkison was ill ?”
“Ill?” said the Doctor, looking up from Slug-
gards. “No, I’ve heard nothing of it.”
She came and leant over his chair.
“They’ve sent for Dr. Spink,” she said.
“What?” he exclaimed, dropping his beloved
Volume,
42 A CIHANGE OF AIR.
“Mrs. Hedger told me.”
“Well, they can do as they like. I suppose
his ‘Doctor’ is the attraction.”
“Do you think it’s that, dear?”
“What else can it be?—unless it’s a mere
freak.”
“Well, Jim, I thought—I thought perhaps that
the Vicar had heard about—about Littlehill—
Yes, I know it’s very stupid and narrow, dear—-
but still—”
The Doctor Swore under his breath.
“I can’t help it if the man’s an ass,” he said.
Ethel Smiled patiently.
It's a pity to offend people, Jim dear, isn’t
it 2 °
“Are you against me too, Ethel?”
“Against you? You know I never would be,
but—”
“Then do let us leave Denborough gossip alone.
Fancy Denborough taking on itself to disapprove
of Dale Bannister | It's too rich.”
Ethel sighed. Denborough's disapproval was
no doubt a matter of indifference to Dale Bannis-
ter: it meant loss of bread and butter to James
Roberts and his house.
, Meanwhile, Dale Bannister, all unconscious of
the dread determinations of the Vicar, pursued
his way in cheerful unconcern. People came and
went. Arthur Angell returned to his haunts,
rather dissatisfied with the quiet of Littlehill, but
rejoicing to have found in the Doctor one thor-
ough-going believer. Mrs. Hodge, her daughter,
and Philip Hume seemed to be permanent parts
of the household. Riding was their chief amuse-
ment. They would pass down High Street, Dale
A CHANGE OF AIR. 43
f
on his ancient mare, with Nellie and Philip by his
side, laughing and talking merrily, Dale's own
voice being very audible as he pointed out, with
amusement a trifle too obvious to be polite, what
struck him as remarkable in Denborough ways
of life.
Philip, however, whom Mr. Delane had de-
scribed to his wife as the only apparently sane
person at Littlehill, was rather uneasy in his
mind about Roberts.
“You’ll get that fellow disliked, Dale,” he said
one morning, “if you don’t take care.”
“I? What have I to do with it. 2” asked Dale.
“They'll think him unsafe, if they see him with
you.”
“He needn’t come unless he likes. He’s not a
bad fellow, only he takes everything so precious
seriously.”
“He thinks you do, judging by your books.”
“Oh, I do—by fits. By the way, I have a fit
now! Behold, I will write Nellie ' Where's
Nellie?”
Nellie Fane came at his call.
“Sit down just opposite me, and look at me.
I am going to write. The editor of the Cynosure
begs for twenty lines—no more—twenty lines—
fifty pounds! Now, Nellie, inspire me, and you
shall have a new hat out of it. No, look at me!”
Nellie sat down and gazed at him, obediently.
“Two pound ten a line—not bad for a young
'un,” he pursued. “They say Byron wrote on gin
and water. I write on your eyes, Nellie—much
better.”
“You’re not writing at all—only talking non-
sense.”
44 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“I’m just beginning.” 2
“Look here, Dale, why don't you keep the
Doctor—” began Philip.
“Oh, hang the Doctor! I’d just got an idea.
Look at me, Nellie!”
Philip shrugged his shoulders, and Dr. Roberts
dropped out of discussion.
The twenty lines were written, though they
were never considered one of his masterpieces;
then Dale rose with a sigh of relief.
“Now for lunch, and then I’m going to return
Mr. Delane’s call.”
“I thought we were to ride,” said Nellie disap-
pointedly.
“Well, won't you come?”
“Don’t be absurd l’”
“Mightn't she come, Phil?”
“Mrs. Delane has not called, has she?” inquired
Philip, as though for information.
“Of course I shan’t go, Dale. You must go
alone.”
“What a nuisance " I shall have to walk. I
daren’t trust myself to that animal alone.”
After luncheon he started, walking by the same
way by which Mr. Delane had come.
He reached the lodge of the Grange; a curtsey-
ing child held open the gate, and he passed along
under the immemorial elms, returning a cheery
good-day to the gardeners, who paused in their
work to touch their hats with friendly deference.
The deference was wrong, of course, but the
friendliness pleased him, and even the deference
seemed somehow in keeping with the elms and
with the sturdy old red-brick mansion, with
its coat-of-arms and defiant Norman motto over
A CHANGE OF AIR. 45
~\ .
the principal door. Littlehill was a pleasant
house, but it had none of the ancient dignity of
Dirkham, and Dale's quick brain was suddenly
struck with a new understanding of how such
places bred the men they did. He had had a fancy
for a stay in the country; it would amuse him, he
thought, to study country life: that was the mean-
ing of his coming to Littlehill. Well, Dirkham
summed up one side of country life, and he would
be glad to study it.
Mr. Delane was not at home—he had gone to
Petty Sessions; and Dale, with regret, for he
wanted to see the inside of the house, left his
name—as usual he had forgotten to bring a card
—and turned away. As he turned, a pony car-
riage drew up and a girl jumped out. Dale drew
back to let her pass, raising hi hat. The servant
said a word to her, and when he had gone some
ten or fifteen yards, he heard his name called.
“Oh, Mr. Bannister, do come in l I expect
papa back º and he will be so sorry
to miss you. Mamma is up in London; but I
hope you’ll come in.”
Dale had no idea of refusing the invitation
given so cordially. He had been sorry to go away
before, and the sight of Janet Delane made him
more reluctant still. He followed her into the
oak-panelled hall, hung with pictures of dead
Delanes and furnished with couches and easy-
chairs.
“Well,” she said, after tea was brought, “and
what do you think of us?”
“I have not seen very much of you yet.”
“As far as you have gone? And be candid.”
“You are very restful.”
46 A CHANGE OF AIR.
She made a little grimace.
“You mean very slow 2°
g “Indeed I don’t. I think you very interest.
ing.”
“You find us interesting, but slow. Yes, you.
meant that, Mr. Bannister, and it’s not kind.”
“Have your revenge by telling me what you
think of me.”
“Oh, we find you interesting too. We’re all
talking about you.”
“And Slow P”
“No, certainly not slow,” she said, with a smile
and a glance: the glance should be described, if
it were describable, but it was not.
Dale, however, understood it, for he replied,
laughing,
“They’ve been prejudicing you against me.”
“I don’t despair of you. I think you may be
reformed. But I’m afraid you’re very bad just
now.”
“Why do you think that ? From what your
father said?”
“Partly. Partly also because Colonel Smith
and Tora—do you know them?—are so enthusi-
astic about you.”
“Is that a bad sign?”
“Terrible. They are quite revolutionary. So
are you, aren’t you?”
“Not in private life.”
“But of course,” she asked, with serious eyes,
“you believe what you write?”
“Well, I do; but you pay writers a compliment
by saying ‘of course.’”
“Oh, I hope not. Anything is better than
insincerity.”
CHANGE OF A$". 47
“Even my opinions?”
“Yes. Opinions may be changed, but not
natures, you know.” $
She was still looking at him with serious,
inquiring eyes. The eyes were very fine eyes.
Perhaps that was the reason why Dale thought
the last remark so excellent. He said nothing,
and she went Cºn.
“People who are clever and—and great, you
know, ought to be so careful that they are right,
oughtn't they?” *
“Oh, a rhymer rhymes as the fit takes him,”
answered he, with affected modesty.
“I wouldn’t believe that of you. You wouldn’t
misuse your powers like that.”
“You have read my poetry?”
“Some of it.” She paused and added, with a
little blush for her companion, “There was some
papa would not let me read.”
A man may not unreasonably write what a
young girl’s father may very reasonably not like
her to read. Nevertheless, Dale Bannister felt
rather uncomfortable.
“Those were the shocking political ones, I
suppose?” he asked.
“No, I read most of those. These were against
religion and—”
« Well?”
“Morality, papa said,” she answered, with the
same grave look of inquiry.
l Dale rose and held out his hand, saying petu-
antly,
“Good-bye, Miss Delane. You evidently don’t
think me fit to enter your house.”
“Oh, now I have made you angry. I have no
}
48 A CHANGE OF AIR.
right to speak about it, and, of course, I know
nothing about it. Only—” *.
“Only what?”
“Some things are right and some wrong, aren’t
they 2”
“Oh, granted,—if we could only agree which
were which.” /
“AS to Some we have been told. And I don’t
think that about you at all—I really don’t. Do
wait till papa comes.”
Dale sat down again. He had had his lecture;
experience told him that a lecture from such
lecturers is tolerably often followed by a petting,
and the pettings were worth the lectures. In
this instance he was disappointed. Janet did not
pet him, though she displayed much friendliness,
and he took his leave (for the Squire did not
appear) feeling somewhat put out. •
Approbation and applause were dear to this
man, who seemed to spend his energies in court-
ing blame and distrust; whatever people thought
of his writings, he wished them to be fascinated
by him. He was not sure that he had fascinated
Miss Delane. *
“I should like to see more of her,” he thought.
“She's rather an odd girl.”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 49
CHAPTER VI.
IJºTLEEIILL GOES INTO SOCIETY.
MR. Dr ANE's late return from his public duties
was attributable simply to Colonel Smith’s ob-
stinacy. He and the Colonel sat together on the
bench, and very grievously did they quarrel over
the cagº of a man who had been caught in pos-
session of the body of a fresh-killed hare. They
differed first as to the policy of the law, secondly
as to its application, thirdly as to its vindication;
and when the Vicar of Denborough, who was a
county justice and present with them, sided with
the Squire on all these points, the Colonel angrily
denounced the reverend gentleman as a disgrace,
not only to the judicial bench, but even to his
own cloth. All this took time, as did also the
Colonel’s cross-examination of the constable in
charge of the case, and it was evening before the
dispute was ended, and a fine imposed. The
Colonel paid the fine, and thus every one, includ-
ing the law and the prisoner, was in the end
satisfied.
Mr. Delane and the Colonel, widely and
fiercely as they differed on every subject under
the sun, were very good friends, and they rode
home together in the dusk of a September evening,
for their roads lay the same way for some dis-
50 A CEIANGE OF AIR.
tance. Presently they fell in with Sir Harry
Fulmer, who had been to see Dale Bannister, and,
in his absence, had spent the afternoon with
Nellie Fane and Philip Hume.
“Hume's quite a good fellow,” he declared;
“quiet, you know, and rather sarcastic, but quite
a gentleman. And Miss Fane—I say, have you
seen her, Colonel ?”
“By the way, who is Miss Fane P” asked the
Squire.
“Oh, she acts, or sings, or something. Awfully
jolly girl, and uncommon pretty. Don’t you
think so, Squire?” w -
“Yes, I did, Harry. But why is she staying
there?” -
“Really, Delane,” said the Colonel, “what pos-
sible business is that of yours?”
* “I’ve called on Bannister, and he's going to
return my call. I think it’s a good deal of
business of mine.”
“Well!” exclaimed the Colonel; “for sheer
uncharitableness and the thinking of all evil,
give me a respectable Christian man like yourself,
Delane.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Sir Harry cheerfully.
“The old lady, Mrs. What's-her-name, is there.”
“I hope t is,” said the Squire. “Bannister has
himself to thank for any suspicions which may
be aroused.”
“Suspicions? Bosh!” said the Colonel. “They
are all coming to dine with me to-morrow. I
met Bannister and asked him. He said he had
friends, and I told him to bring the lot. Will
ou and Mrs. Delane come, Squire?”
“My wife's away, thanks.”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 51
|
“Then bring Janet.”
“ Hum ! I think I’ll Wait.”
“Oh, as you please. You’ll come, Harry P”
Sir Harry was delighted to come.
“Tora was most anxious to know them,” the
Colonel continued, “and I hate ceremonious ways.
There’ll be nobody else, except the Doctor and
his Wife.”
“You haven’t asked Hedger and Johnstone,
have you ?” inquired the Squire. “They’re
friends of Bamnister’s. I met them at his
house.”
“I haven’t, but I don’t know why I shouldn't.”
“Still you won’t,” said Sir Harry, with a
laugh.
The Colonel knew that he would not, and
changed the subject.
“This is a great occasion,” said Philip Hume
at afternoon tea next day. “To-night we are to
be received into county society.”
“Is Colonel Smith “county society’?” asked
Nellie.
“Yes. The Mayor told me so. The Colonel
is a Radical, and a bad one at that, but the poor
man comes of good family and is within the
toils.”
“I expect he really likes it,” said Nellie. “I
should.”
“Are you nervous?” inquired Philip.
Nellie laughed and colored.
I really am a little. I hope I shall behave
properly. Mother is in a dreadful state.”
“Where is Mrs. Hodge?”
“Putting soune new lace on her gown"
“And Dale P’’
52 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“He’s writing. Mr. Hume, has he told you
anything about his visit yesterday ?”
“Yes. He says he met an angel.”
“Oh, that accounts for the title.”
“What, title P’”
“Why, I went and looked over his shoulder,
and saw he was beginning some verses, headed
“To a Pretty Saint.’ I always look, you know,
but this time he snatched the paper away.”
“‘To a Pretty Saint’? Dear, dear! Perhaps
he meant you, Nellie.”
Miss Fane shook her head.
“He meant Miss Delane, I’m sure,” she said
dolefully. “I hope Miss Smith is just exactly a
county young lady—you know what I mean. I
want to see one.”
“Do you contemplate remodelling yourself?”
“I’m sure Dale will like that sort of girl.”
Philip looked at her sideways. He thought of
telling her that “county young ladies " did not
proclaim all their thoughts. But then he reflected
that he would not.
The Littlehill party arrived at Mount Pleasant,
the Colonel’s residence, in the nick of time; and
Mrs. Hodge sailed in to dinner on her host’s arm
in high good humor. Dale, as the great man
and the stranger, escorted Tora, Philip Hume
Mrs. Roberts, and Sir Harry fell to Nellie's lot.
Mrs. Hodge was an amusing companion. She
did not dally at the outworks of acquaintance,
but closed at once into intimacy, and before half
an hour was gone, she found herself trying hard
not to call the Colonel “my dear,” and to remem-
ber to employ the usual prefixes to the names of
the company. The Colonel was delighted; was
A CHANGE OF AIR. 53
he at last escaping from the stifling prison of con-
ventionality and breathing a freer air?
Unhappily, just in proportion as good cheer
and good fellowship put Mrs. Hodge at her ease,
and made her more and more to the Colonel's
taste, her daughter's smothered uneasiness grew
more intense. Nellie had borne herself with an
impossible dignity and distance of manner towards
Sir Harry, in the fear lest Sir Harry should find
her wanting in the characteristics of good society,
and her frigidity was increased by her careful
watch on her mother’s conduct. Sir Harry was
disappointed. As he could not sit by Tora Smith,
he had consoled himself with the prospect of
Some fun with “ little Miss Fane.” And little
Miss Fane held him at arm’s length. He deter-
minded to try to break down her guard.
“How did you manage to shock the Squireso?”
he asked.
“Was he shocked ? I didn’t know.”
“You were there, weren’t you?”
“Oh yes. Well, I suppose it was Mr. Bannis-
ter’s poetry.”
“Why should that shock him?” asked Sir
Harry, who knew very well. “By Jove, I wish
I could write Some like it !”
She turned to him with sudden interest.
“Do you admire Dale's writings P” º
“Awfully,” said Sir Harry. “Don’t you?”
“Of course I do, but I didn’t know whether
you would. Do you know Miss Delane 2 °
“Yes, very well.”
“I)o you like her ?” g
“Oh yes. I have known her all my life, and
I like her. She frightens me a little, you know.”
54 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“ Does She 2 How P”
“She expects such a lot of a fellow. Have you
met her ?” S *,
“ No. D– Mr. Bannister has. He likes her.”
“I expect she blew him up, didn’t she?”
i. Oh, I shouldn’t think so. Dale wouldn’t like
that.”
“Depends how it's done,” observed Sir Harry.
“Don’t you ever blow him up?”
“Of course not. I’m much too—I look up to
him too much.”
They were interrupted by the Colonel’s voice.
He was saying, with much energy,
“Ability we don’t expect in a Government
office, but honesty one might hope for.”
“Just what Hodge used to say of old Pratt,”
said Mrs. Hodge.
“I beg pardon ?” said the Colonel.
“Pratt was his manager, you know—my hus-
band’s.”
“Oh yes, of course.”
“Nellie, you remember your father throwing
down that two pound ten on the table, and saying
• Well, I’m 2–?” -
“No, mother, I don’t. Do you think I could
learn to hunt, Sir Harry?”
“Of course you could, in no time.”
“Does Miss Delane?”
“And Pratt said that if Hodge couldn’t play
the king at two pound ten a week—though that’s
hard living, my dear—I beg pardon—Colonel—”
The Colonel bowed courteously. Nellie grew
very red.
“Why, bantam-cocks had risen since his day,
and that was all about it.” And Mrs. Hodge
f
A CHANGE OF AIR. 55
emptied her glass and beamed pleasantly on the
Company.
Suddenly Dale Bannister began to laugh gently.
Tora Smith turned an inquiring look in his di-
rection.
“What is it, Mr. Bannister?”
“I saw your father's butler looking at my friend
Mrs. Hodge.”
“What nonsensel Simmons is not allowed to
look at any one.”
“Isn't he Why not?”
“No good servant does.”
Dale smileo.
“I know what you mean,” Tora continued;
“but surely while they’re actually waiting, Mr.
Bannister, we can’t treat them quite like our.
selves? At any other time, of course—”
“You’d take a walk with them 2 °
“They’d be horribly uncomfortable if I did,”
she answered, laughing.
“That’s the worst of it,” said he.
“Do you think us great shams ?”
“I have come to learn, not to criticise.”
“We want a leader,” said Tora, with pretty
earnestness.
“Haven’t you one P’’
“Sir Harry Fulmer is our leader, but we’re not
contented with him. He’s a very mild Radical.
Won’t you come to our help ?”
“I expect I should be too extreme the other
way.”
“Oh, I love people who are extreme, in my
direction, I mean.”
“Well, then, try the Doctor.”
“Mr. Roberts? Oh, he's hardly prominent
56 A CHANGE OF AIR.
enough ; we must have somebody of position.
Now, what are you laughing at, Mr. Bannister ?”
The gentleman to whom they referred sat
looking on at them with no great pleasure, though
they found one another entertaining enough to
prevent them noticing him. Dale Bannister said
that his new friend took life seriously, and the
charge was too true for the Doctor’s happiness.
Dale Bannister had taken hold of his imagination.
He expected Dale to do all he would give his life
to see done, but could not do himself; the effect
of Dale was to be instantaneous, enormous, trans-
forming Denborough and its inhabitants. He
regarded the poet much as a man might look
upon a benevolent volcano, did such a thing exist
in the Order of nature. His function was, in the
Doctor’s eyes, to pour forth the burning lava of
truth and justice, wherewith the ignorance, prej-
udice, and cruelty of the present order should be
consumed and smothered; let the flood be copi-
Ous, scorching, and unceasing ! The Doctor
could do little more than hail the blessed shower
and declare its virtues; but that he was ready to
do at any cost. And the volcano would not act
The eruptions were sadly intermittent. The
hero, instead of going forth to war, was capering
nimbly in a lady’s chamber, to the lascivious
pleasing of a lute; that is to say, he was talking
trifles to Tora Smith, with apparent enjoyment,
forgetful of his mission, ignoring the powers of
darkness around. No light-spreading saying, no
sword-flash had come from him all the evening.
He was fiddling while Rome was– waiting for the
burning it needed so badly.
Perhaps it was a woebegone look about the
A CHANGE OF AIR. 57
Doctor that made Philip Hume take the chair
next him after dinner, while Dale was, still as if
in play, emitting anarchist sparks for the Colonel's
entertainment.
“Is it possible,” asked the Doctor in low, half-
angry tones, “that he thinks these people are any
good—that they are sincere or thorough in the
matter? He's wasting his time.”
“Well, well, my dear fellow, we must all dine,
whatever our opinions.”
“Oh yes, we must dine, while the world
starves.”
“The bow can’t be always stretched,” said
Philip, with a slight smile.
“You don’t think, Hume, do you, that he’s get-
ting any less—less in earn, ºt, you know?”
“Oh, he wrote a scorcher his very morning.”
“Did he? That’s good now... Where is it to
appear?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t write it on commis-
sion.”
“His poems have such magnificent restlessness,
haven’t they 2 I can’t bear t see him idle.”
“Poor Dale ! You must givhim some holi-
days. He likes pleasure like he rest o us.”
The Doctor sighed impati ty, and Philip,
looking at him anxiously, laid a hand on his
a. I’Iſl.
“Roberts,” he said, “there is ne need that you
should be ground to powder.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I hope you never will. Your wife doesn’t
look very strong. Why don’t you give her a
change P’”
“A change? How am I to afford a change?
58 A CHANGE of AIR.
}
Besides, who wants a change? What change do
most workers get 2'
“Hang most workers! Your wife wants a
change.”
“I haven’t got the money, anyhow.”
“Then there’s an end of it.”
The Colonel rose, and they made for the draw.
ing-room.
Philip detained his companion for a moment.
“Well?” said the Doctor, feeling the touch on
his arm. *
“For God’s sake, old fellow, go slow,” said
Philip, pressing his arm, and looking at him with
an appealing Smile.
A CHANGE OF AIR. Fig.
CHAPTER VII.
“To A PRETTY SAINT.”
|
WHEN Mrs. Delane came back from London, she
was met with a question of the precise kind on
which she felt hersely to be no mean authority.
It was a problem of propriety, of etiquette, and
of the usages of Society, and Mrs. Delane attacked
it with a due sense of its importance and with
the pleasure of an expert. It arose out of Dale
Bannister's call at the Grange. Tale had been
accustomeu, when a lady fonnd favor in his eyes,
to inform her of the gratifying news through the
, medium of a set of verses, more or less enthus'.
astic and rhapsodic in their nature. The impuls-
to follow his usual practice was strong on hip-
after meeting Janet Delane, and issued in the
composition of that poem called “To a Pref{
Saint,” the title of which Nellie had seen. He
copied it out fair, and was about to put it in the
post, when a thought suddenly struck him. Miss
Delane was not quite like most of his acquaint-
ances. It was perhaps possible that she might
think his action premature, or even impertinent,
and that she might deem it incumbent on her to
resent being called either a saint or pretty by a
friend of one interview’s standing. Dale was
divided between his new-born doubt of his own
60 A CHANGE OF AIR.
instinct of what was permissible, and his great
reluctance to doom his work to suppression. He
decided to consult Philip Hume, who was, as he
knew, more habituated to the social atmosphere
of places like Denshire. t
“Eh 2 what ?” said Philip, who was busily
engaged in writing a newspaper article. “Writ-
ten a poem to a girl? All right. I’ll listen
presently.”
“I don’t want you to listen. I want your
advice as to whether to send it or not.”
“If you’ve wasted your time writing the thing,
—by the way, take care the Doctor doesn’t hear
of it, you may as well send it.”
“The question is, whether she’ll be offended.”
“I’m glad it isn’t more important, because I’m
busy.”
“Look here! Stop that anonymous stabber of
yours and listen. It's to Miss Delane.”
Philip stopped in the middle of a particularly
vicious paragraph of the “stabber,” and looked
up with amusement on his face.
“It’s a perfectly—you know—suitable poem,”
pursued Dale. “The only question is, will she
think it a liberty ?”
“Oh, send it. They like getting 'em ; ” and
Philip took up his pen again. f
“You don’t know the sort of girl she is.”
“Then what the deuce is the good of asking
me? Ask Nellie.”
“No, I shan’t,” said Dale shortly.
Thus thrown, by his friend's indifference, on
his own judgment, Dale made up his mind to
send the verses, he could not deny himself the
pleasure, but, half alarmed at his own audacity,
A CHANGE OF AIR. 61
which feeling was a new one in him, he “hedged”
by enclosing with them a letter of an apologetic
character. Miss Delane was not to suppose that
he took the liberty of referring to her in the terms
of his title: the little copy of verses had merely
been suggested by a remark she made. He had
failed to find an answer on the spot. Would she
pardon him for giving his answer now in this
indirect way?—and so forth.
The verses, with their accompanying letter,
were received by Janet, and Janet had no doubt
of what she did feel about them, but some con-
siderable doubt as to what she ought to feel; so
she carried them to her mother. Mrs. Delane
put on her pince-nez and read the documents in the
Ca,Se.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to be—anything but
what's nice, mamma,” said Janet.
“I daresay not, my dear. The question is,
whether the young man knows his manners.
Let's see.”
After careful perusal, during which Janet
watched her mother's face with some anxiety,
Mrs. Delane delivered judgment.
“There's no positive harm in them,” she said,
“ and I don’t think we need take any actual steps.
Still, Janet, he is evidently to be treated with
discretion.”
“How do you mean, mamma P’’
“Well, he isn’t in need of encouragement, is
he? He's not backward in making friends.”
“I suppose not. May I keep them?”
“Keep them? Do you want to keep them 2''
“Not particularly, dear,” answered Janet. “I
—I thought he meant me to.”
62 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“No doubt. Write a civil note, dear, thank
him for letting you see them, and return them
enclosed.”
Janet was a little reluctant to part with her
autograph manuscript, not because of its pecun-
iary value, though that was more than a trifle, had
she known, but because such things are pleasant
possessions to show to envious friends,--but she
did as she was told. She did not, however, feel
herself bound altogether to smother her pride or
to make a secret of the tribute she had received.
Tora Smith heard the story with evident amuse-
ment, and, thinking that others would share her
appreciation of it, relieved the somewhat uphill
course of Mrs. Hodge's call by a repetition of it :
whereby it happened that Nellie Fane came to
know, not only that Dale had written verses to
Miss Delane and sent them, but also that Miss
Delane had returned the offering. She told
Philip the latter fact, and the two ventured to
rally the poet on the occurrence. Dale took their
action very badly, and his displeasure soon re-
duced Nellie to apologies. Philip was less sen-
sitive.
“D. W. T., by Jovel” he remarked. “Quite
like old times, Dale !”
Dale muttered something about “infernal
Chatter.”
“You will soon be in a position to publish a
volume of Rejected Addresses.’”
“Not at all,” said Dale. “It’s simply that
she didn’t understand I meant her to keep
them.”
“Oh, that's her delicate way of snubbing you,
my boy.”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 63
“What the deuce do you know about it, Phil?
You never wrote verses in your life. Don’t
you agree with me, Nellie?”
“Miss Smith said Miss Delane thought she had
better not keep them.”
“I knew that girl was a gossip directly I set
eyes on her.”
“You’re naturally hurt, old fellow, but —”
“Go to the deuce Look here, I’ll bet you a
fiver she takes them back and keeps them.”
“Done!” said Philip, and Dale seized his
hat.
“Why does he want her to take them 2° asked
Nellie.
“Vanity, my dear, vanity. I suppose he’s ac-
customed to having his verses laid up in lavender.
Is that what you do with yours?” -
“He never wrote me any,” answered Nellie in
a tone of superlative indifference.
It being only two o'clock, Dale felt he could not
yet go to the grange. He made a détour by the
town, on pretence of buying stamps; and, the
stars fighting with him, outside the Mayor's shop
he saw Janet talking to the Mayor himself.
“Thank you, Miss Delane, miss,” said the
Mayor. “Mrs. Hedger is doin’ nicely. She had
a bit of feverishness about her, but Dr. Spink's
treated her wonderful.”
“Dr. Spink? I thought you went to Dr.
RobertS 22'
“I did, miss, but— Well, things come round to
me, miss, being a centre like.”
“What things?”
“Well, you may not have heard, miss, of the
things that—Good-mornin', Mr. Bannister, sir,
64 A CHANGE OF AIR.
good-mornin’. A fine day. Anything in our
line, sir?”
“Good-morning, Mr. Mayor,” said Dale. “Ah,
Miss Delane, how do you do?”
His coming interrupted Janet's investigations
into the affairs of the Doctor, and she took her
leave of the Mayor, Dale assuming permission to
walk with her. He ought to have asked, no doubt,
thought Janet, but it would be making too much
of it to tell him so. |
h They had hardly started, when he turned to
€I’.
“Why did you send back my verses?”
1." could hardly venture to keep them, could
“Why not?”
“On so slight an acquaintance! It was very
kind of you to let me see them before they were
published.”. f
“They are not going to be published.”
“Oh, you must publish them. They’re sovery
rett V.”
prº Didn’t you think I meant you to keep
them?” *
“I should have been very conceited if I had,
shouldn't I?”
“Well, they were for you—not to be published.
If you don’t like them, they’ll be burnt, that's
all.”
Janet stole a glance at his face: he looked like
a petulant Apollo—so she thought.
“That would be a pity,” she said gravely; “but
I don’t think I ought to keep them.”
“Why not?”
Socrates is reported to have said that nothing
A CHANGE OF AIR. 65
is reasonable which cannot be stated in a reason-
able form. Miss Janet Delane would have dis-
sented.
“Of course I like them yery much. But—
well, we haven’t known each other very long,
Mr. Bannister.”
“You mean it was impertinent 2"
“Oh no. I thought your letter perfect—I did
really. But mamma thought—”
“Oh!” said Dale, with brightening face.
“You would have kept them 2 °
“That’s not the question,” said Janet, smiling.
It was pleasant to see Apollo looking less petu-
lant. “But what would people say if they heard
I had poems of Mr. Dale Bannister’s about me?
I should be thought a dangerous person.”
“I’ll write some which you would like to have.”
“I am sure you could, if you only would.
Fancy, if you wrote really noble verses—worthy
of you !”
“Well, I will, if it will please you.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Bannister There's no ques-
tion of pleasing me: it doesn’t matter—well, I
mean, then, the great thing is to do justice to
yourself.”
“I ought to have some encouragement in well-
doing,” said Dale plaintively.
She shook her head with a smile, and he went
On,
“I wish you’d come to Littlehill and see the
house. I’ve improved it tremendously.”
“Oh, you must invite mamma.”
“Would Mrs. Delane come P’’
This question was a little awkward, for Mrs.
Delane, after cross-examining Tora Smith closely
5
6% A CHANGE OF AIR.
\
as to Mrs. Hodge and her daughter, had an-
nounced that she would not go.
66 à bachelor doesn’t entertain ladies, does
he P’
“I should like to ; and there are some
ladies—” A sudden thought struck him, and he
stopped. He looked so pointedly at Janet, that,
to her intense annoyance, she felt herself blush-
ing. She made the grave mistake of changing
the conversation abruptly.
“How did you like the Smiths?”
“Oh, pretty well.”
“I should have thought you would have got
on tremendously well together.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think I like people to
be one thing or the other, and the Smiths are
half-way housers.”
“You’re very ungrateful.”
“Oh, they only asked us as a demonstration,”
said Dale, who had some acuteness.
