WATERMEADS
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES 
 
 EXTON MANOR 
 
 THE ELDEST SON 
 
 THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER 
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE CLINTONS 
 
 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH 
 
 WATERMEAD8 
 
 UPSIDONIA 
 
 ABINGTON ABBET 
 
 THE ORAFTON8 
 
 RICHARD BALDOCK 
 
 THE CLINTONS AND OTHERS
 
 WATERMEADS 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 ARCHIBALD MARSHALL, 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 
 1919
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1010 
 BT DODD. MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.
 
 PIGO 
 
 2066151
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PACK 
 
 I GEANDFATHEE JOHN .... 1 
 
 II PAST AND PEESENT .... 15 
 
 III SOME FEIENDS ..... 27 
 
 IV AN EVENING DEIVE .... 42 
 
 V THE ELDEST SON .... 55 
 
 VI HOLIDAY 68 
 
 VII AT THE CEICKET MATCH ... 83 
 
 VIII POSSIBILITIES 96 
 
 IX OLIVIA Ill 
 
 X THE GIFT OF YOUTH .... 125 
 
 XI LETTEES 140 
 
 XII FEEDA . 156 
 
 XIII IN THE GAEDEN 170 
 
 XIV WILL SHE Do? 183 
 
 XV A TENNIS PAETY . . . .197 
 
 XVI AN INTEEVIEW 213 
 
 XVII BELLAMY 228 
 
 XVIII ME. BLUMENTHAL , 239 
 
 XIX AN OFFEE 253 
 
 XX FEED is DISTUEBED . . . 266
 
 viii CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XXI IN JACK'S ROOM . ... .., . 279 
 
 XXII AN ENGAGEMENT .... 292 
 
 XXIII LUTTEEBOUENE RfiCTOEY . . . 304 
 
 XXIV OLIVIA SPEAKS 318 
 
 XXV SUNDAY NIGHT AND MONDAY MOEN- 
 
 ING 331 
 
 XXVI FEEDA PULLS IT OFF . . . .344 
 
 XXVII FEED GETS ON 357 
 
 XXVIII UNCLE MAEK VISITS WATEEMEADS . 370 
 
 XXIX UNCLE MAEK LEAVES WATEEMEADS 384 
 
 XXX AT ELSIE'S WEDDING . . . .397 
 
 XXXI THE RETUEN OF GILES . . . 408 
 
 XXXII AT MANOE FAEM 418
 
 WATERMEADS
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 GRANDFATHER JOHN 
 
 " BOBBY, just go to the door and look out again. He 
 must be coming soon." 
 
 Bobby took a proleptic mouthful of bread and jam, 
 and went obediently to the door, which stood wide open 
 to admit the warm air of the June afternoon. He stood 
 on the worn steps of the topmost stair and looked out 
 over the park, through which the drive could be seen 
 winding for nearly a quarter of a mile. 
 
 " No sign of him yet," he said, and came back chew- 
 ing- 
 
 The Conway family was assembled round the tea- 
 table in the great hall of Watermeads. They were all 
 there except Fred, the eldest son, from whom a tele- 
 gram was momentarily expected which would bring him 
 intimately into the circle. 
 
 Sydney Conway, Squire of Watermeads, dressed in 
 an old suit of grey flannel, sat with one leg over the 
 arm of an easy chair covered with leather very much 
 worn. A man does not take up such a position at the 
 age of fifty-two unless he is active and spare of body, 
 and younger in mind than in years. It would have 
 been impossible to imagine Mrs. Conway taking up its 
 feminine equivalent, in however light a moment. In a 
 black gown much trimmed she sat upright at the table 
 and did her duty. She was a large ruminative woman, 
 
 1
 
 2 WATERMEADS 
 
 with an eye fixed on the past. She was addicted to long 
 bursts of silence, but when she spoke she spoke volubly. 
 Elsie and Rose, who were in the early stages of be- 
 ing grown up, had their mother's abundant dark hair 
 and their father's amused alert expression. They were 
 both pretty girls, but Rose was the prettier of the two. 
 They were dressed for tennis, and their rackets were 
 on a carved chest beneath one of the tall windows. 
 Bobby and Billy, in flannel trousers too short for them, 
 and flannel shirts much shrunk in the wash, were not 
 yet of an age to distress themselves about such details. 
 They sat at the round table, earnestly intent upon the 
 business in hand, which appeared to be that of adjust- 
 ing a larger proportion of plum jam to a lesser pro- 
 portion of bread than might have been thought possi- 
 ble. Lastly, Penelope, light of her mother's eyes, sat 
 birdlike observant of everything and everybody by her 
 mother's side, and consumed her fair share of whatever 
 was present for consumption. 
 
 This was tea poured out of a large silver teapot, with 
 milk and sugar in vessels to match; a cottage loaf, 
 which continuous assaults were fast reducing to nullity ; 
 a large plain cake equally in process of eclipse; and a 
 large jar of jam. There was no butter. Butter costs 
 more than jam, made at home from a glut of stone 
 fruit; and money was abundantly scarce at Water- 
 meads. 
 
 The hall was stone-floored and pleasantly cool on 
 this hot summer day. The tea-table, round which 
 there would have been room for more than the seven 
 who were seated by it, was in a corner, and left plenty 
 of space for still larger pieces of furniture. The hall,
 
 GRANDFATHER JOHN 3 
 
 indeed, looked rather bare; but that was probably be- 
 cause such of the furniture as was not old enough and 
 solid enough to defy neglect was so very shabby. 
 There were a few pieces of armour on the walls, as well 
 as pictures large and small, of which some of the can- 
 vases needed repair, and in which cracks in the paint 
 were almost universal. Above the mantelpiece was an 
 unoccupied space, upon which a rectangular mark indi- 
 cated a picture lately removed. 
 
 In spite of its shabbiness and general untidiness, the 
 hall was not unattractive. It had fine proportions, plenty 
 of light, and a nucleus of old and valuable possessions; 
 it had also the air of being constantly lived in. There 
 were books and papers scattered about everywhere; a 
 writing-table furnished with heavy silver was littered 
 all over. There were flowers in big jars on the heavy 
 oak presses and v chests, and in smaller vases here and 
 there. A cottage piano, looking presumptuously out 
 of place in its light oak case, straggled meagrely 
 across a corner: a work-basket piled with linen and 
 bunched-up hosiery stood by one of the shabby easy 
 chairs near the great hearth. And there was still 
 room for hats, coats, walking-sticks, umbrellas, golf- 
 clubs, tennis rackets, fishing-rods, and even garden- 
 ing utensils, which did not keep modestly to the back- 
 ground, but challenged notice from wherever they 
 had been put down by those last using them. 
 
 Sydney Conway threw a glance at the empty space 
 above the mantelpiece. " What shall we put up in 
 the place of Grandfather John ? " he asked. " We 
 can't leave the wall like that! it looks beastly." 
 
 All except Mrs. Conway, whose back was to-
 
 4 WATERMEADS 
 
 wards the fireplace, fixed their gaze upon the empty 
 space. 
 
 " Put up Grandfather George," suggested Elsie. 
 " His red coat would look ( rather nice." 
 
 " That would leave an empty space in the dining- 
 room," said Rose, " and the wall is much worse than 
 this." 
 
 " You could put the Holbein into the dining-room. 
 It is the dark wall, and nobody could tell it wasn't a 
 Holbein there." 
 
 " Not a bad idea," said their father. " But I still 
 believe it is a Holbein, in spite of the Professor." 
 
 " If you moved a picture out of the dining-room 
 you would have to put something there instead of 
 it," said Bobby, with the common sense that distin- 
 guished him. " Then you would have to put some- 
 thing else in the place where you got that from. 
 You would spend a week moving pictures and have 
 a bare place somewhere at the end of it." 
 
 His father laughed. " Whatever we make of you, 
 Bobby," he said, " you will get on. You foresee 
 everything." 
 
 " He doesn't foresee that we should get tired of 
 moving pictures long before a week," said Elsie. " We 
 should have a horrid space somewhere, and sit down 
 and look at it until it was time to sell the next pic- 
 ture." 
 
 " Ah, but I hope this is the last," said Sydney Con- 
 way genially. " If it fetches a big price today, as I 
 hope it will, it will certainly be the last. Where is 
 that telegraph boy? Freddy must have sent the wire 
 long ago. Billy, go and have another look."
 
 GRANDFATHER JOHN 5 
 
 But no telegraph boy was yet in sight, and the dis- 
 cussion was resumed. 
 
 " I like Elsie's suggestion," said Sydney. " Grand- 
 father George and his red coat will cheer us up, and 
 we want cheering up, now we have lost Grandfather 
 John. When we have filled his gap we shall forget 
 all about him. With all his virtues he was no beauty. 
 I've a good mind to go and tackle it now." He sat 
 up in his chair and looked active. " We needn't 
 bother about filling up the Holbein space in the draw- 
 ing-room. We never go into the drawing-room." 
 
 " I'll help you," said Elsie. " I really believe, when 
 we've finished, we shall we better off than we were be- 
 fore. I never really cottoned to Grandfather John, 
 and if Raeburn did paint him I think he might have 
 been better employed. We shall soon get used to his 
 loss." 
 
 Mrs. Conway, who had been sitting unmoved during 
 the discussion, now broke into speech. 
 
 " Oh, don't talk like that ! " she cried, in vehement 
 reproach. " I'm sure to hear you all speaking as if 
 nothing in the world was sacred makes me shudder. 
 I sometimes wonder whether any of you have got any 
 hearts at all." 
 
 " Oh, well, mother," said Sydney, " I don't know 
 that Grandfather John was so particularly sacred. 
 We had no idea that Raeburn painted him, and none 
 of us thought anything of him until the Professor re- 
 jected the Holbein, and hit upon him for sacrifice. 
 You yourself have often commented unfavourably 
 upon his strawberry nose, and hinted that he drank 
 more than was good for him. I dare say he did, poor
 
 6 WATERMEADS 
 
 fellow. We shall be much better off with Grandfather 
 George's red coat than with Grandfather John's red 
 nose." 
 
 " That is not the point, Sydney," said Mrs. Conway 
 severely, " and you know it is not the point. Drink 
 or no drink and as to that I reserve my opinion, and 
 cannot but think that the plain signs of it will have 
 a depressing effect upon the price of the picture your 
 Grandfather John, as you call him, was an ancestor. 
 The beautiful Reynolds has gone; the other two 
 Reynoldses have gone; the great rose-water bowl has 
 gone; the tankards have gone, and I ask myself what 
 will go next. I sit here denuded." She now began 
 to make play with her shapely hands. " I sometimes 
 ask myself what we have got for it all how much bet- 
 ter off we are than before all the treasures of our 
 house began to. be dispersed in this careless light- 
 hearted fashion whether life is worth living at all, 
 and I was not far better off in my girlhood, sur- 
 rounded by few luxuries, it is true, but with enough 
 and to spare, and no anxiety whatever as to the mor- 
 row's joint, or the day's supply of milk and bread." 
 
 Her husband, who had listened to this exordium with 
 the air of a connoisseur, enjoying such points as were 
 made in it, and on the look-out for others, now turned 
 to her with an ingratiating smile, and said : " Well, 
 you know, mother, we have managed to support our- 
 selves in comfort, if not in luxury, for some years, and 
 we are all still living at Watermeads. That's some- 
 thing, isn't it? We couldn't have got on at all if 
 we hadn't made up our minds to sell a few things that 
 we can perfectly well do without. It's a bore, of
 
 GRANDFATHER JOHN 7 
 
 course, but the less we think about it the happier we 
 shall be. After all, we've got lots of jolly things 
 left." 
 
 " What did we get out of the beautiful Sir 
 Joshua? " Mrs. Conway pursued her unbending course. 
 " Seven thousand pounds. And it was sold again last 
 year for eleven." 
 
 " Well, that was the fortune of war," said her hus- 
 band equably. " And as for five thousand pounds out 
 of the seven going in an unlucky speculation, that was 
 the fortune of war too, and it's one of the things that 
 we don't talk about. Besides, those shares may turn 
 up trumps still. You can't call the money lost until 
 the mine closes down altogether. I did it for the best 
 for you and the children." 
 
 Elsie put her hand on his knee. " Darling old 
 Micawber ! " she said affectionately. " We don't miss 
 anything; and we're very happy." 
 
 " That is not the point, Elsie," said Mrs. Conway. 
 " You are too young to see that we are living all the 
 time on the brink of a precipice. We are like Pontius 
 Pilate fiddling while Rome was burning. One ancestor 
 after the other goes; and " 
 
 " Well, mother darling, after all they're not your 
 ancestors, and we've got on pretty well without them." 
 
 " Grandfather Giles sent Freddy to Charterhouse," 
 said Rose. 
 
 " And Grandmother Penelope sent him to Cam- 
 bridge, and rebuilt two farm-houses, besides keeping 
 us going for a year," added her father. " Freddy has 
 had the best of educations, and is now hard at work 
 repairing the family fortunes. Most of the money we
 
 8 WATERMEADS 
 
 ever got out of our sales has been well spent; and 
 apart from education, we have all kept ourselves 
 alive. We had to be kept alive, hadn't we, mother? " 
 
 " You said just now, Elsie," said Mrs. Conway, who 
 had been ruminating, " that the pictures sold were not 
 of my ancestors. I am well aware of that fact, but I 
 hope I may be allowed to take some interest in the 
 things that are in my home." 
 
 " Oh, yes, mother, of course. I only meant that an- 
 cestors as ancestors aren't so dreadfully to be regret- 
 ted." 
 
 " Besides, they are doing such a lot for us," said 
 Rose. " We quite hope that Grandfather John is go- 
 ing to send Bobby and Billy to Charterhouse too. 
 I think we have been very ungrateful to him. We have 
 talked about his red nose and not thought anything of 
 him; and all the time he has been waiting and looking 
 at us, quite ready to help us when the time came." 
 
 " If my advice had been listened to," said Mrs. Con- 
 way, " none of this would have happened. We should 
 still have had all our beautiful and valuable things 
 around us. Here we are, living in a big house, with 
 thousands of acres of land. What is land for? I 
 speak under correction, but I was brought up to be- 
 lieve that it was of some use for providing food for 
 people to eat." 
 
 " Quite right, mother," said Sydney," and it is all 
 being farmed. Unfortunately, just at present, it 
 doesn't produce much for us to eat. But agriculture 
 is bound to take a turn by and by." 
 
 " The park is not being farmed," said Mrs. Con- 
 way.
 
 GRANDFATHER JOHN 9 
 
 " The park is being grazed. It produces food for 
 Mr. Stanborough's sheep." 
 
 " And why grazed ? Have I not begged and implored 
 you, Sydney, to use all that valuable land for French 
 gardening? " 
 
 " You have, mother." 
 
 " Then why has it not been done ? I took pencil and 
 paper, worked it all out, and showed you the figures 
 myself. The park covers fifty-four acres. If a waiter 
 near Brighton could make a thousand pounds' profit 
 in one year out of half an acre, as we were assured 
 was being done, then the park would produce no less 
 than one hundred and eight thousand pounds a year 
 if it was made proper use of. Subtract the eight thou- 
 sand for contingencies, and 
 
 " Oh, but why do that, mother ? Eight thousand 
 pounds is a lot of money." 
 
 " I wish to be on the right side and to leave a mar- 
 gin. Subtracting the eight thousand you would have 
 left a hundred thousand pounds a year, unless my 
 arithmetic is at fault; and I for one should consider 
 myself well off with half that income." 
 
 " So should I, mother, quite well off. Still, there 
 was that little question of markets, you know; and a 
 few other little questions which seemed to make your 
 scheme, well thought-out as it was, slightly fly-blown. 
 No, we couldn't save ourselves by French gardening, 
 or we would have had a go at it. We've had a go 
 at quite a lot of things, you know. It hasn't been for 
 want of having goes at things that we are not so well 
 off as we should like to be." 
 
 Penelope broke silence. " You had a go at Uncle
 
 10 WATERMEADS 
 
 Mark, didn't you, father, after you had spent all your 
 own money? " she asked in a piping voice. 
 
 Bobby and Billy stared at her ; Elsie and Rose made 
 motions of despair towards one another. Mrs. Con- 
 way awoke out of the beginnings of a sort of catalep- 
 tic trance, in which her eyes were fixed upon lost op- 
 portunities, and said indignantly : " You should not 
 put such words into the child's mouth, Sydney. I 
 sometimes wonder what you will say next." 
 
 Her husband laughed. " I sometimes wonder what 
 Miss Muffet will say next," he said. " Who told you 
 about Uncle Mark, terrible infant ? " 
 
 " Mother did," replied Penelope ungratefully. " She 
 said that he was very rich, but he had such funny ideas 
 that she was afraid he wasn't going to leave his money 
 to us." 
 
 " I did not say funny ideas," said Mrs. Conway. 
 " You must be careful how you speak, Penelope 
 darling. Little girls cannot be expected to understand 
 everything, but I thought you were old enough and 
 sensible enough to be told certain things. Uncle 
 Mark's ideas are the reverse of funny. They are un- 
 accountable, they are wicked, if you like. But they 
 are not funny, and I never said they were." 
 
 " Well, I think they are rather funny, mother," 
 said Sydney. " Still, I don't despair of Uncle Mark 
 yet. He wouldn't do anything when I asked him, it is 
 true. He said well, I won't say what he said." 
 
 " If you are acting out of consideration to me, Syd- 
 ney," said Mrs. Conway, " you may spare yourself the 
 trouble. As you have opened up the subject, I should 
 like Penelope to know and I should like all my chil-
 
 11 
 
 dren to know, and they can judge for themselves how 
 far your description of your Uncle Mark's ideas as 
 funny is justified exactly why they have never set 
 eyes on him, although I believe they are his only liv- 
 ing relations." 
 
 " Oh, don't go into that now, mother," said Elsie. 
 " We have heard it do/ens of times." 
 
 " You have not heard it dozens of times, Elsie," said 
 her mother, " and whatever you have heard is prob- 
 ably not the precise truth." 
 
 But her husband stopped her. " I don't want it 
 talked about, mother," he said decisively. " Uncle 
 Mark behaved like the old fool he is, in spite of his 
 reputation ; and there's an end of it. If he chooses to 
 behave better by and by, well and good; but we don't 
 look forward to occupying dead men's shoes. We'll 
 rub along somehow, and if Grandfather John has 
 fetched his proper value today, why we shall have all 
 we can want for some time to come." 
 
 Mrs. Con way subsided into her contemplation of the 
 past, and Elsie said : " What will he fetch, Dad ? He 
 wasn't in a very good state." 
 
 A heavy door leading from the back regions of the 
 house opened with a creak, and a maid came in with 
 a telegram. Sydney Conway sprang up and 
 seized it from her. " At last ! " he said, tearing 
 it open. 
 
 The maid on her way out lingered to hear the news. 
 She was a stout young girl from the village, and was 
 almost as anxious to know the price that the Raeburn 
 had fetched at Christie's as Sydney Conway himself. 
 
 " Two thousand seven hundred," said Sydney, and
 
 12 WATERMEADS 
 
 looked round him with an expression of satisfaction 
 and disappointment combined. 
 
 There was a moment's pause. " It's not so bad," 
 said Elsie. 
 
 " I never really expected more," said Rose. 
 
 " Well, I don't know that I did either," said Syd- 
 ney, putting the telegram into his pocket. 
 
 The door banged behind the maid. 
 
 " Might I be permitted to see Fred's telegram ? " 
 enquired Mrs. Conway, in a voice of stately humility. 
 
 " That's all it says, mother," said Sydney, handing 
 it to her. " It's all there was to say. Well, there 
 it is ! It will run to Charterhouse. Sonnies, Grand- 
 father John has turned up trumps, red nose and all. 
 Three cheers for Grandfather John." 
 
 Bobby and Billy, touched by the excitement of the 
 moment, cheered lustily, and were joined by Elsie and 
 Rose. Penelope looked sharply at her mother, on 
 whose face appeared an expression of pained expostu- 
 lation. 
 
 " I wish you would not encourage them to behave 
 in that way, Sydney," she said. " Really the house 
 is like a beer-garden and Alice coming in in that 
 way with her sleeves rolled up, and not even taking 
 the trouble to hand the telegram on a salver, 
 of which we have some left I sometimes wonder 
 whether we have retained any of the habits of gentle- 
 folk." 
 
 " Well, mother, we must show our gratitude to 
 Grandfather John. And it is jolly to feel that we're 
 on the right side of things again, and Bobby and Billy 
 are to get their chance now isn't it ? "
 
 GRANDFATHER JOHN 13 
 
 Mrs. Con way put the telegram down on the table. 
 " On the right side ! " she echoed. " And how long 
 are we to remain on the right side? What about the 
 interest on the mortgage? What about the roof? 
 What about Bilson and Puckeridge and Jones, with 
 their acounts ? " 
 
 " Oh, it will settle most of those, and we don't want 
 to look too far ahead, just when we've got a pot of 
 money. It's ungrateful to Grandfather John, and be- 
 sides, something is sure to happen before we have 
 come to an end of it. I wonder if it will run to a 
 horse again. That's what I miss more than anything 
 else not having a horse in the stable." 
 
 " Will it run to our allowances ? " asked Rose. 
 " Elsie and I are in rags." 
 
 " Oh, my dear ! " said her father. " You shall have 
 all that and a bit besides. And, mother, you shall 
 have twenty pounds to do what you like with. You 
 haven't had twenty pounds in your purse for years, 
 have you? " 
 
 He bent over her and imprinted a sounding kiss on 
 her voluminous cheek. 
 
 She was not softened by the caress. " If you would 
 give the whole of this money into my keeping, Syd- 
 ney," she said, " I should not want twenty pounds for 
 myself, or any other sum beyond what would supply 
 me with bare necessities. Penelope must have shoes; 
 the child is growing fast, and " 
 
 " I want a new tennis racket, father," piped Pe- 
 nelope. " Elsie and Rose have got them, and I don't 
 see why 7 shouldn't." 
 
 " You shall have it, Mother Bunch. You shall all
 
 14 WATERMEADS 
 
 have something that you want. Bobby and Billy, you 
 shall each have a bicycle." 
 
 " Then 7 want a bicycle," Penelope amended her re- 
 quest, " and a tennis racket too." 
 
 Her mother drew her towards her. " My pet," she 
 said, " you shall not be left out in the cold. If money 
 is going to be thrown away on amusements that is 
 needed for keeping the wolf from the door, mother 
 will see that you share with the rest." 
 
 " Of course she'll share with the rest," said Sydney. 
 " Lord, what a relief it is to have something to spend 
 again! I feel ready for anything now." 
 
 They rose from their chairs. " Shall we change the 
 pictures now, Dad? " asked Elsie. " I'll go and get 
 the steps." 
 
 " I think we'll leave that for the present," said Syd- 
 ney. " It's a jolly evening. I'm going up to see if 
 I can get a fish in Sandford Hole. Who'll come with 
 me?"
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT 
 
 IT was not much in the way of possessions still re- 
 maining to him that Sydney Conway did not share 
 equally with his family; but it was understood that 
 Sandford Hole, a wide willow-bordered pool in a se- 
 cluded corner of the park, and the fat trout that 
 lurked there, were reserved for his rod. Nevertheless 
 Bobby and Billy eagerly accepted his proffered com- 
 panionship, rather than fish for themselves in other 
 waters. Elsie and Rose would also have accompanied 
 him, had not Mrs. Conway reminded them that they 
 were under contract to pick currants and raspberries 
 for a tart to be consumed that evening. Penelope 
 stayed of choice with her mother. There was some- 
 thing she wanted to learn from her. 
 
 Sydney set out at a smart pace, with Bobby and 
 Billy on either side of him, carrying the one a land- 
 ing-net, the other a fishing basket. Intent on the 
 object of their journey, they yet paused for a mo- 
 ment, when they reached a certain group of trees, to 
 look back upon the house. This was almost a matter 
 of ritual, and no visitor came to Watermeads without 
 being taken to the five beeches and made to admire 
 the house as seen from that point. 
 
 It stood, a winged porticoed pile of weathered stone, 
 backed by a heavy mass of foliage, now beautifully 
 
 15
 
 16 WATERMEADS 
 
 varied by the fresh green of beech and the sombre tints 
 of the deodars and the giant evergreens that grew in 
 the garden. A flight of shallow stone steps, at the 
 top of which was a broad terrace, ran right along the 
 main part of the house and gave it an air of welcome, 
 in which, indeed, both in good times and bad, it had 
 never been lacking. It was said that a hundred car- 
 riages had once stood on the gravel square, now al- 
 most as green as the park itself, in front of the house. 
 The gardens were behind and on either side; the house 
 faced the park baldly, and nothing but trees and 
 grass could be seen from its front windows, except a 
 glimpse of distant country through a gap. The vil- 
 lage was a mile away; but the tower of the church 
 showed amongst the trees, and the thatched roof of 
 the modest vicarage was hard by it. The house had 
 fort} r bedrooms, all of them furnished, and once, on 
 occasion, occupied; the gardens covered fifteen 
 acres ; the stables would have housed a troop of cav- 
 alry. But now there were two women servants in- 
 doors, and a man and a boy outside. 
 
 And yet Sydney Conway's eyes brightened as he 
 looked back on the house in which he had been born 
 and brought up. 
 
 " That's your home, sonnies," he said. " Wherever 
 you go and whatever you do when you grow up, you'll 
 never forget that you lived here when you were boys. 
 You couldn't have a jollier place to live in, could 
 you now? " 
 
 " No," said Bobby and Billy with one accord. They 
 were quite satisfied with their home, although they 
 would have liked to exchange it for lodgings at the
 
 PAST AND PRESENT 17 
 
 seaside rather more often than had been possible of 
 late years. That was about all the difference that the 
 pinch of poverty made to them. They had plenty to 
 eat, and the whole beautiful place to play about in, 
 much more exciting as to the overgrown garden than 
 if it had been kept spick and span by a dozen gar- 
 deners. They did their lessons at the Vicarage, played 
 cricket with the villagers on the ground in the park, 
 went birds-nesting with the village boys, fished in that 
 small portion of the stream that their father still re- 
 served and occasionally, unknown to him, in the water 
 that was rented from him. They ran with the hounds, 
 and had even scraped up enough money two years 
 before to buy a foal, which they were now breaking 
 in themselves. They got much more fun out of this 
 than if there had been ponies for them in the stables 
 as a matter of course. There was no need to waste 
 commiseration on Bobby and Billy, and their father 
 wasted none. So far, they had been as fortunate as 
 if he had been able to give them all that his father 
 had given him. And now they were to have their 
 chance for the future. 
 
 " You will work, when you get to school, won't 
 you? " he said as they went on. 
 
 " Oh, yes, Dad," said Billy promptly. 
 
 Bobby said nothing. He probably would work. He 
 liked work, of any sort, whether with his brains or 
 with his hands, and went at it doggedly until he had 
 finished what he had set out to do. Billy was not so 
 sure in his efforts, but he was quick enough, and the 
 estimable Vicar had kept him at it. 
 
 " When I was your age I didn't work," their father
 
 18 WATERMEADS 
 
 confessed to them. " I went in for having a good 
 time, and now I wish I hadn't. At least, what I wasn't 
 sensible enough to see in those days was that the best 
 possible time a boy could have, or a man either, was 
 by working hard as well as playing hard." 
 
 Bobby and Billy had heard this before, and took it 
 dutifully, striding along on their sturdy legs, their 
 pleasant freckled faces marked as yet by no sense of 
 the burdens and responsibilities of life. 
 
 It could not be said, indeed, that their father's face 
 was noticeably marked by such signs; but now he 
 looked down at them with a kind of thwarted earnest- 
 ness. 
 
 " Ah, if I could only make you see it ! " he cried, 
 twisting his thin muscular hands. " Look here, boys, 
 you've got the whole world before you. You can do 
 what you like with it. If you want to be rich by and 
 by, you can be rich. If you want fame, you can have 
 it. You can have anything you like if you'll only 
 work for it." 
 
 " Of course we shall work, father," said Bobby, 
 anxious to calm his emotion, which seemed to be some- 
 what distressing him, and threatened to come across 
 the evening's enjoyment. 
 
 " Yes, dear old boys I believe you will, both of you. 
 But what I want you to see, if I can only get it into 
 your heads, is how damned lucky you are." 
 
 Bobby and Billy did not blench at the epithet, 
 which was in customary use towards them, although 
 they were prohibited from using it themselves. 
 
 " You have five years before you, in which you can 
 go straight ahead. No anxiety about what you're
 
 PAST AND PRESENT 19 
 
 to do! your work's all mapped out. Jolly work, 
 too for boys who have sensible tastes, as you have. 
 You'll have other boys now to pit your wits against. 
 Stick to it, and beat 'em. Never let yourselves get 
 slack not for a day, not for an hour. Every hour 
 will count. You'll have the games too, and you must 
 be just as keen about them as about the work; but 
 not keener don't make that mistake." 
 
 " We shall try to get into the eleven," said Bobby. 
 " You were in it, and you've helped us." 
 
 " Of course you'll try to get into the eleven. It was 
 the only thing I did try for, worse luck; and I don't 
 want you to make the same mistakes as I did. You've 
 got a glorious time before you. Lord, how I wish I'd 
 got it all over again ! What I want you to see is that 
 you'll have twice as good a time if you take the sixth 
 form, and a scholarship at the end of it, as seriously 
 as you take the eleven. You've got to do both, and 
 you've got to make yourselves just as keen on the one 
 as on the other." 
 
 " We'll work hard," said Billy again. 
 
 " Oh, well ! It's on the knees of the gods," he said, 
 suddenly relinquishing his earnest air. " You've got 
 your chance. With all the mistakes I've made I've 
 seen to that with Fred, and you too. If you love 
 your old father, as I know you do, you'll work to 
 please him. And after a bit, if you're built that way, 
 you'll see it all, and work because work is the only 
 thing in life that's worth doing. Well, here we are ! 
 I wonder if we shall get old Isaac tonight. It would 
 be a good omen if we did, after he has foiled us so 
 often."
 
 20 WATERMEADS 
 
 Tea was cleared away from the hall by Alice, the 
 maid, to whom Mrs. Conway gave a lesson in deport- 
 ment and general behaviour as she collected cups 
 and plates on to a tray, not without considerable 
 clatter. 
 
 " In a house like this," said Mrs. Conway, who was 
 now seated in the chair by the work-basket, fitting a 
 stocking on to a sort of wooden tennis ball prepar- 
 atory to darning it, " the natural thing would be for 
 a butler to do the work that you have to do; or a 
 butler and a footman ; or even two footmen. Mr. Con- 
 way and I once stayed in a house where there were 
 
 three footmen, as well as However, that is not the 
 
 point. You must take a pride in your work, and do 
 it as well as you can. Never come in with your sleeves 
 rolled up, as you did just now; and never hand a tele- 
 gram, or a letter, or anything, except on a salver." 
 
 " Well, mum, I'm sure I'm doing my best," said 
 Alice good-humouredly. " But there's such a lot of 
 work to get through that sometimes I don't know 
 whether I'm standing on my 'ead or my 'eels." 
 
 " I am quite aware that there is a great deal of 
 work to do," said Mrs. Conway. " Work is a good 
 thing for all of us, and you see that I am working 
 myself, at this very moment. You wouldn't see the 
 mistress of many houses like this darning stockings 
 from preference. However, that is not the point. You 
 must do your work with system. You will do twice 
 as much with system as without." 
 
 " She doesn't want to do twice as much work," said 
 Penelope, from the depths of another shabby easy 
 chair opposite to her mother's. " What she likes do-
 
 
 21 
 
 ing is to read penny novelettes. I counted fourteen 
 in her bedroom yesterday." 
 
 " No keeping nothing from Miss Poke and Pry," 
 said Alice with admirable equability as she went out 
 with the tray. 
 
 " You should not talk of the servants in that way 
 when they are present, Penelope," said Mrs. Conway. 
 " It gives them an excuse for being impertinent. I 
 have enough difficulty with them as it is, and my little 
 girl must not add to it. What were you doing in 
 Alice's bedroom? " 
 
 " Counting her penny novelettes. Mother, why have 
 none of us ever set eyes on Uncle Mark ? " 
 
 Mrs. Conway's lip stiffened. " You heard what 
 your father said about that," she replied. " I may 
 have wished that you should all know the facts of the 
 case; but if he thinks differently, so be it. I must 
 keep silence. 
 
 " Uncle Mark is a great swell, isn't he? " 
 
 " You must not use such words as that, Penelope 
 darling. They are not at all pretty coming from lit- 
 tle girls. Uncle Mark was a Cabinet Minister. That 
 is to say, when gentlemen came together in Parliament 
 to make the laws he was one of their leaders. It was 
 a very honourable position, and I am far from saying 
 that he was not competent to fill it, although it is true 
 that he was turned out of his seat in Parliament 
 shortly after father married mother, and has remained 
 out ever since." 
 
 " Was it because father married you that Uncle 
 Mark wouldn't have anything more to do with him ? " 
 
 Mrs. Conway put her work down on her lap. " And
 
 22 WATERMEADS 
 
 pray who has told you a wicked thing like that ? " she 
 asked indignantly. " Really, I sometimes think there 
 are no limits to the things that are said in this house 
 before an innocent child. You are too young, darling, 
 to see how disagreeable it is for mother to have a 
 speech like that made to her. I do not blame you so 
 much as those who put such an idea into your head; 
 but you are old enough now, darling, to be more care- 
 ful of your words." 
 
 Old enough or young enough, Penelope waited 
 with sharp-eyed eagerness for an answer to her 
 question. 
 
 " You wouldn't think that father could be made hap- 
 pier than by marrying mother, would you, mother's 
 pet ? " enquired Mrs. Conway. 
 
 " I suppose I shouldn't be here if you and father 
 hadn't been married," said Penelope. 
 
 Mrs. Conway, under pretence of blowing her nose, 
 deposited her work in the basket, and under cover of 
 it took up a set of ivory tablets hanging from her 
 waist and wrote on it, while she essayed at the same 
 time to continue the conversation. " You wouldn't 
 like to have had shouldn't be here I mean " 
 
 " Put down what I said first, mother," said Pe- 
 nelope. " You can't talk and write at the same time." 
 
 Mrs. Conway, abashed by this speech, dropped her 
 tablets, and took up her work again. " I never can 
 remember to order the methylated," she said, with 
 transparent duplicity. 
 
 Penelope persisted in her inquisition. " Did Uncle 
 Mark want father to marry somebody else ? " 
 
 Mrs. Conway settled herself more comfortably in
 
 PAST AND PRESENT 23 
 
 her chair. " When father was a young man,"' she 
 said, " living here at Watermeads with Grandfather 
 Conway, mother was living at the Vicarage with 
 Grandfather Diblee, who was Vicar here, just as Mr. 
 Bonner is now." 
 
 " You were a good deal older than Dad, weren't 
 you, mother? " 
 
 " Now who told you that ? It is not true. We were 
 nearly the same age, but while father was always old 
 for his years mother was generally thought to be 
 younger than she was. I remember very well at our 
 wedding that Lord Bridlington, who was present, as 
 you will see some day when I show you what was writ- 
 ten in the newspapers about it it was a quiet wed- 
 ding, but there were a good many titled people pres- 
 ent, friends of both bride and bridegroom, although 
 Uncle Mark preferred to be absent, and I must say, 
 strange as it may appear, that he was very little 
 missed." 
 
 " What did Lord Bridlington say? " 
 
 " I cannot tell you that, darling. When you are a 
 little older you will understand better that elderly 
 gentlemen who are looked up to a good deal in the 
 world are permitted to say things that would not 
 be becoming in other people." 
 
 " Well, tell me about Uncle Mark. Didn't he adopt 
 father?" 
 
 " No. Uncle Mark was the brother of Grand- 
 mother Conway, who died when father was a baby. 
 You must always remember, Penelope darling, when 
 you grow older, if there are sometimes things that 
 you cannot quite understand about father, that he
 
 24 WATERMEADS 
 
 never knew a mpther's love. Think what a difference it 
 would make to my little girl if mother had died before 
 she was old enough ever to know her ! " 
 
 " Tell me about Uncle Mark," said Penelope. 
 
 ** I am telling you, darling. He used to come here 
 when Grandfather Conway was alive, and I often saw 
 him; for Grandfather Diblee and I were at Water- 
 meads a great deal ; it was almost like a second home 
 to me. And I never liked Mr. Drake, as of course 
 we always used to call him then." 
 
 "Did he like you?" 
 
 " As it turned out afterwards, unaccountably not ; 
 though I always treated him respectfully, and without 
 showing that I did not like him. In fact, I was care- 
 ful to hide my dislike, and took pains to engage him 
 in conversation whenever I had the opportunity." 
 
 " Perhaps that was what he didn't like." 
 
 " Perhaps it was ; there is no telling. You may do 
 all you can to please some people, and you will never 
 please them. But one would have thought that the 
 conversation of a young and modest girl, anxious to 
 improve her mind and to hear the other side in pol- 
 itics for Uncle Mark was what is called a Liberal, 
 while Grandfather Diblee and I were strong Conserv- 
 atives would not have displeased even a President of 
 the Board of Trade! But that is not the point. 
 When Grandfather Conway died, Uncle Mark became 
 father's guardian, as it is called, and until father came 
 of age he lived with him in London, and for some years 
 afterwards, while Watermeads was let. He was sec- 
 retary to Uncle Mark, who I will do him that amount 
 of justice was fond of father, and thought highly of
 
 PAST AND PRESENT 25 
 
 his abilities, and wished him to enter Parliament, as 
 he had done himself, and to get on." 
 
 "Why didn't father?" 
 
 " Why didn't father what? " 
 
 "Get on." 
 
 Mrs. Conway sighed deeply. " We must never 
 blame father for any mistakes he may have made," 
 she said. " His abilities might have carried him far, 
 although he often says himself that in his youth he 
 was more fond of pleasure than of hard work. If he 
 had consented to go on letting Watermeads for a time, 
 and gone on with his work in London, we should most 
 likely not have been in the position we occupy today, 
 living in a big house with not enough money to live 
 as we ought to live. In mother's old home with Grand- 
 father Diblee, simple as it was However, that is 
 
 not the point. We must not complain. Father is head 
 of the family, and it is our duty to bear cheerfully 
 whatever he chooses to prepare for us." 
 
 " But I thought Uncle Mark wouldn't let father 
 go on being his secretary if he married you, mother." 
 
 Mrs. Conway laid down her work. " I must insist, 
 Penelope, on knowing who has told you these tales," 
 she said. " Somebody seems to have taken a delight 
 in filling your poor little head with any story that 
 would reflect discredit on your mother. I say that it 
 is a very wicked thing to do, and if I find it goes any 
 further I shall take strong measures to stop it. Now 
 who was it told you that? " 
 
 " You did, mother. Isn't it true? " 
 
 " It is true that Uncle Mark behaved in a most 
 reprehensible way throughout. I have sometimes
 
 26 WATERMEADS 
 
 thought that he could not have been quite in posses- 
 sion of his senses at the time; and perhaps that is 
 the kindest way to look at it. But when did I tell 
 you such a thing as that? " 
 
 " Oh, often. But you have never told me what he 
 said, and why he didn't want father to marry you." 
 
 " You have been told quite as much as is suitable for 
 a little girl to know. And I will not have you discuss- 
 ing it with the others. Now do you quite understand 
 that, Penelope? Because if you disobey me I shall be 
 very displeased. Facts are put to you in a wrong light, 
 and I should be very sorry to think it, but it looks as 
 if there must be somebody who takes a pleasure in 
 putting them in a way to make them reflect against 
 mother. I do not ask who it is. I would rather not 
 know." 
 
 Penelope said she thought she. had better go and 
 practise. She played three bars on the schoolroom 
 piano and then went into the garden to find Elsie and 
 Rose.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 SOME FRIENDS 
 
 ELSIE and Rose had begun by discussing the very 
 point that Penelope had set herself for the hundredth 
 time to elucidate. 
 
 " What was it that Uncle Mark said about mother ? 
 I'd give anything to know," said Elsie. 
 
 " We should have got it out at last, if father hadn't 
 stopped her," said Rose. 
 
 " Oh, no, we shouldn't. We should have had the 
 old story all over again. It would have been made quite 
 plain that he made an unholy row about father mar- 
 rying mother, and the kindest thing to say was that 
 he was unaccountable for his actions." 
 
 " I think it is awfully sweet of Dad to want it not 
 to be talked about at all. He quarrelled with Uncle 
 Mark because he was rude about mother, and he has 
 been getting poorer and poorer ever since. But he 
 never brings it up against her." 
 
 " It would be rather horrid of him if he did," 
 
 Rose reflected. " I'm not so sure," she said. " She 
 brings up everything against him. Poor old Micawber ! 
 I wish he could have a bit of luck." 
 
 " If he doesn't, we shan't be able to go on living at 
 Watermeads." 
 
 " Oh, something will turn up. There's always Uncle 
 Mark in the background. He is as rich as he can 
 be, and father is his only near relation." 
 
 27
 
 28 WATERMEADS 
 
 "Father hasn't seen him for twenty-five years." 
 
 " I know. But that's because he's too proud to tahe 
 the first step. Oh, I'm sure Uncle Mark must see by 
 this time what a good sort father is; and in the long 
 run he'll make it up with him." 
 
 " Elsie laughed. " You're as sanguine as Dad," 
 she said. " I don't think you've much to go on with 
 Uncle Mark after twenty-five years." 
 
 " Well, there's Freddy. Freddy loves Watermeads 
 as much as father does, and all of us. If he makes 
 his fortune on the Stock Exchange, it will be just the 
 same as if Dad had made the money. We shall all 
 go on living here, and we shall live like other people, 
 instead of in the way we do." 
 
 " Somehow I don't see Freddy making his fortune 
 on the Stock Exchange. He is just like Dad not a 
 bit cut out for business." 
 
 " Cousin Henry * is going to make him a partner. 
 He makes a lot of money, and I suppose Freddy will 
 have half of it when he is a partner. It's awfully 
 lucky for him that Uncle Henry only has girls, and no 
 boy to put into his business. Freddy is lucky. He 
 won that Derby Sweepstake. He's awfully sweet too. 
 He'd have given all the money to us, if Dad had let 
 him. I believe that Freddy's good luck will make up 
 for Dad's bad luck." 
 
 " If he gets on he may want to get married, and 
 come and live here." 
 
 " He couldn't live here if he had to work in Lon- 
 don. Besides, he wouldn't want to turn us out." 
 
 " Perhaps he will marry an heiress. He is very 
 good looking."
 
 SOME FRIENDS 29 
 
 " He might fall in love with someone, and find she 
 was an heiress afterwards. That would be the best 
 thing that could happen." 
 
 " Why are we always talking about money? " asked 
 Rose. 
 
 " Because we haven't got any. But I'm not sure 
 we don't have as much fun as if we had. You know 
 how bored Hilda Bradley gets ; she hates living in the 
 country all the year round. We don't get bored, be- 
 cause we have plenty to do." 
 