Janet laughed, but her companion was moodily
prodding the ground with his stick as he walked
along.
They reached a cottage where she had a
visit to pay, and she bade him good-bye.
“Then you won’t have the verses?”
“I think not.”
“Very well, then, here goes ; ” and he took
the paper out of his pocket and tore it to bits.
The fragments fluttered to the ground.
“How foolish !” she said. “I daresay they
were worth a lot of money—but then you can.
write them out again.” *
“Do you think I shall ?” he asked, grinding
the fragments into the mud.
A CHANGE OF AIR. 67
“I’m afraid you will do nothing wise,” she
said, giving him her hand. Yet the extravagance
rather pleased her.
TJntil Dale reached his own house, it did not
strike him that he had lost his bet. Philip
quickly reminded him, and laughed mercilessly
when a crumpled five-pound note was thrown at
his head by his angry friend.
“I tell you she wanted to keep them,” said
Dale unjustifiably.
“Then why didn’t she?” asked Nellie
“Mrs. Delane did not approve of it.”
“I expect Mrs. Delane does not approve of
you at all,” remarked Philip.
“No, nor of my friends either,” answered Dale,
flinging himself into a chair.
“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Hodge, who sat
by, º her opinion will neither make us nor mar
us.”
“How have we had the misfortune to offend
the lady?” inquired Philip. “She has never
seen us.”
“Here's your tea, Dale,” said Nellie. “Are
you tired?”
“Yes, a little. Thanks, Nellie.”
“Was she looking nice, Dale *
“I didn’t see her.”
“I mean Miss Delane.”
“Oh yes, I suppose so. I didn't look much.”
6ö A CHANGE OF AIR's
CHAPTER VIII.
AN INDISCREET DISCIPLE.
SUMMER wore away, and autumn came in brief,
calm radiance, and passed: winter began to
threaten. At Denborough, one quiet day followed
another, each one noticeable for little, but in
the aggregate producing some riot unimportant
changes at Littlehill. Dale Bannister had begun
to work hard and to workin solitude; the inspira-
tion of Nellie's eyes seemed either unnecessary or
ineffectual. Moreover, his leisure hours were now
largely spent in visiting at houses in the neighbor-
hood. He did not neglect his guests, but, when-
ever their engagements occupied them, instead
of wandering about alone or enjoying the humors
of the High Street, as he had been prone to do in
the early days of his sojourn, he would go over to
Mount Pleasant, or to the Grange, or to Sir Harry
Fulmer's, and he was becoming learned in country
lore and less scornful of country ways. The
Doctor was a rare visitor now, and, when he
came, it generally fell to Philip Hume's lot to
entertain him. Philip did his duty loyally, but
it was dreary work, for Roberts’ conversation, at
their meetings, consisted, in the main, of diatribes
against Dale Bannister. He would declare that
Dale's conduct, in maintaining friendly relations
A CHANGE OF AIR. 69
with the gentry of the neighborhood, was in
flagrant contradiction to the views he had pro-
claimed in his writings. Philip shrugged his
shoulders, and said that some men were better
than their writings, some worse, but no main the
same as his writings; the pose must ever be
allowed for: and at this, the angry man often
turned his back on the house with an imprecation
on half-heartedness. For the rest, Philip's hands
were not very full, and he and Nellie Fane found
time for long expeditions together, which would
have been more cheerful, had it not been for
Nellie's scrupulous determination to ignore the
absence of the third member of the old trio. One
day Philip's idle steps led him through the town
On the search for matter of amusement. He was
caught in a shower, and took refuge in the Mayor's
shop, knowing that his Worship always had time
for a gossip. He was not disappointed. The
Mayor entertained him with a graphic account
of the last assault on Mr. Delane's position as
member for the Denborough division, and of his
own recent re-election to his high office. Philip
Congratulated him on the latter event, and asked
in curiosity,
“And what are your politics, Mr. Mayor?”
“I hold as a man in my position should have
no politics, not party politics, Mr. Hume, sir.”
“Well, there’s something to be said for that.”
“After all, we know what they are, sir. One
out and the other in—that's what they are, sir.”
“But you said Mrs. Hedger canvassed for the
Squire.”
“So she did, sir Now, my daughter is on the
70 A CHANGE OF AIR.
Liberal side; she and Miss Smith used to go
a-drivin’ round together.”
“A sad division of opinion, Mr. Mayor.”
“Well, we can differ without disagreein', sir.
Besides,” he added, with something like a wink,
“customers differ too.”
“MOSt. true.”
“Business is business, sir, especially with a
growin’ fam’ly. I always think of my fam’ly,
Mr. Hume, and how I should leave 'em if I was
took—taken.” **_
“A man's first duty, Mr. Mayor.”
“You wouldn’t catch me goin’ on like this
young Roberts.”
“Why, what's he been up to now?” asked
Philip uneasily.
“You ain’t seen the Standard, sir?” The
Mayor, of course, meant the East Denshire Stand.
ard, not the London paper of the same name.
« No.”
“Well, last week they printed the Vicar's
sermon on ‘The work of Christianity' in the
World.” A fine sermon it was, sir. I heard it,
being a Church of England man. Mrs. Hedger
goes to Chapel.” &
“Customers differ too,” thought Philip, smil-
Ing. |
“Well, as I was sayin', Jones' of the Standard
got the Vicar to give it 'im, and it came out, with
a leadin’ article of Jones’s crackin’ it up.”
“But how does the Doctor—”
“This week, sir,” continued the Mayor, shaking
an impressive forefinger, “in the Chronicle—that's
the Liberal paper, sir—there’s a letter from the
Xoctor—two columns—just abusin' the Church
A CHANGE OF AIR. 71
and the parsons, and the 'ole—whole thing, fit
to—well, I never did l’”
“Hum ! Rather rash, isn’t it 2°
“Rash, Mr. Hume, sir? It’s madness, that’s
what it is, sir. He talks about ‘pestilent priests,’
and I don’t know what all, sir, and ends with
quotin' thirty or forty lines from a poem called,
I think, The Arch Apostates,—would that be it,
sir?—by Mr. Bannister.”
“No 1 does he, by Jove?” said Philip, slapping
his thigh.
“And the po’try, sir, is worse than the Doctor's
own stuff, sir, beggin' your pardon as a friend of
Mr. Bannister.”
“I know the lines. They’re some of the hot-
test he's ever done.”
“Mr. Bannister, of course, can afford it, sir.
His opinions are what he pleases—but the Doctor,
Sir *
“So the fat’s in the fire P’”
“Just the very worst time it could ha’ come out,
S.r. The Guardians over at Dirkham meet to-
morrow to elect their medical Officer. I’m afraid
as they won’t re-elect Dr. Roberts, sir, and there
was more than One down at the ‘Delane Arms”
sayin’ they’d had the last to do with him.”
Philip parted from his informant in much con-
Cern for Roberts, and in no small amusement at
the public placarding of The Arch Apostates.
Surtout, point de 2éle, he could imagine Dale say-
ing to his infatuated disciple.
On returning home, however, he found the poet
saying much harder things of, if not to, Mr.
Roberts. Dale had been calling at the Smiths’,
The Colonel, while shaking his head over Robert's
72 A CHANGE OF AIR.
imprudence, had applauded his opinions, and was,
above all, enchanted with the extract from Dale's
poem, which he had never hitherto read. His
pleasure was, as he told Dale, greatly increased
by finding that the letter and the quotation had
fallen like a bombshell on the Grange household.
“The Squire was furious. Mrs. Delane said
she had no idea you had done anything so bad as
that ; and little Janet sat and looked as if some
one had knocked down the Archbishop of Canter-
bury. It was splendid! Gad, sir, you’ve waked
'em up.”
These congratulations had the effect of reduc-
ing the poet almost to a frenzy. “What business,”
he demanded, “has the fellow to quote me in
support of his balderdash without my leave?”
“My dear fellow, your works are the possession
of the nation,” said Philip, smiling, as he lit a
cigar.
“It’s an infernal liberty!” fumed Dale.
“You light the fire, and blame it for blazing,”
said Philip. *
“One doesn’t want to shove one’s views down
people’s throats.”
“Doesn’t. One P One used to.”
“I shall write and disclaim any responsibility.”
“For the poem 2°
“For its publication, of course.”
“That won’t do you much good.”
The Mayor’s forecast, based on a lifelong
observation of his neighbors, proved only too
correct. Dr. Spink entered the lists against
Roberts, and was elected by every vote save one.
Sir Harry Fulmer, in blind and devoted obedience
to Tora Smith, voted for Roberts: the rest, headed
A CHANGE OF AIR. 73
by the Squire, installed his rival in his place; and
the Squire, having sternly done his duty, sat
down and wrote a long and friendly letter of re-
monstrance and explanation to his erring friend.
As misfortune followed misfortune, the Doctor
set his teeth, and dared fate to do her worst. He
waited a few days, hoping to be comforted by a
word of approval from his master; none came.
At last he determined to seek out Dale Bannister,
and was about to start, when his wife came in and
gave him the new issue of the Chronicle. Ethel
Roberts was pale and weary-looking, and she
glanced anxiously at her husband.
“I am going up to Littlehill,” he said.
“Have you done your round, dear?”
“My round doesn’t take long nowadays.
Maggs will give me fifteen pounds for the pony:
you know we don’t want him now.”
“No, Jim, and we do want fifteen pounds.”
“What’s that 22°
“The Chronicle, dear. There's—a letter from
Mr. Bannister.”
“Is there? Good l Tet’s see what Bannister
has to say to these bigoted idiots.”
He opened the paper, and in the middle of the
front page read:—
“A DISCLAIMER FROM MR. BANNISTER.”
“Sir, I desire to state that the use made by Mr. James
Roberts of my poem in your last issue was without my
authority or approbation. The poem was written some
years ago, and must not be assumed to represent my present
view on the subject of which it treats.-I am, sir, your
obedient servant
“DALE BANNISTER,”
74, A. CEIANGE OF AIR.
The Doctor stared at the letter.
“Bannister—Dale Bannister wrote that l” and
he flung the paper angrily on the floor. “Give
me my hat.”
“You’re not going—”
“Yes, I am, Ethel. I’m going to find out what
this means.”
“Hadn't you better wait till you are
less—”
“Less what, Ethel? What do you mean?”
“Till the rain stops, Jim dear; and it's just
baby’s time for coming down.”
“Hang—no, I beg your pardon, Ethel. I’m
very sorry, but I must see the end of this.”
He rushed out, and the baby found a dull, pre-
occupied, almost tearful, very unamusing mother
to play with that day.
The Doctor marched into Dale's room with a
stern look on his face. i
“Well, Roberts, how are you?” asked Dale,
not graciously.
“What does this mean, Bannister?”
“It means, my dear fellow, that you took my
name in vain, and I had to say so.”
“I’m not thinking of myself, though it would
have been more friendly to write to me
first.”
“Well, I was riled, and didn’t think of
that.”
“But do you mean to deny your own
Words 2 °
“Really, Roberts, you seem to forget that I
don’t enjoy setting the place by the ears, although
you seem to.”
“You wrote that poem’’’
A CHANGE OF AIR. 75
“Of course I wrote the damned thing,” said
Dale peevishly. N *
“And now—Bannister, you’re not going to—to
throw us Over ?”
“Nonsense! I like to publish my views at my
own time and place, that's all.”
“A man like you belongs to his followers as
much as to himself.”
“More, it seems.” \
The Doctor looked at him almost scornfully.
Dale did not like scorn from any one.
“I was particularly anxious,” he began apolo-
getically, “not to get into a shindy here. I
wanted to drop politics and so on, and be
friendly—”
“Do you know what you’re saying, or the
meanness of it 2 °
“Meanness? What do you mean?”
“You know very well. All I want to know is
if you wrote this thing?”
“Of ČOurse I Wrote it.”
“And you stand to it?”
“Yes. I think you ought to have asked me
before you did it.”
“The Squire is shocked, eh?” asked the Doctor
with a sneer.
“The Squire's views are nothing to me,” an-
swered Dale, flushing very red.
The Doctor laughed bitterly.
“Come, come, old fellow,” said Dale, “don’t
let us quarrel.”
“Quarrel? Well, we won’t. Only look here,
Bannister.”
« Well ?” *
“If you throw us over now, you'll be-"
76 A CHANGE OF AIR.
2^
“There, don’t abuse me any more.”
“Oh, I wasn’t going to abuse you. If you leave
us, you, the leader We trusted,—where are we,
where are we ?” *
“Give me another chance,” said Dale, holding
out his hand.
“You won’t withdraw this?”
“How the deuce can I now 2°
The Doctor shook his hand, saying,
“Don’t betray us, don’t betray us;” and thus
the very uncomfortable interview came to a
desired end.
That night at dinner Dale was cross and in low
spirits. His friends, perceiving it, forbore to ex-
press their views as to his last public utterance,
and the repast dragged its weary length along
amid intermittent conversation.
When the dessert was on the table, a note was
brought for Dale. It was from the Squire.
“DEAR BANNISTER,--I was very glad to see your letter
in the Chronicle. Mrs. Delane joins me in hoping you will
dine with us to-morrow en famille. Excuse short notice.
The man waits for an answer—don't write one.—Yours
truly, *
“GEORGE DELAN.E.”
“Say I’ll come with great pleasure,” said Dale,
his face growing brighter. *R
“Where will he go with great pleasure?” asked
Philip of Nellie Fame."
“Where is it, Dale P”
“Oh, only the Grange, to dinner to-morrow. I
think I had better write a note, though—don't
ou think so, Phil? More—more attentive, you -
OW.”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 77
“Write, my son,” answered Philip, and, as
Dale left the room, he looked round with a smile
and exclaimed, “One!”
“One what, my dear?” asked Mrs. Hodge.
“Piece of silver, ma'am,” replied Philip.
“You’re sneering again,” said Nellie in a warn-
ing tone. “Why shouldn’t he like to dine at the
Grange?” and she looked marvellously reason-
able and indifferent.
“I was speaking with the voice of Doctor
Roberts, Nellie, that’s all. For my own part, I
think a dinner is one of those things one may
accept even from the enemy.”
78 A CHANGE OF AIR.
CHAPTER IX.
DALE’s own op1NION.
IF ever our own fortune would allow us to be
perfectly happy, the consummation is prevented
and spoilt by the obstinately intruding unhap-
piness of others. The reverend person who was
of opinion that the bliss of the blessed would be in-
creased and, so to say, vivified by the sight of the
tortures of the damned, finds few supporters now-
adays, perhaps because our tenderer feelings
shrink from such a ruthless application of the
doctrine that only by contemplating the worse -
can We enjoy the better; perhaps also because
We are not SO sure as he was that we should not
be the Onlooked rather than the onlookers if ever
his picture came to be realized. So sensitive are
We to the ills that others suffer, that at times we
feel almost a grudge against them for their per-
sistence—however unwilling it be—in marring
our perfect contentment; surely they could let us
forget them for once in a way.
This last was Dale Bannister’s frame of mind,
as he lay, idly and yet not peacefully, on his sofa
next morning. This Doctor, with his unflinching
logic and unrestrained zeal, was a nuisance. His
devotion had not been sought, and certainly, if it
entailed scenes like yesterday's, was not desired.
A CHANGE OF AIR. 79
Dale never asked him to ruin his practice, as
Philip Hume said he was doing, in order to up-
hold Dale's principles; Dale did not want a
starving family to his account, whose hungry
looks should press him to a close questioning of
his conscience. Any man with an ounce of come
mon sense would understand that there was a
time for everything, and a place. It was one
thing to publish your views in a book, addressed
to the world of thinkers and intelligent readers;
it was quite another to brandish them in the face
of your neighbors, and explode them, like shells,
tn the innocent streets of Denborough. And yet,
because he recognized this obvious distinction,
because he had some sense of what was suitable
and reasonable, and because he refused to make
enemies of people simply because they were well-
off, the Doctor stormed at him as if he were a
traitor and a snob. And Philip Hume had taken
to smiling in an aggravating way when the
Grange was mentioned; and even Nellie—but
Bale, alert as he was in his present mood to
discover matter of complaint, found none against
Nellie, unless it might be some falling off in her
old cheerfulness and buoyancy.
Dale lit his pipe and set himself to consider
with impartiality whether Roberts had in fact
any grievance against him. . He wanted to satisfy
himself that there was no basis for the Doctor's
indignation; his self-esteem demanded that the
accusation should be disproved. But really it
was too plain. What had he done? Refused to
acquiesce in being made a fool of, refused to meet
civility with incivility, to play the churl, to shut
his eyes to intelligence and culture and attrac-
80 A CHANGE OF AIR.
tiveness, because they happened to be found among
people who did not think as he did or as Roberts
was pleased to think. He knew, what those sneers
meant, but he would go his own way. Things
had come to a pretty pass if a man might not be
civil and seek to avoid wholly unnecessary causes
of offence without being treated as a renegade
to all his convictions. That was not his idea of
breadth of mind or toleration, or of good feeling
either. It was simple bigotry, as narrow as—ay,
narrower than—anything he at least had found
on the other side.
Dale disposed of this question, but he still lay
on the sofa and thought. It had been a gain to
him, he said to himself, to see this new side of
life; the expedition to Littlehill was well justified.
It is good for a man to take a flag of truce and go
talk with the enemy in the gate. He may not
change his own views, Dale was conscious of no
change in his, but he comes to see how other
people may hold different ones, and the reason,
or anyhow the naturalness, of theirs. A man of
Roberts’ fierce Puritan temper could not feel nor
appreciate what appealed to him so strongly in
such a life as they lived, for instance, at the
Grange. It had a beauty so its own, that un-
questioned superiority, not grasped as a prize or
valued as an opportunity, but gravely accepted
as the parent of duties—the unbroken family
life, grasping through many hands the torch un-
dimmed from reverend antiquity—the very house,
which seemed to enshrine honorable traditions,
at which he could not bring himself to sneer.
The sweetness of it all broke back baffled from
the wall of the Doctor’s stern conviction and iron
*º-
A CHANGE OF AIR. 81
determination. Yet how sweet it all was And
these people welcomed into their circle any man
who had a claim to welcome; freely, ungrudgingly,
cordially. All they asked was a little gentleness
to their—he supposed they were prejudices, a
little deference to their prepossessions, a little
smoothing off of the rougher edges of difference.
It was not much to ask. Was he churlishly to
deny the small corºcession, to refuse to meet them
any part of the way, to entrench himself in the
dogmatic intolerance of his most vehement utter-
ances, to shut his mind off from this new source
of inspiration? That was what Roberts wanted.
Well, then—Roberts be hanged 1
The course of these reflections produced in Dale
a return to his usual equanimity. It was plainly
impossible to please everybody. He must act as
seemed right to himself, neglecting the frowns •
of unreasonable grumblers. No doubt Roberts
was devoted to him, and Arthur Angell too.
Yet Roberts abused him, and Arthur bothered
him with imploring letters, which warned
him against the subtle temptations of his new
life. It was a curious sort of devotion which
showed itself mainly in criticism and disapproval;
it was very flattering of these good friends to set
him on a pedestal and require him to live up to
the position ; only, unfortunately, the pedestal
was of their choosing, not his. All he asked was
to be allowed to live a quiet life and work out his
own ideas in his own way. If they could not put
up with that, why—Dale refilled his pipe and
opened a story by Maupassant. ſ
It may be asserted that every man is the vic-
tim º a particular sort of follies, the follies en-
82 A CHANGE OF AIR.
gendered by his particular sort of surroundings;
they make a fool’s circle within which each of us
has a foot planted : for the rest, we may be, and
no doubt generally are, very sensible people. If
we set aside Squire Delane’s special and indige-
nous illusions, he was very far indeed from a fool,
and after dinner that evening he treated his
distinguished guest with no small tact. The
young man was beyond question a force ; was it
outside of ingenuity to turn him in a better direc-
tion ?
“Everybody approves of your letter,” he said.
“ Roberts had no business to drag your name
1Il.
“Of course one is exposed to that sort of
thing.”
“It’s a penalty of greatness. But the case is
peculiar when you’re actually living in the place.”
“That’s exactly what I feel. It’s making me
a party in a local quarrel.”
“That’s what he wanted to do ; he wanted to
fight under your shield.”
“I didn’t come here to fight at all.”
“I should think not ; and you haven’t found us
thirsting for battle, have you ?”
“I have found a kinder welcome than I had any
right to expect.” l
“My dear fellow ! Much as we differ, we're
all proud of counting you as a Denshire man.
And I don’t suppose we shall quarrel much about
Denshire affairs. Oh, I know you think the whole
system of country life an iniquity. I don’t go so
deep myself. I say, there it is : perhaps it might
be changed, but, pending that, sensible men car.
work together to make the best of it. At any
A CHANGE OF AIR. 83
rate, they can avoid treading on one another's
corns.” ;
“I want to avoid everybody’s corns—if they'll
avoid mine.”
“Well, we'll try. I daresay we shall pull to-
gether. At any rate, it’s very pleasant dining to-
gether. Shall we go upstairs and ask Janet for
a song?”
Mrs. Delane had evidently caught her cue from
her husband, and she treated Dale not as a sin-
ner who repenteth,--a mode of reception which,
, after all, requires great tact to make it acceptable,
—but as one who had never been a sinner at all.
She asked Dale if he had been overwhelmed by
callers. He replied that he had not suffered
much in that way. *
“I knew it,” she said. “You have frightened
them, Mr. Bannister ; they think you came in
search of studious retirement.”
“Oh, I hate both study and retirement, Mrs.
Delane.”
“Well, Ishall tell people that—may I ? Now,
when I was at the Cransfords’ yesterday, he’s
our Lord-ſlieutenant, you know, they were
wondering whether they might call.”
“I am delighted to see any one.”
“ From the Mayor upwards—or, I suppose,
Hedger would think I ought to say downwards.
We heard what fun you made of the poor
man.” ſ
“Mr. Bannister will be more respectful to the
Lord-Lieutenant,” said Janet, smiling.
“I suppose I disapprove of Lord-Lieutenants,”
remarked Dale, with a laugh.
“You’ll like Lady Cransford very much, and
84 A CHANGE OF AIR
she'll like you. She gives so many balls, that a
bachelor household is a godsend.”
“Bannister hardly depends on that for a wel-
come, my dear,” said the Squire from the hearth-
TUIQ'. t
ÉNow I declare, meeting him just as a friend
like this, I’m always forgetting that he's a famous
man.” !
“Please go on, Mrs. Delane. It’s a capital ex-
change. But when are you going to give me the
pleasure of seeing you at Littlehill ?”
Mrs. Delane paused for just a second.
“I should like to visit your hermit’s cell. But
I’m so busy just now, and I daresay you are.
When your guests forsake you, perhaps, we will
come and relieve your solitude. Janet, will you
give us some music?” * ... --
Dale followed Janet to the piano, with a little
frown on his brow. Why wouldn’t she come now?
Was it 2– Janet's voice dispersed the frown
and the reflection.
She sang a couple of songs, choosing them out
of a book. As she turned over the leaves, Dale
saw that some of the airs were set to words of his
own writing. When Janet came to one of these,
she turned the leaf hastily. The Squire had gone
out, and Mrs. Delane, with the privilege of near
relationship, was absorbed in a novel.
“Will you do me a great favor P” he said.
“What, Mr. Bannister ?”
“I should like to hear you sing words of mine.
See, here are two or three.”
She glanced through them; then she shut the
book and made as though to rise.
“You Won’t do it, 27°
A CHANGE OF AIR. 8,
Janet blushed and looked troubled.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Bannister; but I can't sing
those words. I—I don’t like them.”
“I am sorry they are so bad,” he answered in
an offended tone.
“Oh, of course, so far as power and—and
beauty goes, everything in the book is trash com.
pared to them. But I can’t sing them.”
“I won’t press you.”
“I know you are angry. Please don’t be
angry, Mr. Bannister. I can’t do what I think
wrong, can I?”
“Oh, I have no right to be angry.”
“There, you wouldn’t say that unless you were
angry. People never do.”
“You have such a wretchedly bad opinion of
me, Miss Delane.”
“Do you mind that ?”
“You know I do.”
: Then one would think you would try to change
it.”
“Ah, how can I?”
“Write something I should delight in singing.”
“If I do, may I dedicate it to you?”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be allowed.”
“But if it were allowed, would you allow it?”
“You know how proud any girl would be of it
—of course you know.”
“You don’t do justice to my humility.”
“Do justice to yourself first, Mr. Bannister.”
“What sort of songs do you like?”
“Oh, anything honest, and manly, and patri-
otic, and—and nice in feeling.”
“A catholic taste—and yet none of mine Satisfy
it.”
86 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“I will not be quarrelled with,” declared Janet.
“My only wish is to propitiate you.”
“Then you know now how to do it.”
It must be allowed that conversations of this
nature have a pleasantness of their own, and Dale
left the Grange with a delightful feeling of hav-
ing been treated as he ought to be treated. He
found Philip Hume writing and Smoking in the
study. º
“Well, been stroked the right way, old man?”
asked Philip, throwing down his pen.
Dale helped himself to whisky and soda-water,
without replying.
“I’ve been having a talk with Nellie,” pursued
Philip.
“What's wrong with Nellie?”
“She’s got some notion in her head that she
and her mother ought to go.”
Dale was lighting a cigar.
“Of course I told her it was all nonsense, and
that you meant them to stay as long as they
liked. She's got some maggot in her head about
propriety—all nonsense, when her mother's here.”
“I don’t want them to go, if they like staying,”
said Dale.
“Well, we should be slow without Nellie,
shouldn’t we? You must blow her up for think-
ing of it. She only wants to be persuaded.”
“She can do as she likes.”
“You don’t seem very enthusiastic about it, one
way or the other.”
“Well my dear Phil, I can’t be expected to
cry at the idea of little Nellie Fane leaving us.”
“Yet you made rather a point of her coming
—but that was two months ago.”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 87 ſ.
“Really, you might leave Nellie and me to
settle it.”
“What I told her was right, I suppose?”
“Well, you don’t suppose I wanted you to tell
her to pack up?” t
“I don’t know what you want, old man,” said
Philip; “and I doubt if you do.”
88 A CHANGE OF AIB.
CHAPTER X.
A PREJUDICED VERDICT.
IT has been contumeliously said by insolent
Englishmen—a part of our population which may
sometimes seem to foreign eyes as large as the
whole—that you might put any other of the
world’s capitals, say Paris or New York, down
in London, and your cabman would not be able
to find it. However this may be, and there is
no need in this place either for assertions or
admissions,—it is certain that you might unload
a wagonful of talents in Piccadilly, and they
would speedily be absorbed and leave little ob-
vious trace of the new ingredient. Hence the
advantage, for a man who does not dislike the
digito monstrari et dicter “hic est,” of dwelling in
small places, and hence, a cynic might suggest,
the craving for quieter quarters displayed by
some of our less conspicuous celebrities. It is
better, says a certain authority, to reign in hell
than serve in heaven ; and a man may grow
weary of walking unrecognized down the Strand,
when he has only, to be the beheld of all be-
holders, to take up his residence in—perhaps it
will be more prudent to say Market Denborough,
and not point the finger of printed scorn at any
better-known resort.
This very ungenerous explanation was the one
A CHANGE OF AIR. 89
which Miss Victoria Smith chose to adopt as
accounting for Dale Bannister's coming to Little-
hill. Such an idea had never crossed her mind at
first, but it became evident that a man who could
leave his friend in the lurch and palter with
his principles, as Dale's letter to the Chronicle
showed him to be doing, could only be credited
with any discoverable motive less bad and con-
temptible than the worst through mere hasti-
ness and ill-considered good-nature. For her
part, she liked a man to stick to his colors
and to his friends, and not be ashamed before
the tea-tables of Denshire. No, she had never
read his poems, she had no time, but papa had,
and agreed with every word of them.
“Gad! does he?” said Sir Harry Fulmer, to
whom these views were expressed. “Well played
the Colonel !”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, some of them made me sit up rather,”
remarked Sir Harry.
“Oh, anything would make you “sit up,” as
you call it. I don’t consider you a Radical.”
“I voted for your friend the Doctor anyhow.”
“Yes, that was good of you. You were the
only one with an elementary sense of justice.”
Sir Harry’s sense of justice, elementary or
other, had had very little to do, with his vote,
but he said with honest pride, \
“Somebody ought to stand by a fellow when
he’s down.” *
“Especially when he's in the right.”
“Well, I don’t quite see, Miss Smith, what
business it was of Roberts’ to cut up the Vicar's
sermon. Naturally the Vicar don’t like it.”
90 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“So he takes his medicine from Dr. Spink' "
“Rather awkward for him to have Roberts
about the place.”
“Oh, of course you defend him.”
“The Vicar's a very good fellow, though he's
a Tory.”
“You seem to think all Tories good fellows.”
“So they are, most of them.”
“I suppose you think Mr. Bannister's right
too?”
“I shouldn’t be so down on him as you are.”
“You like people who lead their friends on and
then forsake them P”
“Bannister never asked him to write the
letter.”
“Well, it’s not my idea of friendship. I
wouldn’t have a friend who thought that con-
duct right.”
“Then I think it deuced wrong,” said Sir
Harry promptly.
“It’s no compliment to a woman to treat her
like a baby,” remarked Tora, with dignity.
Sir Harry perceived that it would be to his
advantage to change the subject.
“Are you going skating 2°he asked. “There's
nothing else to do in this beastly frost.”
“IDOes the ice bear 2 °
“Yes, they’re skating on the Grange lake. I
met Hume, Bannister’s friend, and he told me
Bannister Was there.” &
“Wasn’t he going? I rather like him.”
“No, he was walking with Miss Fane. I
believe I rather put my foot in it by asking her
if she wasn’t going.” - r
“Why shouldn't you?”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 91
“She said she didn’t know Mrs. Delaue, and
looked confused, don’t you know?”
“HaSn’t Mrs. Delane called ?”
“It seems not,” said Sir Harry.
“I wonder how long they are going to stay at
Tittlehill?” h
“Forever, apparently. Shall you come to the
lake 2 °
“Perhaps in the afternoon.”
Tora returned to the house, still wondering.
She was very angry with Dale, and prepared
to think no good of him. Was it possible that
she and the Colonel had been hasty in stretch-
`ing out the hand of welcome to Mrs. Hodge
and her daughter ? For all her independence,
Tora liked to have Mrs. Delane's imprimatur
on the women of her acquaintance. She thought
she would have a word with the Colonel, and
went to seek him in his study. He was not
there, but it chanced that there lay on the table
a copy of Dale's first published volume, The
Clarion. Three-quarters of the little book
were occupied with verses on matters of a more
or less public description,--beliefs past and
future, revolutions effected and prayed for, and
so forth : the leaves bore marks of use, and
evidently were often turned by the Colonel.
But bound up with them was a little sheaf of
verses of an amatory character : where these
begun, the Colonel’s interest appeared Jo cease,
for the pages were uncut ; he had only got as
far as the title. It was not so with his daughter.
Having an idle hour and some interest in the
matters and affairs of love, she took a paper-
knife and sat down to read. Poets are, by
92 A CHANGE OF AIR.
ancient privilege, legibus soluti, and Dale cer-
tainly revelled in his freedom. Still, perhaps,
the verses were not in reality so very, very
atrocious as they unhappily appeared to the
young lady who now read them. Tora was
accustomed to consider herself almost a revo-S
lutionary spirit, and her neighbors, half in
earnest, half in joke, encouraged the idea; but
her revolutions were to be very strictly confined,
and the limits of her free-thought were marked
out by most unyielding metes and bounds—
bounds that stopped very short at the church
door and on the domestic threshold. This frame
of mind is too common to excite comment, and
it had been intensified in her by the social sur-
roundings against which she was in mock revolt.
Dale's freedom knew no trammels, or had known
none when he wrote The Clarion—nothing was
sacred to him except truth, everything as nothing
beside reason, reason the handmaid of passion,
wherein the spirit and individuality of each
man found its rightful expression. This theory,
embodied in a poet's fancy and enlivened by a
young man’s ardor, made fine verses, but verses
which startled Tora Smith. She read for half an
hour, and then, flinging the book down and
drawing a long bre th, exclaimed, “I can believe
anything of him now !”
And she had had this man to dinner And
that girl! Who was that girl?
The Colonel came home to luncheon in very
good spirits. He had just succeeded, in the
interests of freedom, in stirring up a spirit of
active revolt in Alderman Johnstone. The
Alderman had hitherto, like his father before
A CHANGE OF AIR. 93
him, occupied his extensive premises on a
weekly tenancy; he had never been threatened
with molestation or eviction; but he felt that he
existed on sufferance, and the consciousness of
his precarious position had been irksome to him.
A moment had come when the demand for
houses was slack, when two or three were
empty and when the building trade itself was
nearly at a standstill. The Colonel had incited
Johnstone to seize the opportunity to ask from
the Squire a lease, and Johnstone had promised
to take nothing less than “seven, fourteen, or
twenty-one.” If refused, he declared he would
surrender the premises and build for himself
on some land of the Colonel’s just outside the
town.
“Delane must grant it,” said the Colonel,
rubbing his hands, “and then we shall have one
house anyhow where our bills can be put up.
Bannister will be delighted. By the way, Tora,
he wants us to go in to tea to-day, after skating.
I suppose you’re going to skate?”
“I am going to skate, but I am not going to
Mr. Bannister's,” said Tora coldly.
“Why not?”
The Colonel was told why not with explicitness
and vehemence. He tugged his white whisker
in some perplexity: he did not mind much
about the poems, though, of course, no excess
of scrupulousness could be too great in a girl
like Tora; but if she were right about the other
affair! That must be looked into.
The Colonel was one of those people who
pride themselves on tact and savoir faire ; he
aggravated this fault by believing that tact and
94 - A CHANGE OF AFR.
candor could be combined in a happy union,
and he determined to try the effect of the
mixture on Dale Bannister. It would go hard
if he did not destroy this mare's nest of Tora's.
All the neighborhood was skating on the
Grange lake under a winter sun, whose ruddy
rays tinged the naked trees, and drew an answer-
ing glitter from the diamond-paned windows o
the house. The reeds were motionless, and
the graze of skates on the ice sounded sharp
in the still air, and struck the ear through the
Swishing of birch brooms and the shuffle of
sweepers’ feet. From time to time a sudden
thud and a peal of laughter following told of
disaster, or there grated across the lake a chair,
carrying one who preferred the conquest of
men to the science of equilibrium. Rosy cheeks
glowed, nimble feet sped, and lissom figures
swayed to and fro as they glided over the
shining surface, till even the old and the stout,
the Cripples and the fox-hunters, felt the glow of
life tingling in their veins, and the beauty of
the world feeding their spirits with fresh desire,
“It is not all of life to live,” but, at such a
moment, it is the best part of it.
Dale Bannister was enjoying himself; he was
a good skater, and it gave him pleasure that, when
people turned to look at the famous poet, they
should see an athletic youth: only he wished
that Janet Delane would give him an opportunity
of offering his escort, and not appear so con-
tented with the company of a tall man of military
bearing, who had come down to the water with
the Grange party. He was told that the new-
comer was Captain Ripley, Lord Cransford's
A CHANGE OF AIR. 95
eldest son, and he did not escape without witness-
ing some of the nods and becks which, in the
country, where everybody knows everybody, ac-
company the most incipient stages of a supposed
love-affair. Feeling, under these circumstances,
a little desolate, for Philip was engrossed in
figures and would not waste his time talking, he
saw with pleasure Tora Smith and Sir Harry
coming towards him. He went to meet them, and,
at a distance of a few yards from them, slackened
his pace and lifted his hat, not doubting of friendly
recognition. Sir Harry returned his salute
with a cheery “How are you?” but did not stop,
for Tora swept on past Dale Bannister, without
a glance at him. In surprise, he paused. “She
must have seen me,” he thought, “but why in the
world—?” Bent on being sure, he put himself
right in her path, as she completed the circle and
met him again. There was no mistaking her in-
tention: she gave him the cut direct, as clearly
and as resolutely as ever it was given,
Sir Harry had remonstrated in vain. In Tora's
uncompromising mind, impulse did not wait on
counsel, and her peremptory “I have my reasons”
refused all information and 'prevented all persua-
sion. He felt he had done enough for friendship
when he braved her disapproval by declining to
follow her example. He did not pretend to under-
stand the ways of woman, and Dale Bannister
might fight his own battles.
While Dale was yet standing in angry bewilder-
- ment, for who had received him with more cor-
diality than she who now openly insulted him?
—he saw the Colonel hobbling towards him across
the slippery expanse. The Colonel fell once, and
96 A CHANGE OF AIR.
Dale heard him swear testily at the sweeper who
helped him to rise. He thought it kind to meet
him half way: perhaps the Colonel would explain.
The Colonel was most ready to do so; in fact, he
had come for the very purpose of warning Ban-
nister that some silly idea was afloat, which it
only needed a word to scatter. ge
“Is there?” said Dale. “Possibly that is why
Miss Smith failed to see me twice just now?”
“Your poems have shocked her, my boy,” said
the Colonel, with a knowing look—the look that
represented tact and savoir faire. *
“Is that all? She takes rather severe meas-
ures, doesn’t she?”
“Well,” answered the Colonel, with the smile
which brought candor into play, “that isn’t
quite all.”
“What in the World else is there ?”
“You know how censorious people are, and how
a girl takes alarm at the very idea of anything—
you know?”
Dale chafed at these diplomatic approaches.
“If there's anything said against me, pray let
me know.” f
“Oh, it’s nothing very definite,” said the Colo-
nel uneasily. He did not find what he had to say
so simple as it had seemed.
“Indefinite things are most hopeless.”
“Yes, yes, quite so. Well, if you really wish
it—if you won’t be offended—No doubt it’s all a
mistake.”
“What do they say?”
“Well, we’re men of the world, Bannister.
The fact is, people don’t quite understand your—
your household.”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 97
“My household? It consists of myself alone
and the servants.”
“Of course, my dear fellow, of course! I knew
it was so, but I am glad to be able to say so on
your own authority.”
The aim of speech is, after all, only to convey
ideas: the Colonel had managed, however clum:
sily, to convey his idea. Dale frowned, and
pretended to laugh.
“How absurd ' " he said. “I should resent it
if it were not too absurd.”
“I’m sure, Bannister, you’ll acquit me of any
meddling.”
“Oh yes. I’m sorry my guests have given rise,
however innocently, to such talk.”
“It’s most unfortunate. I’m sure nothing more
is needed. I hope the ladies are well ?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“I don’t see them here.”
“No, they’re not here,” answered Dale, frown-
ing again.
“I hope we shall see some more of them 2°
“You’re very kind. I—I don’t suppose they—
will be staying much longer.”
As "Jale made his way to the bank to take off
his skates, Janet and Tora passed him together.
Tora kept her eyes rigidly fixed on the chimneys of
the Grange. He made no sign of expecting recog-
nition, but Janet, as she drew near, looked at him,
blushing red, and bowed and smiled.
“That girl’s a trump,” said Dale Bannister,
“She sticks to her friends.”
7 -
98 A CBANGIE OF AIR.
CHAPTER XI.
A FAIBLE ABOUT BIRDS.
MRs. HoDGE and Nellie, being left to their ow.
resources, had employed the afternoon in paying
a visit to Ethel Roberts, and nothing was want-
ing to fill Dale's cup of vexation to overflowing,
unless it were to have Nellie flying open-mouthed
at him, as he grumblingly expressed it, with a
tale of the distress in the Doctor's household.
Ethel Roberts had the fortitude to bear her trou-
bles, the added fortitude to bear them cheerfully,
but not the supreme fortitude which refuses to tell
a tale of woe to any ear, however sympathetic. She
did not volunteer information, but she did allow
it to be dragged out of her, and the barriers of
her reserve broke down before Mrs. Hodge's
homely consolations and Nellie's sorrowful horror.
They were reduced, she admitted, in effect to liv-
ing on little else than her own wretched income;
the practice brought in hardly more than it took
out, for, while the rich patients failed, the poor
remained; the rent was Overdue, bills were unpaid,
and the butcher, the milkman, and the coal-mer-
chant were growing sulky.
“And while,” said Mrs. Hodge, “that poor
young creature is pinching, and starving, and
A CHANGE OF AIR. 99
crying, the man’s thinking of nothing but Nihi-
lists and what not. I’d Nihilist him l’”
Dinner was served to Dale with sauce of this "
SOrt. *
“Can I prevent fools suffering for their folly?”
he asked.
“The baby looks so ill,” said Nellie, “and Mrs.
Roberts is worn to a shadow.”
“Did you see Roberts?” asked Philip.
“For a minute,” said Nellie, “but he was very
cold and disagreeable.”
“Thought you were tarred with the same brush
as Dale, I suppose?”
“Can’t you do anything for 'em, Dale P’’ asked
Mrs. Hodge.
“I can send him a cheque.”
“He’ll send it back,” remarked Philip.
“I wish he’d get out of the place.”
“Yes, he might as well be miserable somewhere
else, mightn't he?” -->
Dale glared at his friend, and relapsed into
silence. Nevertheless, in spite of Philip's pre-
diction, he sat down after dinner and wrote to
Roberts, saying that he had heard that he was
in temporary embarrassment, and urging him to
allow Dale to be his banker for the moment; this
would, Dale added, be the best way of showing
that he bore no malice for Dale's letter. He sent
a man with the note, ordering him to wait for an
answer.
The answer was not long in coming ; the man
was back in half an hour, bringing the Doctor's
reply:— *.
“Three months ago, I should have thought it an honor
to share my last crust with you, and no shame to ask hºlf: .
º *
100 A CHANGE OF AIR.
of all you had. Now I will not touch a farthing of your
money, until you come back to us. If your friends pay my
wife further visits, I shall be obliged if they will look some-
What less k enly at my household arrangements.
“JAMES RoBERTs.”
“There is the snub you have brought on me!”
exclaimed Dale angrily, flinging 'the letter to
Nellie. “I might have known better than to
listen to your stories.” *.
“Dale, Dale, it was every word true. How
selfish he is not to think of his wife . *
“Many people are selfish.”
“Is anything the matter, Dale?”
“Oh, I’m infernally worried. I never get any
peace.”
“Hadn't you a good time skating 2*
“No. I’m beginning to hate this place.”
“Oh, Dale ! I’ve enjoyed my visit so much.”
“Very glad to hear it, I’m sure.”
“You must have seen it; we’ve stayed so long,
I’ve often told mamma, we ought to be going.”
Dale lit a cigarette.
“Indeed we have had no mercy on you, Dale;
but the country and the rest are so delightful.”
“Hum—in some ways.”
“But I must be back at work. Mamma thought
next Saturday would do.”
“As soon as that ?” said Dale, with polite sur.
prise.
“Think how long we have been here.”
“Oh, don’t go on Saturday !”
Mellie's face brightened.
“Don’t you want us to ?” she asked, with an
eager little smile. Dale was going to be kind
... . after all.
&
§e
f
s
* . .
º
A CHANGE OF ATRs 101
“No. Why shouldn’t you stay till Mon-
day?”
The face fell, the smile disappeared; but she
answered, saving her self-respect,
* “Saturday is more convenient for—for arriving
in town. I think we had better fix Saturday,
Dale.”
“As you like. Sorry to lose you, Nell.”
He sauntered off to the smoking-room to join
Thilip. When Philip came into the drawing-
room half an hour later in search of a book, he
found Nellie sitting before the fire. He took his
stand on the hearth-rug, and looked steadily down
on her.
“Once upon a time,” he said, “there was a
very beautiful bird who, as it chanced, grew up
with a lot of crows. For a long while he liked
the crows, and the crows liked him—very much,
some of them. Both he and the crows were
pleased when the eagles and all the swell birds
admired him, and said nice things about him, and
wanted to know him—and the crows who liked
him most, were most pleased. Presently he did
come to know the eagles and the other swell
birds, and he liked them very much, and he began
to get a little tired of the old crows, and by and
by he left their company a good deal. He was a
polite bird, and a kind bird, and never told them
that he didn’t want them any more. But they
saw he didn’t.”
There was a little sob from the arm-chair.
“Whereupon some of them broke their healts,
and others—didn’t. The others were wisest, ,
Nellie.” ~,
He paused, gazing down at the distressful little
102 A CHANGE OF AIR.
heap of crumpled drapery and roughened gleam-
ing hair.
“Much wiseSt. He was not a bad bird as
birds go—but not a bird to break one’s heart'
about, Nellie: what bird is ?”
There was another sob. Philip looked de-
spairingly at the ceiling, and exclaimed under his
breath,
“I wish to God she wouldn’t cry !”
He took his book from the mantelpiece where
he had laid it and moved towards the door. But
he came back again, unable to leave her like that,
and walked restlessly about the room, stopping
every now and then to stand over her, and wonder
what he could do. 4
Presently he took a feverish little hand in his,
and pressed it as it lay limp there.
“The old crows stood by one another, Nellie,”
he said, and he thought he felt a sudden grip of
his hand, coming and timidly in an instant going.
It seemed to comfort her to hold his hand.
The sobs ceased, and presently she looked up and
said, with a smile, &
“I always used to cry at going back to school.”
“Going back to work,” said Philip, “is one of
the few things in the world really worth crying
about.” p”
“Yes, isn’t it º’” she said, unblushingly avail-
ing herself of the shelter of his affected cynicism.
She was afraid he might go on talking about
crows, a topic which had been all very well, and
even a little comforting, when she was hidden
among the cushions, but would not do now,
“And London is so horrid in winter,” she con-
tinued. “Are you going back soon P’’
A CHANGE OF AIR. 103
“Oh, I shall wait a little and look after
Dale.”
“Dale never tells one what is happening.”
“I’ll keep you posted, in case there’s a revolu-
*ion in Denborough, or anything of that sort.”
A step was heard outside. With a sudden
bound Nellie reached the piano, sat down, and be-
gan to play a lively air. Dale came in, looking
Suspiciously at the pair.
“I thought you’d gone to bed, Nellie.”
, “Just going. Mr. Hume and I have been talk-
jng.”
“About the affairs of the nation,” said Philip.
“But I’m off now. Good-night, Dale.”
Tale looked closely at her.
“What are your eyes red for? Have you been
crying?”
“Crying, Dale 2 What nonsense ! I’ve been
zoasting them before the fire, that’s all; and if
they are red it's not polite to say so, is it, Mr.
Hume P’” º,
“Rightly understood, criticism is a compliment,
as the reviewers say when they slate you,” re-
marked Philip. “He might not have noticed
your eyes at all.”
“Inconceivable,” said Dale politely, for he was
feeling very kindly-disposed to this pretty girl,
who came when he wanted her, and went when
—well, after a reasonably long visit.
“Good-night, Dale. I’m so sorry about—Mr.
Roberts, you know.” "
Dale, having no further use for this grievance,
was graciously pleased to let it be forgotten.
“Oh, you couldn’t know he'd be such a brute,
Good-night, Nellie.”
104 A CHANGE OF AIR.
The two men returned to the smoking-room.
Philip, looking for a piece of paper wherewith to
light his pipe, happened to notice a little bundle
of proof-sheets lying on the table.
“Ah, the spring bubbling again P’’ he asked.
T}ale nodded.
“My dear fellow, how are the rest of us to get
our masterpieces noticed ? You are a monopo-
list.” -
“It’s only a little volume.”
“What's it about? May I look?”
“Oh, if you like,” answered Dale carelessly;
but he kept his eye on his friend.
Philip took up the first sheet, and read the
title-page: he smiled, and, turning over, came to
the dedication.
“You call it. Amor Patriae 3’”
“Yes. Do you like the title?”
“Hum! There was no thought of pleasing me
when it was christened, I presume. And you
dedicate it—”
“Oh, is that there?”
“Yes, that’s there—“To her that shall be named
hereafter.’”
Dale poked the fire before he answered.
“Yes,” he said, “that's the dedication.”
“So I see. Well, I hope she'll like them. It
is an enviable privilege to confer immortality.”
“I’ll confer it on you, if you like.”
“Yes, do. It will be less trouble than getting
it for myself.”
“ Under the title of “The Snarler.””
Philip stood on the hearth-rug and warmed
himself.
“My dear Dale,” he said, “I do not snarl. A
A CHANGE OF AIR. 105
wise author pleases each section of the public in
turn. Hitherto you have pleased me and my
kind, and Roberts and his kind, and Arthur
Angell and his kind—who are, by the way, not
worth pleasing, for they expect presentation
copies. Now, in this new work, which is, I under-
stand, your tribute to the nation which has the
honor to bear you, you will please”—He paused,
“I always write to please myself,” said Dale.
“Yourself,” continued Philip, “this mysterious
lady, and, I think we may add, the Mayor of
Market Denborough.”
“Go to the devil!” said the poet.
106 A CELANGE OF AIR.
CHAPTER XII.
A DEDICATION.—AND A DESECRATION,
A FEw weeks later, the Mayor stood at his door,
one bright morning in January, holding a parley
with Alderman Johnstone.
“I dessay now,” said the Mayor, “that you
ain’t been in the way of seein’ the Squire lately?”
“I see him last when he signed my lease,”
answered the Alderman, with a grim Smile, “and
that’s a month come to-morrow.”
“I had a conversation with him yesterday, and
after touchin’ on the matter of that last pavin'
contract, he’d heard o' your son-in-law gettin'
it, Jphnstone,—he got talkin’ about Mr. Bannis-
ter.
“Ay? did he?”
“And about his noo book. “It’s a blessin’,”
he says, “to see a young man of such promise
shakin’ himself free of that pestilential trash.’
He meant your opinions by that, Johnstone.”
“Supposing 'e did, what then 2 I don’t label
my opinions to please the customers like as Some
do their physic.”
The Mayor was not in a fighting mood; his
mind was busy with speculations, and he ignored
the challenge.
“Queer start Mr. Bannister showin' up at the
A CEIANGE OF AIR. 107
church bazaar, eh? Spent a heap o' money, too.
I met Mr. Hume, and asked him about it, and
he said—”
“It wan’t no business o' yours, didn’t he 7”
“Mr. Hume—he's a gentleman, Johnstone,”
remarked the Mayor in grave rebuke.
“Well, what did 'e say?”
“That where the carcass was, the eagles 'ud
be gathered together.”
Mr. Johnstone smiled a smile of pity for the
Mayor's density.
“Well, what do you suppose he meant 2 ”
asked the Mayor in reply to the smile.
“Where the gells is, the lads is,” said the
Alderman, with a wink, as he passed on his way.
This most natural, reasonable, and charitable
explanation of Dale's conduct in identifying him-
self with the Vicar's pastoral labors had, oddly
enough, suggested itself to no one else, unless it
might be to Captain Gerard Ripley. His presence
had been hailed on the one side, and amathematized
on the other, as an outward sign of an inward
conversion, and his lavish expenditure had been
set down to a repentant spirit rather than a desire
to gratify any partleular stall-holder. The Vica.
had just read Amor Patriae, and he remarked to
every one he met that the transition from an
appreciation of the national greatness to an
adhesion to the national Church was but a short
Step.
Unhappily, in a moment of absence, he
chanced to say so to Colonel Smith, who was at
the bazaar for the purpose of demonstrating
his indifferent impartiality towards all religious
Sects.
108 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“You might as well say,” answered the Colonel
in scorn, “that because a man stands by the
regiment, he’s bound to be thick with the chap-
lain.”
Captain Ripley alone, with the penetration
born of jealousy, attributed Dale's presence simply
and solely to the same motive as had produced
his own, to wit, a desire to be where Miss Delane
was. The Captain was a little sore; he had
known Janet from childhood, they had exchanged
many children’s vows, and when he was sixteen
and she thirteen, she had accepted a Twelfth
Night cake ring from him. The flirtation had
always proceeded in its gentle ambling course,
and the Captain had returned on long leave with
the idea that it was time to put the natural ter-
mination in the way of being reached. Janet dis-
appointed him; she ridiculed his tender references
to bygone days, characterizing what had passed
as boy-and-girl nonsense, and perseveringly kept
their intercourse on a dull level of friendliness.
On the other hand, whatever might be the nature
of her acquaintance with Dale Bannister, it was
at least clear that it was marked by no such
uneventful monotony. Sometimes she would
hardly speak to him ; at others she cared to speak
to no one else. The Captain would have profited
ill by the opportunities a residence in garrison
towns offers, if he had not recognized that these
changeful relations were fraught with peril to his
hopes.
At the bazaar, for example, he was so much
moved by a long conversation between Janet and
Dale, which took place over the handing of a cup
of tea, that he unburdened himself to his friend
A CHANGE elº ARR. 109
Sir Harry Fulmer. Now Sir Harry was in a bad
temper; he had his object in attending as the
Captain had, and Colonel Smith had just told him
that Tora was not coming.
“Who is the fellow 2° demanded Captain
Ripley.
“Writes poetry.”
“I never heard of him.”
...} daresay not. It’s not much in your line, is
it,
“Well, he’s a queer-looking beggar.”
“Think so? Now I call him a good-looking
chap.”
“Why the deuce doesn’t he get his hair cut 2."
l 66 Don't know. Perhaps Janet Dekane likes it
ong.”
“I hate that sort of fellow, Harry.”
“He’s not a bad chap.”
“Does the Squire like him 2°
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. How beastly
hot this room is I shall go.”
“I say, Harry, I’ve only just come back, you
know. Is there anything on ?”
“Well, if you want to take a hand, I should
cut in pretty sharp,” said Sir Harry, elbowing his
way to the door.
Captain Ripley, impatiently refusing to buy a
negro doll which the Vicar's daughter pressed on
his favorable notice, leant against the Wall and
grimly regarded Dale Bannister.
The latter was just saying,
“Have you looked at the verses at all, Miss
Delane P”
“I have read every one, over and over. They
are splendid.”
110 A CPIANGE OF AIR.
“Oh, I’m new to that sort of thing.”
“Yes, but it's so—such a joy to me to see you.
doing what is really worthy of you.”
“If there is any credit it’s yours.”
“Now why do you say that ? It isfi’t true,
and it just spoils it.”
“Spoils it?” said Dale, who thought girls liked
compliments. *
“Yes. If you had really only done it to please
—an individual, it would be worth nothing. You
couldn’t help doing it. I knew you couldn't.”
“At any rate, you must accept the responsibil-
ity of having put it into my head.”
“Not even that, Mr. Bannister.”
“Oh, but that's the meaning of the dedication.”
No one is quite free from guile. Janet
answered,
“The dedication is rather mysterious, Mr.
Bannister.”
“I meant it to be so to all the world.”
“Oh, did you?”
“Except you.”
Janet blushed and smiled.
“I wonder,” pursued Dale, “if I shall ever be
allowed to name that lady ?”
“That will depend on whether she wishes it.”
“Of course. Do you think she will—here.
after P”
“Won’t you have another cup 2 It’s only half
a crown.”
“Yes, two more, please. Do you think she
Will 2’’
“How thirsty you seem to be l’”
« Will She 2°
“Now, Mr. Bannister, I mustn't neglect all my
A CHANGE OF AIR. 111
customers. See, Mrs. Gilkison is selling noth-
ing.” *4
“But, Will She 2*
“Certainly not—unless you go and buy some-
thing from Mrs; Gilkison.”
Now, whether Janet were really concerned for
Mrs. Gilkison, or whethgºe she had caught sight
of Captain Ripley’s lowering countenance, or
whether she merely desired to avoid pledging
herself to Dale, it is immaterial, and also impos-
sible to say. Dale felt himself dismissed, with
the consolation of perceiving that his dedication
had not been unfavorably received in the quarter
to which it was addressed.
Accordingly it was in a cheerful frame of mind
that he set out for home, scattering most of his
purchases among the children before he, went.
He was in a kindly mood, and when he saw
James Roberts coming up High Street, he did
not, as he had once or twice lately, cross the
road to avoid meeting him, but held on his path,
determined to offer a friendly greeting.
When the Doctor came up, he stopped and
took from his breast-pocket the little green
volume which contained Dale's latest poems.
He held it up before the author's eyes.
“Ah, Roberts, I see you have the new work.
How do you like it 2°
He tried to speak easily, but the Doctor did
not appear to be in a conciliatory tenaper.
“Are these things really yours?” he asked.
“Of course they are.”
“This wretched Jingo doggerel, yours?”
Dale felt this unjust. The verses might not
express the Doctor’s views, but an immorta;
112 A CHANGE OF AIR.
. works are not lightly to be called dog.
gerel.
“What a narrow-minded beggar you are l’” he
exclaimed.
The Doctor answered nothing. Buttoning up
his threadbare coat, so as to leave his arms free,
with an effort he tore the leaves from their
Cover, rent them across, flung them on the road,
and trod them into the mud. Then, without a
word, he passed on his way, while Dale stood
and stared at the dishonored wreck.
“He’s mad—stark mad!” he declared at last.
“How ill the poor chap looks, too !”
The Doctor hurried down the street, with a
strange malicious smile on his face. Every now
and then his hand sought his breast-pocket
again, and hugged a cheque for a hundred
pounds which lay there. It was his last money
in the world; when that was gone, his banking
account was exhausted, and nothing remained
but his wife's pittance—and nothing more was
coming. Yet he had devoted that sum to a
purpose, and now he stopped at Alderman John-
stone’s door, and asked for the master of the
house, still grimly smiling at the thought of what
he was preparing for Dale Bannister, if only
Johnstone would help him. Johnstone had a
lease now, he was independent—if only he would
help him
The Alderman listened to the plan.
“It’s a new trade for me,” said he, with a
grin. & *
“I find the stock—I have it ready. And—”
He held up the cheque.
The Alderman’s eyes glistened.
A CHANGE OF AIR. - 113
“They can’t touch me,” he said, “and Ishould
like to 'ave a shy at the Squire. "Ere's my 'and
upon it.”
A day or two afterwards, Dale heard that the
sale of Sluggards was increasing by leaps and
bounds. A single house had taken five hundred
copies. Amor Patriae had evidently given a
fresh impetus to the earlier work, in spite of the
remarkable difference of tone which existed be-
tWeen them.
“It shows,” said Dale complacently, to Philip
Hume, “that most people are not such intolerant
idiots as that fellow Roberts.” ſ
But what it really did show will appear in due
season. Dale did not know; nor did Philip, for
he said, with a fine sneer,
“It shows that immorality doesn’t matter if
it's combined with sound political principles, clá
man.” \
8
114 A CHANGE OF AIR.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE RESPONSIBILITIES OF GENIUS,
DR. SPINK sat in his comfortable dining-room
with his after-dinner glass of wine before him.
The snow was falling and the rain beating against
the windows, but the Doctor had finished his
work, and feared only that some sudden call
would compel him to face the fury of the weather
again. A few months back, he would have
greeted any summons, however unreasonable the
hour, and thought a new patient well bought at
the price of a spoilt evening. But of late the
world had smiled upon him, the hill which had
looked so steep was proving easy to climb, and
he was already considering whether he should not
take a partner, to relieve him of the more irksome
parts of his duty. He pulled his neatly-trimmed
whisker and caressed his smooth-shaven chin,
as he reflected how the folly of that mad fellow,
Roberts, had turned to his advantage. No man
could say that he had deviated an inch from pro-
fessional propriety, or pressed his advantage the
least unfairly. He had merely persevered on the
lines he laid down for himself on his first arrival.
The success, which astonished even himself, had
come to him, partly no doubt, because merit must
make its way, but mainly because his rival had
A CHANGE OF AIR. 115
wilfully flung away his chances, preferring—and
to Dr. Spink it seemed a preference almost insane
—to speak his mind, whatever it might be, rather
than, like a wise man, hold his tongue and fill
his pockets.
So Roberts had willed, and hence the Vicarage,
the Grange, and many other houses now knew
his footsteps no more, and Spink filled his place.
As he pondered on this, Dr. Spink spared a pang
of pity for his beaten competitor, wondering what
in the world the man meant to live upon.
The door-bell rang. He heard it with a sigh—
the half-pleased, half-weary, resigned sigh that a
man utters when fortune gives him no rest in
getting gain. A moment later he was on his way
to the surgery, to see a lady who would not send
in her name or business.
He recognized Ethel Roberts with surprise,
when she raised her veil. They had known one
another to bow to, but he could not imagine what
brought her to his surgery.
“Mrs. Roberts! Is there anything—?”
“Oh, Dr. Spink, you must forgive me for com-
ing. I am in great trouble, and I thought you
might help me.” &
b 66 Play sit down. Is any one ill—your little
OW P’
X No, he's not ill. It's—it's about my hus-
band.”
“I hope Mr. Roberts is not ill?”
“I don’t know,” she said nervously. “That's
what I want to ask you. Have you seen him
lately 2”
“No, not very: I passed him in the street the
other day.”
116 A. CELANGE OF AFR.
“He’s gone to London, suddenly, I don’t know
why. Oh, he's been so strange lately l’”
“I thought he looked worried. Tell me about
it,” said Dr. Spink, moved now with genuine pity
for the pale haggard face before him.
“Ever since—but you mustn't tell I came to
you—or spoke to anybody, I mean—will you?”
He reassured her, and she continued,
“Ever since his quarrel with Mr. Bannister—
you know about it?—there is something the matter
with him. He is moody, and absent-minded, and
—and hasty, and he settles to nothing. And now
he is gone off like this.”
“Come, Mrs. Roberts, you must compose your-
º I suppose he has let these politics worry
im.”
“He seems to care nothing for—for his home
or the baby, you know ; he does nothing but read,
or wander up and down the room.”
“It sounds as if he wanted a rest and a change.
You say he has gone away ?”
“Yes, but on business, I think.”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you much, unless he
calls me in and lets me have a look at him.”
“He’ll never do that l” she exclaimed, before
she could stop herself.
Dr. Spink took no notice of her outburst.