 " I do get bored sometimes, with making beds and 
 dusting, and lots of things that servants generally do." 
 
 Elsie looked at her affectionately. " Poor 
 darling ! " she said. " Of course you oughtn't to have 
 to do that sort of thing; you're much too pretty." 
 
 Rose blushed. " I'm not nearly so pretty as you 
 think I am," she said ; and added with a smile : " But 
 I like you to think it all the same." 
 
 There was a little story behind this or the begin- 
 nings of one; but the sisters did not talk about it, al- 
 though they talked about everything else between 
 themselves. 
 
 " I should like to do some real work like boys 
 can," said Rose. " It must be fun, trying hard, and 
 making your way." 
 
 Elsie laughed again. " That's what Dad is always 
 talking about," she said. " But he doesn't do much. 
 You wouldn't do much either. Neither of us is any 
 good at the things girls do do, to get on like music 
 or painting. We're rather clever at house work be- 
 cause we've got to be. But neither of us could make 
 a penny if we tried."
 
 30 WATERMEADS 
 
 " It isn't a very bright look-out." 
 
 " We need not look out, very far. " We're happy 
 enough, living here at Watermeads; and if we're go- 
 ing to get our allowance paid up now, I don't know 
 that we want much more for the present." 
 
 " We all make a sort of religion of Watermeads." 
 
 " Well, it is the nicest place in the world, and we 
 all know it is. We've picked enough now. Let's take 
 these in. Then we can go and meet Dad." 
 
 They went with their baskets through the untidy 
 kitchen garden, which provided the house with a 
 large proportion of the food consumed in it. Other- 
 wise it would have been more neglected than it was, 
 for there had long ceased to be any attempt to keep 
 up anything that was not of stern service in support- 
 ing its owners. The old red brick walls surrounding 
 it were crumbling in places, and one corner was gap- 
 ing, and would soon fall if not repaired. The fruit 
 trees trained on them were only here and there pruned 
 and netted. The currants and raspberries from which 
 the girls had been picking were not protected from the 
 depredations of birds. Stakes and nets had long since 
 rotted and not been replaced. The strawberry beds 
 had not been replanted for years, nor the asparagus 
 beds salted. Docks grew profusely in corners, and 
 weeds were plentiful everywhere. The kitchen garden, 
 divided into two by its high walls, covered an acre of 
 ground, and was too much for one man to look after, 
 who with the help of a boy had to do everything that 
 wanted doing outside, including tinkering repairs to 
 the structure of the house, feeding of chickens and
 
 SOME FRIENDS 31 
 
 pigs, cutting of wood, as well as the internal duties of 
 * boots, coals and knives.' 
 
 But, meagrely tended as it was, the kitchen garden 
 was the best ordered of all that lay immediately around 
 the house. The girls passed through an enclosure full 
 of greenhouses, forcing-pits, tool and potting sheds, 
 where everything was in the last stage of dilapidation 
 glass broken, woodwork perishing for lack of paint, 
 doors off their hinges, rubbish accumulated everywhere. 
 The great stable yard next to it was overgrown with 
 grass. The once gilded hands of the turret clock, 
 which had at some remote date stopped at the de- 
 jected hour of twenty minutes past seven, looked as 
 if they would never have the energy to raise them- 
 selves again. Tiles had fallen from the roofs, and lay 
 where they had fallen. The very pump had gone out 
 of business. But pigeons were sunning themselves on 
 the roof, and in the soft afternoon sunshine the effect 
 was not so much of desolation as of mellow tranquil- 
 lity. 
 
 They deposited their baskets of fruit in the great 
 stone-flagged kitchen, where the fat cook blessed their 
 bonny faces and said she was glad to hear that there 
 would be a bit of money to spend now. If Mrs. Con- 
 way was considered something of a scourge by the 
 servants of the house, the rest of the family was 
 adored by them, with the possible exception of Pe- 
 nelope, who was considered to be precociously * taking 
 after her ma.' There was an amount of friendliness 
 between them and the servants quite unusual in large 
 houses. Sydney Conway had more than ' a pleasant 
 word ' for them whenever he met them ; he was in and
 
 32 WATERMEADS 
 
 out of their quarters almost as much as his own, and 
 could often be seen sitting on one of the kitchen 
 tables enjoying a lively and lengthy conservation with 
 the cook, who did not hesitate on occasions to send 
 him about his business on the score of interruption of 
 her work. This and other similar habits of his caused 
 Mrs. Conway infinite annoyance, which she sometimes 
 expressed strongly. If he made himself so free, how 
 could he expect to gain the respect of the servants? 
 It is doubtful whether respect was the strongest arti- 
 cle of their attitude towards him, but they never wor- 
 ried him for their wages when they were overdue, nor 
 showed any desire to take service where they could get 
 them paid more regularly. The cook, indeed, was a 
 remnant of easier times a forty pound a year artist, 
 now reduced to twenty-five. She had come to Water- 
 meads immediately after Fred's birth, and had had a 
 kitchen maid under her, as well as the agreeable so- 
 ciety of seven or eight other indoor servants, besides 
 men in the stables and gardens. So her devotion was 
 well proved. Fred was the apple of her eye. After 
 him came Rose, because of her beauty, but she loved 
 Elsie hardly less. Upon Bobby and Billy she ex- 
 ercised her tongue, and sometimes her hand; but 
 they could always get what they wanted from her. 
 On her reduced and precarious wages she was 
 perhaps the happiest person in the house. She 
 liked the freedom of her lot. In her noble kitchen 
 she reigned supreme, and it was as much a centre 
 of intelligence and discussion as the great hall, 
 or the parlour which the Conways chiefly inhabited in 
 the winter. She had had nothing like the position she
 
 
 SOME FRIENDS 33 
 
 now enjoyed when she had been surrounded by a staff 
 of servants, and the two parts of the house had kept 
 apart. The only disquietude in her life was that Pe- 
 nelope, whom she had adored as a baby, would have 
 nothing to do with her petting. That small minx 
 could get what she wanted from her without the ne- 
 cessity of making any return of affection. The fat 
 .tender-hearted woman was her devoted slave. She was 
 often made very unhappy when she had taken pains to 
 please the small tyrant and was refused the reward of 
 a caress. She would go about quite miserable, but 
 the smallest sign of relenting on Penelope's part would 
 bind the chains on her still further. She had some 
 warmth of feeling even for Mrs. Conway, who would 
 sometimes make a confidante of her. She admired her 
 mistress's stateliness, and regretted for her sake that it 
 could not be exercised in more elaborate surroundings. 
 
 :< Well, if you're not as pink and sweet as a rasp- 
 berry yourself ! " she said, beaming on Rose as she re- 
 ceived the basket from her. " We shan't keep you at 
 home, my pretty, I'll be bound ; and now you'll be able 
 to get yourself some nice clothes, and we shall see 
 what we shall see." 
 
 " You silly old woman," said Rose, half turning 
 from her with a blush. " You'll see nothing except 
 what you've always seen. Come along, Elsie, we'll go 
 and meet Dad." 
 
 " Ah, you don't deceive me," said the cook, with an 
 arch smile, as the girls went out. " If Master Fred's 
 coming home, there'll be somebody else too; and it 
 won't be for Master Fred he'll be coming over." 
 
 Elsie looked at Rose as they went through the
 
 34 WATERMEADS 
 
 sunny yard. The ice once broken in this way, it 
 might be hoped that Rose would say something at 
 last. 
 
 Rose looked down with a half-vexed smile, and then 
 said : " Of course she means Jack Kirby, but it's too 
 silly. He's always been Fred's friend, and never comes 
 here except when Fred's at home." 
 
 Jack Kirby was the only son of Lord Kirby, a lately 
 ennobled ship-owner who had bought Prittlewell Hall, 
 about five miles from Watermeads, in the previous 
 autumn. He had been at Cambridge with Fred Con- 
 way. Elsie might have said in answer to Rose that the 
 Kirbys had only occupied their new house for the first 
 time at Easter; that during the short vacation Jack 
 had been over to see Fred a good deal more often than 
 friendship demanded; that the same thing had hap- 
 pened at Whitsuntide; and that otherwise neither of 
 the young men had been in the country. 
 
 But she jumped those obvious stages. " Oh, I'm 
 sure he does like you, darling," she said, slipping her 
 arm into Rose's. " And I don't wonder at it ; you 
 are so awfully sweet. Any young man would." 
 
 Rose was accustomed to Elsie's openly expressed 
 admiration. She acknowledged it by a squeeze of the 
 arm in hers. " He must think we're a very funny 
 household," she said. " Elsie, supposing he did come 
 here because oh, well, because of me " 
 
 ;< Yes? " said Elsie, as she paused. 
 
 " I mean we're so different from them, with all their 
 money and luxury and everything." 
 
 Elsie understood her. " We shall both be all right 
 now we can have a few new clothes," she said. " Noth-
 
 SOME FRIENDS 35 
 
 ing else really matters; nobody's ashamed of being 
 poor nowadays." 
 
 " I'm not so sure that they don't rather look down 
 upon us because we're poor and have to show it so 
 plainly," Rose said. " Even he rather makes a boast 
 of his money. Fred says so." 
 
 " Fred likes him, though." 
 
 " He told me that he had never known him very 
 well at Cambridge. He was rather surprised at his 
 making such a friend of him now. He thought it was 
 because they were new, and we're old, although we're 
 so poor." 
 
 Elsie laughed. " Men never see anything," she said. 
 " Fred said he splashed his money about at Cam- 
 bridge. I suppose it must be rather jolly to feel 
 you've got a lot to spend, especially when you're 
 young." 
 
 " Oh, yes. I suppose it's only that. I don't mean 
 that I think he's purse-proud. I shouldn't like him 
 at all if he were. Of course I do like him; he's so 
 cheerful and friendly ; and there aren't so many peo- 
 ple who take the trouble to come over and see us 
 now. You like him too, and he likes you. It isn't 
 only me that he likes." 
 
 " Talking about Jack Kirby, I suppose," remarked 
 Penelope, appearing from behind a large bush of 
 syringa. " They're all coming down on Friday. Mor- 
 ris told me." 
 
 The two girls set upon her and rent her with scorn 
 for an eavesdropping little cat. She received their 
 censure unmoved. " Morris says they are going to 
 have a large party at Prittlewell," she said.
 
 36 WATERMEADS 
 
 Morris was the postman, whose radius included both 
 Prittlewell and Watermeads, and who carried gossip 
 as well as letters and parcels. The news that 
 Penelope had obtained from him was allowed to 
 outbalance her offence, when she had been duly 
 chidden. 
 
 " If any of them do come over here, I should like 
 to have something decent to wear something that 
 everybody hasn't seen before," said Rose. 
 
 The possibility was discussed until Penelope grew 
 tired of it. " Who will play tennis with me ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " We're going to find Dad," said Elsie. " Neither 
 of us wants to play tennis ; it's too hot." 
 
 " I want to play," Penelope persisted. " Mother 
 said one of you were to." 
 
 " Did she say that this evening? " asked Rose. 
 They were accustomed to Penelope's ways. 
 
 " She said you were always ready to play with one 
 another, and you were to play sometimes with me; 
 and I want to play now." 
 
 " Well, we're not going to play. Now go back and 
 get us into a row with mother." 
 
 ; ' Yes, I shall," said Penelope calmly, and walked 
 away from them. 
 
 " Really she gets worse every day," said Rose, but 
 with no particular signs of annoyance. " I wonder 
 what other people would think of her, if we ever saw 
 people for any length of time. She's all right when 
 they're just visitors." 
 
 "She's a horrid child," said Elsie, with the same 
 equability. "But what can you expect?"
 
 SOME FRIENDS 37 
 
 The subject dropped. This was about as near as 
 they ever came to criticism of their mother. 
 
 They went out through a gate leading from the shrub- 
 bery into the open park, which still contained some 
 fine trees, although not a few had been cut down and 
 sold for their timber. Sydney Conway had devoted 
 much energy of mind to preserving those which, either 
 singly or in groups, would make the others less missed. 
 They came to the gently gliding river, and presently 
 to a bridge, over which ran a path to the village. 
 The bridge was masked from the path leading from 
 the house by a group of trees, and when they came to 
 it they saw their old friend the Vicar crossing it to- 
 wards them, and a little farther on the bank a com- 
 paratively new friend in the person of an artist seated 
 at his easel. The Vicar's name was Bonner, and the 
 artist's Bellamy. 
 
 The Vicar's face lighted up when he saw the two 
 girls. He was an elderly man, with the scholar's stoop 
 on his thin shoulders, and a singularly sweet expres- 
 sion of face. " Well, my dears," he said, " this is 
 well met. I was just on my way to see how Mr. Bel- 
 lamy is getting on with his picture. Now we can go 
 and look at it all together. What's the news about 
 the other picture? " 
 
 They told him what the Raeburn had fetched. 
 " Well, I hoped it would fetch more, but didn't expect 
 it to fetch so much," he said. " I don't follow these 
 modern prices." 
 
 " The boys will be able to go to school now," said 
 Elsie. 
 
 *' Yes ; it has always been ear-marked for that,
 
 38 WATERMEADS 
 
 hasn't it? Well, I've got the young scamps ready. 
 I think they'll do us credit." 
 
 The girls were walking on either side of him with 
 their arms in his. They had always loved him dearly 
 s.ince their childhood. Now both of them gave him a 
 simultaneous squeeze of affection. They knew well 
 enough what a good friend he had shown himself. In 
 a thousand little ways he had eased the burden of 
 poverty as it affected their own lives, and in the mat- 
 ter of Bobby and Billy he had done a very big thing. 
 For some years he had devoted himself, quietly and 
 steadily, to educating them without any reward but 
 that of friendship and good conscience. He had set 
 aside long and regular hours for them, giving up much 
 of his own loved work to take up again the drudgery 
 of schoolmastering. The boys, and he with them, had 
 had their regular holidays. Otherwise lesson hours 
 had been inviolate. And a greater achievement even 
 than this long-continued sacrifice of valuable time had 
 been that it had been made to be felt not as a burden- 
 some benefit but as an act of friendship, giving as 
 much pleasure to the one side as to the other. No 
 wonder that the girls loved their old friend, and he 
 them! 
 
 There was no time for further conversation between 
 them before they reached the artist on the river bank. 
 He rose from his stool to greet them as they came 
 up. He was a tall rather grave-looking man, not very 
 young but not yet middle-aged, though with his fair 
 closely-clipped beard he may have appeared so to mod- 
 ern eyes. He had been staying in one of the pic- 
 turesque cottages in the village for about a month,
 
 SOME FRIENDS 39 
 
 spending most of his days painting, but apparently 
 ready, though not anxious, for whatever mild social 
 intercourse was open to him in the intervals. The 
 Vicar had made friends with him, and had taken him 
 to Watermeads, where he had gradually come to be 
 accepted as an unobtrusive guest whom it was agree- 
 able but not very exciting to see. He talked little, 
 but seemed to have the gift of companionable silence, 
 as no-one felt either bored or awkward in his pres- 
 ence. The girls liked him, but did not discuss him 
 much. Mrs. Conway unbent before him, and was in 
 process of finding him a sympathetic listener, as she 
 poured out to him more and more of the rich store of 
 her memory. He would sit and look at her with in- 
 scrutable eyes as she talked, and leave her with the 
 impression that he had talked a good deal too, though 
 he may have uttered no more than monosyllables. 
 Sydney Conway discussed art with him, in which he 
 was interested, as in most things, and he listened to 
 him too, but did not entirely withold his speech or 
 ideas in return. For Sydney Conway was a clever fel- 
 low, with ideas of his own, and there lingered with him 
 a youthful enthusiasm that was one of his most at- 
 tractive qualities. And, finally, the precocious and 
 watchful Penelope was on the look-out for signs of in- 
 terest in him towards either Elsie or Rose, but par- 
 ticularly Rose, and had as yet found none. 
 
 Bellamy's picture, now nearing completion, of the 
 old stone bridge, with the placid stream flowing under 
 its arches, and the willows and poplars beyond, was 
 duly appraised, while he stood by with his palette on 
 his arm and said nothing. But it was a beautiful
 
 40 WATERMEADS 
 
 picture, and he must have known it. Then, after a 
 few words of general conversation, he said that he 
 had nearly finished for the evening, and would walk 
 with them to Sandford Hole. 
 
 He walked with Elsie. She told him about the price 
 that the Raeburn had fetched and what was to be 
 done with the money. The financial shifts to which 
 the Conway family had been reduced of late years 
 seemed to all of them a natural subject for conver- 
 sation with their friends, and Bellamy had already 
 come to be regarded as a friend. 
 
 He looked down at her from his height of over six 
 feet with a smile that made his somewhat plain face 
 pleasant enough. " I like Bobby and Billy," he said 
 kindly. " I'm glad they are going to a good school." 
 
 "Were you at Charterhouse?" she asked him. 
 
 " No," he said, but did not tell her where he had 
 been at school. He had never told any of them any- 
 thing about himself, which made it all the more re- 
 markable that they were so ready to tell him every- 
 thing. Elsie prattled on to him, and he listened to 
 her and made an occasional remark, until they reached 
 Sandford Hole, where they became merged in the 
 larger group. 
 
 In the meantime, the Vicar had given Rose a piece 
 of news. " Olivia is coming home," he said. " She 
 has been too long away from her old father. But 
 what changes I shall have to make in my bachelor 
 ways, Rose ! " 
 
 Rose expressed warm pleasure. " It will make a 
 lot of difference to us," she said. " We have always 
 missed Olivia, Elsie and I, and it is nearly three years
 
 SOME FRIENDS 41 
 
 since we have seen her. How could you have done 
 without her for so long? " 
 
 " Well, I have missed her too. Perhaps I couldn't 
 have done without her if I hadn't been to Italy to see 
 her twice in the meantime. But her aunt has not been 
 able to do without her either. I couldn't get her back 
 before, much as I wanted her." 
 
 " How is it that her aunt can do without her now ? " 
 
 He looked at her with a whimsical expression. 
 " Aunts are curious beings," he said. " This partic- 
 ular one has recovered her health, and it seems to have 
 had the effect of diminishing her desire for Olivia's 
 society. But if she doesn't want the dear child any 
 longer, I do; and this time I shall hope to keep her 
 for a bit." 
 
 " We all want her," said Rose. " I suppose she is 
 very beautiful now. She always was, but she wasn't 
 grown up when she went away the last time." 
 
 " I think she is beautiful," said the Vicar simply.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 AN EVENING DRIVE 
 
 THE dynamic accessories of Watermeads had been re- 
 duced to a donkey and a governess cart, which would 
 hold two with some approach to comfort and four with 
 a still nearer approach to anguish. But the donkey 
 refused to trot with more than two, and was seldom 
 called upon to carry the full load. But it was a good 
 donkey when its whims were considered, and trotted 
 along gaily enough with Elsie and Rose as they drove 
 to the station on Friday evening to meet Fred. 
 
 The perfect June weather still held. The beautiful 
 country around Watermeads was deliciously soothing 
 to the spirit on this still and dewy evening, and the 
 two girls, who seldom moved away from it from one 
 year's end to the other, and would have welcomed a 
 change to more crowded surroundings, felt its influ- 
 ence and expressed their pleasure in it. They drove 
 down through the park, with its soft rich grass and 
 its handsome groups of trees, and out into the village 
 past a handsome stone-built lodge, the state of repair 
 of which gave no indication of the dilapidated state 
 of much that it ostensibly guarded. But it was no 
 longer inhabited by a lodge-keeper. It had been done 
 up and let as a week-end cottage to a tradesman from 
 the neighbouring town of Sherbrook. As a conse- 
 quence, there was no one to deal with the handsome 
 
 42
 
 AN EVENING DRIVE 43 
 
 iron gates which it flanked, and these had been for so 
 long left hospitably open that it would have been a 
 difficult matter to close them. The general effect of 
 the handsome entrance was somewhat marred by a 
 row of hurdles stretching across it to keep the cattle 
 from making journeys of investigation into the village 
 street. In such matters as these the Squire of Water- 
 meads was blissfully undisturbed at his poverty be- 
 ing made apparent, but Mrs. Conway never used this 
 exit if she could possibly help it. There were others 
 less handsome but less marred. 
 
 The two hurdles in the middle were easily movable, 
 and the sight was not unknown to the village of an 
 elaborately accoutred footman opening them to admit 
 of an equipage belonging to richer neighbours. The 
 removal of one of these by Rose enabled Elsie to drive 
 the donkey through, and neither of the girls felt any 
 more shame at the necessity than their father would 
 have done not even when a great raking varnished 
 coroneted car passed them as they were making their 
 way through. There was a wave from the car as it 
 hummed past them. It was on its way to Prittlewell 
 from Sherbrook, where the fast train from London 
 stopped. Fred would come on by the slow one which 
 served the branch line. The Kirbys might have given 
 him a lift, said Elsie, but Rose was glad that they 
 hadn't; it would have meant missing the drive and the 
 pleasant saunter home, during which Fred would tell 
 them about everything. 
 
 The village, which was grouped chiefly about the 
 east gate, was no more than a straggling row of very 
 picturesque cottages flanked by an equally picturesque
 
 44 WATERMEADS 
 
 inn. There were some little shops, only one of which 
 gave itself the slightest air of importance, the others 
 mostly displaying their wares behind the small-paned 
 windows of ground-floor rooms. In this rich month 
 of June walls were covered with roses and gardens 
 ablaze with homely flowers. The road ran straight 
 between the cottages on one side and the wall of the 
 park on the other. Trees had been left to grow tall 
 at this point, and the tower of the church showed be- 
 yond them some distance down the road. The village 
 of Watermeads, in the past no more than an appanage 
 of the great house, was as pretty a one as could 
 be found anywhere in England, and was always being 
 painted by artists, who also found innumerable sub- 
 jects in the pleasant water-meadows that surrounded 
 it, and in the more hilly and wooded scenery into which 
 the flat country soon changed on either side. 
 
 After the village came an old Jacobean farmhouse, 
 snugly and solidly facing the high road, with its ac- 
 companiment of yards and mellow out-buildings, gar- 
 dens, orchards and horse-pond. Haymaking was go- 
 ing on in the wide fields that stretched on the further 
 side of it; the scent of the hay was delicious; the 
 voices of the haymakers at some distance off alone 
 broke the perfect silence of the dewy evening. 
 
 The river was crossed by another old stone bridge, 
 alongside of which was a water-mill with cottage and 
 garden attached. The mill was built of tarred 
 weather-boarding, with a red tiled roof, and was shad- 
 owed by a group of tall poplars. This was another 
 beaut}' spot much affected by artists. 
 
 Here the Watermeads property ended. The road
 
 AN EVENING DRIVE 45 
 
 began to rise, and soon entered a noble beech-wood, 
 which continued for a mile until it gave place to a 
 sandy heath. A further dip revealed the village of 
 Sailsby, two and a half miles from Watermeads, and 
 the nearest point to it on the line. 
 
 The greeting between brother and sisters showed an 
 affection and mutual interest pleasant enough to see. 
 Fred Conway was what would have been called in past 
 days a very personable young man. He was better 
 looking than his father, but had the same amiability 
 of expression, and, it must be confessed, the same ap- 
 parent absence of driving force. He was of medium 
 height, but slim and muscular. He, as well as his 
 father, had been in the Charterhouse Eleven, and had 
 been near to getting his * blue ' at Cambridge. He 
 was one of those young men to whom life, and es- 
 pecially English life, holds out innumerable pleasures, 
 provided there is a sufficiency of money and leisure. 
 With the opportunities of his friend Jack Kirby, Fred 
 would have been a highly popular member of society, 
 and could have filled the golden days of his youth as 
 richly as any of his contemporaries. At school he had 
 not felt the lack of opportunity, and very little at 
 Cambridge, where, however, the comparative meagre- 
 ness of his allowance had deprived him of some of the 
 social pleasures he would have been fitted to enjoy. 
 He had since had a good opportunity given to him of 
 making his way, and even, if he could take advantage 
 of it, of repairing the broken fortunes of his house. 
 But it provided him at present with no more than sub- 
 sistence, and he was cut off from many of the pleas- 
 ures that his father had enjoyed in his youth, and
 
 46 WATERMEADS 
 
 that would have been his right as heir to Watermeads, 
 if Watermeads had been a support instead of a bur- 
 den. 
 
 The cousin of his mother's who had taken him into 
 his office was a rich man, but had made himself so, and 
 had lived contentedly all his married life in a London 
 suburb, first in a small house, and then in a large one. 
 He provided Fred with a salary which enabled him 
 to live comfortably enough in two rooms in the same 
 suburb, but to take very few of his pleasures outside 
 of it. The salary was a hundred and twenty pounds 
 a year, which Mr. Wilkins considered very handsome 
 for a clerk just learning his work, as indeed it was. 
 Out of this, Fred had to keep himself entirely, and did 
 so without getting into debt. He had never got into 
 debt at Cambridge either, which perhaps betokened 
 more force of character than his ready amiability gave 
 warrant for. But it was of the same quality as the gen- 
 eral family readiness to accept poverty without think- 
 ing of it. Sydney Conway would never have got into 
 debt either, if Watermeads had not hung like a mill- 
 stone round his neck. As it was, he did without every- 
 thing that could possibly be done without, and if the 
 time should come when a crash could not be averted, it 
 would leave him solvent, though denuded of his be- 
 loved Watermeads. 
 
 Fred showed no inclination to grumble at his lot, 
 and indeed there was nothing in it to grumble at, ex- 
 cept in comparison with what a young man of his 
 birth and education might have demanded. Hillstead 
 was one of the pleasantest of the old fashioned London 
 suburbs, with plenty of large houses and large gar-
 
 AN EVENING DRIVE 47 
 
 dens, in which an unattached young man could amuse 
 himself with whatever hospitality in the way of din- 
 ners and dances and tennis-playing might be offered 
 to him. Fred found no lack of amusement or compan- 
 ionship for his hours and days of leisure, and was 
 fortunate in finding them in the place in which he 
 lived, where they cost him nothing in return. But he 
 was cut off from London gaieties, from week-end coun- 
 try visits, from the sociability of good cricket, and 
 indeed from everything that would have taken him into 
 a wider world than that in which he lived at Hillstead. 
 He had to be careful of every penny. He hardly ever 
 used the club to which he had been elected at the age 
 of twenty-one, nor lunched with his school and Cam- 
 bridge friends in the City; for his own lunch he had 
 to be content with a tea-shop. Occasionally he went 
 to the pit of a theatre. Clothes were an anxiety, but 
 he did manage to produce the effect of being well 
 dressed on a very small expenditure indeed. 
 
 Looked at squarely, the deprivations suffered by this 
 agreeable young man were nothing at all in compari- 
 son with the advantages he gained from having to 
 live on a small income, and doing it, without getting 
 into debt. His character was braced, and none of 
 the pleasures he did enjoy carried with them any re- 
 action. He was practising the difficult art of doing 
 without, which is an important part of the whole diffi- 
 cult art of living. That he had a gift for the lesser 
 as well as for the greater art was part of his family 
 inheritance. 
 
 Fred's kit-bag was put into the donkey-cart, which 
 Rose drove, while he and Elsie walked one on either
 
 48 WATERMEADS 
 
 side of her. The Kirbys had offered him a lift in theii 
 motor-car, but he had refused it because he liked bet- 
 ter going home in this way. When he told his sisters 
 this, they felt that sense of grateful confidence in him 
 which is one of the sweetest fruits of family affection. 
 The Kirbys, with the wealth that enfolded them like 
 a garment, were still something of an excitement to 
 the Conway family. It would have been quite natural 
 that Fred should have accepted their invitation to 
 drop him at the gates of Watermeads an hour or 
 more before he would otherwise have got there. But 
 his sisters were more to him than the Kirbys, and the 
 pleasure of this makeshift home-coming in their com- 
 pany more than the opulent progression offered to 
 him. 
 
 They were soon deep in intimate converse. With 
 his working hours spent in the City and his leisure 
 time in a London suburb, Fred yet represented the 
 great world to these country home-keeping girls, and 
 they wanted to know all about it. But for the com- 
 plete sympathy between them, he might have had lit- 
 tle of any interest to tell. But their interest was in 
 him and his doings, and no detail was too small to 
 hold their attention or to set their imagination work- 
 ing. 
 
 It was Cousin Henry first of all a somewhat enig- 
 matic figure that took on a slightly new aspect every 
 time that Fred came home and told them about him. 
 Two years before he had brought his wife and four 
 young daughters to Watermeads for a summer holiday 
 as paying guests. The experiment had not been a 
 brilliant success. Mrs. Conway and Mrs. Wilkins had
 
 AN EVENING DRIVE 49 
 
 not * hit it off ' ; the four children had missed the de- 
 lights of their usual seaside holiday and been heavy 
 in hand. Cousin Henry had presented a ponderous 
 cigar-smoking newspaper-reading figure not without 
 alleviating points. Except when he had been active 
 over excursions, on which he had expended much 
 money on the hire of motor-cars, his chief occupation 
 had been to sit about; but he had always been ready 
 to talk kindly, if not very entertainingly, to any mem- 
 ber of the Conway family who chose to keep him 
 company. He had prevented an open breach between 
 his wife and Mrs. Conway, and had even made himself 
 liked by Mrs. Conway, who had been able to express 
 herself to him without producing those manifest signs 
 of boredom that were the frequent result of her con- 
 versations with outsiders. He had always been 
 anxious to include a young Conway more than one 
 was not possible unless a young Wilkins was to be 
 left behind in the excursions, and had proffered 
 golden and tactful solace for his final withdrawal from 
 Watermeads. If, in his habits and appearance, he 
 was totally unlike the country gentlemen who repre- 
 sented well-endowed middle age to the Conway family, 
 there were yet points of contact. He bulked as a 
 rather mild kindly personage, with curious ways that 
 set him apart but did not make him the less likable. 
 And he had kept up the connection, which his wife 
 and children had taken no trouble to do. More gold 
 had watered the aridness of the two successive Christ- 
 mases not thrown at its recipients from a height of 
 patronage, but accompanied by kindly little messages, 
 written in a clerky hand on business stationery, which
 
 50 WATERMEADS 
 
 gave it exactly the right quality of gratification. A 
 year ago he had come forward and given Fred his 
 chance another golden one, which had seemed to the 
 eager hopeful family to hold out infinite possibilities. 
 Decidedly, Cousin Henry had justified his cousinship, 
 and could be looked upon, in spite of his unfamiliar 
 habits, as one of the elect. 
 
 But the picture had had to be adjusted, as Fred 
 had thrown successive new lights upon it. Cousin 
 Henry, in the City, was not exactly the pliant figure 
 he had appeared to be at Watermeads. He was known 
 in his office as * a Tartar,' and Fred had not alto- 
 gether escaped uneasy contact with him. He had re- 
 lated little incidents which had made the girls wonder 
 that they had felt so much at ease with Cousin Henry, 
 * if he was really like that.' Fred had been able to 
 adapt himself to a new view of authority, which is 
 so tempered to the undergraduate that it seems hardly 
 like authority at all. But to Elsie and Rose it seemed 
 that, in exacting from him in all respects the be- 
 haviour of a clerk, Cousin Henry was too apt to for- 
 get that Fred was also a gentleman. It threw some 
 doubts upon his own claim to gentility, for which the 
 ground was already prepared by his dissimilarity 
 from type. 
 
 They might have adjusted themselves to the unfa- 
 miliar ways of * offices ' as exemplified by Fred's ex- 
 perience; it was Cousin Henry's behaviour to him out 
 of business hours that they found it hard to under- 
 stand. In his large comfortable villa * Lawnside,' Fred 
 was expected to present himself at regular intervals, 
 and was treated as one of the family, to the extent
 
 AN EVENING DRIVE 51 
 
 of never being allowed to feel that his presence made 
 any difference to anybody. Few other young people 
 ever went to the house, except friends of the girls, 
 who were not yet quite grown up, in the daytime. The 
 Wilkinses were great dinner givers. Once a month 
 or so there would be an elaborate crowded table, at 
 which such of the inhabitants of Hillstead as had 
 welcomed them to their own tables would sit down to 
 feast; but Fred was never invited to these solemn as- 
 stmblies. That omission, at first unaccountable, had 
 been forgiven. Fred had explained the ritual of these 
 entertainments as it was practised in houses like 
 * Lawnside.' Sociability was only an incident in it. It 
 was chiefly give and take. Young people were outside 
 the sacred circle. There were houses in Hillstead at 
 which he dined in the same way as he dined at houses 
 around Watermeads, and sometimes in London, as a 
 guest as welcome as any other ; but * Lawnside ' was not 
 one of them. Perhaps it would come to be so when 
 the girls should arrive at an age at which other young 
 people would be invited for their sakes. 
 
 But when all allowances had come to be made for 
 the difference of social habit between Cousin Henry's 
 life and that of the circles to which the Conways still 
 belonged, there remained a feeling that he did not 
 treat Fred as he ought to have treated him. Surely, 
 when Fred had done the work required of him Cousin 
 Henry should have left him free to go his own way! 
 But he didn't. He was continually overlooking and 
 interfering with him. It seemed that unless he could 
 reduce him to the common measure of other young 
 clerks, with a future before them, and no past that in-
 
 52 WATERMEADS 
 
 eluded such accidents as a university education, he 
 would never get him at all to his liking. He must 
 * stick to business ' time enough to amuse himself 
 when he had shown what he was made of, and had 
 money at his command. Sticking to business in this 
 connection meant a very rigid allowance of holiday, 
 not to be adapted to any call from outside, in the way 
 that all Fred's previously made friends who were at 
 work in * offices ' could more or less adapt them. But 
 this was not all. It almost seemed that Cousin Henry 
 was jealous of every circumstance attached to Fred 
 that had not been attached to himself at the same age. 
 He was certainly contemptuous, if not jealous, of 
 Fred's three years at Cambridge. If he had wasted 
 his own time in that way, he said, he would not have 
 been in a position to marry at Fred's age, and head 
 of a solid and increasing business a year or two later. 
 He disliked mention of cricket. Cricket was a game 
 to be played on Saturday afternoons and bank holi- 
 days, in places like Hillstead. This had been fully 
 explained in the early days of Fred's clerkship, when 
 he had asked to be allowed to anticipate three days 
 of his coming holiday to play in the Meadshire County 
 Eleven. Fred laughed now at his innocence in having 
 ever thought of making such a request. He had a 
 suspicion that Cousin Henry was jealous of the dis- 
 tinction that clung to him as the heir of Watermeads, 
 although he was doing what he could to make that 
 heirship no mere empty title. He never spoke of it 
 except as a burden, and would frequently compare his 
 own lot with that of Fred's father. " I remember 
 very well what was thought among us," he would say,
 
 AN EVENING DRIVE 53 
 
 " when your mother married your father. It was con- 
 sidered a great step up. County gentleman; fine 
 estate; and all that. I was only a boy of seventeen 
 then, but I'd been working for two years, and al- 
 ready had money laid by. I don't suppose your father 
 would have thought I was worth looking at then. But 
 look at us both now! Well, it isn't for me to say 
 but you stick to business, my boy. It will put you 
 wherever you want to be quicker than anything else. 
 Why, if it suited me, I could live in a house like Water- 
 meads, and keep it up as well as anybody. But it 
 doesn't suit me. That's why I don't do it. I'm as 
 good here as anybody, and I've no wish to go out of 
 my class. It's a mistake, 7 say." 
 
 Thus Cousin Henry, in a Sunday after-dinner mood, 
 strolling round the garden of ' Lawnside ' with a cigar, 
 or sitting before the fire in the dining room in his 
 gentleman's easy chair. It had seemed to come out 
 by degrees that some memory of his holiday at Water- 
 meads had slightly rankled in his mind. He had felt 
 differences, and wished to entrench himself in his 
 opulent respectability against any feeling of inferior- 
 ity. It was another light on him, discussed with in- 
 terest whenever Fred brought home any new material 
 for reckoning him up. 
 
 The net result had not yet been arrived at. Against 
 the items that weighed in Cousin Henry's disfavour 
 had to be put the far more important ones of his 
 having given Fred his golden chance, and of having 
 provided him with an income upon which he could at 
 least live in comfort. Fred knew enough now to tell 
 them that the income was worth more than his value
 
 54 WATERMEADS 
 
 as a clerk, and also that the partnership that had been 
 held out to him as the goal of his efforts would be 
 worth much money in Cousin Henry's pocket, if he 
 chose to bargain with it elsewhere. These were big 
 things in his favour; but small things are apt to out- 
 weigh big ones in such connection as this, and even the 
 big ones were not quite free from suspicion. Why 
 had Cousin Henry, in view of all that was tiresome 
 in his behaviour, held out to Fred his golden chance? 
 No quite satisfactory answer to that question had yet 
 been found. But it was constantly being asked. 
 
 So it was Cousin Henry who came first into the con- 
 versation when the brother and sisters set out on their 
 pleasant evening walk.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE ELDEST SON 
 
 FRED had shown himself extremely cheerful on getting 
 out of the train and greeting them, but his face fell 
 a little when Rose asked him how Cousin Henry had 
 been behaving. " Oh, all right," he said. " Well, no, 
 not quite all right. But I'll tell you about him later. 
 There's something else to tell you two things. Oh, 
 I'm full of news this time." He suddenly smiled radi- 
 antly, and put his hand affectionately on Rose's, as it 
 lay on the side of the cart. 
 
 " Well, the first thing is I've made friends with 
 Uncle Mark," he said. 
 
 This was news indeed, and invoked lively expres- 
 sions of surprise and deep interest. Fred had dined 
 two evenings before at Lord Kirby's great house in 
 Berkeley Square a semi-political men's dinner, to 
 which his friend Jack had got him invited * to take 
 the edge off the old buffers.' One of the old buffers 
 had been the Right Honourable Mark Drake, who, in 
 spite of his long absence from the House of Commons, 
 was still in the counsels of his party, and was much 
 valued as a dinner guest for his amusing and caustic 
 speech. 
 
 " I didn't know who he was until halfway through 
 dinner," Fred told his story. " Jack and I and one or 
 two secretaries and younger fellows were at the bot- 
 
 55
 
 56 WATERMEADS 
 
 torn of the table, and he was up at the top, keeping 
 them all pretty happy. He's rather a fine-looking old 
 boy, better than that photograph father has of him. 
 He's thin and tall, with a white pointed beard. He 
 never laughs himself when he says something good; 
 but everybody else does. They were in fits of laughter 
 sometimes all round him, and he was talking away as 
 grave as a judge, telling them a story, I suppose. 
 Jack didn't know who he was when I asked him, but 
 Ronny Greenwell fellow who played cricket for Ox- 
 ford when I was up who snooped a seat for them last 
 election he told me it was Mark Drake. 
 
 " Well, I thought it would be rather jolly to get to 
 know him, but I knew there wasn't any chance unless 
 I got old Kirby or somebody to introduce me. I 
 couldn't make up my mind whether to or not. What 
 would you have done about it ? " 
 
 The interpolated question showed many things, most 
 of them nice ones, about Fred, and about his attitude 
 to his sisters. 
 
 " Oh, of course you had to get to know him," Elsie 
 answered it. " He'd be sure to like you when you 
 did." Which was rather nice of her too. 
 
 " Well, I made up my mind I'd risk it. He couldn't 
 bite my head off. But I didn't have to do anything. 
 He was sitting next to old Kirby, and I suppose he 
 told him about buying Prittlewell; and he must have 
 said he knew it, and Watermeads, and us ; and then 
 old Kirby must have remembered that I was there, 
 and pointed me out to him. That's how I worked it 
 out afterwards. Anyhow, when I was looking at him 
 I saw old Kirby point me out, and after dinner he in-
 
 THE ELDEST SON 57 
 
 troduced me to him. He must have asked him to, I 
 should think." 
 
 " What did he say? Was he nice to you? " 
 
 " He said : * I thought I was about thirty years 
 younger when I first saw you at the bottom of the 
 table.' That was the first thing he said when he'd 
 shaken hands, looking at me quite solemnly, but with a 
 sort of pucker round his eyes." 
 
 " What did he mean? " asked Rose, as Fred paused. 
 
 He laughed. " I wanted to see whether you'd twig 
 it," he said. " I did, fortunately. Do you know what 
 he meant, Elsie? " 
 
 " Oh, of course he meant you were so like Dad," 
 said Elsie. " You are sometimes." 
 
 " Yes, that was it," said Fred, with a shade ot dis- 
 appointment. " I suppose it's easy enough to see now, 
 but when I was feeling a trifle nervous and old 
 Kirby does you jolly well when you dine with him too 
 well, I had to tumble to it at once. But you know 
 there were about forty people dining, and I hadn't 
 seen him throw a look at our end of the table before 
 Kirby pointed me out. I call it pretty good of him to 
 have spotted me like that, don't you ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Elsie. " What did you say to him? " 
 
 " I said : ' I suppose father often used to dine out 
 with you when he was your secretary.' That was the 
 right thing to say, wasn't it? I couldn't think of any- 
 thing better for the moment." 
 
 " It was perfectly brilliant, darling," said Elsie. 
 "What did he say to that?" 
 
 " I think he was pleased that I'd taken him up so 
 quickly. He asked me how Dad was, and said he
 
 58 WATERMEADS 
 
 hadn't seen much of him lately, but he'd been busy 
 writing letters and doing other little jobs." 
 
 " But, Fred ! It is over twenty-five years since he 
 would have anything to do with father." It was Rose 
 who spoke, in wide-eyed astonishment. Elsie only 
 laughed. 
 
 " I know," said Fred, " but I saw he was only rag- 
 ging, though he looked as solemn as an owl. I said: 
 * When you've finished your letters, I know he'll be 
 jolly pleased to see you again. He's told us a lot 
 about you.' ' : 
 
 " Really, Fred dear, that was rather brilliant," said 
 Elsie. 
 
 " Well, you see, old Kirby does you jolly well, and 
 I was feeling so comfortable inside that I didn't care 
 a damn. Besides, I felt a sort of kindly feeling to- 
 wards him. You know. I liked the look of him and 
 his way of saying things; and after all, he's our only 
 relation on the Conway side. I thought it would be a 
 good egg if we could make friends." 
 
 "Well? And did you?" 
 
 " I think so. I'm not quite sure. He was looking 
 at me all the time we were talking it wasn't very 
 long and I thought he liked me all right. But sud- 
 denly he said : * Well, I'm very glad to have met you,' 
 and turned his back on me and talked to somebody 
 else. I didn't speak to him again, and he didn't take 
 any more notice of me didn't even look at me or say 
 goodbye when he went away." 
 
 ' That's rather disconcerting," said Elsie. " Per- 
 haps you said something that annoyed him. What did 
 you talk about? "
 
 THE ELDEST SON 59 
 
 " Oh, about cricket a little. He'd asked me whether 
 I'd had any education, and I told him I'd been at 
 Charterhouse and Trinity. I thought he seemed 
 rather bucked at that. He was at Trinity himself, 
 oh, hundreds of years ago, and I said I thought he 
 would see some changes if he went there now." 
 
 " That wasn't quite so brilliant, Freddy dear." 
 