“If he comes back no better, send me a line,
Mrs. Roberts, and we’ll see. And mind you let
me know if you or the baby want any advice.”
“You’re very kind, Dr. Spink. I—I’m sorry,
James is so—”
“Oh, that’s a symptom. If he gets right, he
won’t be like that. Your jacket's too thin for such
a night. Let me send you home in the brougham.”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 117
Ethel refused the offer, and started eiz ner re-
turn, leaving Dr. Spink shaking a thoughtful
head in the surgery doorway.
“It really looks,” he said, “as if he was a bit
queer. But what can I do? Poor little woman!”
And, not being able to do anything, he went
back and finished his glass of port. Then, for
his dinner had been postponed till late by business,
and it was half-past ten, he went to bed.
Ethelbeat her way down the High Street against
the wind and snow, shutting her eyes in face of
the blinding shower, and pushing on with all her
speed, to rejoin her baby, whom she had left alone.
When, wet and weary, she reached her door, to
her surprise she saw a man waiting there. For
a moment, she joyously thought it was her
husband, but as the man came forward to meet
her, she recognized Philip Hume.
“Out on such a night, Mrs. Roberts l’”
She murmured an excuse, and he went on,
“Is the Doctor in? I came to look him up.”
“No, he’s away in London, Mr. Hume.”
“In London P What, for 2 °
“I don’t know.” ..
“May I come in for a moment?” asked Philip,
who had been looking at her closely.
“If you like,” she answered in some surprise.
“I’m afraid there’s no fire.”
Philip had followed herºin, and seen the grate
in the sitting-room with no fire lighted.
“No fire?” he exclaimed.
“There is one in my room where baby is,” she
explained.
“There ought to be one here too,” said he,
*You're looking ill.”
118 A CHANGE OF Aff.
“Oh, I’m not ill, Mr. Hume—I’m not indeed.”
Philip had come on an errand. There are uses
even in gossips, and he had had a talk with his
friend the Mayor that day.
“Where are the Coals P” he asked.
“There are some in the scuttle,” she said.
He looked and found a few small pieces. The
fire was laid with a few more. Philip lit them
and threw on all the rest. Then he went to the
door, and shouted, f
<< Wilson 1 °
The small shrewd-faced man who waited on
Dale Bannister appeared. He was pushing a
wheelbarrow before him.
“Wheel it into the passage,” said Philip; “and
then go. And, mind, not a word l’”
Wilson looked insulted.
“I don’t talk, sir,” said he.
Philip returned to the room.
“Mrs. Roberts,” he said, “listen to me. I am a
friend of your husband's. Will you let me help
you?”
“Indeed, I need no help.”
“I know you are frozen,” he went on ; “and—
where is the servant 2"
“She has left. I—I haven’t got another yet,”
she faltered.
“In the passage,” Philip went on, “there is a
wheelbarrow. It holds coals, food, and drink.
It's for you.”
She started up.
“I can’t—indeed I can’t l Jim wouldn’t like
it.”
“Jim be hanged 1 I’ll settle with him. You're
to take them. Do you hear?”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 119
She did not answer. He walked up to her and
put a little canvas bag in her hands.
“There's money. No, take it. I shall keep an
account.”
“I really don’t need it.”
“You do—you know you do. How much money
has he left you?” ...”
She laid her hand on his arm.
“He’s not himself, he isn’t indeed, Mr. Hume,
or he wouldn’t-”
“No, of course he isn’t. So I do what he
would, if he were himself. You were going to
starve.”
“He will be angry.”
“Then don’t tell him. He'll never notice. Now.
Will he P” -
“He notices nothing now,” she said.
“And you’ll take them? Come, think of what's.
his-name—the baby, you know.” {
“You’re too kind to me.”
“Nonsense! Of course we look after you, Mrs.
Roberts.”
“Mr. Hume, do you think—what do you think
is the matter with Jim P”
“Oh, I think he's an old fool, Mrs. Roberts,
and you may tell him so from me. No, no, he’ll
be all right in a week or two. Meanwhile, we're
going to make you and Tommy—Oh, Johnny, is
it 2–Comfortable.”
He did not leave her till she had consented to
accept all he offered: then he went back to
Littlehill. * g
“I think, Dale,” he said, “Roberts must be
mad. He left his wife and child starving.”
“Did she take the things?” *
120 A. CFIANGE OF AIR,
“Yes, I made her.”
“That’s all right. What a strange beggar he
is . He can’t be quite right in his head.”
“Fancy that poor little woman left like
that l”
“Horrible !” said Dale with a shudder. “At
any rate we can prevent that. I’m so glad you
thought of it.”
“Old Hedger told me they had ordered nothing
for three days.”
“How the deuce does Hedger know every-
thing?”
“It’s lucky he knew this, isn’t it?”
“By Jove, it is Because, you know, Phil, I
feel a kind of responsibility.”
“Nonsense, Dale ! Not really?”
“Oh, you needn’t laugh. Of course I couldn’t
know the man was a sort of lunatic. One doesn’t
write for lunatics.” f
“Perhaps they ought to be considered, being
so numerous.”
“However, it’s all right now. Awfully obliged
to you, Phil.”
“I wonder if he’ll come back.”
“Roberts? Why shouldn’t he 7"
“I don’t know, but he's quite capable of just
cutting the whole concern.” *
“I think he's capable of anything.”
“Except appreciating Amor Patriae, eh?”
Dale, having got the Roberts family off his
mind, drifted to another topic.
“I say, Phil, old chap, will you stop playing
the fool for once, and give me your advice P’’
“What about?” asked Philip, throwing himself
into an arm-chair,
A CHANGE OF AIR. 121
“What,” said Dale gravely, filling his pipe, “do
you think about getting married?”
“Are you thinking of it?”
“Discuss marriage in the abstract.”
“It is a position of greater responsibility and
less freedom.”
“Yes, I know that. But a lot depends on the
girl, doesn’t it 2°
“I expect so.”
“I say, Phil, what do you think of Ripley 2”
“He seemed a decent enough fellow.”
“Do you think—I mean, do you call him an
attractive fellow 2°
“Oh, uncommonly I’’
“Really 2”
“Well, why not ?”
Dale fidgeted in his chair, and relit the pipe,
which had gone out. He was much too perturbed
to give to the filling of it the attention that opera-
tion needs.
“I suppose he’ll be rich, and a swell, and all
that,” he went on.
“No doubt—but not a Victorian poet.”
“T)On’t be a fool 1 °
“I meant it kindly. Some girls like poets.”
... “They were awfully kind about Amor Patriae
at the Grange to-night.”
“Oh, you’ve been there ?” *
“You know I have. Ripley was there. I don’t
think I care much about him, Phil.”
“Don’t you ? Does he like you ?”
Dale laughed, as he rose to go to bed.
“Not much, I think,” said he.
Philip also, being left companionless, got up
and knocked out his pipe. Then he stood looking
122 A CHANGE OF AIR.
into the dying embers for a minute or two, and
thinking, as he warmed his hands with the last
of the heat. “Poor little Nellie : " he said. After
a pause, he said it again ; and once again after
that. But then, as saying it was no use at all, he
sighed and went to bed.
A CHANGE OF AIR. 123
CHAPTER XIV.
MR. DELANE LIKES THE IDEA.
ON, a bright morning, when February was in
one of its brief moods of kindliness, Janet Delane
was in the garden, and flitting from it into the
hothouses in search of flowers. It was half-past
eleven, and Captain Ripley had kept her gossip-
ing long after breakfast ; that was the worst o'
idle men staying in a house. So she hastened to
and fro in a great parade of business-like activity,
and, as she went, she would sing blithely, and
stop and smile to herself, and break into singing
again, and call merrily to her dog, a rotund,
'slate-colored bundle of hair that waddled after
her, and answered, if he were given time to get
within earshot, to the name of Mop. Mop was
more sedate than his mistress: she only pre-
tended to be on business bent, while he had been
dragged out to take a serious constitutional, on
account of his growing corpulence, and it made
him sulky to be called here and beckoned there,
and told there were rats, and cats, and what not
—whereas ins truth there was no such thing.
But Janet did not mind his sulkiness; she smiled,
and sang, and Smiled, for she was thinking—but
is nothing to be sacred from a prying race? It is
no concern of any one’s what she was thinking,
124 A CHANGE OF AIR.
and no doubt she did not desire it to be known,
or she would have told Captain Ripley in the
course of that long gossip.
The Captain stood gazing at her out of the
window, with his hands in his pockets and a
doleful look of bewilderment. On his face. He
stared out into the garden, but he was listen-
ing to Mrs. Delane, and wondering uneasily if he
were really such a dolt as his hostess seemed to
consider.
“You know, Gerard,” said Mrs. Telane in her
usual tone of suave sovereignty, “that I am
anxious to help you all I can. I have always
looked forward to it as an event which would
give us all pleasure, and I know my husband
agrees with me. But really we can’t do anything
if you don’t help yourself.”
The Captain gnawed his moustache and thrust
his hands deeper into his pockets.
“I can’t make her out,” said he. “I can’t get
any farther with her.”
“It’s not the way to “get farther,” “answered
Mrs. Delane, marking the quotation by a delicate
emphasis, “with any girl to stand on the other
side of the room and scowl whenever she talks
to another man.”
“You mean Bannister ?”
“I mean anybody. I don’t care whether it’s
Mr. Bannister or not. And it’s just as useless to
pull a, long face and look tragic whenever she
makes fun of you.”
“She didn’t use to be like that last time I was
home.”
“My dear boy, what has that got to do with it?
She was a child then.”
A CHANGE OF AIR.. 125
“She’s always blowing me up. This morning
she asked me why I didn’t go to India instead of
wasting my time doing nothing in London.”
This was certainly unfeeling conduct on Janet's
part. Mrs. Delane sighed.
“I don’t know that I quite understand her
either, Gerard. There’s the Squire calling you.
He's ready to ride, I expect.”
When Janet came in, she found her mother
alone. *
“Where's Gerard P’’ she asked.
“He’s gone for a ride.”
“Is he staying to-night?”
“Yes, two or three days, I think.” -
“Well, dear, I am glad we amuse him. There
doesn’t seem much for a man to do here, does
there?”
“Don’t you like him to be here?”
“Oh, I don’t mind, only he wastes my time.”
“I begin to think he's wasting his own too,”
remarked Mrs. Delane.
“Oh, he's got nothing else to do with it—or at
least he does nothing else with it.”
“You know what I mean, Janet dear.”
“I suppose I do, but how can I help it? I do
all I can to show him it’s no use.”
“You used to like him very much.”
“Oh, so I do now. But that’s quite different.”
The world goes very crooked. Mrs. Delane
Sighed again.
“It would have pleased your father very much.”
“I’m so sorry. But I couldn’t care for a man
of that sort.”
“What's the matter with the man, my dear?”
“That's just it, mamma. Nothing—nothing
\
126 A. CHANGE OF AIR.
bad—and nothing good. Gerard is like heaps of
men I know.”
“I think you underrate him. His father was
just the same, and he was very distinguished in
the House.”
Janet’s gesture betrayed but slight veneration
for the High Court of Parliament, as she an-
swered, “They always say that about dull peo-
ole.”
ple Well, if it’s no use, the sooner the poor boy
1<nows it the better.”
“I can’t tell him till he asks me, can I, dear?
Though I’m sure he might see it for himself.”
Mrs. Delane, when she made up her mind to
sound her daughter’s inclinations, had expected
to find doubt, indecision, perhaps even an absence
of any positive inclination towards Captain Rip-
ley. She had not been prepared for Janet's
unquestioning assumption that the thing was
not within the range of consideration. A mar-
riage so excellent from a material point of view,
with one who enjoyed all the advantages old inti-
macy and liking could give, seemed to claim more
than the unhesitating dismissal with which Janet
relegated it to the limbo of impossibility, with
never a thought for all the prospects it held out ,
and never a sigh for the wealth and rank it prom-
ised. Of course the Delanes needed no alli-
ances to establish their position; still, as the
Squire had no 'son, it would have been pleasant
if his daughter had chosen a husband from the
leading family in the county. The more Mrs.
Delane thought, the more convinced she became
that there must be a reason ; and if there were,
it could be looked for only in one direction. She
A CHANGE OF AIR. 127
wondered whether the Squire's penchant for his
gifted young neighbor was strong enough to
make him welcome him as a son-in-law. Frankly,
her own was not.
Mr. Delane came in to luncheon, but Captain
Ripley sent a message of excuse. He had ridden
over to Sir Harry Fulmer's, and would spend the
afternoon there. Mrs. Delane's reception of the
news conveyed delicately that such conduct was
only what might be expected, if one considered
how Janet treated the poor fellow, but the Squire
was too busy to appreciate the subtleties of his
wife's demeanor. w
Important events were in the way to happen.
T}enshire, like many other counties, had recently
made up its mind that it behoved it to educate
itself, and a building had risen in Denborough
which was to serve as an Institute of technical
education, a school of agriculture, a centre of
learning, a home of instructive recreation, a haven
for the peripatetic lecturer, and several things
besides. Lord Cransford had consented to open
this temple of the arts, which was now near com-
pletion, and an inauguration by him would have
been suitable and proper. But the Squire had
something far better to announce. The Lord-
Lieutenant was, next month, to be honored by
a visit from a Royal Duke, and the Royal Duke
had graciously consented to come over and open
the Institute. It would be an occasion the like
of which Denborough had seldom seen, and Lord
Cransford and Mr. Delane might well be pardoned.
the deputy-providential air with which they went
about for the few days next following on the suo-
cessful completion of this delicate negotiation.
128 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“Now,” said the Squire, when he had detailed
the Prince’s waverings and vacillations, his he-
woulds and he-would-nots, and the culmination
of his gracious assent, “I have a great idea, and
I want you to help me, Jan.” -
“How can I help?” asked Janet, who was
already in a flutter of loyalty.
“When the Duke comes, I want him to have a
splendid reception.”
“I’m sure he will, my dear,” said Mrs. Delane;
“at least I hope that we are loyal.”
“We want,” continued the Squire, “to show
him all our resources.” .*
“Well, papa, that won’t take him very long.
There’s the old Mote Hall, and "he Roman pave-
ment and— Oh, but will he come here, papa–to
the Grange?”
“I hope he will take luncheon here.”
“How delightful l’exclaimed Janet joyfully.
“Goodness ’’ said Mrs. Delane anxiously.
“But, Jan, I want to show him our poet !”
“Papal Mr. Bannister l’”
“Yes. I want Bannister to write a poem of
Welcome.”
“My dear,” remarked Mrs. Delane, “Mr. Ban-
nister doesn’t like princes; ” and she smiled satir-
ically.
“What do you say, Jan?” asked the Squire,
Smiling in his turn.
“ Oh yes, do ask him, papa. I wish he
WOuld.”
“Well, will you ask him to?”
. Really, George, you are the person to suggest
it.
“Yes, Mary. But if I fail? Now, Jan 1 °
A CHANGE OF AIR. 129
^*,
“Oh don’t be foolish, papa. It's not likely—”
“Never mind. Will you?”
But Janet had, it seemed, finished her meal;
at least she had left the room. Mrs. Delane
looked vexed. The Squire laughed, for he was
a man who enjoyed his little joke.
“Poor Jan l’” he said. “It’s a shame to chaff
her on her conquests.”
Mrs. Delane's fears had been confirmed by her
daughter’s reception of the raillery. She would
have answered in the same tone, and accepted
the challenge, if the banter had not hit the
mark.
“It’s a pity,” said Mrs. Delane, “to encourage
her to think so much about this young Ban-
nister.”
“Eh 2 " said the Squire, looking up from his
plate.”
“She thinks quite enough about him already,
and hears enough too.”
“Well, I suppose he’s something out of the
common run, in Denshire at all events, and so he
interests her.” -
(“She’ll have nothing to say to Gerard Ripley.”
“What? Has he asked her ?”
“No, but I found out from her. He's quite
indifferent to her.”
“I’m sorry for that, but there's time yet. I
don’t give up hope.”
“Do you think you help your wishes by ask-
ing her to use her influence to make Dale Ban-
mister write poems ?”
The Squire laid down his napkin and looked
at his wife.
66 Qht" he said, after a pause.
*
*
130 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Delane. “Are you sur-
prised?”
“Yes, I am rather.”
He got up and walked about the room, jan-
gling the money in his pocket.
“We know nothing about young Bannister,”
he said.
“Except that he's the son of a Dissenting min-
ister and has lived with very queer people.”
The Squire frowned; but presently his face
cleared. “I daresay we’re troubling ourselves
quite unnecessarily. I haven’t noticed any-
thing.” \
“I daresay not, George,” said Mrs. Delane.
“Come, Mary, you know it’s a weakness of
yours to find out people's love-affairs before they
do themselves.”
“Very well, George,” answered, she in a re-
signed tone. “I have told you, and you will act
as you think best. Only, if you wouldn’t like
him for a son-in-law—”
“Well, my dear, you do go ahead.”
“Try to put him out of Janet's head, not in
it; ” and Mrs. Delane swept out of the room.
The Squire went to his study, thinking as he
went. He would have liked the Ripley connec-
tion. Lord Cransford was an old friend, and the
match would have been unimpeachable. Still—
The Squire could not quite analyze his feelings,
but he did feel that the idea of Dale Bannister
was not altogether unattractive. By birth, of
course, he was a nobody, and he had done and
said, or at least said he had done, or would like
to do, for the Squire on reflection softened down
his condemnation,-wild things; but he was a
A CHANGE OF AIR. 131
dintinguished man, a man of brains, a force in
the country. One must move with the times.
Nowadays brains opened every front door, and
genius was a passport everywhere. He was not
sure that he disliked the idea. Women were such
sticklers for old notions. Now, he had never
been a-a stick-in-the-mud Tory. If Dale went
on improving as he was doing, the Squire would
think twice before he refused him. But there !
very likely it was only Mary’s match-making
instincts making a mountain out of a molehill.
“I shall keep at Jan about that poem,” he
ended by saying. “It would be a fine facer for
the Radicals.”
132 A CHANGE OF AIR.
CHAPTER XV.
HOW IT SEEMED TO THE DOCTOR.
JAMES Rob ERTs made to himself Some excuse
of business for his sudden expedition to London,
but in reality he was moved to go by the desire
for sympathy. There are times and moods when
a man will do many strange things, if thereby
he may gain the comfort of an approving voice.
It was not so much his straitened means and im-
poverished household, with the silent suppressed
reproach of his wife's sad face, which made Den-
borough for the time uninhabitable to the Doctor.
The selfishness engendered by his absorption in
outside affairs armed him against these; he was
more oppressed, and finally overcome and routed
to flight, by the universal, unbroken, and un-
hesitating condemnation and contempt that he
met with. The severe banned him as wicked, the
charitable dubbed him crazy; even Johnstone,
whom he had bought, gave him no sympathy.
He could not share his savage sneers, or his bitter.
mirth, or his passionate indignation, with a man
to whom the whole affair was a matter of busi-
ness or of personal grudge. He felt that he must
escape for a time, and seek society in which he
could unbosom himself and speak from his heart
without stirring horror or ridicule. Arthur
A CHANGE OF AIR. 133
Angell at least, who, in regard to Dale and Dale's
views, had always been a better royalist than the
King, would share his anger and appreciate his
meditated revenge. The lesson he meant to give
the backslider was so appropriate and of such
grim humor that Arthur must be delighted with
it.
On Dale's departure, Arthur Angell had moved
into the little flat at the top of the tall building
in Chelsea, and there he cultivated the Muses
with a devotion which was its own ample reward.
Though to be passing rich on forty pounds a year
is, with the best will, impossible in London, as
it is to-day, yet to be passing happy on one hun-
dred and fifty is not beyond the range of youth and
enthusiasm, when the future still provides a gor-
geous setting and background, wherein the sor-
did details of the present are merged and lose
their prominence, and all trials are but landmarks
by which the hopeful grub counts his nearer
approach to butterflydom. The little room, the
humble chop, the occasional pit, the constant
tobacco, the unending talks with fellows like-
minded and like pursed,—all these had the beauty
of literary tradition, and if not a guarantee, seemed
at least a condition of future fame. So Arthur
often said to Mrs. Hodge, who lived in the same
block, a couple of floors lower down; and Mrs.
Hodge heartily agreed as she instanced, in Con-
firmation of the doctrine, how the late Mr. Hodge
had once played the King at two pound ten, con-
sule Pratt, and had lived to manage his own
theatre. This was to compare small things with
great, felt Arthur, but the truth is true in what-
ever sphere it works.
134 A CHANGE OF AIR.
Into his happy life there broke suddenly the
tempestuous form of the Denborough Doctor.
He arrived with but a pound or two in his pocket,
with wild ideas of employment on ultra-Radical
newspapers; above all, with the full load of his
rage against Dale Bannister, the traitor. He
strode up and down the little room, tugging his
beard and fiercely denouncing the renegade, while
Arthur looked at his troubled eyes and knitted
brows, and wondered if his mind were not un-
hinged. Who could talk like that about Dale, if
he were sane? Arthur would have chaffed his
friend, laughed at him, ridiculed him, perhaps
slyly hinted at the illicit charms of rank and
wealth, for which the poet’s old mistress mourned
deserted. But to speak in hate and rancor "
And what was he plotting 2
But when he heard the plot, his face cleared,
and he laughed.
“I think you’re hard on Dale,” he said; “but,
after all, it will be a good joke.”
“Johnstone will do it,” exclaimed the Doctor,
pausing in his stride. “His shop window will be
full of them. He'll have sandwich-men all over
the place. Bannister won’t be able to go out
without being met by his own words—the words
he denies. I’ll cram them down his throat.”
Arthur laughed again. -
“It will be awkward when he's walking with
Old Delane.”
“Ay, and with that girl who's got hold of him.
He shan’t forget what he wrote—nor shall a soul
in Denborough either. I’ll make his treachery
plain, if I spend my last farthing.”
“When are you going back?”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 135
3 * In a week. It will all be ready in a week.
He'll know who did it. Curse him I ?”
“My dear Doctor, aren’t you a little—”
“Are you like that too?” burst out Roberts.
“Have none of you any sincerity? Is it sham
with all of you? You laugh as if it were a joke.”
“I can’t be angry with old Dale. I expect he'll
only laugh himself, you know. It will be good
fun.” º
Roberts looked at him in hopeless wrath. It
seemed to him that these men, who wrote the
words and proclaimed the truths which had
turned his life and reformed his soul, were them-
selves but playing with what they taught. Were
they only actors—or amusing themselves?
“You are as bad as he is,” he said angrily, and
stalked out of the room.
Arthur, puzzled with his unmanageable guest,
went down, as he often did, to his neighbors,
and laid the whole case before Mrs. Hodge and
Nellie Fame. He found them both in, Nellie
having just returned from an afternoon concert
where she had been singing.
“I believe the fellow's half mad, you know,”
said Arthur. | g t
“If he isn’t, he ought to be ashamed of him-
self,” said Mrs. Hodge, and she launched on a
description of Mrs. Roberts’ pitiable state.
“Well, I don’t think he's got more than five
pounds in the world,” responded Arthur. “And
he's got no chance of making any money. No-
body dares publish what he wants to write.”
“He used to be pleasant at Littlehill,” Nellie
remarked, “when we were first there.” l
“Yes, wasn’t he? But he's gone quite wild
136 A CHANGE OF AIR.
over Dale. Do you know what his next move
is?” And Arthur disclosed the Johnstone con-
spiracy.
“It will be rather sport, won’t it ** he asked.
“ POOr Old Dale | ?”
But no; Miss Fane did not see the “sport.”
She was indignant; she thought that such a trick
was mean, malicious, and odious in the highest
degree, and she was surprised that Arthur Angell
could be amused at it.
“Women never see a joke,” said Arthur huffily.
“Where’s the joke in making Dale unhappy
and—and absurd? And you call yourself his
friend l 7”
“It’s only a joke. Old Dale does deserve a
dig, you know.”
“And pray why? You choose your friends,
why mayn’t he choose his? I daresay you would
be glad enough to know that sort of people if you
could.”
“Oh, come, Nellie I’m not like that. Besides,
it’s not the people; it’s what he's written.”
“I’ve read what he’s written. It’s beautiful.
No, I call the whole thing horrid, and just like
Dr. Roberts.”
“I suppose you think, just like me too?”
“If you don’t write and warn Dale, I shall.”
“I say, you mustn't do that. I told you in
Confidence. Roberts will be furious.”
“What do I care for Dr. Roberts’ fury 2 I
shall write at once; ” and she sat down at the
table.
Arthur glanced in despair at Mrs. Hodge, but
that discreet lady was entirely hidden in the
evening paper,
A CHANGE OF AIR. 137
“Well, I’ll never tell you anything again,
Nellie,” he said.
“You’ll never have the chance, unless you
behave something like a gentleman,” retorted
Nellie.
Arthur banged the door as he went out, ex-
claiming,
“Damn Roberts | What does he want to make
a row for P’”
Meanwhile, the Doctor, who was angry enough
with Arthur Angell to have rejoiced had he
known that he had embroiled him in a quarter
where Arthur was growing very anxious to stand
well, was pacing the streets, nursing his resent-
ment. His head ached, and fragments of what
he had read, and half-forgotten conversations,
mingling in his whirling brain, fretted and be-
wildered him. He could think of nothing but
his wrongs and his revenge, returning always to
hug himself on his own earnestness, and angrily
to sneer at the weakness and treachery of his
friends. Whatever it cost him or his, the world
should see that there was one man ready to
sacrifice himself for truth and right—and punish
“ that hound Dale Bannister.”
As he walked, he bought the special edition of
the paper, and, in hastily glancing at it, his eye
was caught by the announcement that His Royal
Highness the Duke of Mercia was to visit Lord
Cransford, and would open the Institute at
Market Denborough. The paragraph went on to
describe the preparations being made to give the
Prince a loyal reception, and ended by saying
that it was hoped that the eminent poet, Mr. Dale
Bannister, who was resident at Denborough,
138 A CHANGE OF AIR.
would consent to write a few lines of welcome to
the illustrious visitor. The writer added a word
or two of good-natured banter about Mr. Ban-
nister’s appearance in a new character, and the
well-known effect which the proximity of royalty
was apt to have on English republicanism.
“Who knows,” he concluded, “that Mr. Bannister
may not figure as Sir Dale before long?”
The Doctor read the paragraph twice, the flush
of anger reddening his pale face. Then he crum-
pled up the paper and flung it from him, resum-
ing his hasty, restless walk. He could imagine
the sickening scene, the rampant adulation, the
blatant snobbishness. And, in the midst, a dis-
honored participator, the man who had been his
leader, his liberator, the apostle of all he loved
and lived by. Had the man been a hypocrite
from the first? Impossible! No hypocrite could
have written those burning lines which leapt to
his memory and his lips. Or was he merely a
weak fool? That could not be either. It was a
barter, a deliberate barter of truth and honor
against profit—as Sordid a transaction as could
be. He wanted a position in Society, money, a
rich wife, petting from great people—perhaps
even, as that scribbler said, a ribbon to stick in
his coat or a handle to fasten to his name. How
could he? how could he? And the Doctor
passed his hand across his hot, throbbing brow
in the bewilderment of Wrath.
For an hour or more he ranged the streets aim-
lessly, a prey to his unreasoning fury. For this
man's sake he had ruined himself—led on by
this man’s words, he had defied the world—his
world. At all hazards he had joined the daring
A CHANGE of AIR. 139
band. Now he was forsaken, abandoned, flung
aside. He and his like had served their turn.
On their backs Dale Bannister had mounted.
But now he had done with them, and their lot
was repudiation and disdain. Roberts could not
find words for his scorn and contempt. His head
racked him more and more. Connected thought
seemed to become impossible; he could do
nothing but repeat again and again, “The traitor :
The traitor l’”
At last he turned home to his humble lodgings.
The short hush of very early morning had fallen
on the streets; he met no one, and the moon
shone placidly down on the solitary figure of the
maddened man, wrestling with his unconquerable
rage. He could not stem it; yielding to its
impulse, ith quivoring voice and face working .
with passion, he stretched his clenched fist to the
sky and cried,
“By God, he shall pay for it!”
140 A CHANGE OF AIR.
CHAPTER XVI. .
“No M or E KIN G. s.”
AFTER her father’s report and the departure of
Nellie Fane, Miss Tora Smith had been pleased
to reconsider her judgment of Dale Bannister,
and to modify it to some extent. The poems and
the suspicion, taken in conjunction, each casting
a lurid light on the other, had been very bad in-
deed; but when Tora’s mind was disabused of
the suspicion, she found it in her heart to pardon
the poems. Although she treated Sir Harry
Fulmer with scant ceremony, she had no small
respect for his opinion, an when he and the
Colonel coincided in the decision that Dale need
not be ostracized, she did not persist against
them. She was led to be more compliant by the
fact that she was organizing an important Liberal
gathering, and had conceived the ambition of in-
ducing Dale to take part in the proceedings.
“Fancy, if he would write us a song!” she
said, “a song which we could sing in chorus.
Wouldn’t it be splendid?”
“What would the Squire say?” asked Sir
Harry.
Tora smiled mischievously.
“Are you,” she demanded, “going to stand by
and see him captured by the Grange?”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 141
“He ought to be with us, oughtn't he P’’ said
Sir Harry.
o course. And if our leader had an ounce of
Zeal—”
“I’ll write to him to-day,” said Sir Harry.
“Yes; and mind you persuade him. I shall be
so amused to see what Jan Delane says, if he
writes us a song.”
“He Won’t do it.”
“He won’t, if you go in that despairing mood.
Now write at once. Write as if you expected it.”
The outcome of this conversation, together
with the idea which had struck the Squire, was,
of course, that Dale received, almost by the same
post, an urgent request for a militant Radical
ditty and a delicate, but very flattering, sugges-
tion that it would be most agreeable to His Royal
Highness—indeed he had hinted as much in re-
sponse to Lord Cransford’s question—to find the
loyalty of Denborough as it were crystallized in
one of Mr. Bannister’s undying productions. For
the first time in his life, Dale felt a grudge against
the Muses for their endowment. Could not these
#. let him alone? He did not desire to put
imself forward: he only asked to be let alone.
It was almost as repugnant to him—at least, he
thought it would be—to take part in Lord Crans-
ford’s pageant, as it certainly would be to hear
the Radicals of Denborough screeching out his
verses. He was a man of letters, not a politician,
and he thought both requests very uncalled for.
It might be that the Grange folks had some claim
on him, but his acquaintance with Sir Harry
Fulmer was of the slightest; and what did the
man mean by talking of his “well-known views?”
142 A CHANGE OF AIR.
He was as bad as the Doctor himself. Presently
Philip Hume came in, and Dale disclosed his
perplexities.
“I want to please people,” he said, “but this is
rather strong.”
“Write both,” suggested Philip.
“That will enrage both of them.”
“Then Write neither.”
“Really, Phil, you might show some interestin
the matter.”
“I am preoccupied. Have you been in the
town to-day, Dale?”
« NO.”
“Then you haven’t seen Johnstone's window?”
“Johnstone’s window 2 What does Johnstone
Want with a window 2°
“Put on your hat and come and see. Yes, come
along. It concerns you.”
They walked down together in the gathering
dusk of the afternoon, and when they came near
Johnstone's, they saw his window lighted with a
blaze of gas, and a little knot of curious people
standing outside. The window was full of Dale's
books, and the rows of green volumes were sur-
mounted by a large placard—“Dale Bannister,
the poet of Denborough—Works on Sale Here.
Ask for The Clorion, The Arch-Apostates, Blood
for Blood; ” and outside, a file of men carried
boards, headed, “The Rights of the People. Read
Dale Bannister! No more Kings | No more
Priests | Read Dale Bannister | ?”
A curse broke from Dale. Philip smiled grimly.
“Who’s done this 2 ” Dale asked.
Philip pointed to a solitary figure which stood
on the opposite side of the road, looking on at the
A CHANGE OF AIR. 143
spectacle. It was James Roberts, and he smiled
grimly in his turn when he saw the poet and his
friend.
“He put Johnstone up to it,” said Philip.
“Johnstone told me so.”
Dale was aflame. He strode quickly across the
road to where the Doctor stood, and said to him
hotly,
“This is your work, is it?”
The Doctor was jaunty and cool in manner.
“No, your works,” he answered, with a foolish,
exasperating Snigger. “Aren’t you pleased to
see what notice they are attracting 2 I was afraid
they were being forgotten in Denborough.”
“God only knows,” said Dale angrily, “why
you take pleasure in annoying me: but I have
borne enough of your insolence.”
“Is it insolent to spread the sale of your
books?”
“You will make your jackal take those books
down and stop his infernal posters, or I’ll thrash
you within an inch of your life.”
“Ah!” said Roberts, and his hand stole
towards his breast-pocket.
“What do you say?”
“I say that if I can make a wretched snob like
you unhappy, it’s money well spent, and I’ll see
you damned before I take the books down.”
Dale grasped his walking-cane and took a step
forward. The Doctor stood waiting for him,
Smiling and keeping his hand in his pocket.
66 Jim ! 29
The Doctor turned and saw his wife at his
side. Dale fell back, lifting his hat, at the sight
of the pale distressed face and the clasped hands,
144 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“Do come home, dear!” she said, with an
appealing glance.
Philip took Dale's arm.
“Come,” he said, “let’s reason with John-
stone.”
Dale allowed himself to be led away, not know-
ing that death had stared him in the face; for it
was a loaded revolver that Roberts let fall back
into the recesses of his pocket, when his wife's
touch recalled for a moment his saner sense.
The reasoning with Johnstone was not a suc-
cess. Dale tried threats, abuse, . and entreaties,
all in vain. At last he condescended to bribery,
and offered Johnstone twice the sum, whatever it
might be, which he had received. He felt his
degradation, but the annoyance was intolerable.
The Alderman’s attitude, on receiving this
offer, was not without pathos. He lamented in
himself an obstinate rectitude, which he declared
had often stood in his way in business affairs.
His political convictions, engaged as they were
in the matter, he would have sacrificed, if the
favor thereby accorded to Mr. Bannister were
so great as to be measured by two hundred
pounds: but he had passed his word; and he con-
cluded by beseeching Dale not to tempt him
above that which he was able.
“Take it away, take it away, sir,” he said,
when Dale held a pocket-book before his longing
eyes. “It ain’t right, sir, it ain’t indeed—and
me a family man.”
Dale began to feel the guilt of the Tempter,
and fell back on an appeal to the Alderman’s
better feelings. This line of argument elicited
only a smile.
A chANGE of AIR. 145
“If I won’t do it for two hundred sovereigns,
does it stand to reason, sir, as I should do it to
obleege?”
Dale left him, after a plain statement of the
estimation in which he held him, and went home,
yielding only after a struggle to Philip's repre-
sentation that any attempt to bribe the sandwich-
men must result in his own greater humiliation
and discomfiture.
Angry as Dale was, he determined not to allow
this incident to turn him from the course he had
marked out for himself. It confirmed his deter-
mination to have nothing to do with Sir Harry’s
Radical song, but it did not make him any the
more inclined to appear as a eulogist of royalty.
Neutrality in all political matters was his chosen
course, and it appeared to him to be incomparably
the wisest under all the circumstances. This
view he expressed to the family at the Grange,
having walked over for that purpose. He ex-
pected to meet with some opposition, but to his
surprise the Squire heartily acquiesced.
“After this scandalous business,” he said, “you
must cut the Radicals altogether. Of course,
Harry Fulmer will object to it as much as we
do, but he must be responsible for his followers.
And I think you’re quite right to let us alone
too. hy should you literary men bother with
politics?”
Dale was delighted at this opinion, and at
Janet’s concurrence with it.
“Then I daresay you will be so kind as
to express my feelings to Lord Cransford;
if he thinks fit, he can let the Duke know
them.”
40
146 A CHANGE OF AIR.
The Squire's face expressed surprise, and his
daughter’s reflected it.
“But, my dear fellow,” said Mr. Delane, “what
has Cransford's suggestion to do with politics?
The throne is above politics.”
“Surely, Mr. Bannister,” added Janet, “we are
all loyal, whatever our politics? I’m sure Sir
Harry himself is as loyal as papa.”
“Come, Bannister, you press your scruples too
far. There are no politics in this.”
T)ale was staggered, but not convinced.
ºrd rather not put myself forward at all,” he
SalCl. wº \.
The Squire assumed an air of apologetic
friendliness.
“I know you’ll excuse me, Bannister. I’m
twice your age or more, and I-well—I haven’t
been so lucky as you in escaping the world of
etiquette. But, my dear fellow, when the Duke
Sends a message, it really comes to that, it’s a
strongish thing to say you won’t do it. Oh, of
course, you can if you like—there's no beheading
nowadays; but it’s not very usual.”
“I wish Lord Cransford had never mentioned
me to the Duke at all.” *
“Perhaps it would have been wiser,” the Squire
conceded candidly, “but Cransford is so proud
of anything that brings kudos to the county, and
he could no more leave you out than he could the
Institute itself. Well, we mustn't force you.
Think it over, think it over. I must be off. No,
don’t you go. Stay and 3rave tea with the ladies;”
and the Squire, who, as has been previously
mentioned, was no fool, left his daughter to
entertain his guest.
A CHANGE OF AIR. 147
Janet was working at a piece of embroidery,
and she went on working in silence for a minute
or two. Then she looked up and said,
“Tora Smith was here this morning. She’ll
be very disappointed at your refusal to write for
her meeting.”
“Miss Smith has no claim on me,” said Dale
stiffly. He had not forgotten Tora's injurious
suspicions. “Besides, one doesn’t do such things
simply for the asking—not even if it’s a lady
who asks.”
“You know, I don’t think anybody ought to
ask—no, not princes; and I hope you won’t do
what Lord Cransford wants merely because
you’re asked.”
“Your father says I ought.”
“Papa wants you to do it very much.”
“And I should like to do what he wants.”
“I should like you to do what he wants, but
not because he wants it,” said Janet. af
Dale turned round to her and said abruptly,
“I’ll do it, if you want me to.”
Now this was flattering, and Janet could not
deny that it gave her pleasure; but she clung to
her principles.
“I don’t want it—in that sense,” she answered.
“I should be glad if it seemed to you a right
thing to do; but I should be sorry if you did it,
unless it did.” - |
“You will not let me do it for you?”
“No,” she answered, smiling.
“You have no pleasure in obedience?
“Oh, well, only in willing obedience,” said she,
with a smile. w
“It would be very willing—even eager.”
148 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“The motive would not be right. But how
absurd . I believe—”
“Well, what?”
“That you mean to do it, and are trying to kill
two birds with Ono stone.” §
“You don’t really think that, Miss Delane P”
“No, of course not. Only you were becoming
so serious.”
“May I not be serious?”
“It isn’t serious to offer to take important
steps, because it would please a girl.”
“Aren’t you rather contradicting yourself?
'You called that becoming serious just now.”
“If I am, it is a privilege we all have.”
66 girls, you mean? Well, you refuse to help
me P’
“Entirely.”
“Even to counteract Miss Smith’s illicit in-
fluence?”
“I shall trust to your own sense of propriety.”
Dale walked home, grievously puzzled. A
small matter may raise a great issue, and he felt,
perhaps without full reason, that he was at the
parting of the ways. “No more Kings No
more Priests l’” Or, “An Ode to H. R. H. the
Duke of Mercia on his Visit to Denborough’’
Dale ruefully admitted that there would be
ground for a charge of inconsistency. Some
would talk of conversion, some of tergiversation:
he could not make up his mind which accusation
would be the more odious. There was clearly
nothing for it but absolute neutrality; he must
refuse both requests. Janet would understand
why : of course she would, she must ; and even if
She did not, what was that to him? The throne
A. CHANGE OF AIR. 149
above politics!—that must be a mere sophism;
there could not be anything in that. No doubt
this young Prince was not morally responsible
for the evils, but he personified the system, and
T)ale could not bow the knee before him. If it
had been possible—and as he went, he began idly
to frame words for an ode of welcome. An idea
or two, a very happy turn, came into his head;
he knew exactly the tone to take, just how far to
go, just the mean that reconciles deference to in-
dependence. He had the whole thing mapped
out, before he recalled to himself the thought that
he was not going to write it at all, and as he en-
tered his own garden, he sighed at the necessary
relinquishing of a stately couplet. There was no
doubt that work of that class opened a new field,
a hitherto virgin soil, to his genius. It was a
great pity.
In the garden, to his surprise, he came on Arthur
Angell. “What brings you here, Arthur 2 " he
said. “Delighted to see you, though.”
Arthur explained that he had run down at
Nellie Fane's bidding. Nellie had written her
letter of warning about the Doctor's conspiracy,
but, having thus relieved her mind, had straight-
way forgotten all about her letter, and it had lain
unposted in her pocket for a week. Then she
found it, and sent Arthur off in haste to stop the
mischief. *
“It’s awfully kind of Nellie,” said Dale; “but
I don’t suppose it would have been of any use,
and anyhow, it's too late now.”
“Yes, so Phil told me.”
“A dirty trick, isn’t it?”
Well, I suppose it’s rather rough on you,”
150 A CHANGE OF AIR.
said Arthur, struggling between principles and
friendship, and entirely suppressing his own
privity to the said dirty trick.
“You’ll stay ?”
“I’ve got no clothes.”
“Oh, Wilson will see to that. Come in.”
Philip met them at the door.
“I’ve a message for you, Dale,” he said. “The
Mayor has been here.”
“And what may the Mayor want?”
“The Mayor came as an ambassador. He bore
a resolution from the Town Council, a unanimous
resolution (absente Johnstone owing to pressure
in the bookselling trade), begging you to accede
to the Lord-Lieutenant's request and write a
poem for the Duke.” --
“Hang the Town Councill” exclaimed Dale.
“I wonder why nobody will let me alone !”
Then he remembered that Miss Delane had
been almost Ostentatious in her determination to
let him alone. If he wrote, they could not say
that he had written to please her. But he was
not going to write. True, it would have been a
good revenge on the Doctor, and it would have
pleased—
“Shall you do the ode 2° asked Philip Hume.
“Certainly not,” answered Dale in a resolute
tone.
_A CHANGE OF AIR. 151
CHAPTER XVII.
DALE TRIES HIS HAND AT AN ODE.
DALE’s preoccupations with his new friends
had thrown on Philip Hume the necessity of
seeking society for himself, if he did not wish
to spend many solitary evenings at Littlehill.
The resources of Denborough were not very
great, and his dissipation generally took the
form of a quiet dinner, followed by a rubber of
whist, at Mount Pleasant. The Colonel and he
suited one another, and, even if Philip had been
less congenial in temper, the Colonel was often
too hard put to it for a fourth player, to be nice
in scrutinizing the attractions of any one who
could be trusted to answer a call and appreciate
the strategy of a long suit. Even with Philip's
help the rubber was not a brilliant one; for Tora
only played out of filial duty, and Sir Harry
came in to join, because it was better to be with
Tora over a whist-table than not to be with her
at all. That he thought so witnessed the inten-
sity of his devotion, for to play whist seemed to
Sir Harry to be going out of one's way to seek
trouble and perplexity of mind.
On the evening of Arthur Angell’s arrival,
the usual party had dined together and set to
work. Things were not going well. At dinner
152 A CHANGE OF AIR.
they had discussed the royal visit, and the Colonel
had been disgusted to find that his daughter,
unmindful of her, or rather his, principles, was
eager to see and, if it might be, to speak with
“ this young whippersnapper of a Prince.” The
Colonel could not understand such a state of
feeling, but Tora was firm. All the country
would be there in new frocks; she had ordered
a new frock, of which she expected great things,
and she meant to be there in it : it would not
do, she added, for the Duke to think that the
Radicals had no pretty girls on their side. The
Colonel impatiently turned to Sir Harry ; but
Sir Harry agreed with Tora, and even Philip
Hume announced his intention of Walking down
High Street to see, not the Prince of course, but
the people and the humors of the day.
“Really, Colonel,” he said, “I cannot miss the
Mayor.”
“Are we going to have a rubber or not ?”
asked the Colonel, with an air of patient weari-
IlêSS.
They sat down, Sir Harry being his host's
pa. Uner. Now, Sir Harry was, and felt himself
to be, in high favor, owing to his sound views on
the question of the day, and he was thinking of
anything in the world rather than the fall of the
cards. Consequently, his play was marked by
somewhat more than its ordinary atrociousness,
and the Colonel grew redder and redder as every
scheme he cherished was nipped in the bud by
his partner’s blunders. Tora and Philip held all
the cards, and their good fortune covered Tora’s
deficiency in skill, and made Philip's sound game
seem a brilliant. One,
A. CHANGE OF AIR. 153
At last the Colonel could bear it no longer.
He broke up the party, and challenged Philip to
a game of piquet. -
“At any rate one hasn’t a partner at piquet,”
he said. **
Sir Harry smiled, and followed Tora to the
drawing-room. With such rewards for bad play,
who would play well? He sat down by her and
watched her making spills. Presently he began
to make spills too. Tora looked at him. Sir
Harry made a very bad spill indeed, and held it
up with a sigh. *
“That's the sort of thing,” he said, “I have to
light my pipe with at home !”
“As you’ve been very good to-night,” answered
Tora, “I’ll give you some of mine to take with
you. Let me show you how to do them for
yourself.”
Then ensued trivialities which bear happening
better than they do recording, glances, and
touches, and affectations of stupidity on one side
and, impatience on the other, till love's ushers,
their part fulfilled, stand by to let their master
speak, and the hidden seriousness, which made
the trifles not trifling, leaps to Sudden light.
Before her lover's eager rush of words, his glorify-
ing of her, his self-depreciation, Tora was defence-
less, her raillery was gone, and she murmured
nothing but—
“You’re not stupid—you're not dull. Oh, how
can you!”
Before he set out for home, Philip Hume was
privileged to hear the fortunate issue, and to
wonder how much happiness two faces can manage
to proclaim. Kindly as the little family party
154 A CHANGE OF AIR.
took him into their confidence, he hastened away,
knowing that he had no place there. Such joys
were not for him, he thought, as he walked slowly
from the door, remembering how once he had
challenged impossibility, and laid his love at a
girl’s feet; and she too had for a moment forgot-
ten impossibility: and they were very happy—
for a moment; then they recollected—or had it
recollected for them—that they were victims of
civilization. And hence an end. (Philip recalled
this incident as he walked; he had not thought
of it for a long time, but the air of Denborough
seemed so full of love and love-making, that he
spared a sigh or two for himself. Well-born and
well-educated, he wrung from the world, by pain-
ful labor, some three or four hundred pounds a
year. It was enough if he had not been well-born
or well-educated; but his advantages turned to
disabilities, and he saw youth going or gone, and
the home and the love which had been so confi-
dently assumed as his lot, that even as a boy he
had joked and been joked about them, faded away
from his picture of the future, and he was only
kept from a sigh of self-pity by reminding him-
self of the ludicrous commonplaceness of his griev-
ance against fate. He knew men so situated by
dozens, and nobody thought them ill-used. No
more they were, he supposed; at least, it seemed
nobody’s fault, and, in view of sundry other sad
things in the world, not a matter to make a fuss
about.
He found Dale in high spirits : for Dale had
conceived a benevolent scheme, by which he was
to make two of his friends happy-–as happy as
Tora Smith and Harry Fulmer, the news of whom
A CHANGE OF AIR. 155
he heard with the distant interest to which Tora's
bygone hostility restricted him. He and Arthur
Angell had dined together, smoked together, and
drunk whisky and water together, and the flood-
gates of confidence had been opened; a thing prone
to occur under such circumstances, a thing that
seems then very natural, and r >rves any appear-
ance of strangeness f r inext morning’s cold medi-
tations. Dale had chanted Janet’s charms, and
Arthur had been emboldened to an antistrophe in
praise of Nellie Fane. It was a revelation to Dale
—a delightful revelation. I would be ideally
suitable, and it was his pleasure that the happy
issue should be forwarded by all legitimate means.
“Arthur's going to stay,” he said; “and I’ve
written to Nellie to tell her to come down with
her mother.”
« Ah 22
“Of course, I’ve said nothing about Arthur.
1’ve put it on the royal visit. She'd like to be
here for that anyhow; and when she's here, Arthur
must look Out for himself.”
“Why couldn’t he do it in London? They live
on the same pair of stairs,” objected Philip.
“Oh, London who the deuce could make love
in London?” asked Dale in narrow-minded igno-
rance. “People's faces are always dirty in
Tondon.”
Philip smiled, but this new plan seemed to him
a bad one. It was one of Dale's graces to be un-
conscious of most of his triumphs, and it had
evidently never struck him that Nellie's affections
would offer any obstacle to the scheme, or cause
her fatally to misinterpret what the scheme was.
“I don’t see,” said Philip, “that she is more
!
|
156 A CHANGE OF AIR.
likely to be captivated by our young friend here
than in London.”
“My dear fellow, he's at work there, and so is
she. Here they’ll have nothing else to do.”
While Dale chatted over his great idea, Philip
pondered, whether to interfere or not. He was
certain that Nellie had been fond, not of Arthur
Angell, but of Dale himself; he feared she would
think her invitation came from Dale's own heart,
not in favor to a friend, and he suspected the kind-
ness would end in pain. But, on the other hand,
affections change, and there is such a thing as
falling back on the good, when the better is out
of reach ; and, finally, there is a sound general
principle that where it is doubtful whether to hold
one’s tongue or not, one's tongue should be held.
Philip held his.
He shrugged his shoulders and said,
“If this goes on, a bachelor won’t be safe in
Denborough. What have you been doing?” and
he pointed at some scribbling which lay on the
table.
Dale flushed a little.
“Oh, I’ve just been trying my hand at that
little thing they want me to do—you know.”
“For the Radical meeting 2*
“No, no. For the Duke of Mercia’s visit.”
“Oh! So you’re going to do it !”
Dale assumed a candid yet judicial air.
“If I find I can say anything gracious and
becoming, without going back on my principles,
-Phil, I think I shall. Otherwise not.”
“I see, old fellow. Think you will be able?”
“I don’t intend to budge an inch from my true
position for anybody.”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 157
“Don’t be too hard on the Duke. He's a young
man.”
Dale became suspicious that he was being
treated with levity ; he looked annoyed, and
Philip hastened to add,
“My dear boy, write your poem, and never
mind what people tell you about your principles.
Why shouldn’t you write some verses to the
young man?”
“That’s what I say,” replied Dale eagerly.
“It doesn’t compromise me in the least. I think
you’re quite right, Phil.”
And he sat down again with a radiant expres-
S1OIl.
Philip lit his pipe, and drew his chair near the
fire, listening idly to the light scratchings of the
writing and the heavy scratchings of the eras-
UII’éS.
“You seem to scratch out a lot, Dale,” he re-
marked.
“A thing's no good,” said Dale, without turn-
ing round, “till you’ve scratched it all out twice
at least.”
“It’s a pity, then,” said Philip, pulling at his
pipe and looking into the fire, “that we aren’t
allowed to treat life like that.”
His words struck a chord in Dale's memory.
He started up, and repeated—
“The moving Finger writes, and having writ
Moves on, nor all your piety nor wit
Can lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.”
“And yet,” said Philip, stretching out a hand
to the flickering blaze, “we go on being pious and
Wise—some of us; and we go on crying—all of us.”
158 A CHANGE OF AIR.
CHAPTER XVIII.
D E L I L A H J O H. N S T O N E.
WHEN it became known to Mr. Delane that the
ode of welcome would be forthcoming, a fact
which, without being definitely announced, pres-
ently, made its way into general knowledge, he
felt that he owed Dale Bannister a good turn.
The young man was obviously annoyed and hurt
at the aspect of Alderman Johnstone's window,
and the Squire could not, moreover, conceal from
himself that the parade of the Alderman’s sand-
wich-men on the day of the royal visit would.
detract from the unanimity of loyalty and content-
ment with Queen and Constitution which he felt
Denborough ought to display. Finally, his wife
and his daughter were so strongly of opinion that
Something must be done, that he had no alterna-
tive but to try to do something. Intimidation
had failed: the Alderman entrenched himself be-
hind his lease; and Colonel Smith’s open triumph
was hardly needed to show the Squire that in this
matter he had been caught napping. Bribery of
a direct and pecuniary sort was apparently also
of no avail, and the Squire was driven to play his
last card at the cost of great violence to his own
feelings. A week before the great day, he sent
for the Mayor and was closeted with him for half
an hour. The Mayor came out from the confer-
A CHANGE OF AIR. 159
ence with an important air, and, on his way home,
stopped at Alderman Johnstone’s door. The
poems, placards, and posters were still promi-
nently displayed, and over the way, James
Roberts, in his well-worn coat, paced up and
down on his unwearying patrol. He would wait
days rather than miss Dale, in case the poet
might chance to pass that way. He had nothing
to do, for no one sent for him now. He had no
money, and could earn none : therefore his time
was his own, and he chose to spend it thus; for-
getting his wife and his child, forgetting even to
ask how it happened that there was still food and
fuel in his house, or to suspect what made him so
often see Philip Hume walk past with an inquir-
ing gaze, indifferently concealed, and so often
meet Dale's servant, Wilson, carrying baskets up
and down the street on his way to and from
Littlehill. -
The Mayor went in and fell into conversation
with Johnstone. He spoke of the glories of the
coming day, of his own new gown, and of Mrs.
Hedger's; and as he raised his voice in enthusi-
astic description, Mrs. Johnstone stole in from
the back parlor and stood within the door.
The Alderman affected scorn of the whole affair,
and chuckled maliciously when the Mayor re-
ferred to Dale Bannister.
“Then,” said the Mayor, “after the Institoot's
opened, there’s a grand luncheon at the Grange,
with the Duke, and his Lordship, and the Squire,
and all.” *
He paused: the Alderman whistled indifferently,
and his wife drew a step nearer. The Mayor
proceeded, bringing his finest rhetoric into play.
160 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“The Crown,” he said, “the County, and the
Town will be represented.”
“What, are you going, Hedger ?” asked the
Alderman, with an incredulous laugh.
“The Squire and Mrs. Delane are so good as
to make a point of me and Mrs. Hedger attendin’
—in state, Johnstone.” z
“My l’” said Mrs. Johnstone, moving a step
within the door. “That'll be a day for Susan.”
“His Lordship gives Susan his arm,” said the
Mayor.
“Ain’t there any more going from the town?”
asked Mrs. Johnstone, while the Alderman Os.
tentatiously occupied himself with one of his
posters. -
“The Squire,” replied the Mayor, “did want
another, there’s no room but for two, -but he
thinks there’s no one of sufficient standin’—not
as would go.”
“Well, I’m sure!” said Mrs. Johnstone.
“You see, ma'am,” pursued the Mayor, “we
must consider the lady. The lady must be asked.
Now would you ask Mrs. Maggs, or Mrs. Jenks,
or Mrs. Capper, or any o’ that lot, ma’am’”
“Sakes, no!” said Mrs. Johnstone scornfully.
“‘There is a lady,” I says to the Squire, “as
would do honor to the town, but there—the
man’s wrong there !”
Mrs. Johnstone came nearer still, glancing at
her husband.
“When I mentioned the party I was thinkin’
of,” the Mayor went on, “the Squire slapped his
thigh, and, says he, “The very man we want,
Bedger,’ he says: ‘all parties ought to be rep-
resented. He's a Liberal—a prominent Liberal—
A CHANGE OF AIR. 161
so much the better. Now, won’t he come 2'
“Well,”, says I, “he’s an obstinate man;' and
Mrs. Delane says, “You must try, Mr. Mayor.
Say what pleasure it 'ud give me to see him and
Mrs. Johnstone *-There, I’ve let it out !”
A pause followed. The Mayor drew a card
from his pocket. It was headed “To have the
nonor of meeting H. R. H. the Duke of Mercia.”
The Mayor laid it on the counter.
“There !” he said. “You must do as you
think right, Johnstone. Of course, if you like to
go on like this, worryin’ the Squire's friends,
why, it isn’t for you to put your legs under the
Squire's ma'ogany. So the Squire says. He says,
‘Let him drop that nonsense, and come and be
friendly—he may think what he likes.’”
There was another pause.
“There’ll have been nothin’ like it in my day,”
said the Mayor. “And only me and Susan from
the town l’”
“There’ll be plenty ready to go,” said Johnstone.
“Ay, that they will, but they won’t have the
askin'. Mrs. Delane says there ain’t a soul she'll
have, except me and Susan, and you and Mrs.
Johnstone. You see, ma'am, it isn’t every one
who can sit down with the county.”
The heart of Mrs. Johnstone was alight with
pride and exultation and longing. She looked at
ber husband and she looked at the Mayor.
“You and me and the Recorder ’ud drive up
in the coach,” said the Mayor, with the air of one
who regretfully pictures an impossible ideal;
“ and the ladies—Mrs. Hedger and you, ma'am
—was to follow in a carriage and pair with a
postilion—his Lordship ’ud send one for ye.”
id
162 A CEIANGE OF AIR.
“I’d wear my ruby velvet,” murmured Mrs.
Johnstone in the voice of soliloquy, “and my gold
earrings.”
“Well, I must be goin,” said the Mayor. “It’s
a cryin’ shame you won’t come, Johnstone.
What’s that mad feller Roberts to you?”
“A dirty villain as starves his wife l’ ejacu-
lated Mrs. Johnstone, with sudden violence.
The Alderman looked up with a start.
“Take a day to think it over,” said the Mayor.
“Take a day, ma’am’ ” and he disappeared with
a smile on his shrewd, good-tempered face.
There was silence for a moment after he went.
The Al erman sat in his chair, glancing at his
"wife out of the corner of his eye. Mrs. Johnstone
gazed fixedly at the shop-window. The Alderman
looked at her again : he was, he thought (with
much justice), a fine woman; she would look
well in the ruby velvet and the gold earrings,
and the swells would wonder where Old John-
stone picked up that strapping young woman—
for she was his junior by twenty years. The
Alderman sighed, and looked down again at his
poster.
Presently Mrs. Johnstone stole quietly towards
the window, the Alderman covertly watching
her. When she reached it, she threw a coquet-
tish glance over her shoulder at her elderly hus-
band: did she not know, as well as he, that she
was a fine young woman?
Then she began to take Dale Bannister’s
books out of their place, piling them behind the
counter, and to tear down the bills and placards.
The Alderman sat and watched her, till she had
finished her task. Then he rose and thundered,
, A CHANGE OF AIR. 163
* Put them things back, Sally. Do you 'ear
me? I ain’t going to be made a fool of.”
Probably Mrs. Johnstone was not so sure.
She burst into tears and flung her arms round
the Alderman's neck.
“There ! what’s there to cry about?” said he,
drawing her onto his knee.
While the Mayor was still in the shop, James
Roberts had gone home to his mid-day meal.
He ate it with good appetite, not knowing who
had paid for it, and not noticing his wife's terror
lest,he should ask her. After the meal, he went
to his study and read some of Dale's poetry, de-
claiming it loudly and with fury, while Ethel
listened with the horror that had begun to gain
on her increasing and increasing as she listened.
She was afraid of him now—afraid most for him,
but also for the child and herself ; and she
thanked Heaven every time he went out peace-
fully, and again when he came back unhurt.
It was about four when the Doctor took his
hat; and walked down the street to resume his
patrol. To his amazement, the window was bare,
the books gone, the placards and posters all torn
down. With an oath he rushed into the shop,
|and found the Alderman sitting behind a pile of
volumes, on the top of which lay an envelope
addressed to himself.
“What's the meaning of this?” gasped the
T]octor, and as he spoke the glass door which
led to the parlor opened a little way.
“It means, Doctor, that I’ve had enough of it.”
“Enough of it?” *
“Yes. Mr. Bannister ain’t done me any 'arm,
and I’m not going to fret him any more.”
164 A. CHANGE OF AIR.
“You scoundrel!” shrieked the maddened
man; “you thief! you took my money—you—”
“There's your books, and there in the envelope
you’ll find your 'undred pound. Take 'em and
get out.”
“So Bannister has been at you?” sneered
Roberts.
“I ain’t seen 'im.”
« Ah 22
He was quiet now, the cold fit was on him.
He took no notice of the books, but put the
envelope in his pocket and turned to go, saying,
“You think you can stop my revenge, you
pitiful fool; you’ll see.”
Johnstone gave himself a shake.
“I’m well out of that,” he said. “I b'lieve he’s
crazy. Sally, where are you?”
Sally came, and no doubt the Alderman gained
the reward of the righteous, in whose house
there is peace.
When the Squire received an acceptance of
his invitation from Alderman and Mrs. Johnstone,
he became more than ever convinced that every
Radical was at heart a snob. Perhaps it would
have been fair to remember that most of them
are husbands. Be that as it may, his scheme
had worked. The posters, the books, and the
sandwich-men were gone. There—was nothing
now to remind Denborough that it harbored a
revolutionist. What was more important still,
there was nothing to remind Dale Bannister of
the indiscretions of his past. He might now read
his ode, unblushing, in High Street, and no pla-
card would scream in ill-omened reminder—“No
more Kings!”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 165
CHAPTER XIX.
A W E L L-PA I D PO E. M.
AMore the quieter satisfactions of life must
be ranked. In a high place the peace of a man who
has made up nis mind. He is no longer weighing
perplexing possibilities, but having chosen his
path, feels that he has done all that can be done, and
that this conviction will enable him to bear with
patience the outcome of his determination, what-
ever it may be. Of course he is wrong, and if
misfortune comes, his philosophy will go to the
wall, but for the moment it seems as if fate can-
not harm him, because he has set his course and
bidden defiance to ID.