 " No, perhaps not, but I had to keep it rolling. He 
 seemed to expect me to do most of the talking. He 
 did talk a bit about cricket though. He used to play, 
 and watches matches now. He said he hadn't noticed 
 my name anywhere, and I said I'd played once or 
 twice for the County, but couldn't do it much now as 
 I was tied by the leg in the City." 
 
 " Did you tell him about Cousin Henry? " 
 
 " Yes, I said he'd taken me into his office, and he 
 said 'Who the devil's Cousin Henry?' I'd forgotten 
 for the moment that he didn't know anything about 
 him. I said he was Mr. Wilkins, a cousin of 
 mother's." 
 
 " Oh, Fred ! " This from Rose. 
 
 " Well, I think I was quite right, don't you, Elsie? 
 We can't chuck mother over to please him." 
 
 " Oh, I didn't mean that," said Rose hastily, and 
 the others refrained from asking her what she had 
 meant. 
 
 " Of course you are right," said Elsie. " Was that 
 when he turned his back on you when you told him 
 that?" 
 
 " No. He asked me how I liked the City, and I 
 said I liked it all right, and was lucky to have the 
 chance I had. I thought I ought to say something of
 
 60 WATERMEADS 
 
 that sort because of Cousin Henry. After all, he's 
 never done anything to give us a leg up, and he could 
 if he'd wanted to." 
 
 " You didn't tell him that, I suppose? " from Elsie. 
 
 " No. But he changed the subject all of a sudden, 
 and said: 'I see your father's just sold another pic- 
 ture ; ' and I said : ' Yes, he had to do it to send my 
 two young brothers to school. He sold one to send 
 me to school, and another to send me to Cambridge.' 
 He could make what he liked of that. I expect he 
 saw it right enough." 
 
 " What did he look like when you told him that? 
 Did he say anything? " 
 
 " He didn't look anything particular. He said : 
 * Are your two young brothers like you, or are you 
 the bright flower of the flock ? ' I saw he only wanted 
 to pull my leg. I said : * They've got a few more brains 
 than I have. If they get my chances I expect they'll 
 make more of them than I did. I'm a bit of a duffer 
 at books, but I'm a sticker. So are they.' I didn't 
 want him to go away with the idea that I thought my- 
 self clever, though I was standing up to him pretty 
 well. It was then that he seemed to feel he'd had 
 enough of me for the present. He turned round, and 
 that was the end of it." 
 
 It was an end that did not seem to hold out promise 
 of much further intercourse between the Right Hon- 
 ourable Mark Drake and his great-nephew. After 
 some discussion the subject was postponed for further 
 consideration at home. 
 
 " Now tell us about Cousin Henry," said Elsie. 
 " But first of all what is your other piece of news?"
 
 THE ELDEST SON 61 
 
 Fred smiled a sudden happy smile. " I'll tell you 
 that last," he said. His face fell again. " I believe 
 Cousin Henry wants to shift me," he said. 
 
 " Oh, Fred ! " from both girls at once. 
 
 " I'm sure I've stuck to it as well as I know how. 
 But he's always grumbling. He told me the other day 
 that I had less aptitude for business than any clerk 
 he's ever had in his office. He said I knew just about 
 as much after a year as when I'd come in." 
 
 " He really is rather awful the things he says," 
 said Rose. 
 
 " I was annoyed. He's been grumbling at me for 
 weeks about all sorts of silly little notions outside 
 the office chiefly. I hate going to his house now, 
 though Aunt Kate's always pleased to see me, and I 
 like the girls; they're not so bad when you get to 
 know them. What he really hates is my being any 
 different from him. He did this and that when he was 
 my age, and why can't I do the same? Ever since he 
 knew I was going to dine with the Kirbys', he's been 
 talking about people who like lords, and don't think 
 ordinary people good enough for them. I've tried to 
 make a joke of it, but it's jolly difficult to keep it 
 up, when you can see it isn't really a joke with him." 
 
 " We never thought he was like that when he was at 
 Watermeads," said Rose. This was the stock remark 
 when any new vagary of Cousin Henry's was dis- 
 closed. 
 
 " It's his little particular weakness coming out," 
 said Elsie. " What did you say to him, Fred, when 
 he complained about your work? " 
 
 " He didn't exactly complain about it. I've done
 
 62 WATERMEADS 
 
 the work all right. I've taken pains about it, and 
 there's a lot to learn. I said : * You're always finding 
 fault with me, Cousin Henry; but I've put my back 
 into it all the same, and I think I've got the hang 
 of the work of the office.' He said : * Any Board 
 School boy with ordinary brains could get that, in a 
 year. But you're a University man, you know. We 
 expect rather more from them than from Board School 
 boys; and we don't get it.' That's the sort of thing. 
 It's been going on for weeks now. What it means 
 is, that he thinks I'm good enough as a clerk he 
 can't deny that I do my work properly but not good 
 enough for anything else. I haven't brought any 
 business into the office; that's one thing. He's always 
 talking about my grand friends, as he calls them, and 
 asking why I can't get a few of them as clients. But 
 I can't go cadging round. Besides, I hardly ever see 
 anybody outside Hillstead. I haven't got the stuff 
 to go about with." 
 
 " And he doesn't seem to like your going about," 
 said Elsie. " I think he's very unreasonable. I won- 
 der whether that was the reason he took you in to 
 help him with people." 
 
 " Well, of course a broker is always on the look 
 out for new clients. All ours are Cousin Henry's own 
 sort. I think perhaps I might do something if I saw 
 more people. Anyhow, it's rather early days yet ; I 
 told him that, and he couldn't deny it. But he goes 
 on grumbling all the same. I'm getting fed up with 
 it." 
 
 " Do you really think that he wants to get rid of 
 you?"
 
 THE ELDEST SON 63 
 
 " It looks as if it was blowing up for that. What 
 I feel about it is that there's something he expects of 
 me that he doesn't get. I don't believe it has anything 
 to do with my work. I'm not a genius at it, perhaps, 
 but I'm not a duffer either, nor a slacker. If he does 
 want to get rid of me though, that will be the excuse 
 that I'm not shaping to it, and it's no good going 
 on. I can't see him offering me a partnership now 
 the way things are going." 
 
 "That's rather awful," said Rose. "It's the one 
 thing we've been fixing our hopes upon, to save Water- 
 meads." 
 
 " Well, I'm not going to say anything about it at 
 home yet. I may be mistaken, and he's just grumbling 
 because it's his nature to. Anyhow, I've got two 
 days' holiday, and I'm going to enjoy myself and for- 
 get all about Cousin Henry till I go back again." 
 
 " Poor old boy ! " said Rose. " It's lovely to have 
 you here. What's your other piece of news ? " 
 
 The happy smile came over Fred's face again. " I 
 said I'd tell you when it was coming," he said, " and 
 it's come. I'm in love." 
 
 They had reached the twilit shades of the beech- 
 wood. Rose pulled up the donkey, and all three of 
 them stood and laughed at one another on the sandy 
 road. 
 
 " Oh, there's no doubt about it this time," Fred 
 said, as they went on again. " I wish you could see 
 her. I'm sure you'll say that she's as beautiful as 
 any girl you've ever seen; and sweet and kind and 
 nice too." 
 
 " But who is she, Freddy darling? "
 
 64 WATERMEADS 
 
 "Oh, Freda Blumenthal. I've told you about the 
 Blumenthals." 
 
 " No, you haven't, except that you went to a dance 
 there." 
 
 " Well, I've been there a good deal since. It's a 
 funny thing: I always thought she was awfully pretty, 
 and I used to like her and like dancing with her, and 
 all that; but I wasn't a bit in love. Then all of a 
 sudden it seemed to come. We got to be pals some- 
 how, and I talked to her about things that I hadn't 
 thought of talking about before, to girls I just like, 
 up in Hillstead, and dance with." 
 
 " What sort of things? " 
 
 " Oh, about you, and Watermeads and everything. 
 She was so sympathetic. That's what made me like 
 her first in a special way, I mean. I told her about 
 old Cousin Henry and how tiresome he was, and how 
 I had to try to stick to it with him so as to be able 
 to get enough money to clear Watermeads, and be 
 what we'd been there before. She was awfully sweet 
 about it, and asked me all sorts of questions you 
 know, in a way that showed she was really interested, 
 and not only pretending." 
 
 " Elsie and I were talking about it the other day, 
 and saying we hoped you would marry an heiress," 
 said Rose, " only if you loved her, of course." 
 
 Fred laughed. " If I only had the luck to marry 
 her! " he said. " I haven't got nearly as far as that 
 yet. I suppose she must be an heiress, though I never 
 thought of it when I fell in love with her. Her father 
 is simply rolling in it, and she hasn't any brothers 
 or sisters."
 
 THE ELDEST SON 65 
 
 " Is he a German ? It sounds rather a German kind 
 of name," said Rose. 
 
 Elsie laughed at her. " Oh, no, dear ; it's a Chinese 
 name," she said. Rose was a little given to the ob- 
 vious, and this was the family way of dealing with 
 such remarks. But Elsie herself asked : " Is he a real 
 German, Freddy? I shouldn't like that for a Con- 
 way." The war had not yet come, to make the very 
 thought of a German that of an unclean thing; but 
 the Conways were English of the English. 
 
 " He 78 a German," said Freddy apologetically ; 
 " But I believe he has always lived in England, and 
 he likes to be thought an Englishman. Mrs. Blumen- 
 thal is English, and Freda has never been in Germany, 
 and can't even talk German." 
 
 " Are they the people that live next to Cousin 
 Henry? " 
 
 " Oh, no. Those are the Warings. The Blumen- 
 thals live at Hillstead Manor, as they call it. I told 
 you all about it when I went there first." 
 
 " Oh, those people ! But Freddy, you said they were 
 rather vulgar." 
 
 Fred blushed. " They're not really," he said. " It 
 was only that I looked at things rather differently 
 when I first went to live at Hillstead." 
 
 Elsie was still a little disturbed. " It is rather vul- 
 gar to call an enormous new house Hillstead Manor, 
 isn't it?" she said. "And you laughed at the dec- 
 orations and the picture-gallery and the airs they 
 gave themselves." 
 
 Fred s/till showed discomfort. " Perhaps the house 
 is rather vulgar," he said, " but Blumenthal didn't
 
 66 WATERMEADS 
 
 build it. He bought it from a man who had pulled 
 down the old manor-house ; and the grounds are lovely. 
 You couldn't believe you were so near London. He 
 couldn't help it being called the Manor; and it had 
 always been called that before." 
 
 " Yes, but the furniture and pictures ! " 
 " Oh, well, he t* German by birth. He hasn't got 
 the best of taste. But Freda has. Her frocks are 
 lovely." 
 
 " You said they gave themselves airs." 
 " It was Cousin Henry who said that. If I said it 
 I suppose I took it from him. They are much richer 
 than anybody else in Hillstead, and live in the largest 
 house, except Lord Marlow's, which hardly seems to 
 belong to the place, as they don't seem to mix in with 
 any of the Hillstead people when they are there. I 
 tell you I'm considered a terrific blood in Hillstead 
 because I go there sometimes. But I should never 
 have set eyes on them if we hadn't known them in 
 Meadshire." 
 
 " Doesn't Cousin Henry know the Marlows ? " 
 " Good Lord, no ! He was green with envy when I 
 went there first, though he tried to hide it. It was 
 rather pathetic. He kept on asking me afterwards 
 what I'd said to them about him." 
 
 " Yes, of course, you told us that. I'd forgotten. 
 I suppose he knows the Blumenthals." 
 
 " Only just. They're not in the same set. There 
 are lots of sets in Hillstead, you know. I told you all 
 about that. Cousin Henry's is what I call the purely 
 commercial." 
 
 "Isn't Mr. Blumenthal purely commercial?"
 
 THE ELDEST SON 67 
 
 " Well, yes, I suppose he is. But the house counts 
 for a good deal, and the fact that he's so rich. Oh, 
 well, it's no good denying that he isn't like us. But 
 Freda is. She's been in Paris, and all that; talks 
 French as well as English. I don't think it much 
 matters nowadays. After all, old Kirby was nobody 
 when he began; certainly no better than Blumenthal, 
 except that he was English. It's Freda that matters." 
 
 The rest of the homeward journey was taken up 
 with talk about Freda. Fred knew she liked him, and 
 hoped that she liked him very much. He could not 
 be quite certain of it. She varied a little. Sometimes 
 she made him as happy as a king, sometimes he was 
 doubtful whether he wasn't hoping too much. He 
 shouldn't be able to keep it to himself much longer. 
 He'd have to risk it, in spite of his poverty and the 
 conspicuous wealth of the Blumenthals. He thought 
 he would rush it at a big dance that was to take place 
 at the Manor in about a fortnight's time. It de- 
 pended. If he did decide to, he would write to them 
 in the afternoon before the dance, and if taking the 
 risk proved blissfully to be justified, he would send 
 them a wire the next morning. " The very first thing, 
 Freddy dear." Yes, the very first thing. 
 
 So they came home to Watermeads, in the sweet 
 dusk of the summer evening. The great coach-house 
 received the poor little governess-cart, and the donkey 
 was turned out into the park. Fred carried his bag 
 into the house through the back regions, and Elsie 
 and Rose went to see to the final arrangement of the 
 supper table, which was one of their duties. All three 
 of them were as happy as they could be.
 
 SUPPER was a late meal at Watermeads. Jn summer 
 time it was not until dark. Sydney Conway was al- 
 ways extolling the freedom that came from having 
 given up dining late. Instead of coming in to an eight 
 o'clock dinner in broad daylight you could stay out 
 as long as you liked. The evening was the best part 
 of the day, and you had four or five hours of it be- 
 fore you after tea. Besides, it was much more com- 
 fortable to change into clean flannels than into eve- 
 ning clothes ; and you went to bed as soon as you 
 liked feeling much better than if you had a heavy 
 meal sitting on your chest. In this way he was ac- 
 customed to discount the various successive changes 
 in habit that his poverty had brought him. But he 
 did really enjoy the much simpler life he was forced 
 to lead, and only felt the pinch here and there, as, 
 for instance, in the absence of horses in the stable, and 
 also in the curb that had to be put upon his hospi- 
 table instincts. 
 
 At half past nine on the evening of Fred's arrival 
 the family, with the exception of Penelope, assembled 
 in the dining-room. Except for the bare space on the 
 wall, from which Grandfather George had been re- 
 moved to fill up the place of Grandfather John no 
 further adjustment having yet been carried out there 
 
 88
 
 HOLIDAY 69 
 
 was little in the aspect of the room to betoken the de- 
 cline from a more spacious use. Wallpaper, curtains 
 and carpet were faded and worn, but the walls were 
 still almost covered with pictures, the curtains on the 
 row of tall windows toned into the mellow effect better 
 than new ones would have done, and the great stretch of 
 Turkey carpet was only patched here and there. The 
 heavy Spanish mahogany of the furniture glowed 
 richly in the lamplight. Elsie and Rose kept it pol- 
 ished, as well as the massive plate that still adorned 
 dining-table and sideboards. An eyesore was the 
 large lamp suspended from the ceiling above the round 
 table. Its elaborate pink shade could not disguise 
 its cheapness. But oil costs less than candles, and the 
 single lamp sufficed to light the table brilliantly, 
 though the distant sideboards were in dusky twilight 
 and the corners of the room almost in darkness. 
 
 The silver and flowers on the table somewhat dis- 
 guised the bare simplicity of the meal. There was a 
 dish of macaroni au gratin, and the rest was bread 
 and eggs, with vegetables and fruit from the garden. 
 Meat was seldom eaten at supper. Sydney Conway 
 had developed a theory that meat once a day was as 
 much as was good for health; also that the most spar- 
 ing use of alcohol benefited the human frame. His 
 own health at the age of fifty-two was perfect, and he 
 had the bodily activity of a man ten or fifteen yet*rs 
 younger. In expansive moments he would declare that 
 if he should ever get enough money to live at Water- 
 meads in the style of his fathers, he should still carry 
 on the present simplicity in the matter of food and 
 drink and the hours of meals. No doubt it suited him,
 
 70 WATERMEADS 
 
 but he always ate and drank freely of what was put 
 before him when he dined with his neighbours, and as 
 n lavish hospitality would certainly have resulted as 
 the first sign of recovered wealth, it is probable that 
 he would have resigned himself contentedly to the 
 usual habits of the large country house. 
 
 Fred's incipient love affair was a secret between him- 
 self and Elsie and Rose, and nothing was to be said 
 yet about Cousin Henry's supposed readiness to get 
 rid of him. But his meeting with Uncle Mark pro- 
 vided conversation for the whole of the meal. It was 
 an event of capital importance in the history of the 
 family. There was no knowing what might come of 
 it. Uncle Mark had always been a rich man, and he 
 had lived for many years past in quite a small house 
 in London, in such a way that, unless he had outside 
 claims upon him of which no one knew anything, he 
 must have been saving thousands of pounds a year, 
 and by this time must be a very rich man indeed. By 
 a stroke of the pen, almost, he might have relieved 
 all the anxieties that were gathering more and more 
 thickly about Watermeads, and yet made no least lit- 
 tle change in his own life. And help was to have been 
 expected of him. It was not like poor relations hang- 
 ing on to a rich one upon whom they had no claims. 
 He had filled the position of a father to Sydney Con- 
 way in his late boyhood and early youth. The career 
 towards which he had helped him was not one in 
 which money was to be earned. It had been under- 
 stood that it would not be necessary to earn money, 
 while at the same time it was known that Watermeads 
 could not supply what was necessary. Yet Water-
 
 HOLIDAY 71 
 
 meads was to have been later on part of the stock in 
 trade a large estate and a fine country house for a 
 County Member. 
 
 And Uncle Mark had never quarrelled with his 
 nephew. He had said something rude about the 
 woman he was about to marry, which had been hotly 
 resented. He had laughed it off, and it was Sydney 
 who had withdrawn himself. Then Sydney had writ- 
 ten to him asking him to his wedding, and he had not 
 answered the letter, but after the marriage had sent 
 him a wedding present. Another letter had been writ- 
 ten some months later asking him to Watermeads. 
 He had answered it long after the date for which he 
 had been invited, with a careless apology. He had 
 never been to Watermeads, and his letters in answer 
 to Sydney's, at long intervals, had been quite friendly 
 but quite indifferent. He had never written of his 
 own accord nor asked his nephew to see him in London. 
 Some years before the date of this story, when life at 
 Watermeads had come to be no longer possible on the 
 lines of ordinary country house existence, Sydney had 
 made his appeal. It had been left unanswered, and 
 there had been no intercommunication since. 
 
 What was attempted over the supper table was a 
 gauging, from Fred's account, of the effect his meet- 
 ing with Uncle Mark might have upon the family for- 
 tunes. Was he tired of holding aloof? Now that he 
 was getting old, would he not be glad to identify him- 
 self again with his only relations? 
 
 Mrs. Conway had a good deal to say about this. 
 Her general attitude towards Uncle Mark was one of 
 stately but not altogether unforgiving offence. She
 
 72 WATERMEADS 
 
 had been grossly and * unaccountably ' a very fa- 
 vourite word of hers insulted, but she was willing 
 to forget. It was not, however, to be expected that 
 the injured should take the first step. Uncle Mark 
 must ' come to his senses ' before he could be taken 
 back into favour. But as he had shown no disposition 
 during five and twenty years to come to his senses, 
 this attitude, while supporting her dignity, had long 
 ceased to have any practical bearing on the situation. 
 She now slightly changed it, and showed more anxiety 
 to accept an opportunity for reconciliation than she 
 had ever shown before. 
 
 " This meeting may be the beginning of happier 
 things," she said. " It is only to be expected that a 
 man nearing the grave should cling to family ties. He 
 must want the comfort of a home, the society of good 
 and gentle women. He might have had all that here 
 for years past. I cannot help thinking that he must 
 often have longed for it, and only his pride has caused 
 him to hold out. By this time he must see how hollow 
 the world is, and " 
 
 " He didn't seem to me to be wanting much more 
 than he's getting now," said Fred. " He doesn't 
 strike one as an old man at all. He isn't more than 
 seventy, is he father? He seems much younger." 
 
 " That is not the point, Fred," said Mrs. Conway. 
 * They say a man is as old as he feels and a woman 
 as old as she looks, and as you will hardly be pre- 
 pared to say that Uncle Mark is a woman, his looks 
 have nothing to do with the question. You do not 
 know how old he feels. You were not with him long 
 
 O 
 
 enough to judge."
 
 HOLIDAY 73 
 
 " And you weren't in a fit state to judge, -as far as 
 I can make out," said Sydney. " In fact, from your 
 account of the interview, I think you must have been 
 rather drunk, Fred." 
 
 " Oh, no," said Fred, " I was only merry and 
 bright." 
 
 " Well, I hope he liked you. I do hope he liked 
 you. He used to like me; and seeing you may just 
 have done the trick." 
 
 " I am more surprised than I can say, Sydney, to 
 hear you refer in that light fashion to the possibility 
 of Fred's being intoxicated," said Mrs. Conway. " I 
 must confess that the same suspicion had crossed my 
 own mind, but I put it away from me as too painful 
 to be considered. If it was so " 
 
 " Oh, but it wasn't so, mother," said Fred. " I'd done 
 myself proud, but I was only a little more cheery and 
 don't-carish than usual. I think it was a good thing. 
 Uncle Mark could see what I was, and wouldn't think 
 I was making up to him." 
 
 " I expect he liked Fred all right," said Bobby. 
 Fred was the hero of his young brothers. 
 
 " The oracle has spoken," said their father. " When 
 Bobby makes a pronouncement the matter can be con- 
 sidered settled. Yes, I think he would like Fred; and 
 Fred seems to have kept enough of his wits, after do- 
 ing himself proud I withdraw the implication that he 
 was drunk to say one or two things that I know he'd 
 like. The question is: is it to end there? Apart al- 
 together from the money question, I should like to 
 make friends with the old boy again. Hearing about 
 him in that way just as I used to know him so well
 
 74 WATERMEADS 
 
 years ago has given me a sort of longing to see him. 
 We used to have a lot of fun together. He can't have 
 altered much, from what Fred says." 
 
 " You say * altogether apart from the money ques- 
 tion,' Sydney," said Mrs. Conway, with the air of 
 bringing her mind to bear upon an abstract question. 
 " But can you regard your Uncle Mark apart from 
 the money question? That is what I should like to 
 have settled." 
 
 " Well, what do you say about it, girls ? " asked 
 Sydney. 
 
 " We have always known that he could help us if 
 he wanted to," said Elsie. " But if he doesn't want 
 to, it would be rather nice to see him, all the same." 
 
 " Yes, I think that," said Rose. " We have so few 
 relations." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Rose," said her mother. " I 
 am quite aware that the relations on my side of the 
 family are looked down upon. One of them, it is true, 
 has come forward in the most generous way to offer 
 help and assistance which has not been offered by the 
 sole relation on your father's side. But that is not 
 the point." She did not proceed to explain what the 
 point was, it having slipped her memory for the mo- 
 ment, and in the pause that followed Sydney said: 
 " Far be it from us to look down upon our solid and 
 helpful Cousin Henry, mother. What do you think 
 about it, Bobby and Billy? " 
 
 " I don't look down on Cousin Henry," said Billy. 
 " He sent me half a sovereign at Christmas." 
 
 " If we made friends with Uncle Mark, perhaps he 
 would send us a sovereign," said Bobby.
 
 HOLIDAY 75 
 
 " The oracle again ! " said their father. " No, it 
 isn't quite possible to regard Uncle Mark altogether 
 apart from the money question. He wouldn't expect 
 us to. Let's be honest about it. What he was going 
 to do for me when I was a young man included pro- 
 viding money amongst other things ; and that was al- 
 ways taken for granted between us. What he would 
 have given me he doesn't want for himself, and we were 
 on such terms that taking money from him meant no 
 more than taking affection. Still, it was the affection 
 I missed more than the money at first. He had mine. 
 There would still be some for him if he wanted it, after 
 all these years." 
 
 " If I may be allowed to express an opinion," said 
 Mrs. Conway, still in some offence at having had her 
 last speech cut short, " I should say let byegones be 
 byegones. If 7 can overlook the past, surely others 
 can. If Uncle Mark comes here I shall refer in no 
 way to what is over and done with. The slate shall 
 be wiped clean. We will make a fresh start." 
 
 This handsome surrender seemed to put the matter 
 on a very high plane. But further discussion failed 
 to discover any likelihood of Uncle Mark's coming to 
 Watermeads as a result of his meeting with Fred, or 
 indeed of anything arising out of the meeting. The 
 Conway family went to bed a trifle depressed, and it 
 speaks well for their general amiability that no-one 
 felt inclined to blame Fred for not having made more 
 of the opportunity, unless it was Mrs. Conway, upon 
 whom the light treatment of so serious a subject as 
 drunkenness still sat heavily. 
 
 But the next morning the slight depression, which
 
 76 WATERMEADS 
 
 had already disappeared, was replaced by a most 
 grateful exhilaration. The post brought a letter from 
 Uncle Mark to his nephew, which ran as follows : 
 
 " MY DEAR SYDNEY, 
 
 " I fear I have been a trifle remiss in my correspon- 
 dence lately, but the effect of increasing age upon me 
 is that I talk more and write less. Your boy may 
 have mentioned to you that we came across one 
 another a few nights ago. He does not seem to have 
 the brains that you possessed at his age, but I should 
 like to see more of him. Perhaps we shall take to one 
 another; perhaps we shan't. But we might try. Will 
 you ask him to dine with me on Thursday at the 
 Wanderers' Club at 8 o'clock? I hope all goes well 
 with you in the bucolic existence you have chosen. I 
 still think it was a mistake on your part to give up 
 the parliamentary career in which you might possibly 
 have shone; but every man to his taste, and there are 
 no doubt ample compensations to be gained from a 
 quiet life in the country. 
 
 " Your affectionate uncle 
 
 "MARK DRAKE." 
 
 So there was the olive branch held out at last ! The 
 way of holding it out was Uncle Mark's own, and in 
 the end was not misunderstood. If he chose to assume 
 that it was his nephew's own choice to give up his 
 career, that was only putting the long past disturbance 
 aside in a way that would not reflect upon himself. 
 The concession might be made to him without any 
 difficulty. And it was just as easy to read between 
 the lines in other respects. Without a doubt he had 
 ' taken to * Fred. Probably he had been moved to some 
 affectionate remembrance of Fred's father at the same
 
 HOLIDAY 77 
 
 age, and was ready to go much further on the road 
 to complete reconciliation than appeared on the sur- 
 face of his letter. At any rate the lever was ready 
 to Fred's hand by which reconciliation could be 
 brought about. It rested with him to use it. 
 
 Here then was yet another instance of Fred's luck. 
 It seemed to Elsie and Rose that the family fortunes 
 positively must be mended by him sooner or later, with 
 all the chances that a watchful providence was hold- 
 ing out to him. Cousin Henry and his prospective 
 offer of partnership might fail, but Cousin Henry no 
 longer held the fate of Watermeads entirely in his 
 hands. Uncle Mark was once more a factor to be 
 hopefully taken into account. And even if Uncle Mark 
 failed, there was the heiress. Fred had fallen in love 
 with an heiress the very thing that Elsie and Rose 
 had wished might happen, but could hardly have ex- 
 pected to happen so promptly and satisfactorily. As 
 they made the beds together they talked happily of 
 the bright days that were coming. Freddy had not 
 disappointed them. Freddy was going to do it all, by 
 one means or another. 
 
 And in the meantime, the present immediate days 
 were bright enough. Fred's home-coming alone created 
 an air of holiday, which was enhanced by the con- 
 tinuous perfection of the June weather. Today there 
 was to be a cricket match on the ground in the park. 
 Fred had got up a team, to play the town of Sher- 
 brook. It would include cricketers from neighbour- 
 ing country houses, and those who would come to 
 look on would make of it quite a festive occasion. 
 Watermeads could still supply a tent in which to enter-
 
 78 WATERMEADS 
 
 tain private friends on the cricket field ; and with fruit 
 and flowers from the garden, cakes made in the house, 
 and milk and cream from their own cows, the Con- 
 ways could manage a tea-party quite in the old style, 
 and with very little expense. 
 
 The prospect was one of unadulterated pleasure. 
 Everybody liked coming to Watermeads, because the 
 Conways were so pleased to see everybody, and with 
 their limited resources entertained them so well. The 
 poverty would be in abeyance on such an occasion as 
 this. Except that there would be no ' cups ' or other 
 alcoholic drinks for the men, the entertainment would 
 not differ from any that would be provided by a richer 
 house for a similar affair. There would be the cricket 
 to watch, in the beautiful park, under the fair June 
 sky; tennis and croquet on the lawns; and the lovely 
 overgrown garden for those who preferred to wander 
 about it. There was also the fact that the unusual 
 state to which this fairly ancient and highly respect- 
 able county family had been reduced, and the way in 
 which they stood up against it, would provide ample 
 material for conversation to a large proportion of 
 their visitors. It was more interesting to go to Water- 
 meads and talk about what was happening there than 
 to go to other houses. But the Conways did not take 
 this into account. They had plenty to offer without 
 that. 
 
 Fred was up at six o'clock on Saturday morning. 
 Even if there had not been a great deal to do in the 
 way of preparation for the day, he would have been 
 out early. It was a pure joy to him, after his con- 
 fined life in London, to taste the freedom of his home.
 
 HOLIDAY 79 
 
 His love for Watermeads was greater every time he 
 came back to it. Of all the family he felt its charm 
 most. There was growing up in him a strong desire 
 to get it back to what it had been, to cherish it, to 
 make his life there, even if it should take him years 
 to do it. Whether or no Cousin Henry was right in 
 charging him with a lack of business initiative, which 
 alone could bring him what he desired from his work, 
 his work was none the less done with an end always in 
 view, and done as well as he was able to do it. It 
 was this that chiefly upheld him in a life that was 
 essentially uncongenial, and it was giving him a stead- 
 iness of character that was hardly native to him. 
 
 The cricket pitch was got ready by other members 
 of the club, but the Watermeads tent had to be put 
 up, and the lawns got ready for games. It had long 
 been necessary for the Conways to do all that sort of 
 thing for themselves. The gardener and his assistant 
 had their hands full with more serious matters, and 
 could not be taken away from their work, except to 
 lend an occasional hand. So Fred and Bobby and 
 Billy worked hard until breakfast time, and their 
 father helped them energetically for a time, and then 
 went off to do something else. 
 
 At breakfast Uncle Mark's letter came, and after- 
 wards they went to work again with heightened energy. 
 The cricket was to begin at half past ten, and there 
 was a lot more to do than Fred had anticipated. The 
 croquet and tennis lawns had been cut, but badly 
 wanted rolling as well as freshly marking. So the 
 whole family, with the exception of Mrs. Conway* 
 fastened themselves on to the heavy roller from the
 
 80 WATERMEADS 
 
 cricket ground and brought it with great labour into 
 the garden; and here they were joined by Bel- 
 lamy, who had come up to see if he could do anything 
 to help. People were always willing to help the Con- 
 way family to do anything that had to be done; they 
 were always willing to help themselves, though their 
 habit was to put off whatever wanted doing until al- 
 most the last moment. 
 
 Fred and Bellamy had not met before. They looked 
 at one another and liked one another. Fred showed 
 it by being more than usually gay and talkative, Bel- 
 lamy perhaps not at all, as he spoke no more than 
 was his habit, and seldom smiled. But the feeling of 
 liking was there, and when he went off with Elsie to 
 mix and fetch the whitewash, she said to him, all 
 smiles: " It * jolly to have Freddy home," sure that 
 he would sympathise with her in her pleasure, even if 
 he did not do so by speech. 
 
 But he looked down at her and smiled his grave 
 smile. " I wish I was as young as he is," he said. 
 
 She did not know quite what to make of this. He 
 had seemed old to her at first, chiefly because he wore 
 a beard and was so very silent and serious. But 
 gradually she, and Rose too, had come to accept him 
 as of their generation rather than that of their pa- 
 rents. He was, in fact, not over thirty. " Why do 
 you want to be younger ? " she asked. 
 
 " I was happier when^I was Fred's age," he said, in 
 a tone that closed the subject, but also caused her to 
 feel that she had received a confidence. 
 
 When they returned to the tennis court with a 
 bucket of whitewash and the marker, they found the
 
 HOLIDAY 81 
 
 roller in the middle of the croquet lawn motionless, and 
 an addition to the group round it. " Oh, it's Jack 
 Kirby," said Elsie. " I wonder why he has come over 
 so early." 
 
 It seemed from his own account that Jack Kirby 
 had come over an hour before the time fixed for the 
 match in which he was to play, to see if he could do 
 anything to help. But he did not seem best pleased 
 when he was asked to lend a hand with the roller. He 
 took one turn up and down the croquet lawn, and then 
 rested, while the other three men and the two boys 
 went back to the other end. When they returned he 
 was helping Elsie and Rose to mark the tennis court, 
 with his coat off, and such an air of being just the 
 person wanted for that job that there could be no 
 suggestion of his taking on the other again. 
 
 He was a cheerful looking, rather loud and confi- 
 dent speaking young man of medium height. A stu- 
 dent of heredity and environment might have seen in 
 him the outcome of a very ordinary stock tuned up 
 to a higher pitch by the influence of wealth and con- 
 sequent social facilities. But it would only be fair 
 to say that the freedom and confidence of his man- 
 ners were as natural to him as to those whose assured 
 position arose not from wealth alone. He had had 
 exactly the same training, and effectually the same 
 surroundings. There was scarcely any society in 
 which he would not have been accepted at his own 
 valuation; he had never had to struggle to get where 
 he was, and took everything that came to him as a 
 matter of right. Absence of breeding was latent, but 
 not apparent; or at least so little apparent that only
 
 82 WATERMEADS 
 
 a somewhat hostile critic would have seen the signs of 
 it. 
 
 Such a critic, however, seemed to exist in the per- 
 son of Bellamy, who eyed him with marked disfavour 
 as the roller was brought heavily up to where the 
 tennis court adjoined the croquet lawn. He said noth- 
 ing, however, until much later, when he was again 
 alone with Elsie for a few minutes. This was when 
 the crowd was beginning to gather for the cricket 
 match. Mrs. Conway's guests would not arrive until 
 the afternoon, but the Sherbrook team was on the 
 ground, and Fred's side had already gathered, with 
 a few of the more enthusiastic onlookers. Jack Kirby 
 alone amongst the cricketers was not in the group 
 around the club tent. He was to be seen between the 
 garden and the park, talking vivaciously to Rose, as 
 if cricket were quite an unimportant part of the day's 
 proceedings, and he had come over to Watermeads 
 merely for some hours of friendly intercourse. 
 
 " That young man seems to think the world was 
 made for him," said Bellamy. 
 
 Elsie threw a glance at his face, which was turned 
 towards the unconscious couple with no very amiable 
 expression, and looked down again quickly. She had 
 never seen him look like that and speak like that be- 
 fore, and had nothing to say in reply. He made no 
 further remark, but turned towards the tents, and they 
 walked back to them together.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 AT THE CRICKET MATCH 
 
 FRED'S side was made up of half a dozen good cricket- 
 ers and a somewhat lengthy tail. It included his 
 father and his young brothers, who had been looking 
 forward to this great day with alternate strong hopes 
 and desperate fears. The star was the Reverend Ed- 
 ward Probert, an Oxford University, and County 
 cricketer, who had quite lately been appointed to a 
 neighbouring rectory. This was his first appearance 
 at Watermeads. 
 
 Early in the afternoon Mrs. Conway's guests as- 
 sembled. That lady was in the mood to enjoy her- 
 self as much as anybody on the ground. The poverty 
 of Watermeads was for the time being put aside; she 
 took her place once more as an entertainer of her 
 equals, and what she had to offer them was equal to 
 the day. Her own idea of herself was that the suc- 
 cess of such an entertainment rested upon her own 
 shoulders ; but she unconsciously relied so much upon 
 the qualities of her family that she had no qualms 
 about the enjoyment of her guests, and was able to 
 devote herself to the few whom she was really pleased 
 to see. 
 
 One of these was Lady Sophia Raine, who had mar- 
 ried at about the same age as herself. Colonel Raine 
 was Squire of Rockhanger, the nearest large house 
 
 83
 
 84 WATERMEADS 
 
 to Watermeads, and the two young wives had been a 
 good deal together in the days when there was some 
 equality in the conditions of their respective houses. 
 If Mrs. Conway had always been something of an od- 
 dity, so had Lady Sophia. She was immensely in- 
 terested in everybody else's business, but most of all 
 interested in her own rendering of their stories. She 
 was a great artist in gossip, and if she had been ill- 
 natured might have worked much mischief; for she 
 could create a full-grown scandal out of the most 
 meagre material, and her stories were always rounded 
 and complete. She had an unfailing eye for char- 
 acter, where it concerned her art, and had made many 
 of her most brilliant successes by deducing from her 
 own observation what people would be likely to do, 
 when information as to what they actually had done 
 might be lacking. But in her personal intercourse she 
 was strangely wanting in discrimination. Almost any- 
 one with whom she was thrown into contact was the 
 same to her a pair of ears to hear with. She had 
 never seen the absurdities in Mrs. Conway's speech 
 and behaviour when they were young women together, 
 and had grown accustomed to her as an intimate 
 neighbour; so that the friendship was hardly dimin- 
 ished when Watermeads began to drop out of the run- 
 ning with other country houses. If she saw her now 
 with different eyes, it was because Mrs. Conway had 
 become a character in a story ; but that did not affect 
 her when the story was not under discussion. With 
 all her own oddities she was kind-hearted. She was 
 sorry for her old companion, and did many little 
 things to ease the conditions under which she lived.
 
 AT THE CRICKET MATCH 85 
 
 The chief of them was that she never made any dif- 
 ference in her behaviour towards her. Consequently, 
 Mrs. Conway regarded her with some warmth of feel- 
 ing; if she could be said to have a friend, it was Lady 
 Sophia Raine. 
 
 When Lady Sophia came on to the ground, the 
 Reverend Edward Probert was batting for Fred's side, 
 and by the time she and Mrs. Conway had settled 
 themselves to their comfortable talk, he also was set- 
 tled at the wicket, and was running up a most satis- 
 factory score. He was a good-looking young man of 
 twenty-eight or so, and batted with a freedom and 
 skill that made it a pleasure to watch him. 
 
 He was the text for Lady Sophia's first discourse. 
 She surveyed him through her tortoise-shell lorgnettes 
 and found him good to look upon. " I've thought of 
 him for one of your girls," she said. " Elsie, I sup- 
 pose it must be, as young Kirby seems to be taken 
 with Rose. I'll get them together as soon as possible, 
 or he'll be snapped up. We've got such a lot of girls 
 aU about the place, and not enough young men to go 
 round. If I had girls of my own I might not be so 
 generous. As it is I'll do what I can for yours." 
 
 Mrs. Conway began to say that nothing was further 
 from her thoughts than 
 
 " Mr. Probert is an acquisition to the neighbour- 
 hood," continued Lady Sophia. " He is the only son 
 of Sir Vivian Probert, and will come in for a fine 
 property by and by. Sir Vivian is only forty-nine; 
 he married young one of the Bunts of Lincolnshire 
 I believe they're not very happy; they say she 
 drinks, but I don't believe it; more likely to be drugs
 
 86 WATERMEADS 
 
 if it's anything at all. But they say it of everybody. 
 They say it of me, you know. It will probably be 
 years before this young man succeeds, but in the mean- 
 time Lutterbourne is as good as anyone could want. 
 It is worth about four hundred a year, but that 
 doesn't matter in his case. Sir Vivian is as rich as 
 Croesus; coal mines, besides a good landed property. 
 Lutterbourne Rectory is almost like a Squire's house. 
 It wouldn't be very far from you, either. I'll do what 
 I can." 
 
 Mrs. Conway gathered herself for an effort. She 
 had many things to say and wanted to give them due 
 weight. But before she could begin Probert was bril- 
 liantly caught out in the slips, and the subsequent mild 
 excitement extended itself to Lady Sophia, who 
 missed the opening of Mrs. Conway's speech, and in- 
 terrupted it when it was well under weigh to exclaim: 
 " Why, who on earth's that? I know his face as well 
 as I know my own." 
 
 It was Bellamy going in to bat. Mrs. Conway, 
 knowing from long experience that no word of her 
 speech would be listened to if Lady Sophia's attention 
 was fixed elsewhere, relinquished it to say : " That is 
 a Mr. Bellamy an artist who has taken rooms in the 
 village. He appears to be a gentlemanlike sort of a 
 man, for an artist, and Sydney made friends with him 
 when he first came. Sydney makes friends with all 
 sorts, and I sometimes wonder " 
 
 " Bellamy ! Why, of course it is ! " exclaimed Lady 
 Sophia. " It was the beard that deceived me for the 
 moment. Geoffrey Bellamy! An artist, did you say? " 
 
 " He paints pictures of the scenery," said Mrs.
 
 AT THE CRICKET MATCH 87 
 
 Conway. " I have not seen any of them, and cannot 
 tell whether they are good pictures or not. We get 
 many artists here in summer time, and " 
 
 " No, I don't suppose he would show you his pic- 
 tures," said Lady Sophia. " He's no more an artist 
 than I am. Geoffrey Bellamy! An artist indeed! 
 Now whatever can he be doing, living in rooms in an 
 out of the way village? Really, Jane, this is very 
 interesting. Have you seen much of him? Does he 
 take an interest in either of the girls? If he does, I 
 should stop it, if I were you. Heaven knows I'm not 
 particular, but Oh, well, if you haven't recog- 
 nised him, as I see you haven't, surely you can re- 
 member the Case ? " 
 
 Mrs. Conway did not remember the Case, and Lady 
 Sophia recounted it to her. 
 
 " The Bellamys are very good people in Cumber- 
 land," she said. " But nobody knew much about them 
 till this young man ran away with young Ralph Prin- 
 gle's wife. It was a very bad case not the running 
 away, which unfortunately one has had to get used 
 to in so many cases, but what went before it. The two 
 young men had been friends in the same regiment, 
 I fancy, and oh, well, I can't remember all the de- 
 tails, but it all came out at the trial and made a very 
 bad impression. I was there on the last day; that's 
 why I recognised the man. Unfortunately it was over 
 sooner than had been anticipated, and I hardly heard 
 anything; or I should have remembered. But I can 
 look it up. Anyhow, he married the girl afterwards 
 and disappeared. That's why I had forgotten all 
 about him. Now, apparently, he's left her. But an
 
 88 WATERMEADS 
 
 artist! Has anybody seen Mr. Bellamy's pictures 
 since he has been here? " 
 
 " I have," piped a small voice from behind Mrs. 
 Conway's chair. " He lets me clean his brushes in 
 turpentine." 
 
 Lady Sophia jumped in her seat. " Good gra- 
 cious, child ! " she exclaimed. " How long have you 
 been there? What did you hear me saying? " 
 
 " I've only just come," said Penelope. " I 
 heard you ask if anybody had seen Mr. Bellamy's 
 pictures." 
 
 Lady Sophia leaned back in her chair and breathed 
 relief. Mrs. Conway upon whose slow-moving brain 
 the story she had heard was only just beginning to 
 make an impression, ordered Penelope off with more 
 asperity than she was wont to assume towards her, but 
 explained to Lady Sophia that the child would not 
 have understood anything that had been said if she 
 had happened to overhear it. 
 
 " If there is anything that I dislike more than 
 another," she said, " it is any suspicion of impropri- 
 ety. I own that I should never have expected it in 
 the case of Mr. Bellamy, who looks to me too solemn 
 and serious for anything of the sort. I suppose I 
 am too confiding. People are brought to the house, 
 and I am expected to accept them and treat them with 
 whatever hospitality is still possible in our unfor- 
 tunately reduced circumstances. I sometimes won- 
 der " 
 
 Lady Sophia had been watching Bellamy batting 
 during the progress of this speech. He had just cut 
 a ball to the boundary in a very pretty style, and she
 
 AT THE CRICKET MATCH 89 
 
 exclaimed: "Does that look like an artist? Now I 
 wonder what on earth the man can be masquerading 
 here for. If it's your pretty Rose he's after, Jane, 
 I should put a stop to it as soon as possible. I was 
 told that he was a very amusing man at the time of 
 the trial. But really, one has to draw the line some- 
 where, and with young girls about I should draw it at 
 Geoffrey Bellamy if I were you." 
 
 " Now you have told me what sort of a man he is, 
 and the disgraceful story attached to him," said Mrs. 
 Conway, " I shall certainly refuse to admit him 
 
 " Ah, here are Lord and Lady Kirby," said Lady 
 Sophia, " being far the most important people in the 
 County, of course they must make a sort of state entry 
 about an hour after the rest of us. I don't think 
 I can bear the effulgence of their presence. I will 
 go and talk to somebody else." 
 
 Lord and Lady Kirby hardly deserved this scath- 
 ing satire. Having got rid of their numerous guests, 
 they had taken an hour's motor-run because they 
 liked being together. Nor were they open to the 
 charge of giving themselves high airs. They enjoyed 
 their wealth and they enjoyed their consequence; but 
 they were ready to share their good things with all 
 and sundry. Although they had been ' climbers ' 
 in the early days of their social career, they had long 
 since reached the eminence upon which they felt com- 
 fortable, and had no idea of lessening their enjoyment 
 of life by narrowing their circle. It was actually 
 Lady Sophia who had tried to play the great lady 
 over Lady Kirby, and she was piqued because the
 
 90 WATERMEADS 
 
 Kirbys had shown that neither her countenance nor its 
 absence made any difference to them. 
 
 Lord Kirby was a plebeian-looking man of sixty, 
 strong and vigorous, and hearty in his manners. It 
 had been said of him in the City of London, where he 
 had made a great position for himself and piled up 
 a great fortune, that his free and open way had been 
 a considerable asset to him; that it had made men 
 trust him where he was not altogether to be trusted, 
 and that it misrepresented his character, which was 
 as hard as a stone. There was some truth in this, but 
 it was not all true. None of it was true with regard 
 to his personal relationships. He liked people, and 
 was generous towards them; and since he had attained 
 his present position he had had no private axe to 
 grind. 
 
 Lady Kirby was a pleasant mediocre woman, with 
 a great zest for life and movement. She was easy to 
 amuse, and her laugh was infectious. She was bulky 
 in figure, and dressed herself elaborately. She had a 
 smile for everybody, but made few friends. She ad- 
 mired her husband intensely, and her son hardly less, 
 and both of them made much of her, not only in pri- 
 vate but in public. 
 
 Jack Kirby, for instance, came straight to her when 
 she had seated herself beside Mrs. Conway, but she 
 sent him away again almost immediately. " I don't 
 want you" she said. " I'm going to have a talk with 
 Mrs. Conway. You go and amuse yourself with some- 
 body else. There are lots of pretty girls here for 
 you to talk to, and there's the prettiest of all of them 
 with an empty chair at her side."
 
 AT THE CRICKET MATCH 91 
 
 He had himself only just vacated the empty chair 
 by the side of Rose, and now went back to it. Lady 
 Kirby looked after him fondly. " I do like Jack to 
 have really nice girls to make friends with," she said. 
 " It's always a good thing for a young man. And I 
 like your two so much, Mrs. Conway. Dear girls, I 
 call them. I wish you'd let me take them back with me 
 this evening, and keep them till Monday. There are 
 some nice young people in the house, and we could 
 find them some fun. Will you? " 
 
 This was the kind of invitation that had to be 
 fenced with. Long practice had given Mrs. Conway 
 the ability to judge at once whether acceptance was 
 possible, and, if it was not, to proffer the best excuse. 
 So many things had to be thought of. Clothes, of 
 course, were the chief. Elsie and Rose had had ar- 
 rears of income paid up, and a present given them be- 
 sides. Their wardrobes were in course of replenish- 
 ment, but were not yet up to the requisite pitch. Tips 
 to servants, means of getting to and fro all the lit- 
 tle accidents of expense that those who gave the in- 
 vitations never considered had to be considered by 
 those who wished to accept them. Mrs. Conway saw 
 at once that this invitation could not be accepted. 
 
 " You are very kind, Lady Kirby," she said, " but 
 my eldest son is at home, and as he so seldom gets a 
 holiday with us away from his work I think the girls 
 would prefer to stay with him." 
 
 " Oh, but couldn't he come too ? " Lady Kirby 
 pressed her facile hospitality, looking about her all 
 the time, while Mrs. Conway made her ponderous 
 speeches of reply. " Oh, well," she said at last ; " if
 
 92 WATERMEADS 
 
 they can't come to sleep, will you let them come to 
 lunch tomorrow and stay to dine? We'll fetch them 
 and send them back. Now, don't say no to that, 
 please, Mrs. Conway." 
 
 Mrs. Conway did not say no, nor entirely yes. The 
 girls might go over to lunch, with Fred; it was very 
 kind of Lady Kirby; she thought they had better not 
 stay to dine; but it was extremely kind of her all the 
 same. Lady Kirby left it at that, and, being rather 
 tired of Mrs. Conway by this time, skilfully inserted 
 her husband into the seat she had occupied, and went 
 off to talk and laugh with somebody else.. 
 
 Lord Kirby was quite ready to make himself agree- 
 able to his hostess for the time that courtesy de- 
 manded, and for rather longer if her society should 
 turn out agreeable to him. It was the first time he 
 had met Mrs. Conway. He thought her an attractive 
 woman. Her manners were stiffer and more stately 
 than quite suited him, but she seemed willing to un- 
 bend to him personally, which flattered him a little. 
 If he had ever heard of the extreme poverty that had 
 overtaken Watermeads he had forgotten it. The 
 Conways bulked as important people in his eyes, be- 
 cause they lived in a very large house, and had lived 
 there for generations. In spite of his new peerage he 
 was quite ready to give honour to such people, and, 
 in spite of his wealth, he did not consider their dignity 
 lessened by an absence of it. The Conways were hard 
 up he did know as much as that but so were lots 
 of people in their position. As he himself was so very 
 far from being hard up the contrast was not al- 
 together ungratifying, and he was ready to do any-
 
 AT THE CRICKET MATCH 93 
 
 thing that lay in his power to ease matters for the 
 young people, whom he liked, as he liked everything 
 that tended towards gaiety and freshness. 
 
 He had taken a great fancy to Rose, which caused 
 him to be rather more watchful of Jack's movements 
 with regard to her than would otherwise have been 
 natural to him; for Jack liked making friends with 
 pretty girls, and had not hitherto devoted himself so 
 much to any particular one as to give rise to expecta- 
 tions for the future. But Lord Kirby thought that 
 this little Conway girl was beginning to be more of 
 an attraction than other girls, and he had come to 
 Watermeads with an idea of getting to know a bit 
 more about her people and her surroundings. He 
 would rather have had Jack marry amongst the high 
 aristocracy, but failing that he was ready to welcome 
 almost any girl as a daughter-in-law, so long as she 
 was a lady, young and pretty, and affectionate to- 
 wards himself. Rose possessed the first three qualifi- 
 cations, and, as for the last, she had behaved very 
 nicely to him when she had come over to Prittlewell 
 with her brother and sister, and he thought that he 
 might easily bring himself to love her as a daughter, 
 if Jack should make her his choice. The fact is that 
 Lord Kirby would have exchanged a surprisingly large 
 proportion of the wealth he had made for a daughter 
 of his own, and was anxious for the time to come when 
 his son would bring some nice girl to him and ask 
 him to accept her as one. With this idea always in 
 his mind he was disposed to observe Mrs. Conway 
 somewhat closely, as one who might come to be in 
 close relationship to him by and by.
 
 94 WATERMEADS 
 
 There was something in her speech that he did not 
 quite understand; she was half assertive and half 
 apologetic. The assertiveness seemed to belong to 
 her, and he was ready to accept it. The apology did 
 not, and it was some time before he gathered what she 
 was apologising for. He found out when, after a 
 stroll round that part of the garden near the cricket 
 field, he asked if he might see the house. Houses in- 
 terested him; and he had heard that there were some 
 fine pictures at Watermeads. 
 
 Mrs. Conway led the way indoors with proud hu- 
 mility. Her attitude was of one ready to unbare all 
 wounds, and even to parade them. She made Lord 
 Kirby feel uncomfortable. He had had an idea of 
 asking if he might have a whiskey and soda when they 
 should reach some room in which the request would 
 not seem indecent. He was hot and thirsty after his 
 drive. But if his hosts were as poor as Mrs. Conway 
 was insisting on, it would have seemed indecent any- 
 where. He had the feeling, too, so disagreeable to a 
 rich man, that pride of wealth was being fixed upon 
 him. " This is all very dreadful to you, no doubt ; 
 but make nothing of it. Hug your riches by all 
 means ; but as for me, I despise them." That was how 
 Mrs. Conway seemed to be addressing him, as she led 
 him through the rooms which showed by scores of lit- 
 tle signs how low the Conway estate had fallen. He 
 was not allowed to admire anything without being 
 made to appear as if he were making the best of a 
 bad job out of politeness, and was being seen through. 
 From inclining to admire Mrs. Conway with her stiff 
 stately manners, he jumped to the other extreme of
 
 AT THE CRICKET MATCH 95 
 
 disliking her almost ferociously. He mopped his brow 
 as he emerged once more into the sunlight, though 
 it was hot out of doors, and he had been cool within, 
 and went off at once to solace himself with the society 
 of his wife as a relief from what he had undergone. 
 
 " That's an awful woman," he said to her later on, 
 when they were motoring home together. " You hear 
 about people being purse-proud, but she seems to be 
 empty-purse-proud, and I don't know that that isn't 
 worse. If people are as hard up as that they ought 
 to hide it." 
 
 " It's such a nuisance," acquiesced Lady Kirby. 
 " One might do a lot for the young people, but she 
 always makes you feel that you're taking something 
 from them instead of giving it, if you ask them to do 
 anything." 
 
 " I like the young people, and especially that pretty 
 little Rose," said Lord Kirby. " I know Jack is smit- 
 ten with her, and she's just the sort of nice little girl 
 I should like to see him marry, if her people were all 
 right. Of course they ought to be, with that great 
 place there, but I don't know; they might be always 
 sponging on one. Mrs. Conway gives herself all the 
 airs in the world, but she gives you the idea that she 
 would take what she could get, too. Upon my word, 
 I felt inclined to say to her once or twice : * Well, if 
 a fiver would be of any use to you ! ' 
 
 He laughed heartily at his own wit. " I shouldn't 
 worry about Jack," said Lady Kirby. " He likes play- 
 ing with the little thing when he's down here. I doubt 
 if he ever gives her a thought at other times."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 POSSIBILITIES 
 
 As Mrs. Conway had declared that Bellamy should 
 not enter her house again, it was rather unfortunate 
 that her husband should have invited him to supper 
 after the match, and should have omitted to tell her 
 so until he actually appeared. 
 
 Bellamy came into the hall looking very grave and 
 very dignified; and so much not the sort of person to 
 have been the hero of the unsavoury story recounted 
 by Lady Sophia that Mrs. Conway recoiled before 
 the effort of dismissing him summarily, and contented 
 herself with an extremely cold, not to say forbidding, 
 reception. Bellamy looked surprised for a moment, 
 but Mrs. Conway was given to moods, and he had had 
 experience of them already. The family in general 
 was happy and talkative, and the fact that the hostess 
 sat grimly silent in her place and made no effort to 
 entertain the guest, who sat next to her, had less ef- 
 fect upon the gaiety of the meal than might have been 
 expected. Bellamy himself talked more than usual, 
 and actually vouchsafed some information about him- 
 self, which he had scarcely ever done before. 
 
 He had been at Trinity, it appeared the Conway 
 college and at Eton before that. Sydney Conway 
 looked at him with new eyes. This was not the usual 
 training of an artist, and Bellamy had presented him- 
 
 96
 
 POSSIBILITIES 97 
 
 self as nothing but an artist at Watermeads. Men 
 educated at Eton, and at Oxford or Cambridge, 
 usually belonged to people whom one should * know 
 about.' Sydney had * known about ' so many people 
 in his youth, and it was a source of mild pride to 
 him, in his enforced retirement, that he was still in 
 some sort of touch with the world in which names were 
 not merely names, but evoked images. He mentioned 
 Bellamys from Suffolk, tentatively, and this Bellamy 
 replied that they were cousins of sorts, but he did not 
 know any of them. He seemed to be desirous of re- 
 tiring into his shell again under the pressure of any- 
 thing like a question about himself, or an attempt to 
 fix him into a social pattern. " I've lived a wander- 
 ing sort of life since I left Cambridge," he said ; " and 
 I've been a lot out of England." 
 
 Mrs. Conway broke silence with an accusing glare. 
 " I think you were in the army for a time, were you 
 not, Mr. Bellamy?" 
 
 He looked at her in surprise. " No, Mrs. Conway," 
 he said. 
 
 " What put that into your head, mother ? " enquired 
 Sydney, as she breathed heavily at the reply, and 
 there seemed to be more in the question than appeared 
 on the surface. 
 
 " Lady Sophia mentioned Mr. Bellamy to me," she 
 said. " She told me more about him than he has ever 
 told us about himself." 
 
 " She probably told you about my elder brother," 
 said Bellamy instantly, " for whom I have sometimes 
 been mistaken." 
 
 " She said Geoffrey Bellamy," said Mrs. Conway.
 
 98 WATERMEADS 
 
 " Yes, that is my brother. My name is Giles." 
 
 He went on talking, and gave Mrs. Conway the op- 
 portunity of recovering her equanimity. Her wits 
 did not move very fast, and she still thought that 
 there was something very odd about the whole affair, 
 and the sooner it was looked into the better. 
 
 Bellamy must have divined the course her thoughts 
 were taking, for he made an opportunity after sup- 
 per of explaining himself to Sydney Conway. It was 
 a glorious moonlight night, and the whole family was 
 in the garden, with the exception of Mrs. Conway, 
 who did not like the night air, and Penelope, who was 
 in bed. 
 
 " I'd better tell you all about myself," he said, " as 
 you've been so kind as to admit me into intimacy here. 
 I've nothing to hide, but " 
 
 " Oh, there's no need to tell me anything," said Syd- 
 ney lightly. " You're a gentleman. That's enough 
 for me." 
 
 Bellamy smiled to himself, but went on : " Mrs. Con- 
 way has been told my brother's story," he said, " and 
 she has obviously fixed it on to me. It isn't a very 
 creditable one. He ran way with a brother-officer's 
 wife, and married her after the divorce. As far as I'm 
 concerned, my history has been that of most artists, 
 since I left Cambridge nine years ago. I've lived in 
 Paris and in London, but not much in London. Per- 
 haps the greater part of my time has been spent wan- 
 dering about Europe, painting." 
 
 "Oh, yes, that's all right," said Sydney hastily. 
 " Old Sophia Raine has a very active tongue in her 
 head though. If she's got hold of the idea that you
 
 POSSIBILITIES 99 
 
 are the hero of a story, she'll put it about. However, 
 she can be stopped, now we know the truth." 
 
 When this conversation was reported to Mrs. Con- 
 way later on, she still thought that there was some- 
 thing odd about the whole thing. Had the man said 
 anything about his home, or his family? He had had 
 an expensive education, it was true, and Lady Sophia 
 said that he came from very good people; but here 
 he was, living in two rooms in a cottage, and every- 
 body knew that Mrs. Comberbatch, although honest 
 and clean, was a very indifferent cook. All these 
 things wanted explaining. Had Sydney made any at- 
 tempt to get the man really to explain himself? 
 
 " The fact is, Sydney," said Mrs. Conway, having 
 worked herself into the attitude of combined censure 
 and exposition in which she felt most at her mental 
 ease, " that nobody thinks of anything in this house 
 except myself. Have you ever realised, for instance, 
 that you have two daughters who are grown up? Be- 
 cause I assure you that other people do. Sophia 
 Raine said at once that we ought to be extremely care- 
 ful what men we admit to the house now, and of course 
 she is right, though there was not the slightest ne- 
 cessity to say such a thing to me, as I am fully cap- 
 able of looking after the welfare of my daughters for 
 myself. However, that is not the point. It is quite 
 evident to me that this Mr. Bellamy artist or no 
 artist has come here because he is interested in one 
 of the girls, and " 
 
 " Well, mother," Sydney interrupted, " he could 
 hardly have come here for that reason, for he knew 
 nothing at all about us until he had been here a week
 
 100 WATERMEADS 
 
 unless we are to suppose that the fame of the girls 
 has gone abroad into all lands, and Bellamy came here 
 to see for himself. That's possible, of course, 
 but " 
 
 " Pray do not treat what I say in that foolish fash- 
 ion, Sydney," said Mrs. Conway. " You know per- 
 fectly well what I mean, and I will not have my words 
 twisted and made a matter for laughter. Are Elsie 
 and Rose of marriageable age, or are they not? That 
 is the point. If you tell me they are not I have noth- 
 ing more to say. If the contrary, then it is quite clear 
 that it is of great importance to know everything 
 that can be known about the men who are admitted to 
 intimacy with them. Do I make myself clear ? " 
 
 " Clear as daylight, mother. Which of the girls 
 is Bellamy paying attention to Elsie, Rose or Pe- 
 nelope? A man doesn't see these things, you know. 
 I'd really no idea that he was paying attention to any 
 of them." 
 
 " You mention Penelope, of course, to annoy me, 
 Sydney, as you must be well aware that nothing of 
 the sort is to be expected in connection with her for 
 some years to come. If you had eyes in your head 
 that you could see anything with, it would be per- 
 fectly plain to you that it is Elsie that Mr. Bellamy 
 is after." 
 
 " I don't quite like the expression of his being 
 1 after ' Elsie, mother." 
 
 " Like it or not, Sydney, that is what it comes to, 
 and I say now that we have let it go on too long, and 
 it is time to act." 
 
 " Well, I don't think it is time to act yet. None of
 
 POSSIBILITIES 101 
 
 us have ever thought of such a thing until a few hours 
 ago, and there may be nothing in it at all. If he is 
 inclined towards either Elsie or Rose, we shall see it 
 going on, and we can take our line about it. No need 
 to worry yet awhile." 
 
 Mrs. Conway breathed deeply. " That is always the 
 way things are done in this house," she said. " Put 
 off put off put off! Time enough by and by! Let 
 us sleep and take our ease. And we wake up to find 
 ruin staring us in the face and the mischief past re- 
 pair." 
 
 " That was a good speech, mother, but didn't end 
 quite as well as it began. Well, I should like to know 
 a bit more about Bellamy myself I mean the sort 
 of place he comes from, and all that. He is rather an 
 oyster, it's true, but he strikes me as absolutely 
 straightforward, and of course he's a gentleman. Any- 
 body can see that for themselves. I'll tell you what 
 I'll ask Uncle Mark about him. He's sure to know, 
 because he knows everything about everybody. It'll 
 be something to write about. I believe Bellamy is 
 rather taken with Elsie, now you come to mention it. 
 One ought to find out whatever one can." 
 
 The idea that Bellamy was rather taken with Elsie 
 was one which seemed to spring up suddenly from 
 every quarter. To Fred it seemed an obvious one, 
 and he expressed surprise that it had not been sug- 
 gested to him. It was to Rose that he spoke. Surely 
 the idea must have occurred to her! Why hadn't 
 she said anything about it? 
 
 Rose showed the slightest trace of irritation, which 
 was quite unusual with her. " Why can't a man be
 
 102 WATERMEADS 
 
 friends with us without that always being talked 
 about?" she said. "Mr. Bellamy is much too old, 
 for one thing." 
 
 Fred laughed at her. " Of course he isn't too old," 
 he said. " You only say that because he has a beard. 
 Most artists have, I believe. Anyhow, he wouldn't be 
 too old for Elsie. She's so sensible." 
 
 " Fow're not, Freddy dear, to say a thing like 
 that," retorted Rose. " It's too bad to call Elsie sensi- 
 ble at her age. She's no more sensible than I am. 
 Mr. Bellamy is sensible, if you like. I wish he'd mind 
 his own business, instead of " 
 
 " Instead of what ? " asked Fred, as she broke off . 
 
 " Oh, nothing. But I wish he'd mind his own busi- 
 ness." 
 
 This was all that he could get out of her, but a 
 little later Penelope announced to Fred that she had 
 heard Mr. Bellamy saying something to Rose about 
 Jack Kirby. 
 
 " I couldn't hear what it was," said Penelope, " but 
 Rose said that she thought Jack Kirby was very nice, 
 so that I knew that Mr. Bellamy had said he wasn't." 
 
 Information gained in this way could neither be ac- 
 cepted nor extended. Penelope was rebuked for her 
 inveterate habit of prying and listening, and went off 
 quite unmoved by the rebuke, throwing over her shoul- 
 der the cryptic remark, " It isn't Elsie, after all ; it's 
 Rose. So that makes two of them." 
 
 The eyes of the terrible child were known to be 
 preternaturally sharp, but if she meant by this that 
 it was Rose and not Elsie that Bellamy was * after,' 
 she had made an obvious mistake, misled by super-
 
 POSSIBILITIES 103 
 
 ficial appearances, and the novelty of the phenomena 
 to which she was adjusting her observation. Fred 
 thought that it was significant that Bellamy should 
 have shown some jealousy of Jack Kirby. Jack had 
 a way of making himself at home in other people's 
 houses, and, if Bellamy was in process of becoming 
 attached to Elsie, the intimacy to which he had been 
 admitted at Watermeads would seem to him to be at- 
 tacked when another young man appeared to claim a 
 still greater share of it. It did not matter whether it 
 was Elsie or Rose who was the attraction there, ex- 
 cept in the degree of dislike aroused by his free de- 
 meanour. Fred felt that nobody could possibly under- 
 stand these things better than he did, enlightened as 
 his mind had recently become towards affairs of the 
 heart. Bellamy's attitude did not make him like him 
 any the less. He appeared more youthfully human, 
 less like a man of thirty with a beard because he 
 was jealous of Jack Kirby making himself at home 
 at Watermeads. 
 
 The probability of Bellamy being in love with Elsie, 
 or at least on the way to being in love with her, seemed 
 of considerable importance to Fred he could not 
 quite tell why, until he thought it all over in church 
 while Mr. Bonner was preaching. Then he decided 
 that it was because Bellamy was older and more seri- 
 ous than either himself or Jack Kirby, and an emo- 
 tional condition that all three of them shared was 
 seen to involve somewhat momentous consequences. It 
 was a lifting of himself and his two sisters on to a 
 definitely higher plane in the family life of Watermeads. 
 He had hardly as yet come to look upon his own
 
 104 WATERMEADS 
 
 ' affair ' as more than a young man's sweet fancy, 
 which might lead to the bliss of an * engagement.' 
 Farther than that he had hardly looked ahead. Jack 
 Kirby's fancy for Rose had certainly never struck 
 him as more than that. Boys and girls they fell in 
 love and fell out of it again ; they were more youth- 
 ful, and of an unimportant generation, falling in love 
 with one another than pursuing the ordinary business 
 of their careers. But when a man as old as Bellamy 
 paid suit to a girl, it meant marriage, not dalliance 
 out of which marriage might come. 
 
 So there they were, the three of them, Elsie, Rose 
 and himself, no longer the children whom their pa- 
 rents' handling of affairs carried along wherever it 
 might be, but players taking an active part in the 
 game for themselves. It put the whole difficult and 
 absorbing question of Watermeads and its future in 
 a new light. 
 
 The marriage of Elsie or of Rose, or of both of 
 them, could have no direct bearing upon the fate of 
 Watermeads; but indirectly it would be of some im- 
 portance. Even to Fred, the gradual decline of con- 
 sideration in which the Conways as a once important 
 County family were held was plain enough. As long 
 as they lived at Watermeads they were still * some- 
 bodies ' at or about Watermeads. Away from it, as 
 his own experience had shown him, they now amounted 
 to very little. And their poverty and difficulties were 
 increasing, to a point at which a marriage for either 
 of the girls amongst the people to whom they be- 
 longed might come to be considered almost a misal- 
 liance. As they grew older, the differences between
 
 POSSIBILITIES 105 
 
 them and their neighbours were becoming more and 
 more marked, and if their way of living declined much 
 further from the accepted standard there might come 
 a time when it would be irksome to them to keep up 
 any pretence of equality. Fred had begun to see 
 these things, even if, as he hoped, his sisters did not 
 see them; and they troubled him intermittently. 
 
 But now such forebodings seemed uncalled for, and 
 they were far from his thoughts on this Sunday morn- 
 ing. Bellamy was in love with Elsie or, at least, it 
 looked like it and Jack Kirby was in love with Rose. 
 More than was known at present was to be found out 
 about Bellamy's standing, but his manners and appear- 
 ance and his educational record left no doubt in Fred's 
 easy mind that whatever should be found out about 
 him in addition would show him to be of the right 
 quality for an alliance with the Conways. As for 
 Jack Kirby he was the match of the neighbourhood. 
 Rose would be Lady Kirby some day, in command of 
 unlimited wealth, and, what was better still, Water- 
 meads' nearest important neighbour. Fred felt a 
 great increase of years and weight accruing to him 
 as he looked into the future. He had not before trans- 
 lated Jack Kirby's gratifying attentions into such 
 tangible happenings, but in the light of Bellamy's at- 
 tentions it was natural now so to regard them. 
 
 As for himself, that sweet fair-haired blue-eyed 
 Freda was the girl for him, whether she was rich or 
 poor, high-born or otherwise. But since, as it had 
 happened, she was an * heiress ' in addition to her 
 other delightful qualities, it might be that all the 
 crowding difficulties in connection with Watermeads
 
 106 WATERMEADS 
 
 and its future would be happily resolved by his mar- 
 riage to her. The thought was an added source of 
 gratitude towards the dear girl for all that she had 
 shown to him of charm and sympathy. How happy 
 they would be together, if the almost intolerable bliss 
 of acceptance should be granted to him! Here his 
 thoughts left the path of economic anticipation, and 
 wandered off into the flowery meadows of memory and 
 longing, while the Rector droned on with his sermon, 
 and a bee which had strayed into the cool church 
 sang in much the same tone the glories of the sum- 
 mer world outside, and its disapproval of the flowers 
 with which Elsie's and Rose's new hats were trimmed. 
 Whatever drawbacks in the way of lack of money 
 Elsie and Rose may have had to overcome, they suf- 
 fered none from lack of taste. They were as prettily 
 attired as any of the girls who made part of the large 
 company gathered at Prittlewell, and the consciousness 
 of being for once well turned out gave them the nec- 
 essary assurance. Fred was proud of his sisters as 
 he saw them taking their bright part in all the gaiety 
 and laughter that went on over the luncheon table, 
 and afterwards in the games that went on in the 
 garden. It seemed to him that Rose was by far the 
 prettiest girl of them all, and also that she was 
 receiving the most attention. As far as the young 
 men were concerned, the attention was not allowed to 
 become unduly marked from anyone except Jack 
 Kirby, who devoted himself to her in a way that Fred 
 thought he had never done before. It was his father 
 who alone rivalled him. Lord Kirby seemed to be lay- 
 ing himself out to show in what high esteem Rose was
 
 POSSIBILITIES 107 
 
 held at Prittlewell. His face was admiring and even 
 proprietary as he regarded her, and it must have been 
 plain to everybody that Rose was the girl out of all 
 those present upon whom his liking and his hopes 
 were settled. 
 
 The day was a veritable triumph for Rose. Events 
 seemed to be moving almost too fast. Fred grew a 
 little alarmed at what was going on under his eyes. 
 The idea of marriage being so much in his mind, it 
 seemed to him that its structure was rearing itself 
 on foundations that were hardly yet strong enough to 
 bear it. Supposing Lord Kirby to want it and to 
 anticipate it, had Jack yet reached the point at which 
 he wanted it? And was Rose ready for it yet? He 
 had been witness of all the meetings between them 
 hitherto, and they had been actually very few, al- 
 though as far as it went the intimacy had established 
 itself very quickly. They liked one another: that was 
 obvious. But Jack did not appear to him to have 
 got past the point which in his own case had been 
 reached long before he had had any idea of anything 
 like real love-making; and he doubted whether Rose 
 would not be surprised and somewhat flustered if she 
 were invited to declare herself. It might even * put 
 her off ' Jack Kirby altogether. At her age, she 
 could hardly be expected to weigh the great advan- 
 tages of such a match, nor did it fit in with his view 
 of his sister that she should do so. Jack must make 
 his way with her just as any young man would do 
 as he himself hoped he was doing with Freda, to 
 whom he had nothing to offer except himself. 
 
 The three of them were sent home in a car after
 
 108 WATERMEADS 
 
 dinner. They were all a trifle exalted by the gaiety 
 they had enjoyed, so different in its surroundings of 
 wealth and ease from the quieter pleasures of their 
 own home. But after they had chattered and laughed 
 among themselves for a time, they fell silent. Mov- 
 ing rapidly through the sweet summer night, Fred's 
 thoughts returned to the perennial subject of Water- 
 meads. The moonlit meadows, the glint of gently- 
 flowing waters, the dim mystery of the woods, stole 
 with enchantment into his spirit. The beauty of this 
 well-loved country was summed up to him in his home, 
 surrounded by it, but maimed in its power of evoking 
 pleasure by the shadow of poverty that lay over it 
 all. If they could live at Watermeads as they lived 
 at Prittlewell ! Watermeads would be even better than 
 Prittlewell, if there were money to keep it up with, and 
 to enable its owners to entertain their friends there. 
 Prittlewell was too much the country home of people 
 who were not of descent or by temperament country 
 people. Nor was Prittlewell nearly so attractive a 
 place as Watermeads, even in its state of decay, still 
 less as it might be made, if the money that was lav- 
 ished on Prittlewell were available. 
 
 Well, perhaps there was a brighter day dawning for 
 Watermeads. Fred sat between his sisters bathed in 
 a glow of hope and happiness. He did not examine 
 into the springs of his feeling. It was enough for him 
 that he was young, and hope was a natural outcome 
 of his youth, and the general way in which the world 
 seemed to be ordered. Some changes, at least, were 
 coming, and it was not too much to take it for granted 
 that they would lead to desired goals.
 
 POSSIBILITIES 109 
 
 The necessity of giving five shillings to the chauffeur, 
 who received the tip with the slightly scornful indif- 
 ference of his class, rather dashed his spirits. Hav- 
 ing been moving on a plane in which a tip of five shill- 
 ings had no more significance to the donor than the 
 price of a stamp or a newspaper, and projecting his 
 mind forward to the time in which that pleasant state 
 of things would be as illustrative of life at Water- 
 meads as of life at Prittlewell, it was irksome to be 
 reminded that the time was not yet, and five shillings 
 was still the price of something that would have to be 
 gone without. It also suddenly came home to him 
 that his holiday was over, and that Cousin Henry's 
 expectations as to what was due from him would ne- 
 cessitate an uncomfortably early start on the morrow. 
 And he wanted to say a word or two to Elsie alone, 
 but did not suppose that it would be possible to get 
 her without Rose, or at least without letting Rose see 
 that it was she whom he wanted to say the word or 
 two about. 
 
 But when they had entered the house by a door in 
 the back premises, Rose slipped off upstairs as he was 
 busy with lock and bolts, and Elsie remained behind. 
 
 How did Rose feel about Jack Kirby? Wasn't it 
 pretty obvious now that it was all coming along fast? 
 Was she ready for a declaration from him if it should 
 come? Those were the questions he put to Elsie as 
 they moved slowly along the echoing passages, their 
 bedroom candlesticks in their hands. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know, Freddy dear," said Elsie, with a 
 slightly puzzled frown on her pretty face. " I think 
 she likes him, but she doesn't talk to me about it."
 
 110 WATERMEADS 
 
 " Doesn't talk to you about it ! " It was the one 
 tiling that he would have thought they would have 
 talked about together just now, since they had always 
 talked together about everything. 
 
 " Do you think he means anything? " she asked him 
 in return. 
 
 He played with the question. He felt, somehow, 
 that Jack was likely to go a good deal further on the 
 road of paying attentions to a pretty girl without 
 asking himself whither the road led than he himself 
 would do. " I should say he was pretty well in love 
 with her," he ended, rather weakly. 
 
 It seemed that Elsie, with none of his experience 
 to guide her, had come to much the same conclusion as 
 he had. " I couldn't say yet whether I thought he 
 meant anything or not," she said. 
 
 He was inclined to combat the doubt, thus plainly 
 expressed, and strengthened his previous statement. 
 " I believe he's head over ears in love with her," he 
 said. " And old Kirby loves her too. I'm pretty cer- 
 tain he wants it." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I think he does," said Elsie, with large 
 indifference. " But that wouldn't count for much. 
 I'll let you know, Freddy dear, if anything happens. 
 I should think Jack would be coming over here to- 
 morrow. He doesn't go back to London till Tuesday. 
 We really must go to bed now. I'll call you at five 
 o'clock.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 OLIVIA 
 
 OLIVIA BONNER sat at the open window of her bedroom. 
 It was very early in the morning. The human world 
 was asleep all about her, but the amazing world of 
 nature was in clamorous life in the dewy spaces of 
 the Vicarage garden on to which she was looking. 
 She drank in the sweet sights and sounds and scents, 
 and thought she could never have enough of them. 
 
 She had reached her father's house only the evening 
 before. She had been away from it for the years that 
 had changed her from girlhood into womanhood. She 
 had devoted herself to the whims of a querulous, 
 pleasure-seeking woman, whom she had thought at 
 least to have loved her. But Lady Bridgeworth had 
 grown tired of her niece, as she had tired of every- 
 thing people, places and pursuits and Olivia had 
 been returned to her father, carriage handsomely paid, 
 to adjust herself as best she could to a life as differ- 
 ent as possible from that which she had been leading 
 for three years past. 
 
 She had purposely put off this necessary process of 
 adjustment until the disturbances of farewells and sub- 
 sequent journeyings should be over. She had to think 
 it all over for herself; it was not in her nature to take 
 this, or any great change in circumstance, lightly. 
 As she had taken seriously her part of providing com- 
 panionship and sympathy for her widowed aunt, when 
 
 111
 
 112 WATERMEADS 
 
 her father had regretfully given her up to her, so 
 now she took seriously the part that it would be hers 
 to play in her father's house, to which she had re- 
 turned for good. And first she wanted to ask herself, 
 and get the question off her mind, whether there had 
 been anything lacking in herself that had made her 
 aunt take leave of her with hardly less, though more 
 concealed, pleasure than that with which she had first 
 welcomed her. 
 
 Lady Bridgeworth was the Vicar's half-sister 
 nearly thirty years younger than himself. Her hus- 
 band had been in diplomacy, and she had led just the 
 life that suited her during the ten years of her mar- 
 riage. His appointments had been only in the larger 
 European capitals, and when he had been promoted 
 to be Minister to a South American State, she had 
 lingered behind in Rome, unable to bring herself to 
 accompany him. His death, within a few weeks of his 
 taking up his new appointment, had upset her terri- 
 bly. She was full of remorse at having allowed him 
 to go out without her, and at having cherished a grow- 
 ing determination that she would not go out to him 
 at all, if she could find the right progression of ex- 
 cuses. In this mood Olivia had first found her, and 
 she had set herself to distract her mind and to raise 
 her from the unwholesome state of depression in which 
 she was sunk. She had thought herself to be success- 
 ful, and the consciousness of duty well done had upheld 
 her through an unquiet year, in which nothing she 
 enjoyed made up to her for the loss of her English 
 home and her father's dear companionship. But now, 
 looking back, she doubted whether she had really had
 
 OLIVIA 113 
 
 much to do with her aunt's recovery. She had per- 
 haps assisted in her return to health by refusing to 
 let her regard herself as a permanent invalid, but that 
 return might have been brought about without her 
 by the zest which Lady Bridgeworth had in her for 
 life, and above all for amusement. At least, during 
 the nearly two years that had since elapsed, their 
 tastes had diverged more and more. The young girl, 
 so much the more gifted and attractive of the two, 
 had felt increasing distaste for a life of nothing but 
 change and amusement; and the older woman had 
 thrown off by degrees, and at last come definitely to 
 fight against, anything that she had at first accepted 
 that could relieve the senseless round of gaiety she 
 was now strong enough to enjoy once more. She was 
 sick of pictures and churches, sick of reading any- 
 thing but the least intelligent novels, sick of music, 
 except of the lightest sort, sick of society that took 
 account of anything but the rapid froth of inter- 
 course which alone she was fitted to enjoy. Olivia's 
 society became irksome to her. Olivia could be gay 
 and bright: she had at first seemed to her aunt the 
 incarnation of bright youth, and had reacted wonder- 
 fully on her own state of depression. But there was 
 an undercurrent of seriousness in her, and there was 
 none in Lady Bridgeworth, whose melancholy was of 
 time and circumstance, to be fought against as a 
 disagreeable state of mind when pressure was with- 
 drawn. Olivia's dark eyes were a constant reproach 
 to her frivolity, when frivolity once more became the 
 guiding factor of her life. She had to be always pre- 
 tending; and she hated the trouble of it.
 
 Olivia now saw, as she thought it all over, that the 
 struggle between them had been going on for a long 
 time, and she saw it clearly as a struggle, and one 
 that could have had no other end. She could not have 
 acted differently, being what she was. It was not that 
 she had set herself against a life of frivolity, for she 
 had not realised fully, as she did now, that it was 
 that that had been offered to her. It was not in her 
 to accept it. To this young girl, life must have a 
 serious basis, of duty and love at least, of self-sac- 
 rifice if it should be demanded of her. She had given 
 duty and love to her aunt, and there had come a time 
 when they had not been wanted of her, had been 
 thrown back in her face. No, she had not failed; she 
 could not have merged herself in the flow of shallow 
 pleasure-seeking without going against every prompt- 
 ing of her nature. Her conscience was clear. 
 
 Of the final break she did not want to think too 
 much. There had been a man whom her sane clean 
 instinct had warned her to beware of. He had paid 
 court to her, and she had thought that she would have 
 her aunt's sympathy in rejecting his advances. Lady 
 Bridgeworth had been angry about it in a curious 
 sort of way which Olivia had not understood. She had 
 boldly attacked the man himself in Olivia's presence, 
 which had caused Olivia shame and distress. Then 
 she had suddenly turned upon her and accused her of 
 encouraging him. And after that she had gone on 
 welcoming the man to her house. Even now, as her 
 mind shrinkingly shirked the memory of those pain- 
 ful scenes, a deep blush spread itself over Olivia's face 
 and neck, and she made a little gesture with her hand,
 
 OLIVIA 115 
 
 putting it all away from her. She knew that if she 
 probed into it she would find something that would 
 stain her mind, which already seemed soiled by such 
 contacts. She would not think of it at all. It was 
 enough that it had brought about the end of her com- 
 panionship with her aunt, and whether she had first 
 said that she must go back home, or her aunt had 
 said that she did not want her with her any longer, 
 she could not remember. In any case she could not 
 have stayed. 
 
 She rose, and walked a few times up and down the 
 shabby-carpeted room that was so dear to her, and 
 then sat down again by the window to consider the 
 pleasanter future. The past was done with. If she 
 had failed in what she had undertaken, as little more 
 than a child, the fault lay not in her. And she knew 
 that she would not fail in what lay before her now. 
 Her duty and her happiness would be one, and she 
 smiled as her heart sprang to meet the joy that came 
 flooding into it. 
 
 She had always loved her father passionately. He 
 was so kind, so gentle, so good. She had never known 
 her mother, and she had never missed her. He had in 
 him that strain of tenderness that had enabled him to 
 fulfil the part of both parents to her. f>he remembered 
 little things that he had done for her when she had 
 been a tiny child, and the time when it had begun to 
 come home to her that he depended on her for his 
 happiness almost as much as she depended upon him. 
 She remembered no time when he had as much as re- 
 buked her. That was partly because she had been 
 ' good ' as a child, but partly also because he had al-
 
 116 WATERMEADS 
 
 lowed her independence of mind full scope from the 
 earliest years. Certainly, in spite of her ' goodness,' 
 she would not altogether have escaped rebuke from 
 her mother, if she had been alive, nor from any woman 
 who might have been concerned in her upbringing. 
 But she had felt at an early age that, with so much 
 trust given, it rested with her to direct her activities, 
 of mind and body, into such channels as would please 
 the father who loved her so. With perhaps most 
 children such freedom as she enjoyed would have been 
 a dangerous experiment. With her it had succeeded. 
 
 She felt some compunction now when she remem- 
 bered that it had been her own decision to leave her 
 father and go to her aunt. Lady Bridgeworth had 
 asked for her, and her father had left it to her to 
 decide. He had not even advised her ; it was as if 
 he trusted her judgment, at seventeen, in such a mat- 
 ter, more than he trusted his own. But perhaps she 
 ought to have insisted on his advice, ought at least 
 to have given more weight to the strength of her love 
 for him. She had been too allured by the chance of- 
 fered to her of creating happiness for one who was 
 in trouble; and she had been partially blinded to her 
 father's share in the surrender because she had found 
 it difficult to make it herself on his account. She had 
 left him alone for nearly three years, and she had not 
 succeeded in her task. Well, that was all over and 
 done with; she would not dwell on it. She had come 
 back to him now, and knew, as she might not have 
 known if she had always stayed with him in their 
 quiet home, how greatly blessed she was in it. 
 
 There would be a round of daily duties, very dif-
 
 OLIVIA 117 
 
 ferent from any she had had to perform while living 
 with her aunt, but much more worth doing in their 
 loving servitude than those fetchings and carryings 
 and waiting upon another's whims. She would be her 
 own mistress, and smiled to herself, wondering how 
 much that accounted for her eager anticipations of 
 pleasure. There would be a scarcity of money. Many 
 things that she had grown accustomed to she would 
 have no longer. But she knew she could do without 
 them. She had never allowed herself to become de- 
 pendent upon luxury, though she had accepted it, as 
 most young people do when it comes in their way. 
 The constant changes she had enjoyed, travelling here 
 and there to one interesting place after another, 
 though never to England, would be hers no longer. 
 But the changes had been too many, and she rested 
 in the thought of this peaceful home, in which the 
 sweet succession of seasons would bring her enough 
 of change, and the feeling of security and permanence 
 would deepen. 
 