Dale had made up his mind to disregard cavil-
lers, not to write the Radical ditty, to write the
ode of welcome, and, lastly, to follow whither
his inclination led. And, on the top of these
comforting resolutions, came the removal of his
thorn in the flesh—Johnstone’s be-placarded shop-
window—and the glow of well-rewarded benevo-
lence with which he had witnessed Nellie Fane's
ill-concealed delight in her return to Littlehill
and Arthur Angell's openly declared pleasure in
greeting her. Dale began to think that he had
too easily allowed himself to be put out, and had
been false to his poetic temperament by taking
trifles hardly. He was jocund as he walked, and
166 A CHANGE OF AIR.
nature responded to his mood: the sun shone
bright and warm on him, and the spring air was
laden with pleasant hints of coming summer.
He wondered how and why, a few weeks ago, he
had nearly bidden a disgusted farewell to Market
Denborough.
Now, when a man sets out in such a mood,
being a young man, and a man, as they used to
say, of sensibility, next to anything may happen.
From his contented meditations on the happy
arrangement he had made for his friends, Dale's
thoughts travelled on to his own affairs. He
was going to the Grange, he was always going
to the Grange now, and he seemed always wel-
come there. Mrs. Delane was kind, the Squire
was effusive, and Janet— Bere his thoughts
became impossible to record in lowly prose.
The goddess had become flesh for him; still
stately and almost severe in her maiden reserve
to all others, as she had once been to him, now
for him she smiled and blushed, and would look,
and look away, and look again, and vainly sum-
mon her tamed pride to hide what her delight
proclaimed. It was sudden. Oh yes; anything
worth having was sudden, thought lucky Dale.
Fame had been sudden, wealth had been sudden.
Should not love be sudden too 2
“If I get a chance *-said Dale to himself, and
he smiled and struck at the weeds with his stick,
and hummed a tune. Anything might happen.
The Prince was due in three days, and already
flags and triumphal arches were beginning to
appear. It is to be hoped that the demand for
drugs was small, for Mr. Hedger was to be found
everywhere but behind his own counter, and
A CHANGE OF AIR. 167
Alderman Johnstone, having once taken the
plunge, was hardly less active in superintending
the preparations. The men who had carried
those obnoxious boards were now more worthily
earning their bread by driving in posts and nail-
ing up banners, and Dale saw that Denborough
was in earnest, and meant to make the reception
a notable testimony to its loyalty. He loitered
to watch the stir for a little while, for it was early
afternoon, and he must not arrive at the Grange
too soon, . Not even the ode itself, which he car.
ried in his pocket, could excuse an intrusion on
the Squire's mid-day repose. As he stood looking
on, he was accosted by Dr. Spink.
“I have just been to see Roberts,” he said.
“Is he ill P '' ---
“Yes. His wife sent for me. As you may
suppose, she would not have done so for nothing.”
“What's the matter?”
“I don’t like his state at all. He took no
notice of me, but lay on his bed, muttering to him-
self. I think he's a little touched here;” and
the doctor put a finger just under the brim of his
well-brushed hat.
“Poor chap!” said Dale. “I should like to go
and see him.”
Spink discouraged any such idea.
“You’re the very last person he ought to see.
I want him to go away.”
“Has he got any money?”
“Yes, I think so. His wife told me he had
now.”
“And won’t he go?”
“He says he must stay until after the 15th
168 A CHANGE OF AIR
(the 15th was the great day), “and then he will
go. That’s the only word I could get out of him.
I told his wife to let me know at once if there
was any change for the worse.”
“It’s hard on her, poor little woman,” said
Dale, passing on his way.
He found Tora Smith and Sir Harry at the
Grange. Rather to his surprise, Tora greeted
him with friendly cordiality, accepting his con-
gratulations very pleasantly. He had expected
her to show some resentment at his refusal to
write a song for her, but in Tora’s mind, songs
and poets, Liberal meetings, and even royal visits,
had been, for the time at least, relegated to a dis-
tant background of entire unimportance. Cap-
tain Ripley was there also, with the ill-used air
that he could not conceal, although he was con-
scious that it only aggravated his bad fortune.
He took his leave a very few minutes after Dale
arrived; for what pleasure was there in looking
on while everybody purred over Dale, and told
him his ode was the most magnificent tribute
ever paid to a youthful Prince? Dale, in his
heart, thought the same, so does a man love
what he creates, but he bore his compliments
with a graceful outward modesty.
The afternoon was so unseasonably fine—such
was the reason given—that Janet and he found
themselves walking in the garden, she talking
merrily of their preparations, he watching her
fine, clear-cut profile, and, as she turned to him
in talk, the gay dancing of her eyes,
“Your doing it,” she said, “just makes the
whole thing perfect. How can we thank you
enough, Mr. Bannister 2"
A CPLANGE OF AIR. e 169
“The Captain did not seem to care about my
verses,” Dale remarked, with a smile. -
Janet blushed a little, and gave him a sudden
glance—a glance that was a whole book of con-
fidences, telling what she never could have told
in words, what she never would have told at all,
did not the eyes sometimes outrun their mandate
and speak unbidden of the brain.
Dale smiled again—this time in triumph.
“You like them P” he asked softly, caressing
the little words with his musical, lingering tones.
“Oh yes, yes,” she said, looking at him once
more for a moment, and then hastily away.
“I’ll write you a volume twice as good, if—I
may.”
“Twice as good?” she echoed, with a laugh.
“Now, honestly, don't you think these perfect
yourself?”
“They are good—better than any I wrote
before ”—he paused to watch her face, and went
on in a lower voice—“I knew you; but I shall do
better, the more I know you and the better.”
Janet had no light answer ready now. Her
heart was beating, and she had much ado not to
bid him end her sweet, unbearable excitement.
They had reached the end of the terrace and
passed into the wood that skirted it to the west.
Suddenly she made a movement as if to turn and
go back.
“No, no,” he whispered in her ear; and as she
wavered, he caught her by the arm, and, with-
out words of asking or of doubt, drew her to him
and kissed her.
“My beauty, my queen, my love!” he whispered.
“You love me, you love me!”
170 A CHANGE OF AIR.
She drew back her head, straightening the
white column of her neck, while her hands held
his shoulders. “Ah, I would die for you!” she said.
Mrs. Delane was a , woman of penetration.
Though Janet told her nothing of what had
occurred,—for she and Dale agreed to let the
matter remain a secret till the impending
festivities were over, yet Mrs. Delane saw
something in her daughter's air which made
her that same evening express to the Squire her -
doleful conviction that the worst had happened.
“I shall say nothing to Janet,” she said, “till
she speaks to me. I can trust her absolutely. But
I am afraid of it, George. Poor Gerard Ripley !”
“My dear, I’m not going to break my heart
about Gerard Ripley. I think more of Jan.”
“Well, of course, so do I. And I don’t at all
like it. He's not—well, not our sort, as the young
people say.”
“Mary, you're talking slang. What's the matter
with him? The match will make Jan famous.”
“Well, well, I don’t like it, but you must have
it your way.”
“It’s not my may. It’s Jan’s way. Is she fond
of him P”
“Terribly, I'm afraid, poor child !”
The Squire became a little irritated at this per-
sistently sorrowful point of view.
* “Really, my dear, why shouldn't she be fond of
him f It's not a bad thing when people are going
to marry.”
“I wish I’d seen it in time to stop it.”
“On the whole, Mary, I’m rather glad you didn't,
I like the young fellow,”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 171
In this state of things—with the lady eagerly
consenting, and a father all but ready to urge her
on—well might Captain Ripley ride recklessly
home from Dirkham Grange, cursing the ways of
women and the folly of men, and promising him-
self to go to India and there be killed, to the end
that his tragic fate might bring a pang to Janet's
heart in future days. Well might he discover a
sudden recall, and return to his regiment, es-
caping the Denborough celebrations, and risking
offence in exalted quarters. So he went ; and
nobody at Denborough thought any more about
him—not even Janet, for joy swallows up pity,
and the best of humanity are allowed, without
reproach, to be selfish once or twice in life.
That same night, at dinner at Littlehill, Nellie
Fane thought Dale had never been so bright, so
brilliant, or so merry. Under his leadership, the
fun and mirth waxed fast and furious, till it
carried away her doubts and fears, and Angell’s
sore wonderings why she looked always at Dale
and never at him, and Philip's troubled forebod-
ings of sorrows no friendly hand could avert.
Dale's high spirits bore no check and suffered no
resistance, and there was a tumult in Littlehill,
such as had not been heard since its early in-
decorous days.
Suddenly, into this scene, followed hastily by
Wilson, there broke, hatless and cloakless, Ethel
Roberts, her face pale and her eyes wide with
fear. Running to Philip Hume, she cried,
“My husband He has gone, he has gone!
We cannot find him. He has gone, and taken
the pistol with him. What shall I do? Oh, what
Shall I do?”
172 A CHANGE OF AIR.
CHAPTER xx.
AN EVENING's END.
THE next morning, Roberts’ friends held an
anxious conférence. The Doctor, being left alone
while his wife went out on household affairs, had,
it seemed, risen from bed, dressed himself, and
left the house. He had taken a few pounds, part
of what Johnstone had returned to him, but no
luggage. Nothing was gone, except his revolver,
which had lain on the mantelpiece, his wife hav-
ing feared to take it away. In the absence of
other explanation, it seemed most probable that he
had suddenly determined to return to London, and
Dr. Spink thought London the best place to look
for him. Accordingly, Philip Hume at once started
in pursuit; for all felt, though none of them liked
to express the feeling, that Roberts was not in a
state in which he could safely be trusted to look
after himself. His wife was helpless with grief
and bewilderment, and kindly Mrs. Hodge deter-
mined to spend the day with her, and return to
Littlehill only late in the evening : thus at least
proper attention would be secured to the helpless
child and its hardly less helpless mother.
Not even these troubles could keep Dale from
the Grange, and after dinner, with an apology to
Nellie and Arthur, he announced his intention of
A. CEIANGE OF AIR. 173
strolling over, to ask the Squire at what point in
the proceedings his ode was to come. Nellie had
a letter to write, or said she had, and Arthur
Angell offered to bear Dale company part of the
way, with a cigar.
The two men set out together, and Arthur
did not leave his friend till they were at the
Grange drive. Then he sauntered back, humming
snatches of song between his puffs of smoke, and
rejoicing in the glory of a full moon. He had
almost reached the gate of Littlehill, when, to his
surprise, he saw, a few yards from him, a figure
that seemed familiar. He caught sight of it only
for a moment, for the trees then came between;
and yet he felt almost sure that the stealthily-
moving form was that of James Roberts. He
stood watching to see him again, but he did not ;
and, going into the house, he told Nellie what he
thought he had seen.
“Dr. Roberts going towards the Grangel” she
exclaimed. “You must be mistaken.”
“I don’t think so. It looked like him.”
Nellie was not inclined to think he could be
right, but she agreed that Arthur had better go
and tell Dr. Spink of his suspicions. Arthur went
off on his errand, and she sat by the fire alone.
Abandoning herself to reverie, she idly and
sadly reviewed the events of the days since her
return. How joyfully she had come! But it
had hardly been as good as she hoped. Dale
was very kind, when he was there. But why
did he leave her so much—leave her to Arthur
Angell? ...And ah, why did he go so much to the
Grange 2 It was all far pleasanter before he
came to Denborough, before he knew these great
174 A CHANGE OF AIR.
people—yes, and before this Dr. Roberts was there
to worry them. The thought of Roberts carried
her mind in a new direction. What a strange
man he was And his poor wife She could
not think why he had become so odd and so un-
friendly. Yet it was so. He seemed alsolutely
to hate Dale : she had seen him look at him so
fiercely. Dale had not ruined him ; he had ruined
himself. He was mad to blame Dale. Ah, wasn’t
he mad? She sat up suddenly in her chair.
What if Arthur were right 2 What if it were he?
Why was he going to the Grange 2 Dale was
*...* What was that they said about a pistol 2
, Ah—if-
Without another thought she rose, and as she
was, in her evening dress and thin shoes, she ran
out of the house and along the wooded road
towards the Grange. A terrible idea was goad-
ing her on. He was mad: he hated Dale: he had
a revolver with him. Oh, could she be in time?
They would wonder at her. What did that
matter P Her love, her lord was—or might be—
in danger. She pressed on, till she panted and
had to pause ; then, with breath but half-re-
covered, over rough and smooth ground, know-
ing no difference, she sped on her way.
Dale's talk with the Squire was not long; but
the Squire's daughter came to the door to bid
him good-night, and was easily persuaded to walk
a little way down the drive with him. She went
farther than she meant, as was natural enough;
for she was leaning on his arm, and he was tell-
ing her, in that caressing voice of his, that all his
life and heart and brain and power were hers.
and lavishing Sweet words on her.
A CHANGE OF AIR. 175
“I must go back, Dale,” she said. “They will
wonder what has become of me.”
“Not yet.” t
“Yes, I must.”
“Ah, my darling, how soon will it be when we
need never part 2 How soon? I mean how
long, till then Do you love me?”
“You know, Dale.”
“What was it you said the other day?—was it
only yesterday ?—that you would die for me?”
<< YeS.”
“Ah, Jan, my sweetest Jan, that you should
say that to me!” +
They said no more, but did not part yet. At
last, he suffered her to tear herself away.
“I shall run back through the shrubbery,” she
whispered.
“I Shall Wait.”
“Yes, wait. When I get in, I will show you a
light from my window. A good-night light, Dale.”
She sped away down a side-path, and Dale
leant against a tree, in the moonlight, fixing his
lovelorn eyes on the window.
As Janet turned down her path, she rushed, in
her rapid flight, against a man who stood there
in lurking.
Dale's side was to him, but he was watching
Dale, with a sneering smile on his lips. When she
saw him, she started back. In a moment he
seized her shoulder with one hand, and pressed a
pistol to her head.
“If you make a sound, I'll kill you,” he hissed.
“Don’t stir–don’t scream.”
She was paralyzed with surprise and fright,
It was Roberts, and—what did he mean?
176 A CHANGE OF AIR.
He pushed her slowly before him, the revolver
still at her head, till they reached the drive.
Dale's eyes were set on his mistress's window,
and their feet made no noise on the grass-edges
of the drive. Roberts gave a low laugh, and
whispered in her ear,
“He came to see you, did he 2 The traitorſ
Not a sound! Wait till he turns ! wait till he
turns ! I want him to see me. When he turns,
I shall shoot him.”
At last she understood. The madman meant
to kill Dale.
He would kill him, before Dale could defend
himself. She must warn him—at any cost, she
must warn him. If it cost her—
“Not a sound,” hissed Roberts. “A sound and
you are dead—your head blown to bits—blown to
bits l’” And again he laughed, but noiselessly.
It was her life against his. Ah, she must warn
him—she must cry out ! But the cold barrel
pressed against her temple, and the madman's
voice hissed in her ear—
“Blown to bits—blown to bits l’”
She couldn’t die, she couldn’t die!—not like
that—not blown to bits 1 Perhaps he would miss
—Dale might escape. She couldn’t die
He advanced a little nearer, keeping on the grass
edge and pushing her before him, still whispering
to her of death and its horrors, if she made a
sound. It was too horrible: she could not bear it.
Ah! he was measuring the distance. She must
cry out ! She opened her lips. Quick as thought,
he pressed the barrel to her head. She could not,
could not do it; and, with a groan, she sank, a
senseless heap, on the ground at his feet.
A CHANGE OF AIR. 177
Suddenly a shot rang out, and a woman’s cry.
Jale started from his reverie, to see a woman a
step or two from him; a woman, tottering, sway-
ing, falling forward on her face, as he rushed
to support her in his arms.
There was a shout of men's voices, and, follow-
ing on it, another report, and James Roberts fell
beside Janet Delane, his head, as he had said,
blown to bits: and two panting men, who had run
all the way from Denborough, were raising Janet
and looking if she were dead, and then laying her
down again and turning to where Nellie Fane lay
in lifeless quiet in Dale's arms.
“A minute sooner and we should have been
in time,” said Arthur Angell to Dr. Spink, as the
Doctor pushed Dale aside and knelt over Nellie.
And Dale, relieved, ran at all his speed to
where Janet lay and threw himself on his knees
beside her.
66 º love, open your eyes,” he cried.
2
178 A CHANGE OF AIR.
CEIAPTER XXI.
“THE othER GIRL DID.”
On the afternoon of the morrow, Philip Hume,
who, summoned by a telegram from by Dr.
Spink, had come down to Denborough the first
train he could catch, put on his hat, and, .
lighting his pipe, took a turn up and down the
road that ran by Littlehill. Since his coming he
had been in the house, and the house had seemed
almost to stifle him. He had a man’s feeling of
uselessness in the face of a sick room: he could
do nothing to help Nellie Fane in her struggle
for life; he only hindered the people who could
do something. Nor did he succeed much better
with those whose ailments were of the mind.
Arthur Angell sat in one roon, suspecting now
that, whether Nellie lived or died, his dearest
hopes were dead. Dale, in another room, strode
unresistingly to and fro, waiting for Wilson to
come back from the messages he kept sending
him on, now upstairs to Nellie's door, now down
the town to Ethel Roberts’, now, and most often,
to the Grange; and always Wilson, his forehead
wet and his legs weary, came back and said,
“Please, sir, there is no change.”
A. : CHANGE OF AIR. 179
Once Nellie had been conscious, had asked
“Is he safe P’’ and, receiving her answer, had
closed her eyes again. Ethel Roberts was in
no danger; the shock would pass. Of Janet
there came no news, save that she was alone with
her mother, and cried to be alone even from her
mother. James Roberts, in his frenzy, had
indeed wrought havoc, and Philip, as he walked
and smoked, vehemently, though silently, cursed
the ways of this world.
Presently Mrs. Hodge came out in her bonnet.
“Nellie is well looked after,” she said. “I am
going down to see how that poor little Roberts
is.”
Philip did not offer to go with the good woman.
He watched her heavy figure hastening down the
hill, wondering that she seemed almost happy
in her busy services of kindness. He could do
nothing but fret, and smoke, and try to keep
out of the way.
A smart brougham drove up. It stopped by .
him, and Tora Smith jumped out.
“How is she P’’ she cried.
“Spink thinks she will pull through,” answered
Philip ; “but of course she’s in great danger
Still.”
“May I go to her ?” asked Tora. s
“She sees no one,” he replied in surprise. ->
“Oh, I don’t mean to see her. I mean to stay
and help—to nurse her, you know.” *
“It is very kind of you: she has her mother
and a nurse.”
“Oh, won’t you let me?”
“It does not rest with me. But why should
you?”
180 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“I—I once thought such horrid things of her.
And—wasn’t it splendid?” i
Philip looked kindly at her.
“That will please her,” he said “and her
friends.” ---
“Mayn’t I help?”
“I tell you what : poor Mrs. Roberts has no
one but a hired nurse. Mrs. Hodge has run
down for a minute, but of course she can’t
leave her daughter long.”
“You mean I ought to go to her ?”
“One can’t even be kind in the way one likes
best,” said Philip.
“Well, I will. But I should have loved to be
with Miss Fane. I can’t tell you how I feel about
her. I think people who think evil things of
other peóple ought to be beaten, Mr. Hume.”
“Doubtless, but justice flags. You can’t ex-
pect me to beat you, Miss Smith.”
Tora smiled for a minute; then she wiped her
eyes again, and asked gravely,
“Are you never serious 2 ”
“Yes; I am serious now. Go to that poor
woman ; consider doing that in the light of a
beating.” *
“You’ll let Miss Fane know I–I-?”
“Yes; and Dale. What a terrible facer for
our celebrations, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes. Harry has ridden over to see Lord
Cransford about it. Mr. Delane wants the thing
put off, if possible.”
“Can you put off a Prince 2 But I suppose
he'll be only too glad not to be bored with it.”
“You know Janet is in a dreadful state 2 Poor
girl It must have been awful for her. The
A CHANGE OF AIR. 181
man had hold of her 1 Well, I shall go. Good-
bye. I shall run up here again to-morrow.”
The putting off of the Prince, in spite of
Philip's doubt of its constitutional possibility,
was managed: for the ceremony could hardly
take place without Mr. Delane’s presence, as he
had been the inspiring force of the whole move-
ment which had resulted in the Institute; and
Mr. Delane felt it utterly out of the question for
him to take any part in such festivities, in view
of the dreadful occurrence in his grounds and of
his daughter’s serious condition. The doctors,
indeed, told him that she had stood the shock
remarkably well; they would not have been sur-
prised to find her much worse. Her reason was
unshaken, and, after the first night anyhow,
the horror of the madman’s grip and voice had
left her. She did not, waking or sleeping, for
she slept sometimes,-dream that she was again
in his hands, face to face with death ; and Dr.
Spink congratulated the Squire and Mrs. Delane
on a good prospect of a total recovery. Yet
Mrs. Delane and the Squire were not altogether
comforted. For Janet lay from morning to even-
ing on her bed, almost motionless and very quiet,
whenever any one was in the room. She asked
once or twice after her fellow-sufferers, but,
except for that, and answering questions, she
never spoke but to say, g
“I think I could sleep if I were alone.”
Then Mrs. Delane would go away, trying to
believe the excuse.
There are not many of us who would feel
warranted in being very hard on a man who had
failed in such a trial as had befallen Janet Delane:
182 A CHANGE OF AIR. .
in a woman, failure would seem little other than
a necessary consequence of her sex. Death, Sud-
den, violent, and horrible, searches, the heart too
closely for any one to feel sure that his would be
found sound to the core—not risk of death, for
that most men will, on good cause and, even more
cheerfully, in good company, meet and face. It
is certainty that appals; and it had been certain
death that had awaited Janet’s first cry. And
yet she would not be comforted. - She had
stopped to think how certain it was ; then she
failed. The mistake was in stopping to think at
all. The other girl—the girl he did not love, but
who, surely, loved him with a love that was love
indeed—had not stopped to think whether the
bullet could or might or must hit her. She had
not cared which: it had been enough for her that
it might hit the man she loved, unless she stood
between to stop it, and she had stood between.
How could Janet excuse her cowardice by telling'
herself of the certainty of death, when, had she
not been a coward, she would never have stayed
to know whether death were certain or not? If
she ever could have deluded herself like that,
what the other girl did made it impossible. The
other girl—so she always thought of Nellie—
held up a mirror wherein Janet saw her own little-
ness. And yet he had loved her, not the other;
her life belonged to him, the other's did not; she
had proclaimed proudly, but an instant before
that she would die for him, and he had praised
her for saying it. He would know now what her
protestations were worth. He would be amused
to think that it was not Janet Delane—the Janet
who was always exhorting him to noble thoughts
A CHANGE OF AIR. 183
—who was proud in the pride of her race—not
she who had dared death for him ; but that other,
so far beneath her, whom she had not deigned to
think a rival. Ah, but why, why had she not
called? Surely God would have given her one
moment to be glad in, and that would have been
enough.
She sat up in bed, the coverings falling from
her, and her black hair streaming over her white
night-dress. Clasping her hands over her knees,
she looked before her out of the window. She
could see the tree where Dale had stood and the
'spot where she had fallen ; she could see the fresh
red gravel, put down to hide the stains, and the
gardener's rake, flung down where he had used it.
He must have gone to tea—gone to talk it all
over with his wife and his friends, to wonder why
Miss Janet had not called out, why she had left
it to the other girl, why she had fainted, while
the other had saved him. They would talk of
“poor Miss Janet,” and call the other a “rare
plucked 'un *—she knew their way. Nobody
would ever call her that—not her father again,
who used to boast that Janet, like all his house,
feared nothing but dishonor, and would make as
good a soldier as the son he had longed for in
vain. Her mother had come and called her “a
brave girl.” Why did people think there was
any good in lies? She meant it kindly, but it was
horrible to hear it. Lies are no use. Let them
call her a coward, if they wanted to speak the
truth. They all thought that. Dale thought it,
——Dale, who must be admiring that other girl’s
gallantry, and wondering why he had not loved
her, instead of loving a girl who talked big, and,
184 A CHANGE OF AIR.
when danger came, fainted—and stood by to see
him die.
Of course he could not go on loving her after
this. He would feel—everybody must feel—that
he owed his life to the girl who had saved him,
and must give it to her. Very likely he would
come and pretend to want her still. He would
think it right to do that, though it would really
be kinder just to let her drop. She would under-
stand. Nobody knew he had spoken to her;
perhaps nobody need: it would not seem so bad
to people who did not know she had promised to
be his wife. Not that it mattered much what
people thought. She knew what she was, and—
she must let him go, she must let him go. And
here, for the first time, she buried her head in
her pillow and sobbed.
Mrs. Delane came in.
“Why, Janet dearest, you’ve nothing over you!
You'll catch cold. What's the matter, darling?
Are you frightened?”
There it was 1 Everybody thought she was
frightened now.
“There is a message from Mr. Bannister, dar-
ling. He wants so much to see you, and the
doctor thinks it would do you no harm. Do you
think you could dress and see him?”
“He wants to see me?”
“Why, yes, dear. Of course, Jan. I know,
my dear.”
“To leave her and come and see me!”
“Miss Fane? Oh, she’s going on very well,
There’s no reason he shouldn’t come over here
You would like to see him, Jan 2 °
A CHANGE OF AIR. 18
“Tell him to go away—tell him to go to her—
tell him to leave me alone.”
“But, Jan dearest—”
“Oh, mamma, mamma, do leave me alone!”
Mrs. Delane went and told the messenger that
Miss Delane might see no one for a day or two;
she was still too agitated. Then she sought
her husband and told him of their daughter's
words.
“She must be a little queer still,” said the
Squire, with anxiety. “Don’t be worried, Mary.
º a strong girl, and she’ll soon throw it
O 2, & .'
But she could not throw it off—not that thought
which had burnt into her breast; and all night,
by the light of the moon, she sat and looked at
the tree and the fresh gravel, the spot where her
honor and her love had called on her, and called
IIl Valll.
186 A CHANGE OF AIR,
CHAPTER XXII.
..]
THE FITNESS OF THINGS.
1F anything could have consoled Market Den-
borough for the certain postponement and pos-
sible loss of the Duke of Mercia's visit, it would
have been the cause of these Calamities. Its
citizens were not more hard-hearted than other
people, and they bestowed much sympathy on
Nellie Fane, who, out of the competitors, was
easily elected the heroine of the incident; but
neither were they more impervious to the charms
of excitement, of gossip, and of notoriety. The
reporters and the artists, who had been told off
to describe and depict the scene of the royal visit,
did not abandon their journey, but substituted
sketches of the fatal spot, of the Grange, of Little-
hill, and of the actors in the tragedy; while inter-
views with the Mayor, and anybody else who
knew, or knew some one who knew about the
circumstances, or professed to do either, amply
supplied the place which the pageant and the
speeches had been destined to fill. And if the
occurrence excited such interest in the great
London papers, the broadsheets and columns of
the local journals were a sight to behold. The
circulation of the Standard went up by more
than a hundred; while the Chronicle announced,
A CHANGE OF AIR. 187
it must be admitted to a somewhat sceptical
world, that its weekly issue had exhausted three
editions, and could no longer be obtained at the
booksellers’ or the office. The assertion, how-
ever, being untested, passed, and every one
allowed that young Mingley’s detailed account
of Poor Roberts’ last words to Dale Bannister
before he fired were perfect in verisimilitude,
which, under the regrettable circumstance of
Mingley’s absence, and of no such words having
been uttered, was all that could be expected.
Mingley was puffed up, demanded a rise of
salary, got it, and married Polly Shipwright,
the young lady at the “Delane Arms.” So the
ill wind blew Mingley good. Yet the editor of
the Chronicle was not satisfied, and as a further
result of Mingley’s activity, he inserted an article
the following week, in which he referred, with
some parade of mystery, to the romantic character
of the affair. It was not only in fiction, he re-
marked, that love had opportunities for display-
ing itself in heroism, nor, it was to be earnestly
hoped, only in the brains of imaginative writers
that affection and gratitude found themselves
working together towards a joyful consumma-
tion. Denborough knew and admired its gifted
fellow-townsman, and Denborough had been a
witness of the grace and charm of the young
lady who had shed such lustre on her sex. Ac-
cordingly, Denborough waited the result with
some confidence. Into this personal side of the
matter the Standard did not try to follow its
rival. Mr. Delane controlled the Standard, and
he forbade any such attempt, on grounds of care-
ful generality. But the article in the Chronicle
188 A CHANGE OF AIR.
was quite enough ; it expressed what every one
had been thinking, and very soon the whole town
was expecting to hear, simultaneously, that Nellie
was out of danger, and that she had given her
hand to Dale Bannister. The theory was so
strongly and unhesitatingly accepted that the
two or three who, mainly out of a love of paradox,
put their heads on one side and asked how Miss
Delane came to be out in the garden with Dale
Bannister, were pooh-poohed and told that they
merely showed their ignorance of the usages of
society; whereupon they went home and grumbled-
to their wives, but were heard no more in public
places.
Dale Bannister flung the Chronicle down on
the table with a muttered oath, asking the
eternally-asked, never-to-be-answered question,
why people could not mind their own business,
—an unjust query in this case, for it is a reporter's
business to mind other people’s business. He
had just come down from his first interview with
Nellie. She was mending rapidly, and was now
conscious, although any reference to the events
of the fatal night was sternly forbidden; he was
not even allowed to thank the friend who,
happily, had only risked, not lost, her life for
him. He had whispered his joy at finding her
doing well, and she had pressed his hand in
answer; more than that vigilant attendants pre-
vented. Then he had come downstairs, picked
up the Chronicle in the hall, read the article, and
gone into the smoking-room, where he had found
Arthur Angell sitting by the fire, his hands deep
in his pockets and his shoulders up to his ears, a
picture of woe.
A CHANGE OF AIR. I89
“What infernal nonsense !” said Dale, with a
vexed laugh. “Do you see how this fellow dis-
poses of us, Arthur 2 ” ſº
“Yes, I saw,” said Arthur gloomily.
“I suppose they’re bound to say that. The
public loves romance.”
“I think it's very natural they shovd say
it. Why did she follow you? Why did she risk
her life? Why did she ask after you the first
moment she was conscious 2 ”
“No one but me was being murdered,” sug-
gested Dale, with a rather uneasy smile.
“We left her here. Why did she go out at
all ? But it's too plain. I saw it before I had
been here a day.”
“Saw what, man?” asked Dale, passing by
Arthur's questionable assertion.
“Why, that Nellie—you know. I don’t know
what you feel, but I know what she feels. It's
rough on me having me down—”
“I never thought of such a thing,” said Dale
quickly. §
“Oh, I suppose not; though how you diº. . .
—I say, now, before you came to Denborough,
didn't you?”
“I—I don’t think so. We were great friends.”
Arthur shook his head, and Dale poked the
little bit of fire in an impatient way.
“How damned crooked things go!” he
said.