 And all the quiet texture of her life would be shot 
 through with the gold of her father's love for her and 
 hers for him. She would devote herself to him, not 
 only in the loving companionship which would be the 
 chief pleasure of her life, but with care and fore- 
 thought, and study of his tastes and his ways, sur- 
 rendering some of her own if that should be necessary. 
 She thought that she was too apt to follow her own 
 way, and she knew that if she did so she would meet 
 with no hint of resistance from him. He would be 
 only too ready to give up anything to please her. It 
 would be a contest between them as to which should
 
 118 WATERMEADS 
 
 give way to the other, and she would have to be very 
 careful not to let him see that she was giving up any- 
 thing, if she should find that their desires differed at 
 any point. 
 
 She felt quietly but intensely happy as she sat by 
 the window at the sweet beginning of the summer day, 
 at the beginning of her new life. The troubles of a 
 difficult duty lay behind her; what was coming in this 
 sheltered home, remote in the verdurous fastness of the 
 English country from all the fret and worry of cities 
 and the unrestful claims of pleasure, held no diffi- 
 culties, but only the rich sense of love and protection 
 given and returned. The birds sang to her of life and 
 happiness, of the beauty of the world, of the good- 
 ness and Tightness that wrapped her round. She could 
 almost have wept for the delight of it all. There was 
 no shadow on the lovely day, nor any on her young 
 mind. 
 
 After a time she went back to bed again. She was 
 tired from her long journey, and her sleep had been 
 broken through the night. She did not awake until 
 the maid came into her room with a breakfast tray. 
 Then she was deeply distressed to find that it was nine 
 o'clock. 
 
 Her father breakfasted at eight, and began his 
 morning work with Bobby and Billy at nine punctually. 
 She had looked forward to giving him his breakfast 
 and going round the garden with him before he settled 
 to his work, as she had always done before she had 
 left home three years before. And she had told 
 Fanny, who now came up smiling with her breakfast, 
 that she was to be called at seven.
 
 OLIVIA 119 
 
 Fanny was a young girl from the village, in her 
 first place. Olivia suspected that she had been en- 
 gaged exclusively to wait upon her, for she had not 
 been able to discover that there had been any servants 
 at the Vicarage since her departure but the man and 
 his wife who had sufficed for her father, both for the 
 house and garden. She had had her own old nurse, 
 who had stayed on as she grew older, but died soon 
 after she had left England. The married couple had 
 come since. She had not particularly taken to the 
 wife, and had had no time to question her as to new. 
 arrangements that had been made. But it went ill 
 with her ideas as to the place she would herself fill 
 in the house that her coming should involve extra 
 service. She intended to make her father much bet- 
 ter served by the things she would do herself. 
 
 " The Vicar said I wasn't to wake you, Miss, till 
 nine o'clock," said Fanny, smiling largely. " I was 
 to get you as nice a breakfast as I could, and I hope 
 you'll think I done it well, and oh, Miss, I do hope 
 you'll let me unpack and put your things away for 
 you. I'll wash my 'ands, and not dirty nothing, and 
 I'll be ever so careful to do what you tell me." She 
 put down the breakfast tray and clasped her hands. 
 " And oh, Miss, if I could do your 'air ! " she said 
 ecstatically. 
 
 Fanny had been a protegee of Olivia's in her child- 
 hood. She was sixteen now, and immensely proud of 
 the trust imposed upon her. Olivia had always been 
 her idol so pretty and graceful, and gentle and kind, 
 though authoritative too over the village girls who 
 had been in her Sunday school class and come in con-
 
 120 WATERMEADS 
 
 tact with her otherwise. Now, in addition to the 
 charm she had possessed before, she had for Fanny 
 that of a great lady, fitly surrounded by beautiful 
 and expensive * things,' an object to be waited upon, 
 and saved from all rude contact with household or even 
 personal labour. Mrs. Morrow, the cook, also had 
 some such idea of her floating in her mind. She was 
 anxious to save her all household worries, and anxious 
 also to keep in her own hands the not unprofitable 
 task of domestic provision. 
 
 Olivia would have to begin by combating at least 
 one of these ideas. As to Fanny, she was not quite 
 sure. It would be hard to send the girl away for no 
 fault of her own, when she had just come and was so 
 anxious to acquit herself well. It might be possible 
 to keep her, if she should find that domestic economy 
 would permit. 
 
 " Listen, Fanny," she said. " I shan't want waiting 
 on in that way at all. I must have my breakfast up 
 here this morning, because I have overslept myself, but 
 you must always call me at seven o'clock in the fu- 
 ture, as I told you last night. Perhaps you shall help 
 me put away my clothes this morning, as I don't sup- 
 pose your other work has been settled yet; but what 
 I shall want you to do, if you stay, is to learn to do 
 things downstairs. I will try to train you into a 
 good parlour-maid, and you must do all you can to 
 learn quickly, so that you may be able to take service 
 in a bigger house when you are older." 
 
 Fanny's face fell during this speech, of which the 
 words * if you stay ' sounded an ominous knell. " The 
 Vicar said I was to wait on you, Miss," she said, al-
 
 OLIVIA 121 
 
 most in tears, " and I know I couldn't do what the 
 French maids could as you've had not at first but 
 I'm quick to learn, and I thought you'd teach me to 
 do that. I wouldn't want to do it for nobody but 
 you, Miss, and I do hope you won't send me away 
 without a trial." 
 
 " Look here, Fanny," said Olivia kindly, " I must 
 let you into a little secret. My father wants to spoil 
 me. He knows I have had a great deal of waiting on 
 while I have been abroad, and he thinks I shall not 
 be happy at home if I don't have it here. But I don't 
 want that kind of waiting on. You shall help me, of 
 course, if I do want a little help with my clothes, but 
 where you can really help me is in waiting upon him, 
 and making him comfortable. Only he mustn't know 
 we're doing it, or he won't like it. So don't say any- 
 thing about it to anybody. We'll talk together over 
 what we can do, and it is to be a secret between us. 
 And of course I shan't send you away if you do well." 
 
 Fanny brightened. She was enough of a child still 
 to be enchanted at sharing such a secret with her 
 young mistress ; and to do something for the beloved 
 Vicar was only a little less inspiring than to do some- 
 thing for his daughter. Olivia kept her with her while 
 she ate her breakfast, and learnt enough to persuade 
 her that there was a good deal in the house and its 
 managing that wanted altering, and to be more than 
 ever thankful that she had come back to look after 
 her father. 
 
 Before she had finished dressing, Fanny came up 
 again to say that Elsie and Rose Conway had come 
 to see her. She sent for them to her room, and the
 
 122 WATERMEADS 
 
 greeting of the three girls was like that of sisters 
 long parted. 
 
 They had, in truth, scarcely been parted until 
 Olivia had gone abroad. They had played together, 
 and done lessons together, and Olivia had always taken 
 the lead. After the first happy greetings, Elsie and 
 Rose assumed, probably quite unaware of it, a slightly 
 watchful attitude towards Olivia. They thought them- 
 selves entirely unchanged from what they had been, 
 except that their hair was * up" and their skirts were 
 down. But they thought her much changed, though 
 not the less dear to them on that account. Her toilet 
 table was arrayed with silver, for her aunt had been 
 generous to her, especially at the first, and given her 
 many presents. And the daintiness of her clothes was 
 far in excess of anything that even their fully paid-up 
 allowances had made possible for themselves. Her hair 
 was beautifully done, too, in a way that betokened fa- 
 miliarity with fashion that had hardly come into their 
 ken, and she looked older and more self-possessed than 
 her years, although still in the first sweet bloom of her 
 womanhood. They seemed to themselves to be coun- 
 try bumpkins beside her, the contrast greater than it 
 had been between them and the smart young women 
 whom they had recently met at Prittlewell, and far 
 beyond that afforded by their friends in the rectories 
 and vicarages around. The doubt in their minds was 
 whether Olivia had not got beyond them as a friend. 
 In the state of poverty in which they lived at Water- 
 meads they were not without experience of the cold- 
 shoulder given to them by girls better endowed than 
 themselves, from country houses which should have
 
 OLIVIA 123 
 
 contained none but intimate friends of the Conways. 
 They were a little sensitive about pushing themselves 
 in where they were not wanted, as they expressed it. 
 Olivia, as the daughter of the dear old Vicar, and their 
 own one-time playmate, was their natural affinity; but 
 Olivia, the niece of her fashionable aunt, greatly de- 
 veloped in appearance, and possibly ' Frenchified,' 
 might prove to be a different person. 
 
 Olivia soon set their doubts at rest. She was over- 
 joyed at seeing these two dear girls again, the friends 
 she would have chosen for her own girlhood even if 
 proximity had left her a choice. She thought them 
 nearly as little altered as they thought themselves, 
 though Rose was even more beautiful than she had 
 given promise of being, and Elsie also grown into a 
 pretty graceful girl, only not to be considered un- 
 usually so because she was hardly ever to be seen with- 
 out Rose by her side. They made her feel much 
 younger herself, for she had thought of herself as old 
 and mature for a long time past, having seldom en- 
 joyed much of the society of girls of her own age, and 
 having touched experiences that these friends of hers 
 had been spared. 
 
 They were all three soon laughing and chattering 
 together as in the old days, and Olivia had banished 
 for ever the fear that she might come home changed to 
 them. She showed them her * things,' and made it 
 quite clear that such of them as were costly would have 
 to last her a long time, for she would have no chance 
 of replacing, them, unless her aunt sent her an occa- 
 sional present. " But I don't think she will," she 
 said. " She liked to see me smart when I was with
 
 124 WATERMEADS 
 
 her, but I'm afraid she won't mind what I look like 
 when I'm out of her sight." 
 
 Looked at in this way, Olivia's * things ' were seen 
 to be lucky accidents such as might come to any girl, 
 and not part of her at all. She was really just the 
 same, and as interested as before in questions of 
 economy, such as had often exercised their wits in the 
 past. She drew from them their opinion of Mrs. Mor- 
 row, and decided upon their information and advice to 
 get rid of her as soon as might be. And then she had 
 to hear all about affairs at Watermeads, and heard 
 more intimate details than would have been given to 
 anyone but her. 
 
 " Dear Olivia," said Rose affectionately, when she 
 was ready to go downstairs, " you're not a bit altered. 
 I wonder how we've managed to do without you for 
 so long."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE GIFT OF YOUTH 
 
 THE three girls ran downstairs in the happiest 
 harmony with one another. Olivia felt almost a child 
 again, so refreshing was it to return to girls' ways 
 and girls' speech with these two old friends, who had 
 been waiting for her in the quiet country with all the 
 freshness and simplicity of their youth still clinging to 
 them, while she had been getting older in gay foreign 
 resorts. It was an added pleasure to her home-com- 
 ing to have them there to confide in and to consult 
 with. Their love for her father was only less than her 
 own, and their interest in her plans for the future, 
 both as regarded his welfare and her new position as 
 mistress of the Vicarage, was almost as eager as her 
 own. 
 
 She hesitated as to whether she should disturb the 
 serious occupations in the study by a visit of greet- 
 ing. 
 
 " I shouldn't go in now if I were you," said Elsie. 
 " Nobody else is ever allowed to unless it's absolutely 
 necessary, and the boys have a quarter of an hour's 
 interval at eleven." 
 
 It was already half past ten, and Olivia reluctantly 
 accepted Elsie's advice, half hoping that her father 
 would come out to her when he heard her voice. But 
 the study door remained closed, and the girls went into 
 the drawing-room, 
 
 125
 
 126 WATERMEADS 
 
 It was a charming old-fashioned room, rather long 
 and very Jow, with a French window opening on to a 
 little retired space of lawn ringed round with lilacs, 
 and spreading limes behind them. It had not been 
 used since the death of Olivia's mother. It smelt 
 damp, and the wall-paper was discoloured and some 
 of the pictures spotted. The furniture seemed strange 
 to Olivia, for it had always been covered up. It was 
 good of its kind, though most of it * Victorian ' in 
 taste. Her father had told her that she was to use 
 this as her own room. He had had it put into some sort 
 of order, but she was to choose a new wall-paper for 
 herself, and make any other rearrangement that she 
 wished, with money that he would give her for 
 the purpose. So it was her own kingdom that she was 
 surveying with Elsie and Rose, who expressed friendly 
 envy of so delightful a toy as a pretty room to be ar- 
 ranged and used as she wished. 
 
 They were deep in plannings when to their surprise 
 and somewhat to their discomfiture the door was 
 opened and a visitor announced by Fanny, to whom 
 Olivia had already imparted some instruction as to 
 the duties she would have to fulfil as parlour-maid. 
 
 The visitor was the Reverend Edward Probert, who 
 had come over from his Rectory of Lutterbourne to 
 see the Vicar upon some clerical matter, and who 
 seemed at least as surprised to find himself proudly 
 ushered into the presence of three girls as they were 
 at his appearance. However, he had been introduced 
 to Elsie and Rose at the Watermeads cricket-match, 
 and not being particularly subject to shyness sup- 
 ported the ordeal of introduction to Olivia very well.
 
 THE GIFT OF YOUTH 127 
 
 This young man, besides possessing advantages of 
 person, had a pleasant and easy manner, which was 
 rapidly making him a popular member of the county 
 society that lay about his new sphere of influence. 
 Furthermore, Lutterbourne was a * good ' living, with 
 a fine house and garden, far in excess of the needs of 
 a bachelor, and its rector was known to be well off 
 besides, and to be destined for considerable wealth in 
 the future, with a baronetcy thrown in. All this did 
 not make him the less popular, in a neighbourhood 
 where there was a good supply of marriageable girls, 
 and Lady Sophia Raine's prophecy that he would very 
 speedily be * snapped-up,' seemed likely to be fulfilled, 
 always supposing him to be willing to undergo the 
 process. Elsie and Rose had heard echoes of this kind 
 of talk, and immediately connected him, and perhaps 
 his visit, with their beloved Olivia. They watched her 
 behaving towards him with a self-possessed and yet 
 girlish charm which made them proud of their recov- 
 ered friend, and they sought in him signs, as they ad- 
 mitted to one another afterwards, that he was struck 
 by so much grace and beauty. Surely he must be 
 from the first! However accustomed he might be to 
 meeting with beautiful girls of the most finished man- 
 ners, Olivia must be something quite exceptional. 
 There was not the slightest hint of jealousy in their 
 whole-hearted admiration of her, nor any thought of 
 themselves in their eager desire that this attractive 
 young man should exhibit himself as sharing it. They 
 were both match-makers on the instant. It would be 
 splendid if, almost on the moment of her arrival,
 
 128 WATERMEADS 
 
 Olivia should be fallen in love with and translated 
 again to a wider sphere. 
 
 But it must be confessed that Edward Probert 
 showed himself somewhat disconcertingly impervious to 
 Olivia's charms. Neither Elsie nor Rose could affirm, 
 when they came to talk it over together, any more 
 than that he must have seen how beautiful she was, 
 and how clever and charming, and perhaps it was too 
 much to expect any young man in these days to fall 
 in love at first sight, but at any rate it was quite 
 to be expected that he should fall in love with 
 Olivia when he came to know her better, for he 
 could have seen nobody in Meadshire who could 
 touch her. That he had paid equal attention to 
 them as to her made them like him all the more, 
 for, of course, they were very different from Olivia. 
 He had been easy to get on with, to talk to and to 
 laugh with. If he did fall in love with Olivia and 
 marry her, it would be delightful to feel that her hus- 
 band was a friend of theirs too, and that she would 
 not be taken away from them. 
 
 They went into the garden to await the interval of 
 recreation, and at eleven o'clock there was an outrush 
 of Bobby and Billy, on their way to a private corner 
 where they were accustomed to spend their leisure with 
 cricket stumps and a cricket ball. They paused when 
 they saw the little group of three girls and a man on 
 the lawn, and then came forward to greet Olivia po- 
 litely as an old friend, but one who had grown some- 
 what beyond their ken. Their eyes were on Edward 
 Probert as they did so, for his cricketing fame and 
 prowess had impressed their young minds, and he was
 
 THE GIFT OF YOUTH 129 
 
 already something of a hero to them, of whom they 
 hoped to know more. 
 
 Olivia went in to her father, and greatly to Bobby's 
 and Billy's delight Edward Probert accompanied them 
 to their pitch and took off his coat when he got there 
 to share in their practice and give them most valuable 
 hints. Elsie and Rose stood by until they were joined 
 by the Vicar, with Olivia's arm affectionately in his. 
 Then Probert had to put on his coat again, but before 
 lessons were resumed he had promised to come over to 
 Watermeads that afternoon, which was a half-holiday, 
 for practise at the net. Elsie and Rose, as they 
 walked home along the river and across the park, 
 agreed that it was extraordinary nice of him to be so 
 kind to Bobby and Billy, but * of course ' he had heard 
 that Olivia was coming to tea. It was rather clever 
 of him to have found such an excellent excuse for com- 
 ing, too. 
 
 The tea-party, if it could be called so, was some- 
 thing of an ordeal to the two girls. Mrs. Conway had 
 what they were accustomed to call ' one of her awk- 
 ward fits.' These expressions of personality took 
 various forms. On this occasion it was by the pride 
 that aped humility. Tea at the big round table in 
 the corner of the great hall, with windows and doors 
 wide open to admit the warm summer air into its stone- 
 bred coolness, was an occasion that no one need feel 
 the least ashamed of. But it would have been so easy 
 to make some little alteration in the habitual family 
 meal, in honour of guests ; and their mother would not 
 hear of any alteration being made at all. The table- 
 cloth was in the middle of its weekly career, and she
 
 130 WATERMEADS 
 
 would not have a clean one provided. The cake, re- 
 duced to a giant wedge, would be replaced on the mor- 
 row, and its replacement could easily have been antici- 
 pated; but she would not allow orders to be given to 
 that effect. Nor would she permit butter to be pro- 
 vided, nor even two sorts of jam. At each request 
 her determination stiffened to allow no difference to be 
 made of any kind. " The Vicar knows how we live," 
 she said, " and if our way of living is good enough for 
 him it is good enough for Olivia; and if it is not, the 
 sooner she learns that no difference can be made on 
 her account the better. As for Mr. Probert, who has 
 invited himself, so far as I can make out, let him see 
 for himself. Let him see that decent poverty is not 
 a thing to be ashamed of, and that those who are 
 forced to practise it are not ashamed of it." 
 
 " But, mother dear, just a few scones and some 
 toast and a little butter! Rose and I can make them, 
 and you needn't bother about it at all." 
 
 " I have yet to learn that you and Rose can make 
 butter, Elsie," said Mrs. Conway with withering 
 emphasis, " or at least without using cream, which, 
 as you know very well, has to be paid for. And what 
 are scones or toast without butter? I am determined 
 to put down extravagance in this house, and to live 
 on dry bread and water, if necessary, in order to re- 
 lieve ourselves of this dreadful incubus of debt. Let 
 me not hear another word upon the subject." 
 
 Elsie and Rose accepted the decision, well knowing 
 that with their mother in this mood it was useless to 
 press her any further. They could at least see that 
 the table was well supplied with flowers, and went out
 
 THE GIFT OF YOUTH 131 
 
 to pick them, but without saying anything about it, 
 as Mrs. Conway was quite capable of forbidding even 
 that inexpensive form of luxury. 
 
 Penelope, who had been a silent witness of the en- 
 counter, followed them into the garden. " Really, I 
 think mother is getting beyond everything," she said. 
 " But I will get her to let you make some scones if 
 you like." 
 
 " You are not to talk like that about mother," said 
 Elsie. 
 
 " How would you get her to let us make some 
 scones ? " asked Rose. 
 
 " I should tell her that Mr. Probert might fall in 
 love with you or Elsie if he is properly treated," said 
 Penelope. " Lady Sophia told mother that he " 
 
 " You horrid little creature ! " Elsie interrupted her. 
 " You get worse and worse. Go away. We don't 
 want you with us." 
 
 " I think I shall ask cookie to make some scones," 
 said Penelope. " Jack Kirby gave me a box of choc- 
 olate once. Mr. Probert might do it too." 
 
 She walked away. Elsie and Rose agreed that she 
 was becoming more and more impossible every day. 
 
 When they got indoors again, however, they found 
 that their mother had * come round ' of her own ac- 
 cord. Penelope denied having said anything at all on 
 the subject to her, but was ready with the reason for 
 the change. " Dad is the Squire, and Mr. Bonner is 
 the Vicar," she said. " If we don't have a clean table- 
 cloth Mr. Probert will think Olivia is better than you." 
 
 Oh, the odious child ! How did she come to have 
 these horrible, but penetrating ideas, at her age?
 
 132 WATERMEADS 
 
 Whatever Mrs. Conway's reasons for providing the 
 clean tablecloth, with toast, scones, butter, a new cake, 
 and two kinds of jam to put upon it, in silver and 
 china that were at least as fine as any that could have 
 been provided at any of the houses around, she was 
 not prepared to relinquish her attitude of proud hu- 
 mility. 
 
 " This must be very different from anything that 
 you have been accustomed to, Olivia," she said ; " and 
 indeed it is different from anything that 7 was ac- 
 customed to in my earlier years. If you have not 
 learnt already, Mr. Probert, that an extreme, but I 
 hope decent, poverty, is what must be expected in this 
 house, you will find plenty of people to tell you. I 
 make no difference in our ordinary way of living when 
 we have the good fortune to receive guests. People 
 must take us as we are and make the best of us. Do 
 you have two lumps of sugar, or one, or none ? " 
 
 Pr"obert felt inclined to say none, but in view of the 
 comparatively low price of cube sugar, asked for 
 three, which put Mrs. Conway in a good humour with 
 him. She confided to him towards the end of the meal, 
 that although things were difficult for her as mistress 
 of a large house, with a reduced income, it was always 
 a pleasure to her to see friends at her tea table, and 
 a great many of them constantly availed themselves 
 of her simple hospitality. " We shall always be 
 pleased to see you, Mr. Probert, whenever you like to 
 come," she said. " Indeed, we are very glad to wel- 
 come you to the neighbourhood. I believe my husband 
 has already called upon you, or if he has not, I know 
 that he has had every intention of doing so. You will
 
 THE GIFT OF YOUTH 133 
 
 not expect formal invitations from us, but we have a 
 tennis-lawn and a cricket-field, and shall be delighted 
 to see you playing games upon them whenever you 
 feel inclined to do so." 
 
 Probert made suitable acknowledgments of this 
 gracious invitation, and his promise to take Mrs. Con- 
 way at her word was made in no mere spirit of 
 formality. Sydney Conway had had his eye on him, 
 while talking chiefly to Olivia, and when they went out 
 into the garden made himself pleasant, as he well 
 knew how. He understood so well the ways and 
 thoughts of young men, provided they were of the 
 pattern of this one, to which he also had belonged in 
 his youth. And youth had never seemed far away 
 from him, though he was now over fifty. He had more 
 to talk about to a young man between twenty and 
 thirty than to a contemporary of his own. His own 
 active life had practically come to an end when he had 
 been about Probert's age. He seemed to the young 
 man to be very much in the swim, and to be singularly 
 ill-mated with the odd and rather formidable lady who 
 had discoursed to him over the tea-table. Perhaps 
 Sydney had wished to correct any impression that 
 might have scared so eligible a young man away from 
 the house; but it is certain, also, that he liked to see 
 and talk to young men ' of the right sort.' 
 
 Nevertheless, he pressed Probert to make up a four 
 at tennis with the three girls, instead of accompany- 
 ing him and Bobby and Billy to the cricket-field. 
 " The fact of the matter is," he said confidentially, as 
 he went off with the disappointed boys on either side 
 of him, " that you're too young and I'm too old for
 
 134 WATERMEADS 
 
 Mr. Probert to be very anxious for our society ; and 
 when a person comes to your house, you know, you've 
 got to see that he gets the amusement that he wants, 
 not what you want." 
 
 Bobby and Billy, who found their father's advanced 
 age no bar to the most enjoyable intercourse that 
 came within their experience, and had stood by while 
 he had talked to Probert as if they were two young 
 men together, protested at this. " I expect he'd 
 rather practise with us than play tennis with three 
 girls," said Bobby. 
 
 His father put his hand on his shoulder and 
 smiled down at him. " When you are as old as he is, 
 my son," he said, " you may perhaps discover that 
 there's no particular hardship in playing tennis with 
 three girls." 
 
 " If you had played it would have been all right," 
 said Billy loyally. " They did want you to." 
 
 " Oh, me ! said Sydney. " Well, when you get to 
 my age of course you'd rather play cricket with two 
 boys especially if they're your own, you know." 
 
 Bobby and Billy thought this quite natural, though 
 the way in which it was said was pleasing to them. 
 Not many ' chaps ' had fathers with whom they were 
 so completely at ease as they were with theirs. They 
 had found that out already, though their experience 
 of ' chaps ' of their own age was as yet comparatively 
 small. 
 
 But Sydney would very much have preferred to 
 have been one of the party on the tennis-lawn. It 
 made him feel a little sad that, in spite of the youth 
 that was still in him, he must not consider himself a
 
 THE GIFT OF YOUTH 135 
 
 welcome participant in the intimate amusements of 
 young people. It was true that his own dear girls 
 would always be as pleased to play in a game with him 
 as with any young man at present; and he had 
 got back to his old terms with Olivia, who had taken 
 the same view of him as a playmate as Elsie and Rose. 
 All three of them had pressed him to make one of 
 the four, and had meant it. Probert had pressed him 
 too, and had not meant it, or so he thought. It was 
 hardly natural that he should. He had already be- 
 gun to address himself to establishing relations with 
 the three pretty young girls. He might be content to 
 talk about cricket and other common interests to a 
 man much older than himself, when there was no get- 
 ting away from his society; but, for free enjoyment, 
 the older man must be out of the way. However 
 much he might enjoy the happy chatter and kind ap- 
 proaches of youth, they were no longer his by right; 
 he could only take his part in them on sufferance, with 
 his own children, who knew him and loved him. With 
 an outsider, his presence must at least divert the flow. 
 Sydney had long since decided that Elsie and Rose 
 must have their chance, and had examined himself 
 upon the effect that it would have upon him when 
 young men should begin to be attracted by them. In 
 a general sort of way he rather liked the idea. The 
 companionship of Elsie and Rose, it is true, was 
 about the best thing that his life contained at this time. 
 Fred was too much away, and Bobby and Billy were 
 too young for them to count as much to him in his 
 daily life as the girls did. The friendship between 
 him and them, apart from the love between father and
 
 136 WATERMEADS 
 
 daughter, upon which there had never been any cloud 
 from the earliest years, was as perfect as it could be 
 in such a relationship. He would miss them horribly 
 when they left their home. But he knew that they 
 would not love him less when they came to take hus- 
 bands, and it was one of the penalties of fatherhood 
 that daughters could not stay at home for ever, and 
 one that it would be absurd to kick against. After 
 all, his love for them would be a mean and selfish 
 thing if it did not lead him to desire their happiness, 
 even at his own expense. Whatever twinges of 
 jealousy he might feel when the young men began to 
 gather round, which was how he pictured the entrance 
 of Elsie and Rose to womanhood, he must hide them, 
 and give the girls their chance. 
 
 Nevertheless, when Jack Kirby had shown himself 
 attracted by Rose, he had had hard work to keep to 
 his preformed intentions. He hated the freedom with 
 which the self-satisfied rather noisy youth came and 
 went, and the little trouble he took to hide what it 
 was that he came for. Jack Kirby paid hardly as 
 much attention to him personally as would show that 
 he recognised him as the owner of a house in which 
 he wished to make himself at home. No doubt he con- 
 sidered himself so much of a * catch ' that he could 
 dispense with the attention that a young man at- 
 tracted towards a girl would naturally show to her 
 father. And, no doubt, from his gold-plated point of 
 view, the Squire of Watermeads, in its decay, was a 
 person of no importance whatever, and it was hardly 
 worth concealing that opinion. Sydney had had hard 
 work with himself to refrain from behaving towards
 
 THE GIFT OF YOUTH 137 
 
 him as the autocratic grumpy parent of fiction, and 
 sending him about his business with a flea in his ear. 
 Certainly it was not the money that hung about the 
 youth, or his prospective peerage, that held him back. 
 It was the strong decision he had come to that when 
 these things should begin to happen the girls must 
 choose for themselves, so long as the man should not 
 be objectionable in a way that he could recognise and 
 they could not be expected to. Jack Kirby was al- 
 ways hovering about that border-line, but Sydney 
 could not say to himself with a clear conscience that 
 he had overstepped it. If he were to give him 
 brusquely to understand that Rose was not for him, 
 he could not justify himself. It would not be enough 
 that he disliked him and his ways. That would only 
 be showing the parental jealousy that he was on his 
 guard against. 
 
 His patience under the tribulation that he was hid- 
 ing from all about him was made easier, perhaps was 
 only made possible, by the idea which he had formed, 
 that Rose was not so taken with young Kirby as he 
 obviously was with her. He had watched the dear 
 child, closely and anxiously. She was as sweet and 
 loving towards himself as she had always been, and 
 he thought that if she had opened her heart to a 
 lover, however tentatively, there must have been some 
 difference in this respect. She would not have meant 
 it, or even known it, but it would have wounded him 
 sorely, and he could hardly have mistaken the signs. 
 Perhaps she had been more loving towards him than 
 usual, and once or twice she had come to him when she 
 might have gone to Jack Kirby, and nestled to him, al-
 
 138 WATERMEADS 
 
 most as if she needed to assure herself of his tenderness 
 towards her. This had been balm to his sore heart. 
 He was not without a strong hope that if Jack Kirby 
 did propose marriage to Rose, she would refuse him, 
 and smiled grimly to himself as he contrasted his real 
 desires on the subject with those with which he was 
 no doubt credited on all hands. 
 
 And yet, he told himself, his passionate dislike of 
 Jack Kirby was not the measure of his feeling to- 
 wards a prospective husband for his girls. The recep- 
 tion he had given to his wife's disclosure of Bellamy's 
 supposed attitude in his household had by no means 
 represented a blindness on his part to what was go- 
 ing on. She had long since ceased to share any of his 
 secret thoughts, although she thought she had the key 
 to them all. Bellamy, as the possible husband of one 
 of his girls, had been present to him from the very 
 beginning, when Mrs. Conway had only seen in him a 
 strange artist; but he had not become sure that Bel- 
 lamy really wanted anything of the sort when she had 
 suddenly convinced herself that there was no other ex- 
 planation of his continued presence at Watermeads. 
 Elsie was quite as dear to him as Rose, and was even 
 more a cherished companion, but he felt none of the 
 dislike at the idea of her falling in love with Bellamy 
 that he felt at the possibility of Rose falling in love 
 with Jack Kirby. He was indeed watching with some 
 interest for signs that she was likely to do so, and had 
 not yet found them. He would hate losing her, but 
 she would gain more in happiness by being married 
 to the right sort of man than he could lose, and he 
 thought that Bellamy was the right sort of man.
 
 THE GIFT OF YOUTH 139 
 
 As for this young parson well, it was early days 
 to judge yet, and if he had come for anybody, it was 
 probably Olivia. But Sydney would have been ready 
 to stretch a few points in his favour, if it had been 
 necessary, for the pleasure of seeing him cut out Jack 
 Kirby. 
 
 All the same, he envied him that priceless gift of 
 youth which made it natural that he should make up 
 the four on the tennis-lawn, and took off his coat with 
 a sigh to bowl to Bobby at the net.
 
 CHAPTER xi 
 
 LETTERS 
 
 DEAREST E. and R. (wrote Fred to his sisters, on the 
 day following the dance given by Mrs. Blumenthal at 
 Hillstead) : 
 
 You will know by this time what it means your not 
 getting a wire from me this morning. I feel pretty 
 beastly about it all, but perhaps it will buck me up 
 a bit to write to you. It isn't all over by any means, 
 and I shall have a jolly good fight for it, but I did 
 so hope that I should have some good news to send 
 you this morning, dear old girls. Life's a rum busi- 
 ness, isn't it? 
 
 The dance was jolly well done. There was a great 
 tent leading out of the drawing-room to dance in, and 
 heaps of flowers, and a top-hole supper with quails, 
 and Chinese lanterns and fairy lights all over the gar- 
 den, and places to sit out. It was a gorgeous night 
 with a moon. The whole thing was romantic, like 
 Florence, and Romeo and Juliet, and all that. Freda 
 looked lovely. She was in pink, which suits her best, 
 and her hair was like spun gold. But from the very 
 first things didn't look as if they were going right. 
 She had half promised to let me take her in to sup- 
 per, but when I wanted to put my name down she 
 wouldn't, as she said she couldn't engage herself in their 
 own house until she saw how things would turn out. 
 
 140
 
 LETTERS 141 
 
 And she would only sit out half of one dance in the 
 garden, and then in a place that was quite light, so 
 I shouldn't anyhow have had a chance of asking her, 
 and it looked as if she didn't mean that I should. 
 
 Well, to cut a long story short, the Lord Mayor 
 was there, and his family, and they were made a tre- 
 mendous fuss of. There was a son who paid a lot of 
 attention to Freda, and it was him she went into sup- 
 per with. I hated the fellow, he looked such a cad, 
 and I told Freda so and she was annoyed and said he 
 didn't, and anyhow she had to be civil to him as her 
 mother had told her to, so I suppose the old girl wants 
 him for Freda, but I really don't think she wants him, 
 and it was just a little better when they'd gone away, 
 and I had the last dance with her, and she was aw- 
 fully sweet and like I hoped she'd have been all the 
 time. I'd have tried my luck then, but it was too late. 
 
 Well, I suppose you'll say I'm jealous, but I cer- 
 tainly shouldn't stoop to be jealous of a bounder like 
 that, and if I thought that Freda really preferred him 
 to me I should just clear out, for she wouldn't be the 
 girl I've taken her for, and I shouldn't want her any 
 more. I should think you'd be able to see that. At 
 present I'm feeling pretty low. I only slept for about 
 half an hour last night, and I've had a beastly time 
 with Cousin Henry today. When I've finished this 
 I'm going to bed. Perhaps tomorrow I shall feel more 
 like facing things, but anyhow I'm not going to give 
 up. 
 
 As it's only nine o'clock I may as well tell you about 
 Cousin Henry before I dry up. He and Aunt Kate 
 ware at the dance last night, and he got himself in-
 
 142 WATERMEADS 
 
 troduced to the Lord Mayor, which bucked him up 
 considerably, and he was as amiable as possible when 
 I had a word or two with him. But he must have 
 drunk too much bubbly wine or something, for when 
 he came up to the office this morning an hour late he 
 was like a bear with a sore head. I could see he 
 wanted to drop on me if he could only find an excuse, 
 and I was pretty careful over my work, but at last 
 he did discover something that had gone a little wrong. 
 It wasn't my fault, but he let me have it all the same. 
 He said I was an idle good-for-nothing fellow, and 
 thought of nothing but amusing myself and dancing 
 about all the night pretty good when he had been at 
 the same dance himself, and had stopped in bed when I 
 hadn't ! I wasn't feeling in the best of tempers myself 
 because of not sleeping and what had happened, so I 
 didn't take more than a certain amount, and we had 
 what almost amounted to a scrap. Anyhow, the end 
 of it was that he said I needn't come back after my 
 holidays. I said * All right, Cousin Henry. I know 
 I'm not the slacker you try to make me out, and I 
 believe now I could get just as good a job somewhere 
 else as I've got here.' That's true, you know, and it 
 touched him. He said ' It isn't only a job I've given 
 you and paid you well for it when you weren't worth 
 it. If you were fit to be anything but a clerk you 
 could have had a partnership here in a few years' time. 
 I gave you your chance when you hadn't got it in you 
 to make a penny for yourself and that's all the return 
 I get for it. You've got no more gratitude in you than 
 this piece of wood.' * Well,' I said, ' I've told you lots of 
 times that I'm grateful for what you've done for me,
 
 LETTERS 143 
 
 and I have been. If you're going to sack me for noth- 
 ing at all I've nothing further to be grateful for, so 
 I won't waste time by repeating it.' Then I cleared out. 
 I think I was right, don't you? Mind you I don't be- 
 lieve he means me to go, but I'm getting sick of be- 
 ing treated as he treats me, and I'm not going to 
 stand any more of it. I'm rather glad now that 
 Uncle Mark put me off dining with him till tomorrow. 
 I shall tell him all about it, and if he's decent I shall 
 ask his advice. I dare say he could easily get me a 
 job himself, if he wanted to, a secretaryship or some- 
 thing, and if he did that it would be rather fun to see 
 how old Henry took it. I haven't told him yet that 
 I've met Uncle Mark. I should think he's bound to be 
 jealous of him. I feel rather vindictive to- 
 wards the old snork, but I mustn't forget what 
 he did for me. If he'd only be as decent as 
 he was at first I should have nothing much to complain 
 about. 
 
 Goodbye, dear old girls, I really must go and lie 
 down, I'm so sleepy. I'll write to you again after I've 
 dined with Uncle Mark. But write to me first and tell 
 me all you are doing. How is Bellamy? I like that 
 fellow. Has Penelope said anything awful lately? 
 Well, I feel pretty blue, but it has cheered me up writ- 
 ing to you. Give my love to Olivia. It will be jolly 
 to see her again. 
 
 Much love from FRED. 
 
 DEAREST FREDDY (wrote Elsie in reply to this) : 
 
 We were awfully sorry to hear of your disappoint- 
 ment, dear. Wasn't it rather horrid of her to throw
 
 144 WATERMEADS 
 
 you over for the Lord Mayor's son? You hardly 
 write a word of blame of her, which is very sweet 
 of you, but Rose and I have talked it all over, and 
 we think we see more than you do in it. Of course, 
 darling, you can't be expected to know about girls as 
 we do, and in anything like falling in love we can help 
 you if you'll let us, I mean that we can tell you what 
 a girl is like better than you can possibly find out 
 for yourself. Neither Rose nor I would have behaved 
 as you say she did unless of course she isn't in love 
 with you at all and is inclined to be in love with the 
 Lord Mayor's son, or if she wanted to make you jeal- 
 ous, which would be horrid of her. Dearest Freddy, 
 aren't you really taken with her only because she is 
 very pretty? I wish you would think it all over and 
 not do anything more about it till you come down 
 here again. It won't be long now before the holidays, 
 and I think if it is really all right with her she de- 
 serves to be kept waiting a little for the way she 
 treated you. 
 
 It is horrid of Cousin Henry to make himself so 
 horrid to you. But Freddy dear, do try and put up 
 with him if you possibly can. You have got your foot 
 on the ladder now and it would be awfully disappoint- 
 ing if you had to begin all over again. Of course if 
 Uncle Mark likes you and offers to do something for 
 you it would be different, and Cousin Henry has be- 
 haved so badly that you don't really owe him anything. 
 But I won't say anything more about all that till you 
 have seen Uncle Mark. We are so excited about what 
 will happen. Do write to us early tomorrow and tell 
 us everything. We shall go and meet the evening post,
 
 LETTERS 145 
 
 and shall be very disappointed if there isn't a letter 
 from you. 
 
 It is lovely to have dear Olivia home again. You 
 can't think how beautiful and charming she has grown, 
 though she is just the same as she was in everything 
 that matters and not spoilt the least little bit. Dear 
 old Mr. Bonner seems a different man now he has got 
 her home, he goes about with a seraphic smile on his 
 face and when he looks at her you want to hug him, 
 he loves her so much. And she thinks about nothing 
 but to make him happy and comfortable, and it isn't 
 so very easy at the Vicarage, as she has to do every- 
 thing on a little money, and she has found out all 
 sorts of things about the Morrows and has given her 
 notice, and of course Morrow will have to go too, 
 though he isn't as bad as she is. Mr. Bonner was 
 worried about it, and the Morrows appealed to him 
 against her, but she would have her own way, and is 
 shielding him as well as she can from all the annoyance 
 they would like to make for him. But I think really 
 she rather enjoys it, if she can keep him from being 
 bothered. She is awfully funny about the Morrows 
 and what they say and do. She seems much gayer 
 and brighter even than she was before she went abroad. 
 She says it is such a relief to be herself, and to have 
 people round her that love her, and of course she did 
 have an awful time with that horrid aunt of hers, 
 she has told us a good deal about it, though not all, 
 and her face becomes clouded when she mentions it, 
 so what we are trying to do is to help her to forget 
 it. 
 
 I didn't mean to say anything to you about some-
 
 146 WATERMEADS 
 
 thing that is rather exciting us, but as I'm in a let- 
 ter-writing mood, and I hate to have any secrets from 
 you, dear old Freddy, I think I will. 
 
 Well, you remember Mr. Probert, of course. He has 
 been coming over here almost every afternoon to play 
 tennis and sometimes cricket, and there is no doubt 
 that it is Olivia he is coming for, and I believe that 
 is part of what makes her so gay and happy, though 
 we haven't dared to say anything to her yet, as it 
 might spoil it all, and he hasn't done or said anything 
 yet really that would give us an excuse. He is really 
 awfully nice, Freddy, and we are all four the great- 
 est of friends, and have the greatest fun together. I 
 only wish you could be with us too, because we have 
 got heaps of new jokes and sayings, and I don't like 
 you to be out of them. But you will soon be home 
 now, dear old boy, and I am sure you will like Edward 
 as much as all of us do. It will be lovely if he does 
 marry Olivia, for she will live quite close to us, and 
 I should think it couldn't be often that one likes the 
 husbands of one's friends as much as we should like 
 him. Even mother has taken to him, and has told him 
 every bit of the family history, including about Uncle 
 Mark, and Dad likes him awfully and he likes Dad, 
 and says he has never known a man of his age it is 
 so jolly to be with. So you see, Freddy dear, we are 
 a very happy party at present, and whatever happens 
 to us in the future, I shall never forget this lovely 
 summer, the only drawback is you not being here, but 
 if it only doesn't begin to rain just when your holi- 
 day begins, it will be just perfect. 
 
 You ask about Giles Bellamy, we call him Giles
 
 LETTERS 147 
 
 now, because when we slipped into Christian names 
 with Edward, he said he had one, and wasn't so old 
 after all that we couldn't use it. It seemed a little 
 odd at first, I suppose you would say because of his 
 beard, but, Freddy dear, he has shaved it off since, and 
 he looks years and years younger, and now it seems 
 quite natural to think of him as one of ourselves, and 
 he seems younger too, and is much more merry. I 
 think it is because Edward sets such a good example 
 in that way. There is only one thing about him, that 
 he hates Jack Kirby, and won't come near us when he 
 is here, and once or twice he has been positively rude 
 to him. I must say Jack took it very good-naturedly, 
 and it didn't seem to alter his good opinion of himself 
 at all. You know, Freddy dear, he is rather pushing 
 in his ways, and selfish, too, about always wanting to 
 get Rose to himself, at least for a time, when he is 
 here. It is so different from the way both Edward 
 and Giles behave. If we weren't certain of it by hun- 
 dreds of little signs, Rose and I agree that you could 
 hardly tell that it was Olivia who was the attraction to 
 Edward, he is so awfully nice to all three of us, and 
 Giles is just the same to Olivia as he is to us, and she 
 likes him immensely. So there we are as a very merry 
 happy party, and when Jack comes it seems to spoil 
 it somehow. I still can't tell whether Rose really likes 
 him. I wish we had talked about it together at the 
 very first, then I should have known all that she is 
 thinking. But somehow we didn't, and now I feel that 
 I can't, unless she does first. I'm quite sure she will 
 tell me if anything troubles her, and that's why I 
 don't worry very much about it. And I believe she
 
 148 WATERMEADS 
 
 would tell me if she were really in love with him, and 
 that's why I think she isn't yet. She likes him of 
 course, and laughs at Giles for hating him so, as we 
 all do. Could she laugh at Giles and stick up for 
 Jack if she was really in love with Jack? That's 
 another reason why I think she isn't. 
 
 Darling old Dad seems rather worried, but he says 
 there's nothing the matter. It can't be money, be- 
 cause there's quite a lot left still from the sale of 
 Grandfather John, and besides, he always talks quite 
 openly about money matters. I hope you will have 
 some good news to send about Uncle Mark. That 
 would cheer him up, and it may be what is on his mind. 
 But it isn't like him not to tell us all about it. 
 
 Now I must really leave off. 
 
 Heaps of love, dear old boy, 
 
 From your loving ELSIE. 
 
 Rose wrote by the same post. 
 
 DARLING FREDDY: 
 
 Elsie says she has told you what we think about 
 Freda. We may be all wrong, and I think she must 
 be nice or you wouldn't have fallen in love with her. 
 Still, if it doesn't go right, Freddy dear, you know 
 how awfully much we love you at home, so don't be 
 too unhappy about it. 
 
 Edward Probert is very nice and I am sure you will 
 like him. We think he's in love with our dear Olivia, 
 but Penelope, the odious little wretch, says he comes 
 here after me! That is just to show you what she is 
 still like, as you ask after her. She doesn't improve 
 as she gets older, and you must take her in hand when
 
 LETTERS 149 
 
 you come home. We are all three friends with him, 
 but it is not me he comes here * after.' I should know 
 well enough if it were and shouldn't say anything 
 about it. 
 
 Giles Bellamy is awfully sweet ; he is like a very kind 
 elder brother. How I wish he would marry darling 
 Elsie so that we might have him as a real brother, not 
 that we should ever love him better than you, darling 
 Freddy, at least I suppose she would if she married 
 him, and that seems rather funny because I can't 
 imagine loving any man better than one's own brother. 
 Except perhaps one's own father. Dad has been most 
 awfully loving and sweet to me lately, and I simply 
 adore him. He's the dearest kindest father anybody 
 ever had, and I do feel so sorry for him with all his 
 bothers. If only Uncle Mark would do something 
 that would make him happy and contented again! I 
 believe that all the anxieties he has had for years and 
 years are beginning to tell on him at last, he seems to 
 be getting older. He has stood up against them for 
 so long, and made the best of things and kept cheer- 
 ful over it, but now he is beginning to feel the burden. 
 If you can send us some good news tomorrow it will 
 make us all awfully happy. 
 
 I mustn't write any longer. Bother Cousin Henry! 
 Your friend Jack Kirby has been here sometimes at 
 week ends. We are looking forward awfully to your 
 coming home, and if you don't go back again to Cousin 
 Henry so much the better. 
 
 Goodbye, darling, 
 
 Your ever loving 
 
 ROSE.
 
 150 WATERMEADS 
 
 Fred wrote on the following day, but not until the 
 evening. 
 
 MY DEAREST E. and R. : 
 
 Everything is all right. Everything. I hardly 
 know where to begin, I'm so bucked, so I will begin 
 at the beginning. I dined with Uncle Mark at the 
 Wanderers'. He gave me a jolly good dinner with 
 some wonderful champagne, and made me drink nearly 
 all of it as he said he couldn't touch more than one 
 glass and he wanted to enjoy it * vicariously ' is that 
 spelt right? and there wasn't much of it left. He 
 was extraordinarily friendly and most awfully amusing. 
 But after dinner he was quite ready to be serious and 
 I told him all about Cousin Henry, and about Freda, 
 too. I'd never thought of doing that, but I'm jolly 
 glad I did. About Cousin Henry he said he didn't 
 know what I was doing in that galley I think that 
 comes from a French expression, doesn't it? and the 
 sooner I got out of it the better. Then what do you 
 think he said, calmly sitting back in his chair and 
 taking his cigar out of his mouth to look at the ash? 
 He said * You had better come and be my secretary. 
 I'll give you four hundred a year. That ought to be 
 enough to get along on for the present, and if it isn't 
 you can tell me about it ! ! ! ' 
 
 Well, I was so knocked over that I didn't know what 
 to say to thank him, but he cut me short when I did 
 say something and said ' Oh, that's all right my boy. 
 Four hundred a year is nothing to me, and you're quite 
 welcome to it. You won't have as much to do as your 
 father did, but there are lots of odd little jobs, and I
 
 LETTERS 151 
 
 shall like to have somebody to go about with me some- 
 times. I shall be the gainer, and if it suits you, so 
 much the better.' 
 
 Now wasn't that a ripping nice way of putting it? 
 And that isn't nearly all. He is coming down to 
 Watermeads to see us. At least he is going to Prittle- 
 well in September to shoot, and he said he would come 
 over to Watermeads, and if he liked us and we liked 
 him he might stay a few days. I said we should all 
 be awfully pleased, and I thought he would like us, 
 and Dad would be specially pleased, and he said he 
 would like to see Dad again after all these years, as 
 he'd always been very fond of him. He said this quite 
 seriously, and of course it is rather comic after what 
 has happened, but we have to make some allowances 
 for him, he is pretty old, though he doesn't look it, 
 and he is certainly going to do the right thing by us 
 now. 
 
 Well, I'll go on. He said I must have rooms in 
 London, and if I liked to take them unfurnished he 
 would furnish them for me or have things brought up 
 from Watermeads if I preferred that, as there must 
 be a lot of things there that can be spared. He said 
 we could go and look for rooms together round St. 
 James's. It was then I said that I was hoping to get 
 engaged, and he was a bit bowled over at first, but 
 when I had told him who it was he said that if the girl 
 was all right it would do, but he should like to see 
 her first. Then I told him about the night before, and 
 he laughed and said I was to go to Blumenthal with 
 his compliments and tell him that I was Mr. Mark 
 Drake's nephew, and he should like me to bring Miss
 
 152 WATERMEADS 
 
 Blumenthal to see him. He wouldn't say a word more, 
 but talked about other things, and made himself as 
 pleasant as possible for the rest of the evening. I 
 think he really does like me, and he has been so kind 
 that I couldn't help liking him if I tried. When I 
 went away he put his hand on my shoulder quite affec- 
 tionately and said * Goodbye my boy, get away from 
 Mr. Wilkins as soon as you can and come to me. I'll 
 treat you better than he did.' He is a nice old boy, 
 I shall do my best to please him, and I believe we 
 shall get on well together. 
 
 Well, now I come to dear Cousin Henry. I went 
 into his room this morning and said ' As you have 
 given me notice to leave you do you mind if I go at 
 once? ' He looked pretty black I can tell you, and said 
 in a sour kind of way ' Why, has anybody left you 
 a fortune?' I said 'No, but I'm going to be secre- 
 tary to my uncle, and he wants me as soon as I can 
 go.' You should have seen his face. I don't think I've 
 ever said a single word to him or any of them about 
 Uncle Mark, but he knew at once who I meant and he 
 said ' Oh, so Tie has taken you up, has he? ' I said 
 ' I dined with him last night and told him that you had 
 given me the sack, and he said he should like to have 
 me with him as my father used to be, and the sooner 
 I could come the better. As you have always told me 
 I wasn't the slightest use to you, and business is a 
 bit slack now you won't miss me if I do go, will 
 you? Of course I shouldn't like to inconvenience you.' 
 I don't know whether it wasn't rather beastly of me to 
 put it like that, but really, I've put up with such a lot 
 from him that I feel as if I must get a bit of my own
 
 LETTERS 153 
 
 back. Well, he flew into a furious temper, called me 
 an ungrateful young cub, and said he hadn't meant to 
 get rid of me at all but only to give me a lesson that 
 would make me think more seriously about my work. 
 I let him talk and didn't answer him back. That an- 
 noyed him, and at last he told me to get out. I was 
 to think it over and not be a fool. Anyhow he 
 couldn't do without me till the time came for my holi- 
 day. I thought that as he had been decent to me at 
 first I'd leave it at that. If he sees I'm bent on go- 
 ing he probably won't want to keep me, and anyhow 
 Uncle Mark won't press it. Besides I don't really 
 want to leave Hillstead just yet. 
 
 Well, that's for Cousin Henry. This afternoon I 
 got back at half past five and called on the Blumen- 
 thals. As luck would have it I walked up from the 
 station with Blumenthal himself. He was rather 
 grumpy, as it was hot and his car wasn't there and 
 there were no cabs, and he didn't want to be bothered 
 with me. I tried to amuse him with an agreeable flow 
 of conversation, but he wasn't taking any. Then sud- 
 denly an inspiration came to me. Without waiting 
 for second thoughts I caught my breath and said 
 * Mr. Blumenthal, I want to ask your permission to ask 
 Freda to marry me.' 
 
 Well, that seemed to interest him some. He looked 
 like apoplexy for a moment and then he laughed and 
 said ' That's pretty good jeek, young Mr. Gonway. 
 May I ask what your brosbects are? ' He talks like 
 that. So I told him, and you bet I played Uncle Mark 
 for all I was worth. Watermeads, too. I thought 
 it might have some effect, though I didn't hide that
 
 154 WATERMEADS 
 
 there wasn't much money in it at present. But it 
 seemed to have more even than Uncle Mark. He said 
 ' Do you mean to tell me seriously Mr. Gonway that 
 you belong to a Gounty Vamily?' I'm afraid he's 
 rather a snob, but Freda isn't. I told him he could 
 look us up in a book, and the long and the short of 
 it is that he said I might ask Freda. But he shouldn't 
 put any bressure on her. Then he said * But mind 
 I'm not going to have any humbug,' and he told me a 
 story that made me laugh all over inside, though I 
 kept a grave face. It seems that the Lord Mayor's 
 son was dead nuts on a girl that they had brought 
 up to the dance. I don't know her name but I re- 
 member her face. They had quarrelled coming up and 
 he had paid attention to Freda to score off her. I 
 suppose it brought her to book, for they went down 
 together and got engaged on the way. Fancy his tell- 
 ing me all that! And where he got it from I don't 
 know. 
 
 Well, dear old girls I shifted my clothes and went 
 to their house as soon as I could. As luck would have 
 it again I was shown into a room where Freda was 
 alone. She was surprised to see me, so her father can't 
 have said anything. In five minutes I was a happy 
 man! ! 
 
 I shan't tell you any more now but shall wait till 
 I come home. And I'm writing to mother to ask if 
 I can bring her with me. She's really awfully sweet. 
 She hated the Lord Mayor's son, but had to be civil 
 to him because old Blumenthal told her to. She gen- 
 erally has her own way with him, but sometimes he 
 comes down on her like a ton of bricks and has his.
 
 LETTERS 155 
 
 Goodbye my old pets. I know you will love her. I 
 wouldn't change places now with Jack Kirby or any- 
 body. 
 
 Your ever loving brother, 
 
 FEED.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 FREDA 
 
 ELSIE and Rose threw a last look round the room. 
 They had put flowers upon the dressing-table, and else- 
 where, and whatever other arrangements could be 
 made to prepare for the coming of an honoured guest 
 they had made. 
 
 " I don't think there is much to grumble at," said 
 Elsie. " You could hardly find a nicer room any- 
 where." 
 
 " It * pretty," said Rose, with a shade more of 
 doubt. 
 
 It was a very pretty room large and square, as 
 nearly all the rooms at Watermeads were. Windows 
 in two of the walls gave charming views of the garden 
 and the park. The evening sun cast bright parallelo- 
 grams on the faded carpet. Elsie would have pulled 
 down the blinds of the west window if they had not 
 been so dilapidated ; it was a choice between showing 
 their shabbiness or that of the carpet ; and the colours 
 of the carpet were almost beyond further reduction by 
 the action of the sun. The furniture was beautiful. 
 There was a great four-post bed with pillars of carved 
 and fluted mahogany, tallboy chests of drawers, 
 eighteenth century chairs and writing-table. All the 
 rich hues of the wood had been brought out by age 
 and hard rubbing, and the brasses polished to staid 
 
 156
 
 FREDA 157 
 
 brightness. Elsie and Rose had done a good deal of 
 the rubbing and polishing themselves of late. There 
 were dozens of bedrooms at Watermeads that were 
 permanently shut up, with furniture bunched up to- 
 gether and covered with dust sheets. This, and a 
 smaller one, were kept in being for the rare visitors 
 who slept in the house. Curtains and bed-hangings 
 and carpet were changed from time to time, when it 
 seemed that amongst those stored away, or rolled up, 
 there were rather fresher ones than those in use; and 
 there had sometimes been a rearrangement of pictures 
 and ornaments ; but of these there was no lack any- 
 where. 
 
 There were valuable prints on the walls ; fine china 
 on the mantelpiece and in a Queen Anne glassed cup- 
 board; old silver on the writing-table. But the toilet 
 ware was made up of odd pieces, and the pretty old- 
 fashioned paper showed an enormous stain in a cor- 
 ner where the rain had come through the damaged roof. 
 These were the two chief blots, but they were big 
 enough to bring that note of doubt into Rose's voice, 
 as she surveyed the sum total of the careful prepara- 
 tions which she and Elsie had made. 
 
 It was Freda Blumenthal who was to occupy the 
 room. She was coming down with Fred, on the first 
 day of his month's holiday, and her future sisters-in- 
 law were naturally anxious to create as favourable an 
 impression upon her as was possible under the circum- 
 stances. 
 
 " Naurally," said Elsie, as they still lingered 
 by the sunny west window, " if she loves Fred she 
 will make the best of things. Olivia says it ought
 
 158 WATERMEADS 
 
 to make her love him all the more, to find us as we 
 are." 
 
 " Yes," said Rose contemplatively. " If I loved any- 
 body I should be sorry for them because they had come 
 down in the world, as I suppose we have; especially if 
 I could do something to raise them up again." 
 
 This was oft-covered ground, but the girls were 
 never tired of discussing Freda, both in her personal 
 and accidental qualities. 
 
 " If her father left her a lot of money," said Elsie, 
 " and she had the taste for it, she could have the great- 
 est fun in the world restoring Watermeads to what it 
 used to be. There's plenty to work on, and I don't 
 believe it would cost so very much after all. It isn't 
 like a great house with nothing in it." 
 
 It was understood between them that these exercises 
 of imagination referred to a future time, when Fred 
 should be master of Watermeads. Fred would then be 
 rich too, either as beneficiary of Uncle Mark or 
 through his own exertions; but it was his wife who 
 would naturally get most fun out of the rehabilitation 
 of the house. 
 
 " I do hope we shall like her," said Rose, for the 
 hundredth time. 
 
 " I'm going to," said Elsie resolutely. " Fred 
 wouldn't have chosen her if she hadn't been all right." 
 
 " He might have been deceived in her," said Rose. 
 " But we'll hope he wasn't. Nothing could be sweeter 
 than the letter she wrote to us." 
 
 Half an hour later the station fly drew up before 
 the great entrance of Watermeads. The whole family 
 had gathered at the top of the steps when it had first
 
 
 FREDA 159 
 
 been descried in the distance, crawling over the wide ex- 
 panse of the park, like a black fly. The top had been 
 seen to be encumbered with luggage, and on the box 
 had been an unexpected figure, which after considera- 
 ble discussion had been recognised as a maid. Fortu- 
 nately the dressing-room next to Freda's bedroom only 
 wanted a trifle of attention to make it habitable, and 
 orders had been given that this should be done, di- 
 rectly it had been agreed that the black-bonneted fig- 
 ure on the box could only be that of a maid. 
 
 Fred put a happy grinning face out of the window 
 of the fly as it debouched upon the space in front of 
 the house. By that time the Conway family was at 
 the bottom of the steps, except Mrs. Conway, who 
 stood, a massive stately figure, in the doorway, and 
 Penelope, to whom it seemed good for the moment to 
 create the effect of clinging to her mother's skirts. 
 
 Fred alighted and helped Freda out of the fly. She 
 made a charming figure in her pretty summer travel- 
 ling costume. It had needed no violent exercise of 
 imagination on Fred's part to liken her hair to spun 
 gold. Her eyes were of pervenche blue; she had the 
 creamiest of skins delicately tinged with rose; all the 
 soft delicious curves of youth were in her slim form. 
 She was too tall to be likened to a figure of Dresden 
 china, but that was the effect created by the delicacy 
 of her colouring. She was, in sum, an extraordinarily 
 pretty girl. Hypercriticism might have found fault 
 with the set of her mouth, which looked as if it were 
 meant to express discontent amongst other things, but 
 she was smiling radiantly as she stepped out of the 
 fly. Any inclination towards discontent that she
 
 160 WATERMEADS 
 
 might have felt at any time should have been removed, 
 or at least lessened, by the obvious effect her arrival 
 made upon the whole Conway family. 
 
 Sydney received her from his son, and kissed her 
 hand. " My dear," he said, " you have made us all 
 very happy, and we are going to make you very 
 happy." 
 
 She blushed and looked pleased; and indeed it had 
 been beautifully done. In his old grey flannel suit, 
 which he had refused to change for a newer one, the 
 Squire of Watermeads looked and behaved like a 
 prince, and had treated her like a princess. Any girl 
 must have been pleased with such a reception. 
 
 Freda gave a quick smiling side glance at Elsie and 
 Rose and Bobby and Billy, standing at the foot of the 
 steps, and ran up them lightly to greet Mrs. Conway. 
 
 That lady had already decided upon her own method 
 of reception. She was to be the stately mother, who 
 must be paid court to. Her attitude was to indicate 
 judgment held in suspense, but ready to incline to- 
 wards leniency. But that beautiful blushing face ad- 
 vanced towards her to be kissed blew the crotchets out 
 of her brain. She kissed the girl warmly, but said 
 nothing. She always found it difficult to say things in 
 an emergency unless she had thought of them before- 
 hand, but she was conscious of high approval of Fred's 
 choice, and relief at finding it unnecessary to insist 
 upon her position, since from the girl's manner every- 
 thing she could desire in that way was already ac- 
 corded to her. This feeling was heightened by Freda's 
 little speech to her, possibly prepared beforehand. It 
 was delivered with an engaging smile, and ran : " I
 
 
 FREDA 161 
 
 must apologise for taking Fred away from you, Mrs. 
 Conway; but you know I'm not really going to take 
 him away from you." 
 
 " Charming ! " thought Mrs. Conway ; " and there 
 is no trace of the German about her whatever." She 
 gathered herself together to say something nice, some- 
 thing that would set the girl at her ease and make her 
 feel that she was accepted into the bosom of the fam- 
 ily. " You have brought lovely weather with you," she 
 said graciously. " I hope that it will be fine as long 
 as you stay here." 
 
 Penelope was next warmly embraced, and submitted 
 to the operation with surprising equanimity ; for she 
 was as a general rule averse from being kissed, and had 
 announced to her sisters that she would treat Freda 
 properly if she treated her properly, but should re- 
 fuse to be slopped over, and should reserve her judg- 
 ment as to whether Freda was really nice until she 
 saw whether she had brought her something. 
 
 " I've found out what you like," said Freda in her 
 ear, " and if you come up to my room after I've un- 
 packed I'll give it to you." 
 
 But Penelope had submitted to her embrace before 
 this happy promise had been held out to her; and had 
 even returned it. 
 
 Freda had a little speech both for Elsie and Rose, 
 which she delivered with her eyes fixed sweetly upon 
 them, and a smiling mouth. Elsie and Rose were not 
 ready with little speeches in return, and felt rather 
 awkward in face of her self-possessed amiability. But 
 they were not inclined to blame her for making them 
 feel so; her offering of sisterly affection put every-
 
 162 WATERMEADS 
 
 thing on the right footing. If she meant to be like 
 that towards them, then any doubts that they might 
 have harboured as to her essential * niceness ' were 
 swept away. 
 
 She did not make the mistake of kissing Bobby and 
 Billy, washed and brushed though they were. It was 
 enough for them that their fears in this respect were 
 proved baseless, but she added to the good impression 
 she had made on them by saying : " Fred has told me 
 all about your cricket. I used to play at school, and 
 I loved it. I don't play now, but I shall recognise a 
 good stroke when I see you make one." 
 
 Truly, this was an admirable specimen of girlhood ! 
 Bobby and Billy had a concomitant wild desire to go 
 off and practise strokes forthwith, but restrained 
 themselves in view of the immediate imminence of tea. 
 They had been very doubtful about Fred's wisdom in 
 becoming enmeshed with a girl, just as life was open- 
 ing delightfully before him, and he would probably 
 have more time for cricket than ever before. But now 
 he was triumphantly vindicated. A girl who could 
 recognise strokes! Even Elsie and Rose had never 
 really been able to do that. 
 
 They went into the great hall, where the table was 
 set for tea as usual. It had been swept and garnished, 
 and all the litter removed. The tea-table, set with 
 the best silver and china, displayed a greater variety 
 of delicacies than usual. The shabbiness of things 
 whose shabbiness could not be disguised detracted lit- 
 tle from the general effect, which was that of old 
 established dignity and homeliness combined. There 
 was nothing here to show that the Conways were very
 
 FREDA 163 
 
 poor for people in their position, nothing even to show 
 that they had not as much money at their command 
 as they could have wished for, since there are many 
 people living in fine houses that have come down to 
 them who do not spend money on keeping them up to 
 the pitch of perfection in the matter of furnishing and 
 decoration. 
 
 Mrs. Conway had found her tongue. " Would you 
 like to go up to your room now, Freda? " she asked, 
 " or will you have tea at once ? A cup will refresh you 
 after your journey, and it is quite ready," 
 
 Freda said she would have tea at once. " Parker 
 can unpack for me," she said, " and I can go up after- 
 wards. I hope you didn't mind my bringing a maid, 
 Mrs. Conway. Fred said you might not be prepared 
 for her. If I had thought of it I would have asked 
 you." 
 
 " We are quite accustomed to visitors bringing 
 maids," replied Mrs. Conway. " Indeed, I should have 
 been surprised if you had not brought one." 
 
 This was a ' smasher.' Mrs. Conway was addicted 
 to them, but they created no particularly harmful ef- 
 fect upon those who knew her. She carried her own 
 full share of the credulity she imposed upon them, for 
 she believed every word of what she said. 
 
 " Your Parker will create a pleasing impression in 
 the servants' quarters, my dear," said Sydney, " and 
 she will get more attention than she would if they were 
 of her own sort." 
 
 It was the incurable Conway inclination to put all 
 the facts relative to their poverty upon the table, al- 
 ready showing itself. Mrs. Conway did not share it,
 
 164 WATERMEADS 
 
 but the tide was against her. She could not keep up 
 any attempt at making the best of things for long. 
 She now breathed heavily and looked aside, but Freda 
 began to exclaim ecstatically about the great hall and 
 everything around her. " You didn't tell me half how 
 lovely it all is," she said to Fred. 
 
 " We'll all go round in a party after tea and show 
 you everything," said Sydney. " I dare say you'd 
 rather go round with Fred alone, but he isn't going 
 to be allowed to monopolise you, you know. You're 
 going to be one of us, and we like to hunt in a pack." 
 
 "Oh, that will be lovely," said Freda happily. 
 " I'm simply longing to see everything." 
 
 " Well, there's plenty to see," said Sydney modestly. 
 " We're all very fond of Watermeads, and very proud 
 of it too. The paint has been rubbed off here and 
 there, but a fresh bit of it at any time would put 
 everything right." 
 
 " I know paint is awfully expensive," said Freda. 
 " It cost father I don't know what the last time the 
 Manor was done." 
 
 Sharp eyes watched Fred and Freda during the 
 progress of the meal. He was evidently in the seventh 
 heaven of delight with her, and with the impression she 
 had made and was improving every minute. His 
 ecstatic state might be taken for granted, but it was 
 gratifying to realise what extra pleasure it was giv- 
 ing him that she pleased the rest of them, and that they 
 pleased her. He did not want to keep it all for him- 
 self, nor did she so fill his mind as to drive out his 
 affection for them. But Fred's attitude was always 
 right in everything, in the opinion of Elsie and Rose;
 
 FREDA 165 
 
 and as for Bobby and Billy, they accepted everything 
 he did without question. 
 
 As for Freda, it was natural that on her first in- 
 troduction to Watermeads, anxious to acquit herself 
 well, she should pay less attention to Fred than was 
 probably usual with her. But she did not stint him of 
 looks and smiles, and whenever she did speak to him 
 there was a * something.' Yes, she did love him, as 
 the dear boy deserved to be loved. It would have made 
 up for a great deal, even if she had not been quite 
 so ' nice ' as was to be hoped for. But she was nice, 
 though possibly a trifle over eager to please; and that 
 slight fault could easily be forgiven her under the cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 This was Elsie's and Rose's verdict when they were 
 first alone together. The rest of the family, includ- 
 ing even Mrs. Conway for once, was ' going round ' ; 
 but, in the temporary adjustment of the household to 
 a higher pitch of living than was customary, the two 
 girls had a good deal to do in the way of preparation. 
 Their work now was to set the table for dinner. In the 
 meantime Freda was being shown the gardens. If they 
 hurried, they could get their work done in time to join 
 the party before they had finished their tour of ex- 
 ploration. 
 
 They had taken Freda up to her room, and she had 
 expressed herself enchanted with it. She had never 
 slept in such a room before, she said. Her own was 
 perhaps bigger, and it had a charming view over gar- 
 den and woods. Nobody would believe, she told them, 
 that it was only five miles from St. Paul's, for not a 
 roof or chimney could be seen from it. But this was
 
 166 WATERMEADS 
 
 far better. Somehow you felt that you were in the 
 country. She made light of the great stain on the 
 wall, which was so much in evidence that attention had 
 to be called to it. It was the maid who, still very 
 much in evidence, hoped that it did not mean that the 
 room was damp. The maid looked superior, and what 
 Rose afterwards called sniffy, and she did not leave 
 the room, although she seemed to have nothing left to 
 do there, but regarded the two girls with critical eyes, 
 so that they wished Freda would send her away. But 
 Freda seemed anxious to propitiate her, and it was 
 Elsie and Rose who went away, when they had wanted 
 to have a little private talk, and the maid who stayed. 
 Perhaps she too wanted to have a little private talk. 
 
 Cooky, downstairs, professed herself hostile towards 
 the maid. " The airs she gives herself, my dears ! 
 She's never been in a house like this before, and I for 
 one shouldn't care if she walked out of it bag and bag- 
 gage, and never showed herself in my kitchen again. 
 Seems she's 'ad twelve years service with a ladyship, 
 and it's turned 'er 'ead like. Only been with Miss 
 Freda a week and don't think much of the place 
 neither. Miss Freda's never 'ad a maid before, not all 
 of 'er own, so she's got to put 'er up to things. That's 
 what she says. Quite polite, you know. Thinks she's 
 doing us a good turn by letting us into secrets. I say, 
 dearies, what is she like Miss Freda? I do 'ope 
 Master Fred 'asn't made a mistake. I should like to 
 see her, and judge for myself." 
 
 " We'll bring her to see you, Cooky," said Elsie. 
 " She's sweetly pretty, and very nice. Don't listen to 
 what Parker says."
 
 FREDA 167 
 
 " Not me ! " said Cooky, with a snort. " I'll take 
 down her proud sperrit too, if she gives us any more 
 patronising. I was with a ladyship myself, before I 
 came to Watermeads kitchen-maid, as I've told you, 
 dearies and I know all about it." 
 
 It was Mrs. Conway who had decided that they were 
 to * live more like other people ' for the week of Freda's 
 visit. " I may be accused of inconsistency," she had 
 said. " No doubt I shall be. But I do not wish com- 
 parisons to be made between ourselves and people of 
 German extraction who have made money in business. 
 Miss Blumenthal, no doubt, is used to a high state of 
 luxury. Luxury she will not get here; a suitable way 
 of living she shall. I do not choose it to be said that 
 the advantages of this marriage, if it takes place, are 
 on our side." 
 
 " No good trying to cut a dash before the girl Fred 
 is going to marry, mother," her husband had replied. 
 " She'd better know us as we are. Nothing to be 
 ashamed of in our poverty, you know. If she rep- 
 resents the money, we represent something else that 
 you can't buy for money. I should leave it alone if I 
 were you." 
 
 But Mrs. Conway had refused to let it alone. The 
 view that she took of the whole affair a view, how- 
 ever, which she imparted to nobody was that the 
 * something else,' represented by Watermeads, and the 
 respectable standing of the Conway family, could be 
 bought for money ; and she looked upon this only child 
 of a rich man as a bidder. If she was in love with Fred, 
 and was herself presentable, so much the better. But 
 that Watermeads had not counted in her acceptance
 
 168 WATERMEADS 
 
 of his suit she had never believed. She did not believe 
 it now, though Freda was as pleasing to her as any 
 girl that Fred might have presented as his affianced 
 bride. The outward expression of her views simply 
 lay in presenting Watermeads with as much dignity as 
 could be managed without going quite away from the 
 established state of things, but behind it was the idea 
 of a bargain to be struck. The advantages of the 
 other side must not be allowed an undue prominence. 
 
 Anything like a formal dinner-party as a recogni- 
 tion of Freda was out of the question. But supper at 
 nine was to give place to dinner at eight, and one or 
 two particular friends were to be asked to dine. For 
 the rest there was to be a succession of tennis parties, 
 which would provide more amusement, lasting over a 
 longer period, than a formal garden-party. 
 
 The guests on the first evening were the Vicar, Olivia, 
 Bellamy and Edward Probert. The last named had 
 established his position as an intimate friend of the 
 house, and Bellamy had enjoyed those privileges almost 
 ever since he had known them. Nothing was hidden from 
 those two of the poverty of the land. None of the 
 four guests would come expecting anything but a sim- 
 ple family meal not at all elaborately served. 
 
 They assembled in the hall, and waited till ten min- 
 utes past the hour before Freda put in her appearance. 
 But the time did not lag. They were all friends to- 
 gether, with plenty to say to one another. 
 
 Fred had not seen Olivia since her return, and the 
 greeting between them was of the most cordial. They 
 had known each other throughout the whole of their 
 childhood and early youth, and their joint memories
 
 FREDA 169 
 
 were legion. Olivia looked lovely, in one of her smart- 
 est gowns, of which she still had ample store. " I 
 should never have recognised you," was Fred's first 
 speech, and she blushed a little, but was soon talking 
 to him just as she had used to talk, with the frankness 
 and affection that had made her like another sister to 
 him. 
 
 They were standing together by the door which led 
 into the inner hall. The door was open, and Elsie, 
 who was also standing near it, looked up and saw 
 Freda at the head of the stairs. She was dressed in 
 diaphanous pink, a radiant fairy figure, and Elsie 
 gazed at her entranced as she stood for a moment be- 
 fore descending, a sweet smile on her face. 
 
 Then her eye went back instinctively to Olivia, whose 
 dark beauty shone like a star. The glance at Olivia 
 was only momentary, and she looked back at Freda, 
 now descending the stairs. Freda's eyes were on Fred 
 and Olivia, and her mouth, drawn down at the cor- 
 ners, was positively ugly. The next moment she had 
 made her entry, and was smiling again, sweetly and 
 rather shyly.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 IN THE GARDEN 
 
 " OH, it's all lovely, Freddy ever so much nicer than 
 I thought it would be from what you told me." 
 
 They were in the garden. There was no moon, but 
 the velvet sky was dusted over with stars. There was 
 enough light for any purposes that the Conways and 
 their guests might have in mind. 
 
 Mrs. Conway, in a state of complete and somewhat 
 unusual amiability, consented to brave the night air, 
 and, fortified with a wrap round her head, slowly 
 paced the terrace behind the house with the Vicar. 
 Her husband, smoking his pipe, walked with them for 
 a time. The young people had disappeared into the 
 shadows of the garden, and he would have liked to be 
 with them; but with the coalescing of particles that 
 was going on in the group of them he had become 
 chary of intruding himself. It was their time ; his was 
 over. It was only by the accident of his having been 
 cut off from so many of the pursuits that satisfy men 
 of middle-age, and having found his happiness and con- 
 tentment in the society of his children, that he had 
 kept that illusion of being young himself. But with 
 the real business of youth he had nothing to do; the 
 young men who wanted the society of his daughters 
 certainly wouldn't want his, though they would be per- 
 fectly polite to him if he joined them. What he was 
 
 170
 
 IN THE GARDEN 171 
 
 determined to spare himself was the pang of being 
 shown by his own dear girls that they didn't want him. 
 They were so sweet to him, still, although both of 
 them, apparently, had their feet already on the path 
 that would lead them away from him. They never 
 wanted him to feel out of it. They would often come 
 up to him and slip their arms affectionately into his, 
 and bring him into their circle. They still wanted him 
 to share their pleasures ; the time had not yet come 
 when they would show as much affection as ever, but 
 would make transparent little excuses for getting away 
 from him. He wanted to discount that time by get- 
 ting used to doing without their constant society, and 
 making no claims upon them which might one day come 
 to be rejected, however tenderly. But it was a hard 
 and difficult task, and his heart was very often sore 
 within him. 
 
 He watched the seven young people drifting into the 
 deeper shadows of the garden, and saw Fred and Freda 
 detach themselves, while the others still kept together 
 as long as they were in sight. But apparently the odd 
 number of them prevented a satisfactory breaking up, 
 for presently Rose and Olivia and Bellamy found their 
 way back to the terrace again. And then his little 
 Rose poured balm on him by saying : " We've come to 
 fetch you, Daddy." She took hold of the lapels of his 
 coat and lifted her face for a kiss. Well, if he was 
 wanted he would go happily enough. His wife had her 
 audience and would prefer that he should be out of the 
 way. She never wanted him, if she could get anybody 
 else to talk to. 
 
 Rose put her arm into his, and all four of them
 
 172 WATERMEADS 
 
 strolled off together. But presently she stooped down 
 to take a stone out of her slipper, while the others 
 waited for her; and when she had done it she walked 
 by Olivia's side for a time. By and by Olivia was walk- 
 ing with him, and Rose with Bellamy, and finally it was 
 Olivia and he, talking together, who had moved apart 
 from the other two, and the coupling was complete. 
 
 He was rather amused by it, for it seemed all wrong, 
 except for Fred and Freda. He liked talking to 
 Olivia, who was almost as much at home with him as 
 his own daughters, and had a fuller mind, and more 
 experience, than either of them. But why wasn't 
 Probert with her? And why wasn't Bellamy with 
 Elsie? Perhaps there had been one of those very slight 
 misunderstandings that vary the monotony of incipi- 
 ent attraction. There was a sense of relief in it to him, 
 too. He liked and respected Bellamy, and the feeling 
 with which he regarded him in conjunction with Elsie 
 was very different from that which he had towards 
 Jack Kirby and Rose. If those two should come to an 
 agreement it would give him pleasure, for by that time 
 he would have taken the fence, which would be the first 
 conviction of Elsie's heart having been given away, and 
 her mind filled with the figure of another man. It was 
 because he dreaded taking the fence that he welcomed 
 however short a respite. He liked Bellamy, but felt 
 happier that he should be walking in the shadows with 
 Rose rather than with Elsie just for this one evening. 
 
 As for Rose, he felt happy about her too, since she 
 was not walking in the shadows with Jack Kirby. 
 
 Olivia puzzled him a little. He could regard her 
 with clearer eyes than was possible in the case of his
 
 IN THE GARDEN 173 
 
 own daughters, for the jealousy of a father did not 
 throw them out of focus. He knew how tender and 
 responsive she was beneath her self-possessed manner, 
 and would have expected her to show some trace of be- 
 ing touched by that imagined misunderstanding which 
 had parted her from Probert, who so obviously ad- 
 mired her. Perhaps he had not found his way into her 
 heart yet; perhaps it was she who had not wished to 
 make a pair with him, and he was now solacing him- 
 self with Elsie's sympathy in his temporary bereave- 
 ment. He felt sorry for young Edward Probert, and 
 had half an idea of talking to her about him in a 
 fatherly manner, and doing him a good turn with her. 
 But she was talking about Freda, in the kindest pos- 
 sible way, and about what might be expected to come 
 of her marriage with Fred. This was, after all, the 
 chief thing in his mind at the moment, and his heart 
 being in a state of quiescence about Elsie and Rose, it 
 interested him more than Olivia's love affair. He 
 might do something to help that on by and by, if oc- 
 casion should offer. 
 
 Fred had quickly found a corner for himself and 
 Freda where they would be free from interruption from 
 the other ambulatory couples. It was the first time 
 they had been alone together since Freda's introduc- 
 tion to Watermeads, and though Fred's enforced ab- 
 stinence from love-making during a period of four 
 hours or so was weighing heavily upon him, he was 
 content to vary his protestations by talk of a less ec- 
 static nature. Freda, indeed, seemed to be rather * off ' 
 love-making for the time. She returned his kisses 
 some of them and said * of course,' when he asked her
 
 174 WATERMEADS 
 
 if she loved him; but she wanted to talk, and presently 
 he fell into her mood, as he had already learnt to do, 
 and they sat together as staidly as if they were al- 
 ready married, and love-making had ceased to be the 
 hourly food of their lives. This was rather jolly too, 
 in a way. Fred felt his love for her boiling up in him 
 all the time, but also felt that it was worth while to 
 keep its outward expression in abeyance now and then 
 for the sake of the intimate talk which knitted another 
 side of their natures. Before he had reached the stage 
 at which he had been allowed to make love to Freda 
 it was this that had attracted him to her. He could 
 talk to her more easily than to other girls ; they had 
 so much more in common. And he had even gone to 
 the length of supposing within himself that their 
 whole lives could not be made up of love-making, and 
 falling back upon a happy affectionate intercourse of 
 mind, as upon something that would last for ever, and 
 even become a still greater pleasure as the years went 
 by. 
 
 He was delighted with Freda's warm appreciation 
 of the home into which he had introduced her. " Of 
 course I think it's the nicest place in the world," he 
 said, " but I didn't like to say too much about it, for 
 fear you'd be disappointed. If we had had the money 
 to keep it up there wouldn't have been any doubt ; but 
 of course we can't live like other people do who have 
 big country houses ; we can't live like you do yourself 
 at Hillstead. I was afraid the difference might come 
 home to you too much. You make me awfully happy, 
 darling, in not thinking too much about it. You're 
 just perfect in the way you look at things."
 
 IN THE GARDEN 175 
 
 It did indeed give him much pleasure that Freda was 
 not affected by the poverty that did so much to con- 
 tract the amenities of Watermeads. The idea had 
 once or twice crossed his mind that she was inclined 
 to rate too highly the state of wealth in which she 
 lived at home, and it was gratifying to have this sure 
 proof that he had been mistaken. He thought she de- 
 served a kiss for the fresh proof of her perfection of 
 character, and gave her one, which she returned rather 
 absent-mindedly. 
 
 " Freddy dear," she said. " I wish you'd tell me 
 something. You know quite well that / don't think 
 anything of people being poor. I'm not like that. But 
 do other people I mean the County people you call 
 them, don't you? who live about here? You see I've 
 never really visited at a country house before I mean 
 a real country house, where the people have nothing 
 to do with business. And I do like to know about 
 things." 
 
 " What do you mean exactly, darling? " asked Fred 
 tenderly, enchanted by this new indication of her ad- 
 mirable character. " Of course we can't keep up with 
 the other houses round in the way of doing things as 
 they do, I mean. But it doesn't make us any less 
 friendly with our neighbours. Most of them have been 
 here as long as we have, or at any rate long enough 
 to know all about us; and the new ones seem just as 
 pleased to see us as anybody. Of course we are the 
 Con ways of Watermeads still, though we haven't got 
 much money. Is that what you mean ? " 
 
 " Not exactly, Freddy dear. You see I know that 
 although father is very rich at least I suppose he is ;
 
 176 WATERMEADS 
 
 I'm always being told so we are not quite the same as 
 a County family." 
 
 She paused for a moment. The expression jarred 
 ever so little upon Fred, but he forgave her instantly, 
 on the reflection that she must have learnt it from her 
 father, whose snobbishness had been made patent 
 since his enagament. " Oh, don't you worry your dear 
 little head about that," he said. " It's you that mat- 
 ters, and you're adorable enough for a prince. See 
 how everybody here has taken to you already." 
 
 " Yes, everybody has been very sweet to me. I'm so 
 glad, Freddy dear, for your sake. But I only wanted 
 to know you see the people invited to dinner to meet 
 me well, all of them are gentlemen, of course any- 
 body can see that ; but they are two clergymen and an 
 aitist, aren't they? not real County people, I mean." 
 
 " But, Freda darling ! " expostulated Fred, more 
 taken aback than he liked to admit to himself " they 
 are our chief friends. It was just like a little family 
 gathering; we can't afford to give regular dinner 
 parties. I told you that, didn't I? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, and please don't think I'm grumbling. 
 Of course I'd much rather meet your real friends than 
 the others, however important they may be. I'm the 
 last person to care about that sort of thing. But Mr. 
 Probert and Mr. Bellamy aren't old friends, are they? 
 I thought you hadn't known either of them very long." 
 
 " Well, no ; but they are the people we see most of 
 just at present. They are both awfully nice fellows, 
 too." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I like them both. Besides, from what I 
 can see there's something going on, isn't there? But
 
 IN THE GARDEN 177 
 
 I don't want to talk about that. It's just that, how- 
 ever nice they are, they are not what you call County 
 people, are they? That's all I mean." 
 
 " I don't know that there's such a hard and fast 
 line between what you call County people and others 
 as you seem to think," said Fred, speaking with less 
 admiration of her in his tone than he had ever used 
 before. " Anyhow, whatever the test may be, both 
 Probert and Bellamy would pass it all right." 
 
 " Oh, would they ? I don't know anything about 
 them, except that one is a clergyman and the other an 
 artist. Tell me about them, Freddy. I like Mr. 
 Probert especially, and he certainly does look as if he 
 was somebody." 
 
 " There's nothing much to tell. I believe Probert's 
 father is a baronet, and Bellamy comes from very good 
 people up in the north." 
 
 " Is Mr. Probert the eldest son? " 
 
 " I don't know. Yes, old Sophia Raine said he was, 
 and his father's very rich. I believe Bellamy's father 
 is rich too, and has a fine place in Cumberland. But 
 Bellamy has an elder brother. Is there anything else 
 you'd like to know, Freda? " 
 
 She snuggled up to him. " Don't be angry with me, 
 Freddy darling," she said. " I only ask questions be- 
 cause I want to feel quite sure in my own mind that 
 people aren't looking down upon me. I know you 
 wouldn't like that, would you? It's for your sake I 
 want to be quite certain." 
 