Arthur rose and said in a decided tone,
“Well, I’m out of it. She saved your life, and
she’s in love with you. It seems to me your
duty's pretty plain. You must drop your other
fancy.”
190 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“My other fancy P” exclaimed Dale in horror.
Lived there a man who could call his love for
Janet a “fancy” 2
“You’d break her heart,” said, Arthur, who
thought of no one but his lady-love in his un-
selfish devotion.
It crossed Dale's mind to say that the situation
seemed to involve the breaking of one heart at
least, if Arthur were right; but he thought he
had no right to speak of Janet's feelings, well
as he knew them. He threw the poker down
with a clang.
“Take care—you’ll disturb her,” said Arthur.
This annoyed Dale.
“My good fellow,” he remarked, “we’re not all,
except you, entirely indifferent whether she lives
or dies. I might throw pokers about all day—
and I feel inclined to—without her hearing me
in the blue room.”
“Oh, I beg pardon,” said Arthur, turning to
the window and looking out.
He saw a stout man coming up the hill. It
was the Mayor of Denborough, and he was
evidently making for Littlehill. When he was
ushered into the smoking-room, he explained
that he had come to ask after Miss Fane's
progress.
“The town, Mr. Bannister, sir,” he said, “is
takin' a great interest in the young lady.” rº
“I am glad to say she has, we think, turned the
corner,” said Dale.
“That’s happy news for all—and you first of
all, sir.”
The Mayor might merely have meant that
Dale's feelings would be most acute, as Nellie had
\
A CHANGE OF AIR. 191
... received her wound in his service; but there was
a disconcerting twinkle in the Mayor's eye.
“Mrs. Roberts,” the Mayor continued, “is doin'
first-rate. After all, it’s a riddance for her, sir.
Have you any news from the Grange?”
“I hear there is no change in Miss Delane.
She still suffers from the shock.” t
“Poor young lady ? I hear the Captain's bac
at the Warren, sir.”
“What?”
“Captain Ripley, sir. Back at home.”
“Oh!” #
The Mayor was bursting with suppressed gossip
on this point also, but the atmosphere was most
repressive. He looked round in dispair for another
opening, and his eye fell on Arthur Angell.
“Seen the Chronicle, sir?” he asked. “That
Mingley’s a smart young chap. Still I don’t
'old—hold with all that talk about people. Did
you say you'd seen it, sir?”
“Yes, I’ve seen it. “It’s mostly lies.”
“He, hel” chuckled the Mayor. “You’re right,
sir.”
A long pause ensued before the Mayor very
reluctantly took his hat.
“I hope we shall see Miss Fane about soon, sir?”
he said.
“Oh I hope so. I think so, if nothing goes
wrong.”
“She must be proud and happy, that young
lady, sir. As I said to my daughters, says I,
‘Now girls, which of you is goin’ to save your young
man's life?’ And my wife Mrs. Hedger, sir, she
put in, “None of you, I'll be bound, if you don't—’”
192 A CHANGE OF AIR..
The anecdote was lost, for Dale interrupted,
“Let me see you as far as the gate,” and pushed
the Mayor's walking-stick into his hand.
Having got rid of the Mayor, Dale did not
hasten to return to Arthur Angell. At this mo-
ment, exasperated as he was, everything about
his friend annoyed him—his devotion, his unself-
ishness, his readiness to accept defeat himself,
his indiscreet zeal on behalf of his mistress. His
despair for himself, and his exhortation to Dale,
joined in manifesting that he neither possessed
himself nor could understand in another what
a real passion was. If he did or could, he would
never have used that word “fancy.” How could
people speak of friendship, or gratitude, or both
together, as if they were, or were in themselves
likely to lead to, love? You did not love a woman
because you esteemed her; if you loved her, you
might esteem her—or you might not ; anyhow,
you worshipped her. Yet these peddling Den-
borough folk were mapping out his course for
him. And Arthur Angell croaked about broken
hearts.
Suddenly a happy thought struck him, a thought
which went far to restore his equanimity. These
people, even that excellent Arthur, spoke in igno-
rance. At the most, they—those who knew any-
thing—supposed that he had a “fancy” for Janet.
They had no idea that his love had been offered
and accepted, that he was plighted to her by all
the bonds of honor and fidelity. This exacting
gratitude they harped upon might demand a
change of nascent inclinations; it would not re-
quire, nor even justify, broken promises, and the
flinging back of what a man had asked for and
A CHANGE OF AIR. 193
received. Dale's step grew more elastic and his
face brighter as he realized that, in reality, on a
Sane view of the position, duty and pleasure went
hand in hand, both pointing to the desired goal,
uniting to free him from any such self-sacrifice as
Arthur Angell had indicated. If Arthur were
right about Nellie's feelings, and if he had been
a free man, he might have felt some obligation on
him, or at least have chosen, to make the child
happy, but as it was—
“I must be just before I’m generous,” he said
to himself, and added, with a shamefaced laugh,
“And I happen to like justice best.”
At this moment a servant in the Grange livery
rode up, touching his hat, and handed him a note.
It was from Janet, though her writing was so
tremulous as to be scarcely recognizable. He tore
it open and read—
“You can never wish to see me again, but come once more.
It was not quite as bad as it seemed,—J.”
In bewilderment he turned to the man.
“Miss Delane sent this P’’
“Yes, sir.”
“Say I’ll come over to the Grange to-morrow
morning.”
The man rode off, and Dale stood, fingering and
staring at his note.
“What does the dear girl mean?” he asked.
“What wasn’t so bad? Why don’t I wish to see
her again? Has that ruffian driven her out of her
Senses?”
When Dr. Spink came that evening, Dale seized
the opportunity of sounding him. The Doctor
13
194 A CHANGE OF AIR.
laughed at the idea of any serious mental de-
rangement.
“Miss Delane's very much upset, of course,
very much, but her mind is as right as yours or
mine.”
“She’s got no delusions?”
“Oh dear, no. She’s nervous and overstrained,
that's all. She'll be all right in a few days.”
“Then,” said Dale to himself, as the Doctor
bustled off, “all I can say is that I don’t under-
stand women.”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 195
CHAPTER xxIII.
A M O R B I D S C R U P L E.
MRs. DELANE had ceased to struggle against the
inevitable, and she hailed her daughter’s desire
to see Dale Bannister as an encouraging sign of
a return to a normal state of mind. Strange as
Janet’s demeanor had been since that fearful
evening, there could not be anything seriously
wrong with her, when her wishes and impulses
ran in so natural a channel. Mrs. Delane re-
ceived Dale with an approach to enthusiasm, and
sent him up to the little boudoir where Janet was
with an affectionate haste which in itself almost
amounted to a recognition of his position.
“You must be gentle with her, please, Mr.
Bannister,” she said. “She wanted so much to
see for herself that you were really alive, that we
could not refuse to allow her, but the Doctor is
most strict in ordering that she should not be
excited.”
Tale promised to be careful, and went upstairs
without a word about the strange note he had
received; that was a matter between Janet and
himself.
Janet was sitting, propped up with cushions,
on a low chair, a l she waved Dale to a seat near
her. When, before sitting down, he came to her
196 A CHANGE OF AIR.
and kissed her, she did not repel his caress, but
received it silently, again motioning him to the
chair. Dale knelt down on the floor beside her.
“How pale you are, poor dear!” he said.
“And why do you write me such dreadful things?”
“I wanted,” she began in a low voice, “to tell
you, Dale, that I did try, that I really did try, to
call out.' I did not forsake you without trying.”
“What do you mean, darling 2 How have you
forsaken me?”
“When he caught hold of me, there was plenty
of time to call out. I might have warned you—I
might have warned you. I might have done
what she did. But I couldn’t. I tried, but I
couldn’t. I was afraid. He said he would blow
my head to bits. I was afraid, and I left her to
save you.”
“My dearest girl,” he said, taking her hand,
“you did the only thing. If you had cried out,
he would have murdered you first and me after-
wards; all the chambers of the revolver were
loaded. I would have died a thousand times
sooner than have one of your dear hairs roughened;
but, as it was, your death wouldn’t have saved
me.” *
She had looked at him for a moment as if with
sudden bope, but, as he finished, she shook her
head and said,
“I didn’t think anything about that. I was
just afraid, and I should have let you be killed.”
“My sweet, who ever expected you to condemn
yourself to certain death on the chance of saving
me? It would be monstrous !”
“She did it,” said Janet in low tones,
Dale paused for a minute.
A CHANGE OF AIR. 197
“She was not in his clutches,” he said. “He
might have missed her.”
“Ah, no, no l’” she broke out suddenly. “You
run down what she did to spare me! That's
Worst of all.”
“Why, Jan, I don’t say a word against her;
but there was a difference.”
“She thought of no difference. She only
thought of you. I thought of my own life.”
“Thank God if you did, dearest l”
“I’m glad you came. I wanted to tell you I
had tried.”
“I need nothing to make me love you more,
#. beauty and delight,” he said, pressing her to
im.
She looked at him with a sort of amazement,
making a faint effort to push him away.
“It was so lucky,” he went on, “that I didn’t
see you, or I should have rushed at him, and he
would most likely have killed you. As it was —”
He paused, for it seemed impossible to speak of
poor Nellie's hurt as a happy outcome.
“Come,” he resumed, “let’s think no more
about it. The wretched man is dead, and Nellie
Fane is getting better, and we—why, we, Jan,
have one another.”
With sudden impatience she rose, unlacing his
arms from about her.
“Who is She 2’” She cried. “Who is She 2
Why should she give her live for you? I loved
you, and I was afraid. She wasn’t afraid.”
Dale thought that he began to understand a
little better. Jealousy was a feeling he had read
about, and seen, and written about. If Jan were
jealous, he could undertake to reassure her
198 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“She’s a very old and good friend of mine,” he
said, “and it was just like her brave, unselfish
way to—”
“What had you done to make her love you
SO 2*
“My sweetest Jan, surely you can’t think I–’”
“Oh, no, no, no! I don’t mean that. I’m not
so mean as that.”
Dale wondered whether this passionate dis-
claimer of jealousy did not come in part from
self-delusion, though he saw that Janet made it
in all genuineness. l
“You have made her love you—oh, of course
you have Why did she follow you? why did
she come between you and the shot ? I loved
ou too, Dale. Ah! how I loved—how I thought
loved you! But her love was greater than
mine.”
“Come, Jan, come; you exaggerate. You must
be calm, dearest. Nellie and I are very fond of
one another, but—”
“You know she loves you—you know she loves
you to death.”
“My darling, I don’t know anything of the
sort. But supposing she did—well, I am very
sorry, very deeply grieved if she is unhappy;
but I don’t love her—or any other woman in the
world but you, Jan. If she had saved my life a
thousand times, it would make no difference.
You, Jan, you are the breath of my life and the
pulse of my blood.” ſº
He spoke with passion, for he was roused to
combat this strange idea that threatened all his
joy. As she stood before him, in her fairness
and distress, he forgot his searchings of heart,
A CHANGE OF AIR. 199
his tenderness for Nellie, everything, except that
she, and she alone, was the Woman to be his, and
neither another nor she herself should prevent it.
Looking at him, she read this, or some of it, in
his eyes, for she shrank back from him, and,
clasping her hands, moaned, -
“Don’t, don’t You must go to her—you be-
long to her. She saved you, not I. You are
hers, not mine.”
“Jam, this is madness She is nothing to me;
you are all the world.”
“You must despise me,” she said in a wonder-
ing way, “and yet you say that l”
“If I did despise you, still it would be true.
But I worship you.”
“I must not I must not! You must go to
her. She saved you. Leave me, Dale, and go
back.' You must not come again.”
He burst out in wrath.
“Now, by God, I will not leave you or let you
go! Mine you are, and mine you shall be?” and
he seized her by the wrist. She gave a startled
cry, that recalled him to gentleness.
“Did I frighten you, my beauty? But it is so,
and it must be. It is sweet of you to offer—to
make much of what she did, and little of your-
self. I love you more for it. But we have done
with that now. Come to me, Jan.”
“I can’t I can’t She would always be
between us; I should always see her between us.
Oh, Dale, how can you leave her?”
“I have never loved her. I have never prom-
ised her,” he replied sternly. “It is all a mere
delusion. A man's love is not to be turned by
folly like this.”
200 A CHANGE OF AIR.
- \
She answered nothing, and sank back in her
chair again. -
“If it's jealousy,” he went on, “it is unworthy
of you, and an insult to me. And if it’s not
jealousy, it's mere madness.”
“Can’t you understand P’’ she murmured.
“How can I take what is hers ?”
“I can take what is mine, and I will. You
gave yourself to me, and I will not let you
Still she said nothing, and he tried gentleness
On Ce IY1OI’e.
“Come, Jan, sweetest, you have made your
offering—your sweet, Quixotic self-sacrifice—and
it is not accepted | Say that’s my want of moral
altitude, if you like. So be it. I won’t sacrifice
myself.” -
“It’s for her to take, not for you. I offer it to
her, not to you.”
“But I don’t Offer it to her. Would She care
for such an offer? She may love me or not—I
don’t know, but if she does, she will not take my
hand without my heart.”
“You must love her. If you could love me,
how much more must you love her ?”
“You are mad!” he answered, almost roughly,
—“mad to say such a thing ! I know you love
me, and I will not listen to it. Do you hear 2 I
shall come back and see you again, and I will not
listen to this.”
She heard his imperious words with no sign but
a little shiver.
“There,” he went on, “you are still ill. I’ll
come back.” {
“No use,” she murmured. “I can’t, Dale.”
A' CHANGE OF AIR. 201
“But you will, and you shall!” he cried. “You
shall see—”
The door opened, and the nurse came in to for-
bid his further lingering. With a distant good-
bye, he left Janet motionless and pale, and, hasten-
ing downstairs, went to the Squire's room.
“I have come,” he said abruptly, “to ask your
sanction to my engagement with your daughter.”
The Squire laid down his book.
“I’m not much surprised,” he said, smiling.
“What does Jan say?”
Dale launched out into a history of the sweet
things Janet had said, and of the strange, wild
things she said now. The Squire heard of the
latter with raised eyebrows."
“Very odd,” he commented. “But it seems, my
dear fellow, that, for good reasons or bad, at
present she says No.”
“She said Yes; she can’t say No now,” declared
Dale. “Do you consent, Mr. Delane?”
“If she does, my dear fellow. But I can’t help
you in this matter.”
“I want no help. She is not in her senses now.
I shall make an end of this folly. I will not have
it.”
He went out as abruptly as he had rushed in,
leaving the Squire in some perplexity.
“A man of decision,” he commented; “and, al-
together, a couple of rather volcanic young people,
They must settle it between themselves.”
202 a CHANGE of AIR.
CHAPTER XXIV.
‘WHE EIGROINE OF THE INCIDENT,
Arrºw Dale's visit to the Grange, a few days
elapsed in a quiet that was far from peaceful.
Dale had gone to the Grange the next day, and
the day after that : the sight of Janet had been
denied to him. He was told that his visit had left
her very agitated and upset, and the doctor was
peremptory in forbidding any repetition of it.
He had sent her a note, and she had returned a
verbal message by her mother that she did not
feel equal to writing. Was it possible that she
meant to abide by her insane resolve to break off
their engagement 2
At Littlehill, things were hardly more happy.
Nellie was recovering, but very slowly, and she
also remained invisible. Arthur Angell mani-
fested all the symptoms of resentment and dis-
appointed love, and only Philip Hume's usual
placid cheerfulness redeemed the house from an
atmosphere of intolerable depression. Philip had
discovered a fund of amusement in the study of
Mrs. Hodge. As soon as that good lady's first
apprehensions were soothed, she was seized with
an immense and exuberant pride in her daughter,
which found expression both in her words and her
bearing. Though ignorant of the historical pre-
A CHANGE OF AIR. 203
cedent, she assumed the demeanor of a mother
of the Gracchi, and pointed out to all who would
listen to her—and Philip never thought of refusing
her this kindness—small incidents and traits of
character which had marked out Nellie from her
very cradle as one of heroic mould and dauntless
courage.
“I should be astonished, if I did not know her
mother,” said Philip politely.
“Ah, you must be chaffing, of course. But it’s
not me she takes it from. My heart goes pit-a-pat
at a mouse.”
“Oh, then it's Mr. Hodge.”
“You couldn’t,” said Mrs. Hodge, with emphasis,
“ catch Hodge at a loss. He was ready for any-
thing. H 'd have been proud to see Nellie to-day.
Look what the papers are saying of her l’”
“I’m sure she deserves it all.”
“Ay, that she does: she deserves all Dale
Bannister can do for her.”
Phili scented danger in this topic, and changed
the subject. y #
“When are we to see her ?” he asked.
“In a day or two, I expect. She's much better
this morning. She's asked to see the papers, and
I’m going to take her the Chronicle.”
“How delightful to read of one’s heroic actions !
I have never enjoyed the sensation.”
“Nor ever will, young man, if you spend all
our time loafing,” said Mrs. Hodge incisively.
“Well, there must be some ordinary people,”
rotested Philip. “The rôle is unappreciated, so
t’s the more creditable in me to stick to it.”
“A parcel of nonsense ! Where's that paper?”
She tool: it, went upstairs, and gave it to Nellie.
{
204 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“There, read that. See what they say about
you, my dearie. I’m going to see little Roberts,
and I shall be back in an hour. You’ve got the
bell by you, and the nurse’ll hear you.”
Nellie, left alone, began to read the Chronicle.
She read the whole account from beginning to
end, the article in praise of her, and, in the later
edition, the editor’s romantic forecast. Then she
put the papers aside, exclaiming, “Oh, if it could
be true!” and lay back with closed eyes.
A few days later, she made her first appearance
in the drawing-room, where she held a little
court. Her mother hung over all, anticipating
far more wants than the patient was likely to
feel, and, by constant anxious questions, almost
producing the fatigue she wished to guard against.
Tora Smith was there, in a state of gleeful adora-
tion ; and Arthur Angell, his sorrows temporarily
laid aside, ready with a mock heroic ode ; and
Philip Hume, new come from Mrs. Roberts’ with
good news and a high eulogy on Dr. Spink's most
marked and assiduous attention.
“I really believe,” he said, with a laugh, “that
Mrs. Roberts will have another chance of being
a Denborough doctor’s wife, if she likes.”
“That would be an ideal ending,” said Tora.
“Therefore it will not happen,” Arthur re-
marked.
“Poets are allowed to be pessimistic,” rejoined
Tora. “But you’re wrong, Mr. Angell. Ideal
things do happen.” *
“To Sir Harry Fulmer, for instance,” put in
Philip.
“Nonsense, Mr. Hume ! I wasn’t thinking of
that. Don’t you agree with me, Nellie?”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 205
“Nellie has made an ideal thing happen,” said
Philip, and Nellie blushed.
“Thanks, Phil,” said Dale. “It’s compliment-
ary to describe the prolongation of my poor
existence in that way.”
“The deed is good, however unworthy the
object, Dale.”
Dale took Nellie's hand and patted it gently.
“Good child,” he said, and Nellie flushed again
with an almost strange intensity of embarrass-
ment. Tora rose abruptly, and, in spite of
opposition, insisted on departure. Dale escorted
her to her carriage.
“I have asked Nellie to come and stay with
me,” said she, “as soon as she is well enough to
move.” *-
“She will like that. I hope she is going?”
“She said,” Tora went on, speaking with
emphasis, “that she would ask you.”
Dale made a little gesture of protest, partly
against Nellie's reported saying, more against
t' reporter’s inquiring gaze. He began to be
astonished at the interest he was so unfortunate
as to inspire in his affairs.
“I shall advise her to go,” he said. “I think
a change will be good for her.” t
“Iincline to think so too,” said Tora, with Sud-
den coldness; “but I thought you might not like
to part with her.”
“Mount Pleasant is not inaccessible,” responded
Dale, with equal coldness. Returning to the
house, he found Nellie gone, the company dis-
persed, and Mrs. Hodge in his smoking-room,
apparently expecting hi .
“Well, mother,” he said, he had used to call
206 A CHANGE OF AIR.
her “mother ” when he was always running in
and out of her house in London,-‘‘Nellie looks
quite blooming.”
“She’s mending nicely.”
“I hear she's to go to the Smiths.”
“Well, I thought of taking her to Brighton.”
“Oh, it will be more amusing at the Smiths';
unless, of course, she needs the sea.”
“She thought, or I thought rather, that you
might like to come with us for a while P’’ said
Mrs. Hodge in a tentative tone.
“I can’t get away,” answered Dale decisively.
Nothing would have taken him away from the
Grange gates.
Mrs. Hodge took her courage in both hands.
“Ilook here, Dale,” she said. “You know I’m
not one of those women that lay hold of a man if
he as much as looks at a girl, and asks him what
he means by it. That's not my way. Hodge
used to say girls could take care of themselves
mostly—p’r'aps he wasn’t far out. But Nellie's
not that sort, and her father's gone, good man,
and”—and the excellent lady came to a full stop.
Dale loved this honest old woman for long
acquaintance' sake and much kindness. He laid
his hand on her shoulder and said,
“It’s a sad world, mother.”
“The child’s fond of you, Dale. She's shown
that.”
“I’m a crossed lover too, mother. We can only
weep together.” \
“What, you mean that Grange girl?” asked
Mrs. Hodge, her love for her own making her
tone tart.
“Yes, that Grange girl,” answered Dale, with
A CHANGE OF AIR. 207
a rueful smile. “And just at present that
Grange girl won’t have anything to say to me.”
Mrs. Hodge pressed his hand and whispered,
“Don’t you tell Nellie what I say, but let her
go, dearie, and take my girl. She's sick for you,
Dale, though she'd kill me if she heard me say it.”
“Ay, but I’m sick for the Grange girl, mother.”
“You don’t take it ill of me, Dale 2 But there !
a kind word from you is more than the doctors to
her. She’d say nothing of what she's done, and
I say nothing, but she's a good girl, and a pretty
irl.”
“That she is, and she deserves a better man
than I am.” !
“Well, there it is Talking mends no holes,”
said Mrs. Hodge, with a heavy sigh. Then she
added, in an outburst of impatience,
“Why did you ever come to this miserable
little place?”
Dale raised inquiring hands to heaven and
shrugged his shoulders.
“What they call fate, mother,” said he. “Come,
cheer up. She’ll get over this little idea. She’ll
be all right.” {
“Please God,” said Mrs. Hodge. “It’s time for
her beef-tea.”
The phrase, Please God, is as a ruſe expressive
of the speaker’s desire, but not of his expectation.
So it was with Mrs. Hodge, but Dale could not
bring himself to take so gloomy a view. A man’s
own passion assumes a most imposing appearance
of permanence, but he finds it easy to look with in-
credulity on a like assumption in the feelings of
others. He had keen sympathy for Nellie in the
moment or the period of pain which seemed to lie
208. A CHANGE OF AIR.
\
before her, but experience told him that all prob-
abilities were in favor of her escaping from it at
no distant time. Love like his for Janet—and,
till this unhappy day, he would have added, Janet’s
for him—was exceptional ; change, recovery,
oblivion,-these were the rule—the happy rule
whose operation smoothed love's rough ways.
Nevertheless, be this wide philosophical view
as just as it might, the present position came
nigh to being intolerable, and it was hard to
blame him if he looked forward to Nellie's de-
parture with relief. Her presence accused him
of cruelty, for it seems cruel to refuse what would
give happiness, and it increased every day it con-
tinued the misunderstanding which already ex-
isted as to their future relations. Even now, in
spite of Janet's protest, Dale was convinced he
had detected an undercurrent of jealousy,
flowing in to reinforce the stream of that higher,
but stranger and wilder feeling which had made
her drive him away. If she heard that Nellie
remained at his house, and what conclusion was
universally drawn from the fact, he was afraid
that, when restored health carried away the
morbid idea which was now most prominent, the
jealousy might remain, and, if it did, Janet's
proud nature was ground on which it would bear
fruit bitter for him to taste.
He could not and did not for a moment blame
Mrs. Hodge for her action. It was the natural
outcome of her love, and she had performed her
difficult task, as it seemed to him, with a perfect,
observance of all the essential marks of good.
breeding, however homely her method had been.
But she could not understand even his love for:
A CHANGE OF AIR. 209
Janet, much less another feeling in him, which
aided to make her intercession vain. For he did
not deny now that, besides the joy he had in
Janet as a woman merely, there was also the satis-
faction he derived from the fact that she was Miss
Delane of Dirkham Grange. Fools and would-be
cynics might dismiss this as snobbery; But Dale
told himself that he was right andwise in clinging
to the place in this new world which his sojourn
at Denborough had opened to him, and which a
marriage with Janet would secure for him in per.
petuity. Setting aside altogether questions of
sentiment, he felt it useless not to recognize that, if
he married Nellie Fane, he would drift back into
his old World, the gates would close again, and the
fresh realms of life and experience, which had de-
lighted his taste and stimulated his genius, would
be his to wander in no more. He had grown to
love this world, this old world so new to him; and
he loved Janet not least because all about her, her
face, her speech, her motions, her every air, were
redolent to him of its assured distinction and un-
boastful pride. Nay, even these fantastic scruples
of hers were but a distortion of a noble instinct
born in her blood, and witnessed to a nature and
qualities that he could look for only in the shadect
some such place as Dirkham Grange. He felt as if
he too belonged to her race, and had been all his
life an exile from his native land, whither at last a
happy chance had led back his wandering feet.
What would dear old Mother Hodge understand
of all that ? What even would Nellie herself, for
all her ready sympathies? It was a feeling that,
not vulgar in itself, seemed to become vulgar in
the fing; and, after all, he had no need of
l ; :
* *
cº * v
210 A CHANGE OF AIR.
other justification than his love and his pledged
word.
He looked out of the window and saw Arthur
Angell walking moodily up and down. Putting
on his hat, he joined him, passing his arm through
his. , Arthur turned to him with a petulant look.
“A lot of miserables we are, old boy,” said Dale,
pressing the arm he held. “I am often tempted
to regret, Arthur, that the State has not charged
itself with the control of marriages. It would
relieve us all of a large amount of trouble, and I
really don’t see that it would hurt any one except
novelists. I am feeling badly in need of a benevo-
lent despotism.” * *
“I’m going back to town,” Arthur announced
abruptly. .
“I’m very sorry. But I don’t know that it's
any use asking you to stay. Nellie goes to the
Smiths in a day or two—” ſº
“It makes no difference to me where she goes,”
interrupted the unhappy young man. “I—I
mean—”
“I know what you mean.”
Philip came up, and glanced keenly at Arthur.
Then he smiled good-humoredly and said,
“Shall I prophesy unto you?”
“No,” said Arthur. “I know you’re going to
say it’ll be all the same six months hence.”
“I was. I can’t deny it, Arthur. You forget
that I have seen you like this many times before.'
We may have a tragedy or we may not, Arthur,
but I shall take leave to eliminate you from the
cast.” }
“I’m going to päck,” said Arthur angrily, and
he went into the house.
*
A CHANGE OF AIR. 21.1
“When there are real troubles about,” said
Philip, “it is well to clear the ground. There's
not much the matter with him.”
“I think he feels it rather, you know.”
“Oh yes; it’s worth a set of verses.”
“I’m glad to hear it’s no worse: for, to tell you
the truth, Phil, there’s enough to worry about
without Arthur. I’m glad our party is breaking
22
up. Why?”
“We know too much about one another to live
together comfortably.”
“True. Shall I go?”
“No,” said Dale, with a smile; “you may stay
and keep Watch over the razors.”
212 A CHANGE OF AIR.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE SCENE OF THE OUTRAGE.
THE excitement and bustle which attended,
and followed on the attempted murder, the
suicide, the inquest, the illnesses, and the true
and false reports concerning each and all of these
incidents, had hardly subsided, before the Mayor
of Market Denborough, with the perseverance
that distinguished him, began once more to give
his attention to the royal visit. For reasons
which will be apparent to all who study the
manner in which one man becomes a knight,
while another remains unhonored, the Mayor
was particularly anxious that the Institute should
not lose the éclai, which the Duke of Mercia had
promised to bestow on its opening, and that its
opening should take place during his mayoralty.
The finger of fame pointed at Mr. Maggs the
horse-dealer as Mr. Hedger's successor, and the
idea of the waters of the fountain of honor flow-
ing on to the head of Maggs, instead of on to
his own, spurred the Mayor to keen exertion.
He had interviews with the Squire, he wrote
to the Lord-Lieutenant, he promoted a petition
from the burgesses, and he carried a resolu-
tion in the Town Council. Mr. Delane was
prevailed upon to use his influence with the
A CHANGE OF ATR. 213 -
Lord-Lieutenant; the Lord-Lieutenant could not,
in view of Mr. Delane's urgent appeal, refuse to
lay the question before His Royal Highness; and
His Royal Highness was graciously pleased to say
that he could not deny himself the pleasure of
obliging Lord Cransford, knowing not that he
was in fact and in truth, if it may be spoken
without lese-majesté, merely an instrument in the
clever fingers of a gentleman who, when the
Prince was writing his reply, was rolling pills in
the parlor behind his shop in the town of Market
Tenborough.
Now, Colonel Smith had never concealed his
opinion that, however much evil that unhappy
man James Roberts had to answer for, yet he
deserved a scrap of grateful memory, inasmuch
as he had by his action averted the calamity
that was threatening the town, and, furthermore,
robbed Dale Bannister of the chance of prosti-
tuting his genius. Accordingly, when it was
announced in the Standard, three or four weeks
after James Roberts had shot at Dale Bannister
and Wounded Nellie Fane, that the Duke had
given a conditional promise to pay his deferred
visit in June, the Colonel laid down the paper
and said to the rest of the breakfast-party at
Mount Pleasant—and the Colonel must bear the
responsibility for the terms he thought proper to
employ—
“That Old fool Cransford has nobbled the
whipperSnapper again! We’re to have him after
all ! Good Lord l’”
Tora at once appreciated his meaning.
“Papa means the Prince is coming, Nellie!”
cried she, “How splendid l’’
214 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“Bannister will have a chance of blacking his
boots now,” pursued the Colonel, trying to impose
a malignant sneer on his obstinately kindly
COuntenance.
“You are not to say such, things,” said Nellie
emphatically. “You know you don’t mean
them.”
“Not mean them?” exclaimed the Colonel.
“No. You're not horrid, and it’s no use trying
to make yourself horrid. Is it, Tora 2°
Tora's thoughts were far away.
“In June,” she said meditatively. “I hope it
Won’t be the first week, or we shall have to come
back early.”
The Colonel’s face expressed concentrated
SCOTI].
“You would cut short your honeymoon in
Order to come back?”
“Of course, dear. I wouldn’t miss it. Oh,
and, Nellie, I shall go in next after Lady Crans-
ford l’” t
This was too much for the Colonel; he said
nothing himself, but his joy was great when Sir
Harry pointed out that Mrs. Hedger would have
official precedence over the new Lady Fulmer.