 He was much touched by this, and ashamed of him- 
 self for having shown ill humour towards her. Of 
 course he must trust her in everything. It would be
 
 178 WATERMEADS 
 
 dreadful if he were to get in the way of feeling an- 
 noyance towards her, just like any other man engaged 
 to a girl who was not a perfect Freda. There was 
 never to be anything like that between him and her, 
 and wouldn't be if he always remembered what she was, 
 and that anything she might say that he didn't quite 
 like would always have a right meaning if one searched 
 behind the speech itself. 
 
 " Oh, you can be absolutely certain, darling," he 
 said. " I didn't mean to be a beast about Probert 
 and Bellamy. And the Raines are coming to dine to- 
 morrow. They are very old friends." 
 
 " That's Lady Sophia, isn't it? Oh, of course I 
 know that you are all inclined to treat me awfully well, 
 Freddy darling. It makes me so happy to feel I'm 
 really wanted. You know I like your mother most aw- 
 fully. You never told me how nice she was; you 
 hardly ever said anything about her. I had the idea 
 that she was rather rather formidable." 
 
 Fred laughed, and allowed himself a squeeze of her 
 slim waist. " She is to people she doesn't like," he 
 said. " It just shows what you are, darling, that she 
 has taken to you. So has the dear old Dad. Isn't he 
 a ripper? He's just as much of a pal as if he were 
 an elder brother." 
 
 " Oh, I love him awfully already. He has such distin- 
 guished manners, though I must say I was rather sur- 
 prised by his costume when I first saw him." She gave 
 a silvery little laugh. " But I suppose he is above car- 
 ing what he looks like, and in evening dress nobody 
 could mistake him for anything but what he is. Nor 
 your mother, either. She is so stately. I'm afraid I
 
 IN THE GARDEN 179 
 
 shall never be like that, Freddy, though I shall try 
 hard to behave as I ought, when I'm mistress of 
 Watermeads." 
 
 Fred put this speech aside, as one in which there 
 must be some meaning creditable to Freda which was 
 not apparent on the surface. " You like the girls, too, 
 don't you ? " he asked. " They are quite in love with 
 you. Rose told me she never had thought I had such 
 good taste." 
 
 " Rose is a darling, and so pretty, Freddy. I should 
 be quite jealous of her if you weren't her brother. And 
 I like Elsie, too, awfully. As for Penelope, she's a 
 perfect darling." 
 
 " You do see the best in everybody," said Fred 
 fondly. " Penelope isn't a bad little brat, but there's 
 no doubt she is frightfully spoilt, and there are some 
 things in her that want tackling pretty badly. Elsie 
 and Rose do their best, but she doesn't take 
 much notice of them. It would be splendid if 
 you could get an influence over her and improve 
 her a bit." 
 
 " Perhaps Elsie and Rose don't know how to treat 
 her. I think she is perfectly sweet as she is. She 
 seems to like me already. She followed me about with 
 her funny solemn eyes, and came after me when I went 
 to my room to dress. I was so glad I'd thought of 
 bringing her a box of chocolates. She thanked me so 
 prettily, and I could see that she hadn't the least idea 
 that I should have brought her anything." 
 
 Fred did not feel the same certainty about this, but 
 he did not tell Freda so. It was natural that Pe- 
 nelope should have taken a fancy to one so beautiful
 
 180 WATERMEADS 
 
 and charming as Freda, since she was human beneath 
 her numerous faults. And she could not have a bet- 
 ter model. It was delightful to think of Freda al- 
 ready taking her place as one of the family, and Pe- 
 nelope taking to her as a sister, and benefiting by her 
 sweet example. 
 
 He expressed these ideas with admiring gratitude, 
 and Freda said sweetly and modestly : " That is just 
 what I want to be made one of the family. I shall 
 do my best to help them all. I think Elsie and Rose 
 look perfectly sweet, considering how little they have 
 to dress on; but I know I can do something for them 
 there, if they will let me. I do know about clothes, and 
 father always gives me what I want. Freddy, is Mr. 
 Probert likely to fall in love with either of them? 
 That would be a very good match for one of them, 
 wouldn't it? Perhaps I might do something to help 
 it on, if there is any chance of it." 
 
 " You dear sweet thing ! " said Fred, allowing him- 
 self another kiss ; " always thinking about what you 
 can do for others ! I do love you for it, Freda. 
 But I think it's Olivia that he's likely to fall in 
 love with, if anybody, from what they have written 
 to me." 
 
 " Oh, but surely that wouldn't be a suitable match, 
 would it? For him, I mean. Mr. Bonner isn't any- 
 body particular, is he? " 
 
 Again that uneasy sense, which Fred had to stifle. 
 " I should think Olivia would be good enough for 
 anybody," he said, a shade stiffly. " She's beauti- 
 ful, and awfully nice, and clever, and as good as gold, 
 too."
 
 IN THE GARDEN 181 
 
 Freda showed pettishness. " I believe you're in love 
 with her yourself," she said, drawing away from him. 
 " I don't think she's beautiful at all, only good-look- 
 ing, in a sort of stuck-up way I don't admire. The 
 first time I set eyes on her I didn't like her, and now 
 I know why." 
 
 Fred was completely bowled over by this extraordi- 
 nary speech, so different from anything that he had 
 ever heard or expected to hear from Freda. But 
 further investigation, during which Freda allowed her- 
 self gradually to be brought round, revealed the 
 source of it to be a gratifying jealousy, which touched 
 him immensely. Of course, compared to Freda, Olivia 
 could hardly lay claim to beauty of any sort, and at 
 first sight might almost be said to be plain. He 
 couldn't help liking her and admiring her character, 
 and always should do so, as she was almost like a 
 sister to him; but compared to Freda, she was nothing 
 to him whatever. Surely Freda darling must know 
 that ! It must be obvious to everybody. 
 
 Freda darling begged pardon very prettily for a lit- 
 tle display of jealousy which she had not been able 
 to help. " But I don't like her, all the same, Freddy 
 dear," she said. " I am sure she is designing, and we 
 shall see by and by if I'm not right. But we needn't 
 talk about her any more. I'm quite satisfied that you 
 don't care for her, and I was very silly to think that 
 you did. I'll give you a kiss to show that I'm sorry. 
 There now ! I think we won't stay here any longer. 
 They will all wonder where we've got to." 
 
 So the little disturbance was most sweetly healed, 
 and as they walked slowly back to the house again,
 
 182 WATERMEADS 
 
 under the spangled ceiling of night, Fred felt that he 
 was indeed the happiest of men to have this adorable 
 girl hanging on his arm, and the prospect of spending 
 his life with her before him.
 
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 SIS M3IAH3XNI NV
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 WILL SHE DO? 
 
 " WELL, my dear Jane, of course the girl is suburban 
 and middle-class and second rate, and all that sort of 
 thing, and I've a strong suspicion that she's a minx 
 besides, but I think she'll do. I congratulate you." 
 
 Lady Sophia Raine was alone with Mrs. Conway. 
 The night being as warm and still as the last, Colonel 
 Raine was smoking with Sydney on the terrace, and the 
 girls were with them. Fred and Freda had lost them- 
 selves in the garden, as before. 
 
 Mrs. Conway digested her friend's surprising 
 speech; or, rather, made a preliminary effort to swal- 
 low it, but without success. 
 
 " I don't know why you say that of her," she said. 
 " Her manners strike me as particularly good, and no- 
 body could possibly find any fault with her appear- 
 ance, or her dress. Why do you say that she is sec- 
 ond-rate ? " 
 
 " Well, she shows a disposition to address me as 
 Lady Raine, for one thing, which is always a sign. 
 But she'll learn all that sort of thing quickly enough, 
 and there's nothing in it. I said she'd do, and I meant 
 it." 
 
 " I must confess," said Mrs. Conway ponderously, 
 " that the way she takes trouble to commend herself 
 to me pleases me. I don't know why I should be 
 
 183
 
 184 WATERMEADS 
 
 ashamed of it. I have a right to expect, perhaps, that 
 I should get consideration in my own house, but the 
 fact is that I do not always receive it. I sometimes 
 think " 
 
 " Oh, yes, of course she would pay attention to you. 
 She will be very careful to get herself in with every- 
 body that she thinks matters at all. She doesn't know 
 whether I matter or not yet, but as I've got a title 
 she thinks I probably do, and anyhow it won't hurt 
 her to be civil. When she's got herself in, and has 
 what she wants, so that nobody can take it away from 
 her, the minx will come out. But by that time you will 
 have got all you want, too, so it needn't disturb you. 
 It's Fred who will have to tackle that, and he won't 
 see through her for many a long day. She's quite 
 pretty enough to hold any man, if she takes a little 
 trouble about it." 
 
 " Really, Sophia, you do let your tongue run away 
 with you ! " exclaimed Mrs. Conway, in some offence. 
 " Pray what is it that we want, except that Fred shall 
 be happy with the girl he has chosen ? " 
 
 " We want her money, Jane. I say * we,' because 
 not having any children of my own I take more interest 
 in yours than in any other young people. In fact, I 
 look upon them almost as my own, especially Fred, 
 who is my godson. If I have any money to leave I 
 shall probably leave it to him. But it won't be much, 
 unless George dies before me and leaves me all his. But 
 anyhow that's a long way off yet, and we needn't talk 
 about it. Well, I've found out all about the Blumen- 
 thal man, and there's no doubt that he's immensely 
 rich, and rich in a solid businesslike kind of way that
 
 WILL SHE DO? 185 
 
 doesn't mean he'll be immensely poor tomorrow. This 
 girl is his only child, and if he is properly handled I 
 should think he would give her all the money that's 
 necessary as long as he's alive, and leave her a large 
 fortune when he dies." 
 
 " Well, of course the money side of the question can- 
 not be left out altogether." 
 
 " Oh, no. It's the only one that really matters. I 
 shouldn't have liked Fred to marry only for the sake 
 of money, at all events while he's young. But he has 
 been sensible enough to fall in love with a girl who has 
 it, and she's quite clever enough, and pretty enough, 
 to carry it off. She'll learn all our little ways in no 
 time, and if she'll watch that mouth of hers a bit, and 
 rely on general all-around amiability as her strong suit, 
 she'll get on very well, and we shan't find much to 
 grumble at in her." 
 
 " I don't like to hear -you talking in that way of 
 Freda," said Mrs. Conway decisively. She had de- 
 termined what to say, and to say it in spite of inter- 
 ruption. But Lady Sophia did not interrupt her till 
 she had finished the main part of her speech. She 
 knew that tone, and respected it, within limits. " I am 
 strongly inclined to take to the girl as a daughter," 
 Mrs. Conway proceeded. " The deep affection which is 
 part of my character is apt to be thrown back upon 
 me. I would not say this to anyone but you, and I 
 impute blame to nobody. But, with one exception, my 
 children put little value upon my love for them. They 
 have been taught I think most wrongly to disre- 
 gard their mother. Now I trust to Freda to make up 
 to me something of what I miss. I do not think I am
 
 186 WATERMEADS 
 
 mistaken in my judgment of her. I know that you go 
 about the world more than I do now, Sophia, but I 
 sometimes think that a woman, not perhaps altogether 
 lacking in natural intelligence, who keeps at home and 
 has much time for thought " 
 
 " Oh, well," interrupted Lady Sophia, at last, " if 
 you are inclined to like the girl, so much the better, 
 Jane. I don't dislike her myself, not in the least. As 
 I said, she'll do very well. But there's not much in- 
 terest in discussing that side of the question. You 
 ought not to put her above Elsie and Rose, who are 
 each worth six of her, and I don't think you have much 
 to complain of in their treatment of you. But all that 
 is your own affair and has nothing to do with me. 
 What is interesting is the money side, and if you and 
 Sydney especially Sydney play your cards well, 
 you'll get all you want to put Watermeads back into 
 its proper place as one of the great houses of the 
 neighbourhood, and yourselves with it." 
 
 " I can't imagine what you have in your mind, 
 Sophia," said Mrs. Conway, ruffled at being told her 
 duty with regard to her daughters. " Mr. Blumenthal 
 may be as rich as you say I have not made it my 
 business to enquire but " 
 
 " Well, I think you ought to have done either you 
 or Sydney but you're both of you thoroughly un- 
 practical in money matters. However, you have 
 friends who are pleased to give themselves a little trou- 
 ble on your account, and I did make it my business to 
 enquire; and the result of my enquiries is quite satis- 
 factory. Now what you have to remember, Jane 
 you and Sydney and it's rather important is that
 
 WILL SHE DO? 187 
 
 you have a good deal to offer on your side. You are 
 rather too fond of abasing yourself because of your 
 lack of means, and what I want to impress upon you 
 is that that isn't at all the line to take in this case." 
 
 " A decent poverty," began Mrs. Conway, but Lady 
 Sophia was now fully launched, and not inclined to 
 tarry in her course for discussion. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know all about that," she said. " When 
 you are dealing with people of our own sort you can 
 talk as much as you like about decent poverty. I 
 think myself that you overdo it, and it makes people 
 uncomfortable about something they wouldn't bother 
 about at all if you would let them alone. But my 
 point is that with these Blumenthals you want to for- 
 get it altogether. You have a good old name, a fine 
 house, a large property, and those are the things you 
 must keep in the foreground. A new rich man like this 
 might buy the land and the house if it suited him, but 
 he couldn't buy the name and all that it stands for. 
 He knows that well enough, and he isn't likely to 
 under-rate the name either. That sort of person 
 thinks a great deal more about that sort of thing than 
 we do. Now please don't interrupt me my point is 
 this: Mr. Blumenthal can't expect his daughter to cut 
 a dash as mistress of Watermeads for some time to 
 come, in the natural course of things, but there's no 
 reason why she shouldn't hitch herself on to it, with 
 the money he ought to give her, from the first. You've 
 turned your dower-house into a farm. Very well, turn 
 it back again, for the young couple. Let them live 
 there, in a manner fitting for the wealth they will have, 
 and let Fred spend money on the place, and get it back
 
 188 WATERMEADS 
 
 to what it used to be. That's reasonable enough, and 
 Blumenthal ought to see it, if he's properly dealt with. 
 You will benefit as long as Sydney is alive, for if he 
 doesn't have to put all the money he gets from the 
 place back into it, you'll have more to spend ; and Fred 
 and his wife will benefit too, for they will step straight 
 into a well kept-up property instead of a dilapidated 
 one. It will be a good bargain for all concerned." 
 
 It all appeared highly reasonable to Mrs. Conway, 
 and she wondered that her husband hadn't thought of 
 it before. " If I could trust Sydney to do the sensible 
 thing," she said. 
 
 " I shouldn't trust Sydney to do anything. Sydney 
 is a very good fellow nobody has a greater liking 
 for him than I have but he's hopeless where anything 
 like negotiation is wanted. The way he gave in to 
 George about those fishing rights ! I told George that 
 it was like taking advantage of a baby, and he ought 
 to be ashamed of himself. But he said that Sydney 
 threw everything at his head, and he got more than he 
 wanted before he asked for anything. No, leave Syd- 
 ney out of it, Jane, and do it yourself. You have 
 the character; you only go wrong now because you 
 concentrate all your efforts on twopenny halfpenny 
 little things that don't matter, like docking the serv- 
 ants of their butter. You talk to Blumenthal, 
 when affairs come to be settled, and don't forget that 
 it's you who are giving most in this marriage, and 
 not him." 
 
 " I dare say I could put the case clearly, if I am 
 permitted to do so," said Mrs. Conway. " The idea 
 of settling Fred and Freda at Watermeads is certainly
 
 WILL SHE DO? 189 
 
 a good one; but you forget that Fred is now engaged 
 to work for his uncle, Mark Drake. He will have to 
 live in London." 
 
 " Oh, my dear Jane, that is just where your 
 imagination is so limited. Mark Drake has seen this 
 girl, and approved of her or rather of her money, 
 which he has certainly found out all about, unless he's 
 a very different Mark Drake from the one I used to 
 know. Do you think he will stand in the way of any- 
 thing that is for Fred's benefit, especially as it will 
 relieve him of any obligation to provide money himself, 
 which he was always very close with? If he wants 
 Fred, what is to prevent them having a flat or a lit- 
 tle house in London as well? He couldn't possibly give 
 him enough to do to prevent his spending the greater 
 part of his time here. Oh, no ; you needn't expect op- 
 position from Mark Drake. It's whether you are 
 strong enough to crack the hard nut that Blumenthal 
 is likely to be that I'm doubtful about. I wish I had 
 the doing of it myself. I should like to pit myself 
 against a successful man of business. I think he would 
 admit that he had met his match, after we had fin- 
 ished." 
 
 Mrs. Conway privately thought that she herself was 
 as capable of dealing with a man of business as Sophia 
 Raine, but her respect for her friend's capabilities led 
 her to turn over in her mind the advice she had re- 
 ceived, and to act upon some of it. Her own feeling 
 in the matter had prompted her to refrain from dwell- 
 ing so much on the note of poverty before Freda, as 
 has already been said, but she now determined to dis- 
 pense with its over-familiar tone altogether, and to
 
 190 WATERMEADS 
 
 take a higher line with Freda than she had jet done, 
 while still retaining the approving quality of her at- 
 titude towards her. She also made up her mind to 
 write privately to Mr. Blumenthal and suggest an in- 
 terview. She would ask him to run down it was only 
 a three hours' journey on the day after next, when 
 the whole family would be out on a picnic. She had 
 intended to make one of the party herself, but could 
 easily find an excuse for staying behind; and when 
 they returned in the evening she would have something 
 to tell them. Her husband would see, all of them 
 would see, what could be done to put affairs on a 
 right footing, if she for once had them entirely in her 
 own hands. And perhaps, afterwards, a little more 
 attention would be paid to her opinions, which were 
 apt to be dealt with in a spirit of banter that she found 
 it difficult to support with patience. 
 
 It must not be supposed, from Lady Sophia's out- 
 spoken criticism of Freda, that that charming young 
 person had done anything in the first clear day of her 
 visit to lessen the good impression she had already 
 made. Lady Sophia criticised everybody, and the fact 
 that Freda had once inadvertently addressed her as 
 Lady Raine, and seldom addressed her at all without 
 tacking on a ' Lady Sophia ' to her speech, was quite 
 enough to account for Lady Sophia's setting down of 
 her as second-rate. It is true that she had seized upon 
 the shape of Freda's mouth as tending to qualify con- 
 fidence in the entire amiability of her manner; but no- 
 body else had yet noticed that, except for a brief mo- 
 ment Elsie, who had since forgotten it, and it was no 
 doubt Lady Sophia's habit of pushing all her discov-
 
 WILL SHE DO? 191 
 
 eries to their limit that had led her to advance the 
 opinion that Freda was essentially a minx. 
 
 An hour had been spent after breakfast in going 
 over the house. At this time of the day Mrs. Con- 
 way was much immersed in household affairs, and 
 Elsie and Rose were expected to * help ' her. This they 
 always did with a serene good humour that was proof 
 against the annoyance of much waste of time devoted 
 to argument of small points. If Mrs. Conway had 
 been content to sit in her parlour and give her orders, 
 the girls would have carried them out, with the help 
 of the servants, in half the time that it took to get 
 through what had to be done. But it was only in the 
 afternoon that Mrs. Conway took up her position as 
 one apart from domestic affairs. In the morning she 
 descended into details, as she thought to be required 
 of her in the state to which her establishment had been 
 reduced. She was, indeed, wholly admirable in the way 
 in which she did her best to stem the always rising tide 
 of money difficulties, by doing herself many things that 
 she would have preferred to leave to servants. If her 
 ability had been equal to her will, the burden of pov- 
 erty would hardly have weighed on Watermeads at all, 
 as far as domestic arrangements were concerned. 
 
 The great hall and the dining-room Freda had al- 
 ready seen, but some attention was given to the pic- 
 tures in both these apartments. Some of them were 
 by great artists ; others were said to be, and amongst 
 them the putative Holbein. This was a noble por- 
 trait, whoever it was by, of a sad faced woman in 
 black, who, however, was not an ancestress. " We 
 don't go so far back as that," said Sydney. I don't
 
 192 WATERMEADS 
 
 know what we were in those days yeoman farmers, 
 I fancy. I shall look it all up some day. There's 
 only a missing tombstone between us and the Conways 
 of Vale, who were wiped out in the Wars of the Roses. 
 Great swells, they were. We began with Grandfather 
 Robert, who founded Conway's Bank in the reign of 
 James I. I wish we had stuck to the bank. We 
 should have been amongst the highest, but I don't know 
 that it would have made much difference to us after 
 all. Here is Grandfather Robert, with his snub nose. 
 We called Bobby after him chiefly because he had a 
 snub nose as a baby. But as you see it has since im- 
 proved in shape. Still, I think we'll make a banker of 
 Bobby, all the same. He can get rich and found 
 another branch of the family." 
 
 " I have made up my mind to be an explorer," said 
 Bobby. " Last winter I slept several times on the 
 floor, and one morning when I woke up there was ice 
 in my water- jug." 
 
 " Well, that's a good beginning," said his father. 
 " Very well, Bobby, you shall be an explorer." 
 
 " I think you'll make a splendid explorer," said 
 Freda admiringly. " You look so strong, and as if you 
 could stand a good deal of hardship." 
 
 " I am going to be a soldier," said Billy, unwilling 
 that Bobby should draw to himself more than his fair 
 share of this gratifying attention. " I shall work 
 hard and become a General." 
 
 " That will be lovely, Billy," said Freda. " It will 
 make me very proud to have a General as a brother- 
 in-law." 
 
 " Do explorers and Generals have dirty nails ? "
 
 WILL SHE DO? 193 
 
 asked Penelope sweetly. Bobby and Billy threw looks 
 of baffled hate towards her. They were in a constant 
 state of warfare with Penelope, and were at present at 
 the height of a feud in which they were always being 
 worsted. 
 
 " Don't be rude, Mother Bunch," said Sydney. But 
 Freda drew her towards her and kissed her, with a 
 laugh. " She doesn't mean to be rude," she said, " but 
 only funny. 7 know well enough that manly boys 
 can't always be expected to keep their hands like a 
 girl's." 
 
 " This is Grandfather William Billy was called 
 after him who gave up the bank and settled down at 
 Watermeads as a country gentleman. And this is his 
 wife, Lady Penelope; Mother Bunch was called after 
 her. We always suspected that it was Grandmother 
 Penelope who persuaded Grandfather William to give 
 up the bank. She was a lady of title, and no doubt 
 thought the City was low. Their son, Grandfather 
 Frederick Fred was called after him the paint 
 peeled off his nose, and he has been relegated to the 
 billiard-room, where you will see him also married 
 a lady of title, in fact a Duke's daughter. Sir Joshua 
 painted her, and I'm sorry to say she has gone out of 
 the family. But there's a print of the picture some- 
 where. You see we were quite high up in those days, 
 Freda. But the Duke's daughter was the culminating 
 point. We couldn't keep it up at that pitch." 
 
 " I'm afraid 7 shall be rather a come-down after the 
 two ladies of title," said Freda with arch sweetness. 
 
 " My dear, you're better than any of them," said 
 Sydney. " We'll have you painted by Sargent, and
 
 194 WATERMEADS 
 
 you'll make up for the Sir Joshua that we've 
 lost." 
 
 Freda blushed and looked pleased. Fred squeezed 
 her arm, and told her that she would make a much 
 prettier picture than the Sir Joshua. 
 
 Freda was much impressed by the great drawing- 
 room, the library, and the ball-room, all opening out 
 of one another and occupying the front of one-half 
 of the ground floor. It was long since any of these 
 rooms had been used, except the ball-room, where bad- 
 minton and other games were played in wet weather. 
 The furniture was mostly covered up, and there were 
 more signs of dilapidations in the framework of the 
 rooms themselves than in other parts of the house. 
 But they were splendid rooms, proportioned and dec- 
 orated with all the skill of the early eighteenth cen- 
 tury, and Freda was loud in her expressions of ad- 
 miration. She made light of the somewhat depressing 
 signs of decay that were everywhere apparent, and in 
 such a way that Fred squeezed her arm again as a 
 token of how well he understood the way in which she 
 identified herself with the family's happy way of tak- 
 ing its misfortunes, and how grateful he felt for it. 
 
 But his father turned away a little abruptly. " Now 
 we will go to the rooms we do keep up," he said. 
 " They are not so fine, but we manage to make our- 
 selves happy in them." 
 
 The parlour was panelled and carved and plastered 
 a charming restful room in which there were numer- 
 ous signs of the family's occupation, and few of any- 
 thing more than a constant use of old furnishings. 
 But Freda went a trifle off the track here in her ad-
 
 WILL SHE DO? 195 
 
 miring comments. She had little to say about the per- 
 fect panelling, except that it must make the room 
 rather dark in the winter, and suggested, as a lumi- 
 nous idea, that there was quite enough good stuff left 
 in the brocaded curtains of the great drawing-room 
 to permit of their being adapted for the parlour. 
 
 Fred again thought that she was behaving extraor- 
 dinarily well in being ready to adapt herself to the 
 unfortunate necessities of Conway contrivance, since 
 she could have had small experience of such adapta- 
 tions. But Sydney said rather stiffly : " They wouldn't 
 be in keeping with this room; and these do very well." 
 
 A visit was paid to the back regions, partly because 
 they were in the oldest part of the house and there 
 were architectural features to be shown, partly for the 
 purpose of introducing Freda to the cook. 
 
 Mrs. Conway was sitting in the kitchen swathed in 
 a large white apron. She was arguing majestically 
 about the respective prices of coke and coal, with 
 Elsie, Rose and the cook standing before her, and en- 
 deavouring to explain to her that they agreed with 
 every word she said. She left off when the exploratory 
 party made its incursion, and changed her expression 
 of offended hauteur into one of stately welcome, as 
 her eyes fell upon Freda. 
 
 " You mustn't mind seeing me directing household 
 affairs in this way," she said in allusion to her apron, 
 which she proceeded to take off. " If I did not see 
 to things myself nothing would go right. However, I 
 have finished now, and have time to pay you some at- 
 tention, Freda. I should like you to notice this range. 
 We use very little of it, as you see, but if we were to
 
 196 WATERMEADS 
 
 use it all it would take a quarter of a ton of coal a 
 day." 
 
 Freda threw a hurried complimentary glance at the 
 kitchen range, but Sydney was already in process of 
 introducing her to the cook, who stood, a solid bul- 
 wark of comfortable womanhood, wiping her hands on 
 her apron, and smiling all over her broad face. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure, Miss, this is a pleasure," she said, 
 shaking hands with Freda and looking at her admir- 
 ingly. " I did 'ave a peep at you last night as you 
 was setting at dinner, and I said to myself ' Bless your 
 pretty face! Mr. Fred's got the right one in you, / 
 know.' And you got the right one in him, you know, 
 Miss. But there! I can't tell you what I feel about 
 that." 
 
 The simple soul turned away to wipe her eyes, which 
 were welling with sympathy and affection. Freda had 
 omitted to prepare a speech for her, and was some- 
 what at a loss in face of this emotion. " I'm sure I'm 
 very pleased to meet you," she said, with the sweetest 
 of smiles, and then turned to exclaim at the kitchen 
 range and its capacity for the consumption of fuel.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 A TENNIS PARTY 
 
 " Now, Freddy dear, we must behave ourselves this 
 afternoon. We must just make ourselves two of the 
 family party. We shall have our lovely time together 
 in the garden this evening. This afternoon I'm hardly 
 going to take any notice of you at all." 
 
 It was still the first day of Freda's visit. Olivia and 
 some others were coming to play tennis, and Probert 
 and Bellamy were to be of the party as usual. 
 
 " Well, of course we're all going to be jolly to- 
 gether," said Fred, somewhat dashed in spirit by his 
 enslaver's announcement ; " but I don't see why you 
 shouldn't take any notice of me. We can play to- 
 gether, and sometimes we can have a little stroll. None 
 of the others will mind." 
 
 " No, but I shall," said Freda decisively. " I'm 
 going to be one of the family, and I want to cultivate 
 the family friends." 
 
 " You don't mean you are going to devote yourself 
 to Probert and Bellamy ! " 
 
 Freda gave him an affectionate and proprietary 
 kiss. "Was the darling a little jel-jel?" she said 
 fondly. " I rather like that, Freddy, because it shows 
 how much you love me. But you needn't be, in this 
 case, you know. You've only got to look in the glass 
 and compare yourself with Mr. Probert and Mr. Bel- 
 
 197
 
 198 WATERMEADS 
 
 lamy to see who I should be likely to devote myself to, 
 even if I hadn't done it already." 
 
 Fred was inclined to like this method of treatment, 
 and, in order to provoke an extension of it, said: 
 " Well, Probert is a good deal better looking fellow 
 than I am, and Bellamy's all right, too. I don't know 
 why you should prefer me to them, if it comes to that." 
 
 Freda assured him, in the gratifying way known to 
 lovers, that no man in the wide world could equal him. 
 When she had done this she reannounced her intention. 
 " You see, darling," she said, with her hand in his, 
 " I do so want to be a good sister to Elsie and Rose, 
 if they will let me. I am so happy in my own love 
 affair that I should like to help them in theirs." 
 
 Fred was overcome by a sense of rapture at this 
 new proof of the treasure he had secured for himself. 
 " I wish I could say all that I think about you, 
 darling," he said simply. " You're so much better 
 than I am. I suppose you want to have me to your- 
 self as much as I want you " 
 
 " Why, of course I do, Freddy." 
 
 " and yet you can think about others, which I'm 
 
 afraid is beyond me, though I ought to do it when it's 
 my own sisters. But as far as Probert is concerned, 
 I don't think you need worry yourself. You wouldn't 
 want to help him on with Olivia. You said so your- 
 self." 
 
 " That's just where you're as blind as the rest of 
 them, dearest. I think I can see a little further. I 
 want to find out if it really is Olivia he comes here 
 for. I have my own suspicions on that subject." 
 
 " Why? Do you think it is one of the girls? "
 
 A TENNIS PARTY 199 
 
 " Never mind what I think. I'll tell you what I 
 think this evening when we have our happy time to- 
 gether. But I'll tell you one thing: Olivia can't hold 
 a candle to Rose, in good looks or anything else, and 
 if I were a man I wouldn't look at Olivia if Rose was 
 anywhere about." 
 
 Fred was inclined to regret the way in which Freda 
 spoke of Olivia, whom he had always admired, and to- 
 wards whom his feelings were hardly less affectionate 
 than towards his own sisters. Neither did he think 
 that Rose, with all her beauty, impartially viewed, was 
 so obviously superior to Olivia. Still, it was gratify- 
 ing that Freda should not be capable of taking a 
 wholly impartial view when it was a question between 
 his sister and another girl, and with her love for him- 
 self putting once more so completely to shame his own 
 unworthy little jealousies, he was not inclined to press 
 his own view of Olivia as against hers. 
 
 " Well, darling," he said, " you find out what is 
 happening, and tell me all about it this evening. But 
 don't be too nice to Probert and Bellamy, because al- 
 though I trust you absolutely, I couldn't be so sure 
 of either of them. ' You might upset your own ideas, 
 you know." 
 
 Only one tennis court was kept going at Water- 
 meads, and it had come to be the custom among the 
 young people who used it so frequently during this fine 
 summer to alternate their games with little strolls 
 around, whether in the direction of strawberry beds 
 and raspberry canes or along the shady walks of the 
 overgrown garden. Probert and Bellamy had been 
 constantly of the party, but there had been others, too,
 
 200 WATERMEADS 
 
 young men and girls from houses round, and the pair- 
 ings had given rise to some conjectures, and occa- 
 sionally to little comedies of incipient attraction and 
 even of jealousy. There had not been for some years 
 such a succession of visitors at Watermeads. It had 
 become the stage for the charming play of youth, and 
 never in its best days had the setting been more fit 
 for the occasion. Mrs. Conway had apparently re- 
 signed herself to the extra expense and service in- 
 volved in providing tea for a family almost daily re- 
 inforced from outside, and made no trouble about any 
 extra number up to seven. Beyond that it was a 
 ' party,' and that she * would not have.' But fourteen 
 could sit comfortably round the table in the hall, and 
 had done so once or twice a week throughout the sum- 
 mer months, to say nothing of other days, in which a 
 smaller number had come, to play their games seri- 
 ously, and perhaps with the hope of increasing inti- 
 macies that were already the happiest things in their 
 lives. 
 
 There was the large beautiful house smiling across 
 its lawns and meadows in the hot sunshine, showing 
 nothing of the wounds that time was gradually deal- 
 ing it; the spacious gardens, in which nature did so 
 much to make up for the enforced absence of human 
 care; the meal, sacramental to friendship in its suffic- 
 ing simplicity, in the great hall, which still gave out 
 its aroma of tranquil dignity. Love-making in such 
 surroundings would provide memories, which no in- 
 crease of wealth or state could better. But until the 
 arrival of Fred and Freda there had been no direct 
 love-making among those who came together there
 
 A TENNIS PARTY 201 
 
 through the afternoons and evenings of that happy 
 summer, but only the warm friendships that might 
 lead to love, as the probings and testings yielded 
 their results, and whatever inner charm of mind 
 and spirit that lay behind the outer charm of ap- 
 pearance and manner stole out to find its lover and 
 its mate. 
 
 It speaks well for Fred's faith in his beloved that 
 when he saw Freda and Probert detach themselves 
 from the group of those watching the set in which he 
 was playing, and stroll off towards the shrubbery 
 walks, the fire of his service should not have been dimin- 
 ished nor the quickness of his retorts at the net suf- 
 fered. He would have liked to be in Probert's place 
 rather than to partner Olivia in a game against Elsie 
 and Bellamy ; but his time would come in the sweet 
 garden dusk later on ; and it would be very interesting, 
 in intervals of love-making, to hear what Freda had 
 discovered about the mysterious influences that were 
 acting all around. 
 
 Edward Probert, now admitted to close intimacy 
 with the Conway family, and inclined to like Fred not 
 a little, as Fred liked him, had offered Freda frank 
 congratulations, and was prepared to like her too, and 
 to treat her with whatever friendly familiarity her en- 
 gaged state might leave her leisure and inclination to 
 respond to. He thought it rather nice of her to in- 
 vite him to a short garden ramble. It was in the way 
 of things at Watermeads, and showed her agreeably 
 willing to suit herself to it with the rest. The more 
 she joined in with them in all the little habits that 
 made them so friendly together, the more she would
 
 202 WATERMEADS 
 
 make herself part of the charming family into which 
 she was to marry, and, incidentally, the more she 
 would dilute the slight awkwardness felt in a group 
 of young people when two of them have their minds 
 filled only with each other. 
 
 It was the most natural thing, in view of these sur- 
 roundings, and the part that Freda would come to 
 play in them, that Edward should have begun the con- 
 versation with praise of Watermeads. 
 
 " This is a jolly place, isn't it? " he said. " I don't 
 think I've ever enjoyed coming to a house more than 
 I do to this; and they make you feel so at home." 
 
 " Oh, yes, they're dears," said Freda, " and of 
 course it's a beautiful place; but it's so sad to see 
 everything going to ruin." 
 
 Probert laughed. " I don't think it's quite so bad 
 as that," he said. " Anyhow, it doesn't show up as 
 far as we're concerned. I'm not sure it doesn't make 
 it rather jollier." 
 
 " I'm afraid I can't agree with you there," said 
 Freda primly. " One makes the best of things, of 
 course, but I've been used to seeing things so different. 
 All the time I'm wanting Watermeads to be like other 
 big houses. And it could be, you know, with some 
 money spent on it." 
 
 Probert cast a glance at his companion rather a 
 doubtful one. She was pretty enough, certainly, and 
 beautifully dressed a girl that any young man might 
 be pleased to stroll and chat with, even if his chief in- 
 terest in girlhood lay elsewhere. But 
 
 " Were you brought up in a large country house, 
 Mr. Probert ? " she was asking him with a smile invit-
 
 A TENNIS PARTY 203 
 
 ing to intimacy, before his doubts had had time to re- 
 solve themselves. 
 
 " Well, yes, I was," he said, inclined to wonder why 
 the question was asked. 
 
 " Do tell me about it," she said. " I love hearing 
 about houses; they're a sort of passion of mine. 
 That's why it distresses me to see a fine place like this 
 not properly kept up." 
 
 Oh, then she was all right, if that was it. He gave 
 her a description of his beautiful home in Norfolk, 
 laying more stress upon the sporting amenities of its 
 surroundings than upon the features of the house it- 
 self. But she brought him continually back to the 
 house, with laughing emphasis upon her personal 
 tastes, and got from him a mass of detail as to num- 
 ber and size of rooms, and the contents of the chief 
 ones, that would have provided very fair material for 
 a house-agent's catalogue. She made such agreeable 
 fun of her questions that he quite entered into her 
 spirit. She showed a particular interest in the do- 
 mestic arrangements of the house, and helped him to 
 count up the number of servants, male and female, em- 
 ployed in it. When she had extorted enough informa- 
 tion about the interior, she allowed him to take her 
 over the gardens and the home-farm, in imagination. 
 They also visited the stables in the same spirit, and 
 she was anxious to know about cottages and ac- 
 commodation for men working on the place, whether 
 married or single. 
 
 When he had satisfied her enquiring spirit as to his 
 boyhood's home, she demanded the same details as to 
 his present one, and found him quite willing to pro-
 
 204 WATERMEADS 
 
 vide such information as she had shown him that she 
 liked to have, without so many promptings from her. 
 He seemed, indeed, more interested for the moment in 
 Lutterbourne Rectory than in Hayslope Hall, and was 
 significantly willing to regard it, not as a convenient 
 house for a bachelor, but as a house that a woman 
 might take an interest in. 
 
 Lutterbourne Rectory revealed itself as a large old- 
 fashioned house of red brick, well proportioned and 
 conveniently arranged for family use. It had a very 
 beautiful garden, and its acreage of glebe was such 
 that it was possible, to an incumbent with the nec- 
 essary means and tastes, to treat it as a country 
 house in little, with park, home-farm, cottages and 
 everything complete. 
 
 " I'm very lucky to get such a place," said the 
 young Rector. " Of course I could have taken a house 
 something like it, and enjoyed myself in it without do- 
 ing anything else; but I shouldn't have done that yet 
 awhile if I hadn't taken Orders. I should have gone 
 into the army, or something." 
 
 " I wonder you didn't do that, rather than go into 
 the church," said Freda. " I should have thought it 
 would have suited you much better." 
 
 " Well, no it wouldn't. You see I like a country life 
 and all the things we've been talking about. Besides, 
 though I don't talk much about the parson side of the 
 question, it counts for something, you know. I really 
 like being a parson." 
 
 His good-looking young face had become a shade 
 more serious. He would perhaps have liked to say 
 something to this pretty sympathetic girl, who was
 
 A TENNIS PARTY 205 
 
 taking such an interest in the details of his life, past, 
 present and future, about a side of it that meant more 
 to him than was apparent on the surface. But Freda 
 said, with a laugh : " Oh, well, it must be rather nice 
 to be a parson when it means living in such a charm- 
 ing house as yours seems to be. I suppose you won't 
 live there always, though." 
 
 " I shall for a good many years to come, I hope." 
 He was a little chilled by her refusal to accept his own 
 measure of his profession. Like so many young men 
 who take Orders with the prospect of a pleasant coun- 
 try living before them, and a pleasant country life, 
 he had found himself involved, during his years of 
 training, in more serious views of his profession than 
 he had allowed for, or than one in his position would 
 have been likely to meet with a generation earlier. 
 As prospective heir to large estates and fortune, it 
 had seemed right to him that he should carry out his 
 original intention, and use only the intervening years 
 in the active exercise of his profession. It was either 
 that or spending them in pursuits less beneficial to 
 mankind. As a country parson he would be living 
 the life that suited him, but it would have a wider, 
 more satisfying basis than if he lived it for no end 
 but his own pleasure. He had worked hard during the 
 five years since his ordination, in a poor London par- 
 ish, and was entering upon the fortunate fruits of his 
 labours with a conscience clear of offence. Neverthe- 
 less, he was inclined to be a little shy of comparisons, 
 and anxious to do the work he had to do, for which 
 the accidents of English Church patronage paid him 
 so handsomely, as well as it could be done.
 
 206 WATERMEADS 
 
 " There's no resident squire at Lutterbourne, you 
 know," he said, half in self-defence. " There's a lot 
 to be done in a parish like that, though there are only 
 seven hundred inhabitants all told. It's the parson 
 who has to do most of it. I might perhaps come to 
 think that I ought to take a parish where there would 
 be more work to do, but at present I'm quite satisfied 
 where I am." 
 
 " Oh, I should think so," said Freda. " Until you 
 succeed to your property you couldn't have a nicer 
 place." 
 
 He passed this over, with a slight sense of distaste. 
 Freda would have been considerably surprised if she 
 had known that allowances were being made for her 
 because she was known to be what this well-born and 
 well-mannered young man described to himself as * not 
 quite.' 
 
 Her heart seemed to be in the right place, though, 
 even if the questions and allusions she permitted her- 
 self were not beyond the reproach of lack of taste. 
 She told him that for herself a quiet life in a country 
 rectory seemed almost the ideal state. There was so 
 much one could do to help others, and so much of a 
 clergyman's work that a clergyman's wife could help 
 him in. She even said that she wished Fred was a 
 clergyman, which might have given something of a 
 shock to this young man's credulity if she had not 
 spoken about it all so nicely, and entered so sym- 
 pathetically into what he had told her of his daily 
 duties. At the end of the interview, when their path 
 had led them round to the tennis-lawn again, Edward 
 Probert felt that this was a charming well-disposi-
 
 A TENNIS PARTY 207 
 
 tioned girl, whom his friend was fortunate to have se- 
 cured for a bride. Her little * snaggeries ' this was 
 a favourite word of his would soon disappear in the 
 larger atmosphere to which she was being introduced, 
 and there would be nothing left but her extremely at- 
 tractive appearance and her loyal sound nature. It 
 pleased him also to think that in the natural course 
 of things she would be a neighbour of his own for 
 some years to come. One could get on with the wives 
 of one's neighbours if they were of that sort, and when 
 
 one had a wife of one's own . Here his thoughts 
 
 left Freda and took other channels. 
 
 Freda had other strolls with other members of the 
 party during the afternoon, and even relented in her 
 firm decision and invited Fred to one. 
 
 " Well, what did you find out about Edward? " he 
 asked her with some eagerness, when they were out of 
 earshot of the rest. 
 
 She hung fire for a moment, and then said: 
 
 " My dear, he hasn't got an idea of Olivia. When 
 I mentioned her name very carefully, you may be 
 sure he didn't turn a hair. He's quite indifferent to 
 her." 
 
 " Well, then, is it Elsie or Rose? " 
 
 " I don't think it's anybody, but I'm not absolutely 
 certain yet. I'll find out the next time I talk to him." 
 