The Colonel chuckled, and Tora pretended that
she had remembered about Mrs. Hedger all the
time. -
“Johnstone will probably take you in, Tora,”
said Sir Harry, who had lately found himself able
to treat Tora with less fearful respect.
“I don’t care. I shall talk to the Prince,
Now, Nellie, you must come down for it.”
Nellie would not give any promise, and Tora
forbore to press her, for she confessed to herself
A CHANGE OF AIR. 215
and to Sir Harry that she did not quite under-
stand the position of affairs. Janet Delane re-
mained in strict seclusion; doctor’s orders were
alleged, but Tora was inclined to be sceptical, for
she had seen Janet out driving, and reported that
she looked strong and well. Dale was at Little-
hill, and he was there alone, Philip having gone
back to London with Arthur Angell. He often
came over to Mount Pleasant, to see Nellie, no
doubt ; and when he came, he was most attentive
and kind to her. Yet he resolutely refused to
stay in the house, always returning in an hour or
two to his solitary life at Littlehill. He seemed
never to see Janet, and to know not much more
about her than the rest of the world did. He
never referred to her unquestioned, and when he
spoke of Nellie's share in the scene in the garden,
he appeared pointedly to avoid discussing Janet's
Tora concluded that there was some break in his
relations with Janet, and, led on by her sym-
pathies, had small difficulty in persuading herself
that he was by degrees being induced by affection
and gratitude to feel towards Nellie as everybody
expected and wished him to feel. Only, if so, it
was hard to see why Nellie's pleasure in his visits
seemed mingled with a nervousness which the
increased brightness of her prospects did not allay.
Evidently she also was puzzled by Janet's con-
duct; and it was equally clear that she did not
yet feel confident that Dale had renounced his
fancy for Janet and given his heart to her.
In after-days, Dale was wont to declare that
the fortnight he passed alone at Littlehill was
the most miserable in his life, and people given
to improving the occasion would then tell him
236 A CHANGE OF AIR... .
that he had no experience of what real misery
was. Yet he was very miserable. He was sore
to the heart at Janet's treatment of him; she
would neither see him, nor, till he absolutely
insisted, write to him, and then she sent three
words—“It’s no use.” In face of this incredible
delusion of hers, he felt himself helpless; and
the Squire, with all the good-will in the world to
him, could only shrug his shoulders and say that
Jan was a strange girl; while Mrs. Delane,
knowing nothing of the cause of her daughter's
refusal to see Dale, had once again begun to
revive her old hopes, and allowed herself to hint
at them to her favorite Gerard Ripley. Of
course this latter fact was not known to Dale, but
he was aware that Captain Ripley had called two
or three times at the Grange, and had seen Janet
once. The “doctor’s orders” applied, it seemed,
to him alone; and his bitterness of heart increased,
mingling with growing impatience and resent-
ment. Nellie could never have acted like this :
she was too kind and gentle, love was real in her,
a mastering power, and not itself the plaything
of fantastic scruples—unless a worse thing were
true, unless the scruples themselves were the
screen of some unlooked-for and sudden infidelity
of heart. The thought was treason, but he could
not stifle it. Yet, even while it possessed him,
while he told himself that he had now full right
to transfer his allegiance, that no one could blame
him, that every motive urged him, all the while
in his inmost mind he never lost the knowledge
that it was Janet he wanted; and when he came
to see Nellie, he was unable, even if he had been
willing, and he told himself he was, to say
A CHANGE OF AIR. £7
anything but words of friendship and tâ...anks,
unable to frame a sentence distantly approaching
the phrases of love he knew she longed to near.
Matters were in this very unsatisfactory con-
dition when Philip Hume returned to Littlehill,
and straightway became the unwilling recipient
of Dale's troubled confidences. A fortnight's
solitude had been too much for Dale, and he
poured out his perplexities, saying, with an apol-
ogetic laugh,
“I’m bound to tell some one. I believe, if you
hadn’t come, I should have made a clean breast
of it to the Mayor.”
“You might do worse. The Mayor is a man
of sagacity. This young woman seems very un-
reasonable.”
“What young woman?”
“Why, Miss Delane.”
“Well, Phil, you must allow for the delicacy
of her—” *
“You called it infernal nonsense yourself just
now.”
“I wish, Phil, you’d call at the Grange, and see
her, and tell me what you think about her.”
“I can’t do any good, but I’ll go, if you like.”
Accordingly, he went, and did, as he expected,
no good at all. Janet had resumed her ordinary
manner, with an additional touch or two of vi-
vacity and loquaciousness, which betrayed the
uneasiness they were meant to hide. The ºnly
subject she discussed were the last new novel and
Tora Smith's wedding, and Philip took his leave,
entirely unenlightened. The Squire offered to
walk part of the way with him, and they set out
together,
218 A CHANGE OF AIR.
The Squire stopped at the scene of the disaster.
Pointing with his toe to a spot by the side of the
drive—
“That's where that mad wretch stood, holding
my poor girl,” he said.
Philip nodded.
“And where was Dale P’’ he asked, for it was
his first visit to the spot.
The Squire was delighted to be cicerone.
“He was standing with his back to that tree
yonder, about fifteen yards off, looking due north,
towards the house, thinking of a poem or Some
nonsense, I suppose.”
“I shouldn’t Wonder.”
“Well, then,” pursued the Squire, “you see
he was almost in a straight line with Roberts—
Roberts’ barrel must have pointed straight to-
wards. Denborough church spire. After the first
\
shot, Bannister sprang forward—the gravel was
soft, and we saw every footprint—to where Miss
Fane fell, and—” wº
4. Where did She fall ?”
The Squire's toe indicated a spot about three
yards from the tree.
“She was running up from behind Bannister,
you know, and had just got across the line of fire,
when the bullet caught her. She fell forward on
ther face,—she was bound to, Spink said, from the
way she was hit, and Bannister just got his
arm under her, to break her fall.”
“She was running towards him, I suppose, to
Warn him?”
“To get between him and Roberts, like the
noble girl she is, no doubt; but she seemed to
have turned round on hearing the shot, because,
A CHANGE OF AIR. 219
to judge from the way she was lying, she was, at
the moment she fell, heading almost south.”
“What, towards the house?”
“Yes, in a slanting line, from the tree towards
the house.”
“That’s away from Bannister ?”
“Yes, and from Roberts too. You see she
must have turned. It was a fine thing. Well,
I must get back; I'm busy with all the prepara-
tions for this affair. Good-day, Mr. Hume.
(Very kind of you to come and see us.”
“I’m so glad to find Miss Delane better.”
“Yes, she's better, thanks, but not herself yet,
by any means. Good-day.”
Philip went home, lit a pipe, and drew a neat
little plan of the scene which had just been so
carefully described to him. By the time the
drawing was made, the pipe was finished, and
he was obliged to light another, which he con-
sumed while he sat gazing at his handiwork.
He was still pondering over it, when Dale came
in, and flung himself into an arm-chair with a
restless sigh.
“What's up now 2° asked Philip.
“Only that I’m the most miserable dog alive.
I tell you what, Phil, I’m going to settle this affair
one way or the other. I won’t be played with any
more. I shall go up to the Grange to-morrow.”
“You can't—it's Fulmer's wedding.”
“Hang his wedding! Well, then, next day—
and get a definite answer from Janet.” It’s too
bad of her. Did you have any talk with her to-
day?”
“Only general conversation. She gave me no
chance.” $
220 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“I don’t understand her, but I’ll have it
settled. I’ve been at Mount Pleasant, and—by
God, Phil, I can’t stand the sort of anxious,
beseeching way Nellie looks. I know it sounds
* to hear a man talk like that, but it's a
act.”
“Then why do you go?”
“Well, considering what she's done, I don’t
see how I can very well stay away.”
“Oh! No, I suppose not,” said Philip, touch-
ing up his plan; “but if I were you, Dale, Ishould
wait a bit before I bothered Miss Delane again.
Give her time, man.”
“No, I won’t. She’s not treating me fairly.”
“What's that got to do with it? You want to
marry her, don’t you?” .."
“Of course I do.” • º
“Then give her time. Give her a week a all
events. You can sound her at the wedding to-
morrow, but don’t present your ultimatum.”
And Dale agreed, on much persuasion, to give
her a week.
“That's more sensible. And, Dale, may I ask
Arthur Angell down for a day or two 2°
“Of course, but I don’t know whether he'll
come.”
“Oh, he’ll come, fast enough.”
“What do you want him for 7°
“To consult him about a little work of mine,”
answered Philip, regarding his sketch critically.
“Going to publish something?”
“I don’t know. That depends.”
“On the publishers? Ca va sans dire. But
how can Arthur help you?”
“He was there.”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 221
& Where?”
“Now, Dale, I can understand your impatience
—but you must wait. If I publish it, you shall
see it.”
“Is it my sort 2 Shall I like it?”
“I think your feelings would be mixed,” said
Philip, delicately filling in Nellie Fane's figure on
the ground,
222 A CHANGE OF AIR.
CHAPTER XXVI. Q
AGAINST HER BETTER JUDGMENT.
IT is never, well to vie with experts in their
own subjects; humiliation surely attends the
audacious attempt, and a humiliation which
receives and deserves no softening sympathy.
Moreover, even if the technical difficulties could
be overcome, the description of a Wedding must
be either florid or cynical, assuming impossible
happiness, or insinuating improbable catastrophe.
Wherefore this narrative, which abhors either of
these extremes, takes leave to resume its course
at the moment when Sir Harry and Lady
Fulmer have been driven away for their honey-
moon, and the guests at Mount Pleasant are
engaged in looking at one another's presents,
one, another's clothes, and their own watches,
while a group of men have sought retirement and
cigars in the garden. The Lord-Lieutenant was
paying compliments of alarming elaboration and
Stateliness to Nellie Fane ; and Janet Delane,
having discharged her duty in that liné with
generous graciousness, was looking with despair
at Captain Ripley’s puzzled face and be-tugged
moustache, and wondering , why men could not
or would not understand plain English, and why
—why above all—they had no more sense of
A CHANGE OF AIR 223
dignity or of timeliness than to renew useless en-
treaties in a roomful of people, and—to descend
to the particular case—with Dale Bannister only
a few yards away, paying obvious inattention
to a rhapsodic bridesmaid. *
“Wasn’t it a pretty wedding 2* asked the
bridesmaid. “You know I’m a stranger to
Denborough, and I never knew you had so
many beautiful girls. It might have been St.
Peter’s.”
“Might it?” said Dale, with an absent smile,
entirely unappreciative of the compliment. He
did not know what or where St. Peter’s was.
“Oh, it was lovely. Well, dear Tora herself is
very pretty. And then, Miss Delane! I do love
that severe, statuesque style, don’t you? How
pale she is, though ! she doesn’t look very happy,
does she? Oh, and Miss Fane! Isn’t she lovely 7
She sings, doesn’t she? I think people of that kind
are so nice. Oh, and I’ve heard all about her.
How nice it was of her to be so brave, wasn’t
it; 22° i
“Naturally, I think so.”
“Oh, of course, I forgot. It’s so nice when
people are good and pretty too, isn’t it? . After all,
good looks do go for something, don’t they?”
and she fixed a pair of large and unnaturally
innocent eyes on Dale.
“You must tell me about that,” he said, with
labored politeness. “How do you find it **
“Oh, nonsense, Mr. Bannister | But, seriously,
did you ever see anything so lovely as the Way
Sir Harry looked at Tora when they were—”
Dale had gone—without a word of excuse. . He
had seen Janet rise abruptly, with an impatient
224 A CHANGE OF AIR.
wave of her hand, and Captain Ripley turn on his
heel and disappear into the eddying throng that
was circling round the wedding presents. He
darted across to Janet, and held out his hand.
“I must see you here,” he said, “since you will
not see me at the Grange.” {
The bridesmaid marked their greeting. She
rose with offended dignity and returned to her
mother. She says to this day that she has only
known one poet, and he was not at all nice, and
concludes, after the manner of a certain part
of humanity, that none of the rest are nice
either. *
Janet looked at Dale doubtfully, then she led
the way to a little room which was free from the
crowd. Then she sat down. “I’m very tired,” she
said, “and I want to stay here and rest. Will
you let me?”
“I know what you mean, Jan. How can 1,
when I never have a chance of saying what I
want to say to you? You talk to Ripley—”
“I don’t comfort Gerard Ripley much.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Dale heartlessly.
“I’m not much troubled about him. I’m only
a habit to him.”
“I don’t care twopence about him. Jan, when
is this sort of thing to end Don’t you like seeing
pme?”
Janet had made up her mind to treat Dale at
first with simple friendliness; if this recipe failed,
it was to be followed by distant civility. She
answered collectedly enough, in spite of a quiver
in her voice,
“I thought I had better not see you just
now.”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 225
“Why, in Heaven’s name?” $,
“I can’t go through it all again. Indeed I can’t,
Dale.”
“Do you seriously expect me to be content with
what you said then—to go away and never come
near you again?”
Dale spoke vehemently. It was obvious that
the distant civility would be called into play.
Perhaps silence was Janet's idea of it, for she said
nothing.
“Because that’s what it comes to,” pursued
Dale. “Do you imagine, Jan, I could see you now—
after it all—except as your lover? What do you
Want me to do P”
“Miss Fane”—began Janet in a very small
voice.
“I’ll never see Nellie Fane again, if she robs
me of you,” Dale declared, with great energy, and
probably perfect, though unintentional, untruth.
Janet looked up and met his eyes. Then she
dropped hers, and said, in tones quite unlike those
of distant civility,
“I wonder how you care for such a mean-
spirited creature as I am. If I told you I loved you
still—how could you believe me? I told you
before, and then I–’”
“Behaved like a sensible girl.”
“Oh no, no. It was a lie when I said—”
“Tell me another then,” said Dale. “I like
them.”
Janet's resistance, like Bob Acres’ courage, was
oozing out of her finger-tips.
“I know what it will be,” she faltered plaint-
ively. “You’ll always be thinking about her, and
I5
226 A CHANGE OF AIR.
so shall I—and it will be horrible. No, I won’t do
it. I have some resolution, Dale; it wasn’t mere
nonsense. I did mean it.” f *
“Oh, no,” said Dale persuasively; “you never
did, Jan. You had no idea how bored you would
be without me. Now, had you?”
“I can never respect myself again.”
“It’s quite unnecessary, dear; I'll do all
that.” *
“Are you really quite—quite sure, Dale, that
ou will never —” *
“Oh, hang it all!” said Dale, and he kissed
her.
' “Dale! the door's open.”
Dale shut it, and the rest of the conversation
became inaudible, and remains unknown. t
The guests had gone. Mrs. Hodge and Nellie,
who were to keep the Colonel company for a
little while, had walked down to Denborough to
tell Mrs. Roberts all about the event of the day ;
and the Colonel was bustling about, getting the
presents packed up, and counting, with some
surprise, the empty champagne bottles. He was
thus engaged when the door of the little room
opened, to let Janet and Dale out.
“Dear me ! I thought you'd gone. Nellie
asked me, and I told her so.”
“I am just going, Colonel Smith,” said Janet.
“So am I,’” said Dale.
The Colonel watched them go together.
“There’s another man going to lose his daugh-
ter,” he said. “By Jove, I thought it was to be
Nellie Fanel ”
When Jane left Dale at the Grange gates, she
went to her father's study,
A CHANGE OF AIR. 227
“Iord, child,” said the Squire, “are you only
just back *
“I stayed to see them off.”
“Your mother did that, and she’s been back
two hours. She couldn’t find you.”
“Papa,” said Janet, sitting on the arm of his
chair, “I’m very much ashamed of myself.”
“What have you been doing now 2 Ill-treating
that poor young man again?”
« No.”
“He’s not a bad fellow, you know, after all–
honest and good——not brilliant, of course.”
“Not brilliant, papa?”
“I don’t mean he’s a fool; I believe he’s an
efficient officer—” , ,
“Officer? Why, you're talking of Gerard!”
“Of course I am.”
“How can you imagine I was thinking of
Gerard 2 I meant Mr. Bannister.”
d 66 Bannister ? Why, you told me only the other
ay—”
“Yes. That's why.”
“Why what, child?
“Why I'm ashamed.”
The Squire raised himself and looked severely
at his daughter. *
“A precious fuss you’ve made about nothing.”
“I can’t help it, papa. I don’t want to, but he
insists.” {
“He seems to know how to manage you, which
is more than I do. There, go and tell your
mother. And, Jan l’”
“ Yes.” {
“If ever you say you won’t have him again —”
“Yes, papa.”
228 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“By Jove, you shan’t l” said the Squire, with
emphasis, and he added, as his daughter fled
after a hasty kiss, “Perhaps that'll keep her
quiet.”
Dale found nobody but Philip Hume to con-
gratulate him, and Philip was, as usual now, busy
over his little plan.
“Oh, she's come round, has she?” he asked,
with no sign of surprise.
Dale said she had, and Philip meditatively took
up his little plan.
“Have you told Nellie?” he asked.
“NO. I haven’t seen her.”
“She never knew you had asked Miss Delane
before ?” *
“No. Nobody knew but her people and you.
I think she had an idea. I liked Jan.”
“Yes, but not more?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
Philip whistled gently, and twisted the little
plan in his fingers. Dale, in his good-humor,
Said,
“Why the deuce, Phil, do you go on fidgeting
with that thing 2 You’re like an old hen over an
© ."
g; Yes; I don’t. know that it is any good. I
think I’ll destroy it.” ---
a. * he tore it slowly in two, and threw it in the
€.
“The vindictive theory of punishment,” he
remarked, with apparent irrelevance, “ does not
commend itself to me. If no evil consequences
exist to be averted, why should we punish?” and
he*hed the plan farther into the blaze with the
poker.
A CHANGE OF AIR. 229
*If you want to argue that sort of thing, old
fellow, you must ring for Wilson. I’m going to
thave a try at some verses.”
“Going to write your own epitaph, like
Swift º’’
Daly shook his head and smiled, with the
Hºnºrable hopeless happiness of successful
OW3.
230 A CHANGE OF AIRs
CHAPTER XXVII.
A VII, L. A. I IN U N M A S K E I),
A FEw days after Dale's love-affairs had begun
to flow in a more peaceful channel, the Mayor of
Market Denborough had an interview with Mr.
Philip Hume, and Philip emerged from the con-
versation with a smile of mingled amusement
and perplexity on his face. The Mayor had been
to the Grange ; the Squire fully approved of
thescheme ; a hundred pounds was subscribed
already, and another twenty or thirty expected.
Philip was requested to act as an intermediary,
and find out from Miss Fane what form she would
prefer that the testimonial which Denborough
intended to offer to her, in recognition of her
signal gallantry, should take.
“I wanted to wait and make it a wedding-pres-
ent,” said the Mayor, with a wink, “but the
Squire thinks we had better not wait for that.”
“Ah, does he 2° said Philip.
“Though what Mr. Bannister’s waitin’ for, I
can’t see; and I said as much to Miss Janet when
I met her in the garden.”
“What did she say?” asked Philip in some
curiosity.
“Well, sir, now you ask me, I don’t think she
said anything. She seemed a bit put-out like
about something.”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 231
“It couldn’t have been anything you said?”
“Why, no, sir. I only said as I shouldn’t be
slow to move if a young lady like Miss Fane was
waitin’ for me—and her havin'saved my life too.”
“GOOd. Lord! ”
“Beggin' your pardon, sir?”
“Nothing, Mr. Mayor, nothing.”
“You’ll see Miss Fane about it? She hasn’t
left the Colonel’s.”
“Oh yes, I suppose so. Yes, I’ll see her.”
Dale had gone to London, alleging that he had
shopping to do, and hardly denying that his busi-
ness would lie chiefly at the jeweller's. Philip
was glad that he was away, for he thus could
start on his mission unquestioned. He found
Nellie at home, and at . Once plunged into the
matter. Directly Nellie understood what was
proposed, she jumped up, Crying,
“Oh no, they mustn't You must stop them.”
“Why, it's a very natural tribute—”
“I won’t have it! I can’t have it ! You must
tell them, Mr. Hume.”
“It’ll look rather ungracious, won’t it 2 Why
shouldn’t you take their present?” he asked, look-
ing at hef in a half-amused way.
“Oh no, no! You don’t understand. Oh, what
a wretched girl I am I ?” and Nellie, flinging her-
self in a chair, began to Cry.
He sat and watched her with a grim smile,
which he made an effort to maintain. But the
sobs were rather piteous, and the Smile gradually
became very mildly ferocious, and presently van-
ished altogether. Presently, also, Nellie stopped
crying, sat up, and stared in front of her with 3
dazed look and parted lips.
232 A CHANGE OF AIR.
“Well?” said Philip.
“I won’t receive the testimonial.”
“Is that all you have to say?” he asked in a
tone of disappointment.
“Yes,” she answered, plucking nervously at
her handkerchief, “that’s all.”
“No reason to give?” .*
“Tell them that there’s nothing to give me a
testimonial for.” --
“Shall I ?” he asked.
Nellie glanced at him with a start, but in an
instant she recovered herself. t
“I mean that I would much rather no more .
fuss was made about what I did.”
“As you please,” he said coldly. “I will tell
the Mayor, and get him to stop the thing.”
“Is Dale at home P’’ she asked, as Philip rose.
“He’s gone to town. Do you want to see him
about anything?” - *
“No–nothing in particular—only—I haven’t
seen him for three or four days.”
“Are you staying here long?”
“I am staying till Tora comes home, and then
I go to her.”
“Well, good-bye. I’ll tell the Mayor.”
“Thank you so much. Good-bye.”
She was quite calm again by now ; her sudden
fit of agitation was over, and apparently she felt
nothing more than a distaste for the parade of
a public presentation. So easy and natural had
her bearing become, that Philip Hume, as he
walked away, wondered if he had been on a
wrong scent after all. If so, he had behaved in
a very brutal—
He broke off his thoughts abruptly, to recog.
A CHANGE OF AIR. 233
nize and bow to Janet Delane, who whirled by in
her victoria, on the way to Mount Pleasant. She
seemed to be going to pay a visit to Nellie Fane.
Philip, who liked to hear how things happen, re-
gretted that he had cut his own visit short and
missed Janet's entry.
Janet whirled on. Her balance of mind,
delicately poised between her love and her pride,
had suffered a new and severe shock from the
Mayor's jocose remarks. She could not rest.
She felt that she must see for herself—must see
Nellie and find out why everybody thought what
they did—yes, and what Nellie thought. She
was full of things which she had to say to Nellie;
she was prepared, if need be, again to sacrifice
herself for Nellie, but the truth about it all at
least she was determined to hear; on what it
was, Dale's uncertain happiness again hung sus-
pended. With her usual frankness and candor,
she straightway began to tell Nellie all her story.
Nellie listened in almost stony stillness.
“It’s so hard to speak of,” said Janet; “but
yet I think we must. . It is wretched to let things
go on like this. At least, I am wretched, and I
fear he is, and—”
“I’m sure I am,” said Nellie, with a forlorn
laugh. e
Janet came and knelt by her and took her
hands.
“You too? you whom we all admire so? Oh,
what a world it is Why did I ever love him 2°
“Ah, you do love him **
“Yes. And why did I ever make him love me?
Ah, Nellie, if only—”
Nellie had sprung up.
f
234 A CHANGE OF AIR.
i
“How do you know he loves you?” she cried.
“How do I know, dear? Why, he told me.”
“. When P When P”
“Why, before—the day before it all happened.
But since then I have felt, and I told him, that
he belonged to you—I mean, dear, that it must
º you now whom he must really love, and that
Nellie was not listening.
“He told you before?” she asked in a low
Voice.
“Yes, the day before. But afterwards—”
“You were actually engaged then?”
“Yes, we were.”
“I never knew it. I didn’t know that. Oh,
how wicked I have been l’”
“Wicked ? What do you mean 2" asked
Janet, puzzled at her companion’s strange be-
havior.
Nellie stood silent, and Janet went on,
“But I feel, I can’t help feeling that it is to
you he owes his life—to you—”
“Be quiet!” cried Nellie. “Are you engaged
now 2° 4.
“I—I don’t know.”
“Does he still love you ?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you keep
me in the dark? Why did you tempt me?”
“Indeed, I don’t understand.” !
“I didn’t know he had told you. Ionly thought
he had a fancy— Oh, and I loved him too ! I
did indeed!”
“I know, dear,” said Janet; “and so, when you
had been so brave, and I so cowardly—”
A CHANGE OF AIR. 235
“Stop!” cried Nellie again, and as she spoke,
the door opened and Dale Bannister came in. He
was fresh back from London, and had ridden over
to see Nellie.
He stood and looked in surprise from one to
the other. There was evidently something more
than an afternoon call going on.
Nellie greeted his coming almost gladly.
“Ah, you are here ? Then I can tell you. I
can’t bear it any longer. Oh, Dale, I didn’t know
you had told her. Indeed I didn’t, or I would
never have done it; ” and, carried away by her
emotion, she fell on her knees before him.
“Why, Nellie, what in the world’s the mat-
ter?”
“I have been wicked,” she went on quickly,
clinging to his hand. “I have deceived you.
I have told you lies. Oh, how wicked I have
been | *
Dale looked inquiringly at Janet, but she shook
her head in bewilderment.
“Well, Nellie, let's sit down quietly and hear
the villainy. What is it?”
She refused to let him raise her, and went on,
as she was, on her Knees.
“I didn’t mean it at first. I didn’t think of it,
but when I found you all thought it, and—and
you were pleased, Dale, I couldn’t help it.”
Dale saw the only chance of arriving at the
truth was not to interrupt. He signed to Janet
to keep silence.
“I came up meaning to warn you. I was
afraid for you. I saw you standing by the tree,
and I was running towards you, and all of a Sud-
den, I saw him, and the pistol, and—”
236 A CHANGE OF AIR.
She paused and drooped her head. Dale
pressed her hand and said,
“Well, Nellie?”
“I was afraid,” she said, “ and I turned and
began to run away, and as I was running, it hit
me.” And, her confession ended, she sank into
a little woebegone heap on the floor at his feet.
Dale understood now. She had been tempted
by the hope of winning his love through his grati-
tude, and had not refused the false glory they all
thrust upon her. Now she had heard her hopes
were vain, that they had been vain even before
that night, and in the misery of sin, and useless
sin, she lay crying at his feet, not daring to look
up at him.
He stood there awkwardly, as a man stands
when he feels more moved than he allows him-
self to show.
“Poor child!” he said, with a break in his
Voice. “Poor child !”
Janet caught him by the arm.
“What does she say? That she didn’t save
you ?” she whispered eagerly. “That she was
running away ?”
Dale nodded, and Janet fell down beside Nellie,
embracing her, and saying, half-laughing, half-
crying, “Oh, Nellie, how sweet, how sweet of
you to have been a coward too !”
\
A CHANGE OF AIR, 237
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A VISION.
THE lawn at Dirkham Grange was a gay
Scene. The Institute was opened, the luncheon
consumed, the Royal Duke gone, full to the last
of graciousness, though the poor fellow was
hungry for solitude and cigars; and now, the
society of the county was unbending in friendly
condescension to the society of the town, and
talking the whole thing over under the trees and
beside the bright flower-beds. Lord Cransford,
between Janet and Dale, mingled praises of the
ode with congratulations on the engagement; no
one would have guessed that he shared a son’s
disappointment. The Mayor indifferently dis-
sembled his exultation over the whisper of a
knighthood which a hint from His Royal Highness
had set running through the company. Mrs
Johnstone sat placidly in an arm-chair, the ruby
velvet spread in careful folds, while Sir Harry
Fulmer paid her compliments, and wondered
where his wife was, and how soon they might go;
and his wife walked with the Squire, declaring in
her impetuous way that Nellie Fane's deceit was
the most beautiful and touching thing she had
ever heard of, whereat the Squire tugged his
whisker, and said that nobody was disposed to
238 ar A CHANGE of AIR.
be hard on her. Mrs. Roberts had made her
first public appearance, diligently attended by
Dr. Spink, who said, but was disbelieved in say-
ing, that she still needed constant care. Nellie
Fane herself had been persuaded to come, on a
promise that the Mayor should not be allowed to
reopen the subject of the testimonial; and Arthur
Angell, in whose breast hope was once more a
sojourner, had led her to a retired walk, and was
reading to her a set of verses, called “Love's
Crime;” and Nellie shook her head, saying that
there was no inducement to be good, if every one
conspired to pet and pamper the Wicked.
Philip Hume sat alone under a spreading tree,
looking on, and talking to nobody. The bustle
of the morning and the sumptuous midday meal.
worked together with the warm afternoon air
and the distant sounds of the yeomanry band to
make him a little drowsy, and he watched the
people walking to and fro and heard their chat-
ter in a half-wakeful, half-sleeping state. And,
strange as it seems in this work-a-day sceptical
age, he fell into a sort of trance, and visions of
what should be were vouchsafed to him, and if
the visions were not true, at least they had a look
of truth.
He saw a man, handsome still, for all that his
thick hair was a little thinned by time and his
waistcoat was broadening, and the man read in
a mellow voice lines which Philip did not hear
º, plainly, about the greatness of England, the
glory of the Throne, and the calmer judgment of
circling years tempering the heat of youth. Then
a stately dame touched him gently on the shoulder,
saying that the verses were magnificent, but the
A CHANGE OF AIR. 239
carriage waited to take him to the levée, and he
rose to go with a smile, not seeming to notice a
pale ghost, that clenched impotent shadowy hands
in wrath and with a scowl shrank away. Sud-
denly, across this vision, came the form of Mrs.
Hodge, white-haired, but cheerful and buxom as
of yore, and she said, “Well, Hume, she's made
Arthur a happy man at last; ” and the Mayor,
who somehow happened to be there, wearing on
his breast a large placard, inscribed “Sir James
Hedger, Knight,” added, quite in his old way,
“We were all wrong, Mr. Hume, sir, except you,
sir, beggin' your pardon.” Then the Squire's
voice broke in, as though in the course of an
argument, and declared that it was nonsense to
attribute Dale's change of views to anything
except growing wisdom; and the phantom of
Colonel Smith, a copy of The Clarion in his
hand, answered “Bosh!” And a crowd of quite
indistinguishable well-dressed shades gathered
round the Colonel, and Philip heard them talking
about the inevitable gravitation of culture and
intelligence. But the Colonel still answered
“Bosh!” and Philip did not hear the end of the
matter, nor where the truth of it lay ; for pres-
ently all the forms passed away, and he saw a
little room, a little dingy room, and a gray-haired
slouching fellow in an old coat, smoking an old
pipe and scribbling on foolscap, scribbling away
far into the night, and then sitting and musing
for a solitary half-hour in front of his dying fire
before he went to bed. There was something
in this figure that made Philip curious, and he
*:: nearer and looked., Hush | It was himself,
all Cl-
240 A CHANGE OF AIR.
He awoke with a start. Dale was smiling
down on him with his old friendly smile, and
saying to Janet Delane,
“We shall never let this old chap leave us fol
long, shall we, Jan?” *
THE END
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