 " Oh, but darling ! Surely you needn't trot him out 
 again ! He's had his turn." 
 
 Freda stopped in the path to kiss him. " Jealous 
 old angel ! " she said fondly. " I'm going to do just 
 exactly what I please, and find out all I can." 
 
 It may have been a disinclination to confess that she
 
 208 WATERMEADS 
 
 had forgotten all about finding out anything, either 
 about Olivia or anybody else, and a desire to amend 
 the oversight, that prompted her to manoeuvre for 
 another intimate conversation with Edward Probert. 
 But he did not respond to her overtures, though, sit- 
 ting in a little group among those watching the play, 
 he was abundantly friendly in his manner towards 
 her, and anxious to include her in the conversation 
 that was going on. 
 
 But Freda did not particularly shine in general 
 conversation. Her wit was not very ready, and she 
 seemed always to be thinking of something else. As 
 Edward ignored the hinted invitation she conveyed to 
 him for another walk, she took off Penelope, who had 
 shown throughout the day a marked predilection for 
 her society, but not without a backward look which 
 seemed to ask how any young man could see her go- 
 ing off like that without springing up to accompany 
 her. Fred was playing, and the rest sat still, and 
 when she had departed went on with their talk and 
 laughter with a slightly heightened air of comradeship. 
 She was at that moment at the lowest point of her 
 influence, and would perhaps have done better to have 
 kept her place. But the chief reason why nobody had 
 offered to accompany her was that there happened to 
 be nobody in the little group who had not a personal 
 reason for staying in it, and the general feeling with 
 regard to her was apologetic, and not for the moment 
 critical. 
 
 Penelope hung upon her arm with a proud air of 
 possession. Freda was a wonder and a delight to this 
 odd and unattractive child. She was the first per-
 
 A TENNIS PARTY 209 
 
 son who had ever treated her as an equal, as one 
 whose ideas were as well worth getting at as anybody 
 else's, and whose value was much in excess of what it 
 was conceded to be by those around her. Freda had 
 taken some pains to make herself attractive towards 
 Elsie and Rose. She had taken none with Penelope, 
 and yet with the elder girls there was still a good deal 
 to be done, while Penelope accepted her without ques- 
 tion and, it really seemed, adored her. This was grat- 
 ifying, and inclined her towards the child, whom she 
 found amusing and companionable besides. 
 
 Nevertheless, Penelope's first remark disconcerted 
 her not a little, as tending to show that her manoeuvres 
 to secure a second tete-a-tete with Probert had not 
 been so completely disguised as she had thought. 
 
 " I don't think it's much use trying to get Edward 
 to walk about with you," said Penelope. " He's in 
 love with Rose." 
 
 " What are you talking about? " exclaimed Freda, 
 showing quick offence. 
 
 Penelope was not in the least put out by it. Al- 
 though she had taken a strong fancy to Freda, and 
 was ready to soften her asperities towards her, she 
 also intended to keep the upper hand. " My dear, 
 you did try," she said calmly. " You can't hide that 
 sort of thing from me. I'm much too sharp. I sup- 
 pose you wanted to find out from him who he is in 
 love with. I found that out long ago." 
 
 " Well," said Freda, somewhat reassured. " I do 
 want to find out something about what is going on 
 because Elsie and Rose are going to be my sisters, you 
 see, and naturally I take an interest. As far as I'm
 
 210 WATERMEADS 
 
 concerned it's no more pleasure to me to talk to Ed- 
 ward than to anyone else. I would much rather talk 
 to you." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so," said Penelope calmly. " I 
 didn't think you wanted to talk to Edward because 
 you liked him. Of course you don't like anybody but 
 Fred now." 
 
 Freda was half suspicious of irony in this speech, 
 but Penelope's next one reassured her. " All I meant 
 was that if you want to find out what is happening 
 you would save a lot of time and trouble by asking 
 me." 
 
 Freda laughed. " Well, what is happening, you de- 
 lightful imp? " she asked. 
 
 " Jack Kirby is in love with Rose. So is Edward. 
 So is Giles. And Rose can't make up her mind which 
 she likes best." 
 
 " Who is Jack Kirby? He isn't here, is he? I know 
 all these by name." 
 
 " He the son of Lord Kirby, who has come to 
 live at Prittlewell. I like him, but father doesn't." 
 
 Freda asked a lot of questions about Lord Kirby, 
 and about Prittlewell, which Penelope answered read- 
 ily enough. " I wonder Fred hasn't told you about 
 him," she said. " It is rather exciting. Mother told 
 me that Jack Kirby would be a lord when his father 
 died, and if Rose marries him she will be * my lady ' 
 like Lady Sophia." 
 
 "Did Mrs. Conway tell you that?" asked Freda, 
 in surprise. 
 
 " Oh, no. I'm not supposed to know anything 
 about these things. I got that out of Cooky."
 
 A TENNIS PARTY 211 
 
 " Does he seem to like Rose very much as Fred 
 likes me, I mean? " Freda's face was serious, and her 
 mouth was not at its best. 
 
 " You mean is he in love with her? You needn't 
 pretend that I don't know anything. I told you he 
 was; and so are the other two." 
 
 " Why do you say that? Edward is supposed to be 
 in love with Olivia. They all say so." 
 
 " That's because they don't take proper notice. 
 Olivia may like him. I don't think she's in love with 
 him, or I should have found it out. But I don't 
 care for Olivia much, so I don't take much notice of 
 her." 
 
 " Well, 7 don't like her much either. It's funny how 
 you and I seem to have the same tastes, Pen dear." 
 
 " I don't know that it's so very funny. We are 
 rather like one another, though of course I shall never 
 be as pretty as you." 
 
 " Oh, darling ! I think you'll be very pretty when 
 you grow up. About Olivia somehow I think she is 
 designing." 
 
 " Perhaps she is. I don't know." 
 
 " Do you think she is inclined to like Fred? Of 
 course it would be a very good match for her the 
 clergyman's daughter to marry the squire's son." 
 
 Penelope laughed. " Of course she likes Fred," she 
 said. " But it's rather funny to think of her marry- 
 ing him." 
 
 Freda left this point. There were immaturities in 
 Penelope's vision, in spite of her precocious sharpness. 
 " Edward seems to me to pay more attention to Elsie 
 than to Rose," she said.
 
 212 WATERMEADS 
 
 " I know he does. And so does Giles. That's their 
 cunning. They are both in love with Rose." 
 
 The assured reiteration of her statement had weight 
 with Freda, as did her implication of a masked attack. 
 " I wonder if it's true," she said, still with her mouth 
 rather disagreeably set. " Of course I should like 
 Rose to marry well. I'm not sure I shouldn't choose 
 Giles for her out of the three. I like him better than 
 Edward." 
 
 " Why? You've hardly talked to him at all." 
 
 " I don't know why. One just feels these things. I 
 think he would make a better husband for Rose. But 
 of course I haven't seen Jack Kirby yet." 
 
 " You'll see him soon. They are coming down to 
 Prittlewell at the end of the week, and he is sure to 
 come over here as soon as ever he can." 
 
 " I wonder why Fred never mentioned him to me." 
 
 " Ah, I wonder," said Penelope, with an air of wis- 
 dom which, however, indicated no opinion that she had 
 formed on the subject, though it appeared to do so.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 AN INTERVIEW 
 
 LORD and Lady Kirby came down to Prittlewell on 
 Friday evening, but without Jack, and on Saturday 
 morning Lord Kirby rather surprisingly put in an ap- 
 pearance at Watermeads, and asked to see Sydney 
 Conway. 
 
 The interview took place in Sydney's room, which he 
 seldom used, as he preferred to spend his time in the 
 company of whatever members of the family might be 
 available, and the upkeep of an extra sitting-room 
 meant extra service. It was a large well-appointed 
 room, but suffered from the usual Watermeads air of 
 neglect, and Lord Kirby, who lived habitually in the 
 lap of red morocco and shining mahogany, looked 
 round it with a critical air as he took the seat indi- 
 cated to him in a shabby easy chair. 
 
 And if the Squire of Watermeads' own room bore a 
 strong contrast to the newly and expensively furnished 
 chamber devoted to the private pursuits of the Lord 
 of Prittlewell, still greater was the contrast in the ap- 
 pearance of the two men. Lord Kirby was neatly 
 tweeded and spatted, and what could be seen of his 
 brown boots had all the high mellow polish associated 
 with the best served establishments. Sydney wore his 
 grey flannel suit, as usual, with a club tie and a pair 
 of white tennis shoes, which had not very recently been 
 
 213
 
 214 WATERMEADS 
 
 pipe-clayed. But he looked like a gentleman in this 
 costume, which Lord Kirby would not have done. 
 
 " I've come over to have a little talk with you about 
 my boy and your girl," said Lord Kirby with admira- 
 ble directness. 
 
 Sydney looked down suddenly. He had expected 
 anything but this. There was a question having to 
 do with their adjoining properties, which he had so 
 far only discussed with Lord Kirby's agent. If he 
 had not had it in his mind that Lord Kirby's visit was 
 to settle that up, he might have suspected something 
 of his purpose, with his mind so frequently running 
 on Jack Kirby and Rose. But the small shock was 
 none the less unpleasant. 
 
 As Sydney did not say anything in reply to the an- 
 nouncement, Lord Kirby proceeded in his confident, 
 rather patronising, but not unpleasant manner. " I 
 want to see my boy married," he said. " He isn't very 
 old, but I like early marriages, especially where there's 
 a good deal concerned, as there is in his case. I want 
 him to bring me a nice girl as a daughter-in-law, and 
 if he brings me the right one I don't fancy she'll have 
 much to complain of in my treatment of her. I've 
 taken a very great fancy to your little Rose, Mr. Con- 
 way, and I assure you that it has given me great pleas- 
 ure very great pleasure indeed to find that my boy 
 has taken a great fancy to her, too. Ha! ha! Now 
 I don't think it's such a bad thing to treat these mat- 
 ters in an old-fashioned way, and for the parents to 
 agree on them before the young people fix it up for 
 themselves. That's why I've come over to have a lit- 
 tle chat about it."
 
 aiopq jaq q^tAi ajtf siq 
 Suipuads jo :padsoad aq^ PUB 'maw siq uo SuiSuwq \jiiS 
 ajq-Bjopt? siq^ 3Aq o^ uaui jo ^saiddsq aq^ paapui SBM. 
 aq ^wq^ ^pj paa^ *}q^u jo Suipao pa^u^ds oq^ aapun 
 
 zsi
 
 981 
 
 aq pfnoqs j A*qAi MOU5[ } 4 uop j 'aui sasBa[d am 03. 
 jpsaaq puarauioo o^ 8fqno.ii saspsi aqs A*BAV aqi ^Bq^ 
 'A*[snojapuod A"BAUO;} 'saj\[ pres u 'ssajuoo ^simi j 
 
 :}UBain j puB 'op p 4 aqs pis j '^t ut 
 'qSnoua X{5[Dmb Suiqi jo ^jos ^q^ jp ujuaj |{ t aqs 
 uSis B SVMYB si qoiqM 'Smq^ auo JQJ 'aui|j 
 SB aui ssajppB o^ uoi^isodsip sAioqs aqs * 
 
 -oas sj aqs ^Bqi ^BS no^C op ^q^i "ssajp aaq ao 'aouB 
 -jBaddB aaq q^tAi ^[nBj wa pug ^[qtssod ppoo ^Cpoq 
 -ou puB 'pooS ^jjBjnoi^jBd SB ain a^u^s saauuBui aajj 
 piBS aqs 'aaq jo ^Bq^ JBS no^C ^q^i JA.OUT[ ^ 4 uop j 
 
 ssaoons ^noq^iAi ^nq '^i AVOJ 
 
 -jBA^s o^ ^JOj^a ^CjBuiuiipjd B apBUi 'aaq^Bj 'ao tqoaads 
 Suisiadins s t puaijj jaq pa^saSip ^BAIU 
 
 ajojaq SB 'uapJBS aq^ m 
 
 -raaqi ^sof pBq Bpaaj puB pajj; 'uiaq^ q^m aaa 
 aqi puB 'aoBJja^ aq^ uo X!aup^ q^iAi Sui^ouis SBM aui 
 '^SB{ aqi SB {[t^s puB UIJBAV SB Suiaq 
 'saj\[ q^iAi auo[B SBAI auiB^j Biqdog 
 ^Bjn^BaSuoo j -op |{ 4 aqs 5[uiq^ j ^nq 'sapisaq 
 xutui B s 4 aqs ^Bq; uoiotdsns Suoa^s B aAj puB 'Suiq^ 
 p ^jos ^Bqi |[B puB 'a^Bj puooas puB ssBp-ajppiui puB 
 UBqanqns si \jiiS aq^ asanoo jo 'auBp jBap Xui ' 
 
 3HS 
 AIX H3XJVHO
 
 AN INTERVIEW 215 
 
 * 
 
 He had really come over because he was so excited 
 at the idea of Jack proposing to Rose, which Jack 
 under pressure had admitted to him was in his mind, 
 that he wanted to talk about it. For there was noth- 
 ing for him to arrange with Rose's father. He knew 
 that she would probably come penniless, and if not he 
 didn't care ; and as for any difficulty about the match 
 from the Conway side, it had never entered his head 
 that they would accept it with anything but hymns 
 and paeans of joy. 
 
 But Sydney's face did not exactly express jubila- 
 tion, as he came to the end of his introductory re- 
 marks, and Lord Kirby was somewhat surprised by 
 its expression, and inclined to wonder whether the 
 golden offer he was so generously making had been 
 quite understood by this odd unsuccessful man, for 
 whom he had a feeling between contempt and pity. 
 
 He would have been still more surprised if he had 
 had any idea of the storm of anger and resentment 
 that had been aroused by his speech, and was raging 
 so hotly in Sydney's mind that he was quite incapa- 
 ble for the moment of making any reply to it what- 
 ever. Upon the suggested marriage itself he had long 
 since made up his mind. Much as he personally dis- 
 liked young Jack, he must not allow his dislike to ap- 
 pear, if Rose accepted him. He could bring forward 
 no adequate reason for refusing parental consent, and 
 to show distaste for Rose's future husband would only 
 have the effect of parting him still further from Rose. 
 But he had clung, perhaps more than he knew, to the 
 hope that Rose would not in the long run accept Jack 
 Kirby, and here he was being asked to welcome and
 
 216 WATERMEADS 
 
 encourage the marriage even before Rose had been ap- 
 proached. That was the chief reason for his painful 
 disturbance of mind. 
 
 But there were others. Nobody could have been less 
 inclined than he to found himself upon his birth. If 
 the social position that was his by right of it had not 
 been complicated by the rapid decay of his fortunes, 
 he would never have given it a thought. But here was 
 this new rich man, whose immediate forbears would 
 scarcely have spoken to his without touching their 
 hats, treating him as a person of such small account 
 that he could come and talk about a marriage between 
 their respective families as if he were conferring an 
 honour. And worse still, he had not even shown him- 
 self alive to Rose's value, although he had spoken in 
 praise of her. With whatever feelings in his pride of 
 wealth he might choose to regard a man of much 
 higher lineage than his own who had no wealth to 
 back it, it was intolerable that he should look upon 
 that man's daughter, who was so fair and sweet, as 
 reduced in price. It was this consideration that stung 
 Rose's father to speech. 
 
 His voice trembled a little as he said : " There's no- 
 body in the world who might not think himself for- 
 tunate to marry my girl. You seem to think you can 
 buy her." 
 
 He raised a face that startled Lord Kirby almost 
 more than his speech. That well-dispositioned noble- 
 man was struck with instant compunction. " Oh, my 
 dear Mr. Conway," he protested. " What on earth 
 have I said that makes you take it like that? I know 
 well enough what your little girl is worth. Otherwise
 
 AN INTERVIEW 217 
 
 I shouldn't be so dead keen for Jack to marry her as 
 I am. She's the girl I want for him, above any other. 
 I've proved that, I think, by coming to you. In a 
 sort of way, you know, though not of course in the 
 same way, there's nobody Jack couldn't marry. But 
 I put all that aside." 
 
 " What do you put aside ? " Sydney's voice was 
 quite under control now. He was settling down to a 
 cold anger, for which he would find food in making 
 his antagonist declare his mind in all its native ugli- 
 ness. 
 
 Lord Kirby did not blink the question. He was well 
 used to controversy in which either side tried to dom- 
 inate the other, and the weapon he habitually used 
 was a frank statement of his own attitude, upon which 
 his opponent was invited to concentrate himself. 
 
 " What I put aside," he said dogmatically, but not 
 disagreeably, " and I do it because I don't care a 
 hang about it where the girl is so charming, and so 
 everything that she ought to be as yours is that if 
 my son marries her nobody could say that it is what's 
 called a good match for him." 
 
 " Why not ; if my daughter is what you say she is ? " 
 
 " You know well enough why, Mr. Conway." 
 
 " Yes, I do know why. You're a rich man, and 
 you've you've you've earned a peerage ' 
 
 " Why not say * bought a peerage,' if that's what 
 you mean? I didn't buy it, but we'll let that pass. 
 Well, with things as they are in the world today, the 
 son who will inherit my riches and my peerage might 
 be expected to marry either wealth or rank, or both. 
 If he marries your daughter, everybody who knows
 
 218 WATERMEADS 
 
 her, and whose opinion is worth having, will say he's 
 married a treasure. But everybody who doesn't know 
 her, and looks only at the outside, will say that he 
 might have done better for himself. 7 don't say so, 
 mind you, and I don't think so. I've proved it by 
 coming over here and asking you for your daughter 
 for a wife for my son. I've told you that the idea 
 of such a marriage gives me great pleasure, and I 
 mean it." 
 
 " You didn't say a word," said Sydney, still hot 
 with resentment, " that showed you had any idea in 
 your head but that I should jump at the chance." 
 
 Lord Kirby considered this, and laughed rather 
 awkwardly. " I suppose you've got me there," he be- 
 gan, but Sydney interrupted whatever he may have 
 been going to say further. 
 
 " You think that what you have to offer must have 
 such weight with me you a rich man and me a poor 
 one that you needn't consider the chief question at 
 all. I can assure you, anyhow, and you may believe 
 it or not, that your wealth and your title count for 
 absolutely nothing with me, beside the question of 
 what your son is in himself. And yet you've left that 
 out of account altogether." 
 
 This was quite a new light to Lord Kirby. " Do 
 you object to my son personally? " he asked. 
 
 " I detest him," Sydney rapped out. 
 
 Lord Kirby stared, out of protruding eyes filled 
 with amazement, and had nothing to say. 
 
 " I shouldn't have said that to you," Sydney went 
 on, " if you hadn't worked me up to it. As it's said, 
 we can't leave it at that. But before we come back to
 
 AN INTERVIEW 219 
 
 it I've got something else to say. I'm a poor man. 
 For anybody in my position I'm a very poor man. If 
 that's all you had to consider you might have a right, 
 or think you had, to come to me in the way you have. 
 But it isn't all. I think from what I know of the 
 world and I've seen a good deal of it that you 
 quite exaggerate your value. No doubt there are any 
 amount of families as good or better than mine who 
 would welcome a marriage for a daughter with your 
 son, because of what he could bring. But I'm quite sure 
 that there are a great many who wouldn't. The 
 paint's too new. For myself, I don't believe I've ever 
 been inclined to put too high a value on these things, 
 and if everything was right otherwise I shouldn't 
 think twice about my being what I am and what my 
 family has been for some generations. But I say that 
 with you it ought to count, and when you come and 
 tell me that for your son to marry my daughter would 
 be considered a misalliance for him, I say that you've 
 got your values wrong altogether." 
 
 Lord Kirby paid small attention to this. He 
 thought he knew his values at least as well as this pen- 
 niless squire. Money talked, all the world over, and 
 allied with a title, however new, it talked loudly. 
 Birth, unless it was something quite exceptional, only 
 whispered. Still, if he had trod on the corns of a 
 proud poor man, it had been done inadvertently. " I 
 seem to have got wrong with you altogether," he said. 
 " I know you come of a good old family, and I'm 
 from one that didn't amount to anything before I 
 made myself what I am. It does count with me. If 
 your girl had come out of a country parsonage I don't
 
 220 WATERMEADS 
 
 think I should have welcomed the idea as I do, though 
 I shouldn't have made trouble about it. Yes; it does 
 count with me. But being what I am you'll hardly 
 have expected me to come to you hat in hand. Or 
 perhaps you did. Well, I apologise for anything you 
 object to. I don't often apologise to anybody, and 
 when I do I mean it. Now tell me why you * detest ' 
 my son, as you say you do." 
 
 It is always difficult in controversy to keep up the 
 feeling that has instigated an exaggerated statement, 
 at least to one of any impartiality of mind. Sydney's 
 resentment had already begun to lessen when he an- 
 swered : " It's more than I meant to say. I don't like 
 the young man personally, but if he hadn't come here 
 always with the obvious intention of amusing himself 
 with my daughter, I shouldn't have felt anything 
 much against him. I shouldn't have thought about 
 him, either one way or the other." 
 
 " Well, he came here for your daughter. That 
 seems to have put you against him, though why it 
 should I don't know. You may put as much value as 
 you please on your family, or your ancestors, or how- 
 ever you like to express it, and as little as you please 
 on mine. But it seems to me simply ridiculous, as 
 things go nowadays, to make that a cause of offence. 
 I tell you this, that the bulk of the people I mix with 
 I'm not boasting about it, but it is so and per- 
 haps still more the people Jack mixes with, are at least 
 as high up in the world as you are, and all that sort 
 of thing isn't bothered about at all." 
 
 Sydney had an unholy gleam of joy at the thought 
 that he had touched him. " It isn't bothered about bv
 
 AN INTERVIEW 221 
 
 me," he said. " And I know quite well that you are 
 worth a good deal more than I am in the eyes of the 
 world. I grant you every bit of that. But you're 
 not so much higher that when you or one of your fam- 
 ily want intimacy with mine you're conferring a fa- 
 vour on us." 
 
 " Well, I know that, and I've never thought it." 
 
 " You've never thought anything else. As for your 
 son, naturally if he has taken a fancy to my daughter, 
 he wants to recommend himself to the rest of her 
 family, as far as it's worth his while. With me per- 
 sonally he thinks it quite enough that he is what your 
 money has made him. I should think he'd have had a 
 fit, if he had been told at any time that I wasn't de- 
 lighted at seeing him paying attention to my 
 daughter." 
 
 " Oh, then it's because he hasn't paid attention to 
 you personally that you're annoyed with him." 
 
 " It isn't anything of the sort. Or rather it's a lit- 
 tle bit of it, just as showing that he doesn't know 
 how to behave as a gentleman. He doesn't. He's 
 noisy and self-satisfied, and he bases himself on 
 money and on what he can get with it. That's why 
 I dislike him; and what he is to me he is to every- 
 body only with some people he finds it worth while 
 to disguise it." 
 
 Lord Kirby allowed himself a short period of re- 
 flection, sitting with his eyes on the ground and a 
 slight frown on his brow. Was it worth his while to 
 go on with it, or should he show offence by taking 
 his leave? One of the facts that decided him to stay 
 was that he felt no particular offence. He was not
 
 222 WATERMEADS 
 
 thin-skinned, and had had occasion, in the past, to 
 shut his eyes to such views of himself as had been ex- 
 pressed by Sydney. It would not be difficult to do 
 so now, especially as, coming from such a quarter, it 
 was of little account. Even in Meadshire Lord Kirby 
 was of more social importance than Sydney Conway, 
 and elsewhere there was no comparison whatever. 
 The point to decide was, whether he still wanted this 
 marriage to take place; and when he put that ques- 
 tion to himself, he found that he did. The poor man, 
 hurt and angry at being looked down upon by the 
 rich man, made an appeal to his not unkindly nature. 
 He could forgive his bitterness and put it aside. And 
 this particular poor man had made some impression 
 upon that side of him that was always on the alert 
 for social values. Sydney's bitterness may have 
 lacked something in dignity by being expressed at all; 
 but dignity had not been altogether absent from him. 
 A Conway of Watermeads was probably more apart 
 from the common herd of men in Lord Kirby's eyes 
 than in the eyes of the Conways themselves, and, if 
 it had not been for the poverty that was beyond cus- 
 tomary experience in such families, Lord Kirby would 
 never have treated his neighbour as of small account. 
 That neighbour's value had been in a large measure 
 restored in his mind by what had been said; and the 
 great house in which he was sitting, finer than the one 
 he had bought himself, and all that went with it, re- 
 minded him that, before the poverty had obtruded it- 
 self upon his notice, Watermeads and its occupants 
 had bulked as of some importance in his eyes. As 
 for the disagreeable and quite exaggerated criticism
 
 AN INTERVIEW 223 
 
 of Jack, there was obviously nothing in that beyond 
 a sense of pique. Jack had a more careless and fa- 
 miliar way with people than he had himself. That 
 was because Jack had, in his father's eyes, been born 
 to the wealth and station that he himself had only 
 earned, and was ' as good as anybody.' He found 
 Jack's manner wholly admirable, though in this case 
 he might have made a careless young man's mistake 
 in not paying enough attention to the vanities of a 
 man with a standing grievance. After all, the im- 
 portant matter was whether Sydney was prepared to 
 carry his resentment so far as to put obstacles in 
 the way of the marriage. Lord Kirby believed that 
 he would do so no more than he had believed it when 
 he had come into the house. And if he didn't, then 
 all the fuss he had made was about nothing. 
 
 Some such considerations as these passed very 
 rapidly through his mind, so rapidly that he raised 
 his eyes and spoke before the awkwardness of a pause 
 became apparent. 
 
 " I think you are quite wrong about my son," he 
 said. " There isn't much shyness about him that I'll 
 admit; but his manners are just the same as those of 
 other young men of the sort he's been brought up 
 among, and he has a good heart into the bargain, 
 which a lot of young men who are all right on the 
 surface haven't. I know him a good deal better than 
 you possibly can, and I say that the girl who marries 
 him would get a prize, even if he brought her nothing 
 but himself. I don't know whether I'm to understand 
 you as carrying your objections to him so far as to 
 refuse your daughter to him. If so I don't quite
 
 224 WATERMEADS 
 
 see why you should have allowed him to come 
 over here as much as he has, or let your daughter come 
 to us." 
 
 It was now Sydney's difficult part to reduce the 
 force of his own objections, and he felt that the price 
 to be paid for his outbreak was a high one. It was 
 in a tone almost approaching sulkiness that he said: 
 " I've already told you what my own opinion of him 
 is. I have seen him coming here and paying his at- 
 tentions to Rose with the utmost distaste. I've said 
 nothing to her, nor to anybody else, against him, in 
 the first place because a man who tries to impose his 
 own views upon his children in such matters as these 
 is a fool for his pains, and in the second because I 
 have hoped all along that if he asked her to marry 
 him she would refuse him. I hope so still, but I shall 
 do nothing to influence her, and if she accepts him I 
 shall make the best of it." 
 
 Lord Kirby began to harbour a suspicion that his 
 host was actually prepared to throw away all the ad- 
 vantages of a brilliant match for his daughter for 
 the sake of satisfying a foolish prejudice of his own. 
 
 " Then, after all, you are not going to object to 
 a marriage between the young people, if they can fix 
 it up together." 
 
 The slight note of contempt, or what Sydney took 
 to be such, was the pill he had to swallow. He swal- 
 lowed it with the best grace he could. " I can't say 
 that what I see objectionable in your son is enough 
 to make me refuse," he said slowly. " Sometimes I've 
 wished it was, and sometimes it very nearly has been. 
 No, I'm not going to object, but I'm going to do noth-
 
 AN INTERVIEW 225 
 
 ing whatever to help it on. Rose must decide for her- 
 self." 
 
 Lord Kirby had got all that he could expect to get, 
 though for all the satisfaction he had derived from the 
 interview he had much better not have come. " Oh, 
 well," he said, preparing to hoist himself out of his 
 chair and take his leave, " I'm sorry that the boy 
 should have offended you. I believe that when you 
 know him better, as I hope you will, you'll come to 
 like him. He's likable enough. As you're not pre- 
 pared to welcome the idea of a marriage, I suppose it's 
 not much good discussing the business side of the ar- 
 rangement. We can do that later, if the little girl 
 accepts him. You'll find me as anxious as you that 
 everything shall be done for her benefit that can be 
 thought of, and, if the time comes for us to have 
 another talk, I shan't be thinking of what has passed 
 between us in this one. Goodbye, Mr. Conway." 
 
 He held out his hand with a direct look that con- 
 tained neither offence nor cordiality. If Sydney could 
 have met it in the same way, they would have parted 
 with mutual respect as worthy antagonists, neither of 
 whom had gained any advantage over the other. But 
 the soft strain in Sydney's nature was already work- 
 ing. He rose from his seat, and said with a wry smile : 
 " Well, I've said things a good deal stronger to you 
 than I ever had any intention of saying to anybody. 
 But I've no quarrel with you. As far as you're con- 
 cerned it's quite possible to look upon your coming 
 over here in the way you have as a compliment." 
 
 This was on the face of it such a contradiction of 
 everything that had gone before that Lord Kirby may
 
 226 WATERMEADS 
 
 be pardoned for thinking it an entire capitulation. 
 Under that impression he behaved handsomely in re- 
 plying: "Oh, well, hard words break no bones, and I 
 shan't think twice of anything you've said that may 
 have annoyed me at the time. Besides, some of it may 
 have wanted saying. People like me, who have made 
 their own way, are a little apt to ride roughshod, you 
 know, Mr. Conway. Anyhow, you may take it for 
 granted now that if we can bring about this marriage 
 it will be gratifying to me in every way in every pos- 
 sible way. There are advantages on both sides, you 
 know. I hope, when you have thought it all over, 
 you'll be as pleased as I am with the idea." 
 
 " I'm afraid I shall never be that," said Sydney 
 quietly. " What I said just now I said with regard 
 to you only. I shall be very sorry if my daughter 
 accepts your son." 
 
 This last phrase stuck unpleasantly in Lord Kirby's 
 mind as he thought over the interview on his home- 
 ward way. It carried more conviction with it than 
 anything that had gone before, and it cut a good deal 
 of ground that had seemed absolutely safe and sure 
 from under his feet. It made it possible for him to 
 regard Jack, almost for the first time, apart from the 
 accident of his parentage. In the light of that acci- 
 dent, he was so eminently eligible that almost all 
 doubts of his acceptance by whomsoever he proposed 
 to had been omitted from his father's calculations. 
 Certainly none had ever entered his head with regard 
 to Rose, upon whom the deep satisfaction of her pa- 
 rents at the prospect of such a match for her, must 
 react, even if she had no more than the mere liking
 
 AN INTERVIEW 227 
 
 for Jack which was all that she had ever shown. But 
 if considerations that would appeal strongly to al- 
 most every man in Sydney Conway's position really 
 did have no weight with him, and he had set himself 
 against the marriage in spite of them, then Jack 
 would have his own way to make, just as if he were 
 any ordinary young man, with nothing to recommend 
 him but his own personality. Viewed in that light, he 
 was by no means so certain of success as his father 
 had anticipated. Lord Kirby had a tender regard for 
 little Rose, and it did not fit in with his ideas of her 
 that she should be affected towards marrying Jack by 
 what he could bring her. He had only thought of her 
 as indirectly disposed towards him by those consid- 
 erations under the joyous approval of her parents. 
 But if a cold dislike were to take the place of that 
 approval, the influences surrounding her would be all 
 the other way, and would be actually rather strong. 
 
 By the time he reached home, Lord Kirby was in- 
 clined to think that Sydney's opposition, even if it 
 should remain unexpressed, was of considerably more 
 importance than it had seemed to be. But when he 
 came to talk it all over with his wife he was somewhat 
 reassured. 
 
 " You may believe that he doesn't really want it," 
 she said. " / don't believe it for a moment. But sup- 
 posing it is so ! What can he do ? He'll have every- 
 body else against him. What you ought to have done 
 was not to talk to him at all, but to go to the Old 
 Wcarrior. You'd had a very different reception from 
 her."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 BELLAMY 
 
 IT was not at all in accordance with Sydney Conway's 
 nature that he should keep to himself anything that 
 was troubling him. The natural outlet of disturbance 
 of mind was denied him. By long use he had ac- 
 climatised himself to the unsympathetic and sometimes 
 actually hostile atmosphere that surrounded his wife. 
 He had found a way of living with her that reduced 
 friction to a minimum; but as it involved a treatment 
 of her that was never quite serious, its more or less 
 satisfactory results would have been destroyed if he 
 had gone to her with a tale of distress. Also, she 
 would have been quite certain to bathe his wounds 
 in acid instead of ointment, and it was years since 
 he had taken the risk of baring any of them to 
 her inspection. She was, in fact, herself the cause of 
 all the worst of them. But for the love he bore to 
 his children, and the pleasure he took in their com- 
 panionship, he would hardly have been able to support 
 the burden of her constant proximity. If he had been 
 a worse man he would have hated her. To love such 
 a woman was out of the question. None of her own 
 children were able to accomplish that feat, not even 
 her youngest, upon whom she conferred whatever af- 
 fection stirred in her absurd and self-bound nature. 
 That was perhaps Penelope's fault, but with the others 
 
 228
 
 BELLAMY 229 
 
 the utmost that could be expected was some remnant 
 of the feeling that they had had for her as little chil- 
 dren. As she made no demands upon their love, but 
 only upon their patience, which their equable natures 
 enabled them to satisfy, she affected the family hap- 
 piness less than she might have done. But in all es- 
 sentials she had shut herself off completely from her 
 husband and her children. 
 
 For a confidante Sydney was now accustomed to go 
 either to Elsie or to Rose, or to both of them together. 
 The growing up of his daughters had brought him a 
 great increase in comfort of mind. He had loved them 
 dearly as children, and made close friends of them, but 
 it had been a happy revelation to him to find in them 
 support as well as consolation. He was one of those 
 men whose essential virility goes along with a strong 
 feminine strain. It was natural to him to lean on 
 others, and he had learned to lean upon his daughters, 
 and especially upon Elsie, whose mind was more ro- 
 bust and direct than is common with girls of her age. 
 In material troubles he found satisfaction in the sym- 
 pathy and friendship of the Vicar, who, with even less 
 business capacity than he had himself, was yet ca- 
 pable of advising him, or at least of helping him to 
 make decisions for himself. It was perhaps curious 
 that these three should have been his chief refuge 
 against his own indecision and comparative weakness 
 of character, for Fred and he were extraordinarily 
 good friends, and he might have been expected to rely 
 more upon his son as he grew older, and began to 
 show a strain of efficiency, which, although not re- 
 markable in itself, was something in excess of what
 
 230 WATERMEADS 
 
 might have been expected of him. But unless the char- 
 acter of a son is markedly stronger than that of a 
 father, it seldom happens that the father is prepared 
 to relinquish the reins to the son, and a reliance upon 
 Fred would have meant something like that in Syd- 
 ney's case. 
 
 In his disturbance of mind about Rose, Sydney had 
 often thought of taking Elsie into his confidence. In- 
 deed, it had been hard work sometimes to refrain from 
 possibly embittered comment to her upon the unwel- 
 come attentions of Jack Kirby. But he had affected 
 blindness to what was going on, partly because he was 
 not sure that he would have Elsie's sympathy in his 
 intense dislike to it, partly because Elsie and Rose 
 were so much one in all things that to say anything 
 to Elsie would be much the same as saying it to Rose. 
 He did not know that in this matter the girls were not 
 one but two. If he had known it, he might have drawn 
 some comfort from the fact. 
 
 There was one person, however, who, he had reason 
 to believe, shared his dislike for Jack Kirby. This 
 was Bellamy, and when Lord Kirby had left him to 
 reflections that loudly cried for utterance to another 
 ear, he formed the characteristically sudden decision 
 to tell Bellamy all about it. 
 
 Bellamy was painting a picture at Sandford Hole. 
 He spent his mornings over it, and was always to be 
 found there from an early hour, when weather condi- 
 tions were suitable. Sydney went to find him immedi- 
 ately after breakfast on the morning following Lord 
 Kirby's visit. 
 
 There were a few words about the picture, which
 
 BELLAMY 231 
 
 was nearing completion. The still waters of the pool, 
 with the trees and the summer sky reflected in it, the 
 deep-grassed flowery banks, were delightfully sooth- 
 ing to the spirit. Sydney understood something of 
 the influences that had gone to form this young man's 
 character sage and quiet and reliable as he stood 
 by him, turning over in his mind the confidence he was 
 about to make to him. His own love of nature was 
 strong, and this was the scene of many of his hap- 
 piest hours, and one of the centres round which his 
 love for his inheritance twined itself. Bellamy seemed 
 somehow identified with Watermeads, and all that went 
 on there, as he slowly and patiently worked out his 
 interpretation of this well-loved corner of it. Sydney 
 felt an increased liking and respect for him as he 
 threw himself on the grass by his side, and opened up 
 his discourse. 
 
 Bellamy laid down his palette and brushes almost 
 immediately, and gave his whole mind to what was be- 
 ing said to him. His face wore its customary look of 
 gravity, but if Sydney had looked up at him he would 
 have found it more than usually interested. 
 
 It was rather a rambling statement, which was 
 heard to the end without comment. It made admis- 
 sions that had not been made to Lord Kirby. " I 
 can't put it altogether aside," said Sydney, " that this 
 would be a good marriage for Rose from a worldly 
 point of view. For one thing, she would be put quite 
 above all the sort of trouble that she has been brought 
 up amongst, poor girl. As far as money goes, and a 
 place in the world, she'd have all that; and it's right 
 that a father should consider these things. One
 
 232 WATERMEADS 
 
 doesn't want to give too much weight to them, and if 
 it means giving your daughter to a man just for the 
 sake of them, one wouldn't do it. What I can't make 
 up my mind about is whether disliking this young 
 man as heartily as I do I'm not giving them too lit- 
 tle weight. I know you don't care for him, Giles, but 
 you can probably see him with clearer eyes than I 
 can. Tell me what you think." 
 
 Bellamy allowed a moment to go by without speak- 
 ing. Then he said, in a voice not quite like his own: 
 " I think he's the most detestable creature of his sort 
 I've ever met ; but I can't pretend to be impartial about 
 him any more than you can." 
 
 Sydney passed by without understanding the im- 
 mense significance of the last admission. " Why, you 
 use the very words I did," he said. " I told Kirby 
 straight out that I detested him. But I'm bound to 
 say that I couldn't absolutely justify myself when 
 put to it. The personal factor was too strong. Fred 
 and the girls like him. Nothing I dislike in him goes 
 much below the surface. If I thought he was really 
 a wrong 'un, I shouldn't have any hesitation. I should 
 send him packing in double quick time. You don't 
 think he's a wrong 'un, do you? " 
 
 Bellamy spoke again with deliberation, but without 
 that note of repressed emotion in his voice. " I think 
 he 'is inferior, through and through," he said. "I've 
 watched him closely enough, and I've never seen any- 
 thing that gives one a chance of respecting him. His 
 good nature is the best thing about him, but it's 
 purely selfish. He makes himself agreeable to the peo- 
 ple he wants to be agreeable to him. He'd never take
 
 BELLAMY 233 
 
 the slightest trouble about anybody else. His man- 
 ners we needn't worry about; if he wasn't what his 
 father has made him, nobody would put up with them; 
 as it is, they have a sort of spurious air that deceives 
 people some people. They seem to me just like those 
 of a pushing counter-jumper." 
 
 Sydney laughed. He was enjoying this. " I 
 thought you said we needn't worry about his man- 
 ners," he said. 
 
 " Oh, they'll pass in the only son of a lord." 
 
 " Well, you seem to think pretty much as I do. But 
 you don't say any more than I do that he's a wrong 
 'un." 
 
 " What do you mean by a wrong 'un ? He wouldn't 
 swindle you. He'd have no temptation to; he's got 
 too much money. I don't believe there's much else he 
 wouldn't do to give himself pleasure." 
 
 " Have you any reason one has to ask one's self 
 that question and act on it to say that he isn't a 
 fit sort of fellow to give your daughter to? Suppos- 
 ing he loves her ! And she loves him ! " 
 
 " If she loved him," his voice shook a little again 
 " she might keep him straight, or she might not. 
 His love for her what's it worth? Does he love her 
 for what's in her nature? I say he's incapable of ap- 
 preciating it ; there's nothing in him to meet it or draw 
 it out. He's taken with her beauty, and when he gets 
 tired of that, what will be left? They've nothing in 
 common. His love's light; it isn't of the stuff that 
 gives promise of happiness." 
 
 Sydney spoke unwillingly. " One must be fair," he 
 said. " In the first stages, it's a girl's attractions
 
 234. WATERMEADS 
 
 her face, if you like to say so that count. He would 
 get to know her better. She's a girl that could make 
 any man happy if she loved him." 
 
 " I don't believe that type of man finds his hap- 
 piness in that way. He wants novelty and excitement. 
 He might keep some sort of affection for his wife, and 
 yet count her as nothing at all when it comes to pleas- 
 ing himself." 
 
 "Do you think he is like that?" 
 
 " Yes, I do. I know the type, and I've had a pretty 
 bitter experience." 
 
 There was a pause. Then Bellamy, who had been 
 speaking with far more fluency and freedom of manner 
 than Sydney had ever heard him use, broke out again. 
 " Look here," he said, " you've admitted me into an in- 
 timacy and friendship here such as I've never known 
 anywhere before. I want to tell you something. It's 
 what I wouldn't say except to a friend, but it seems 
 to me to have a bearing on what you've told me. It's 
 about my brother. He and I were the greatest of 
 friends. He is something like me in appearance, but 
 he's an infinitely more attractive fellow than I am, and 
 he could make anybody take to him if he wanted to. 
 He married the daughter of a neighbour of ours a 
 girl we'd both known ever since she was a child. Well, 
 I was in love with her myself, and I believe she might 
 have married me if he hadn't come between us. Don't 
 think there was anything to complain about in his do- 
 ing so; only he had never shown much interest in her, 
 and he had been away from home a great deal, and 
 always seemed to be falling in love. He came home 
 one autumn, and fell in love with her; she seemed to
 
 BELLAMY 235 
 
 come as a sort of revelation to him, and he was in 
 love with her, mind you, and it seemed to make a dif- 
 ferent man of him. But it was only for a time. You 
 know what happened, and it happened three years 
 after they were married, and a year after their child 
 was born. He was very fond of his wife, and devoted 
 to his child. You'd have said he had everything he 
 wanted. But he threw it all away." 
 
 He came to an abrupt end. " It's a sad story," 
 Sydney said. " What more is there of it ? " 
 
 " His wife is dead, you know. It killed her. She 
 loved him. She didn't know he was like that. He's 
 married the other woman since, but of course he isn't 
 happy with her. That may come to an end at any 
 time. I don't know what's happening. I haven't seen 
 him since. I couldn't, after the way he treated his 
 wife." 
 
 There was a long pause. Bellamy spoke again in a 
 different tone. " Well, that's why I can't look upon 
 a man who is light in his way of loving as the rest 
 of the world might," he said. " I can't be content to 
 leave it to chance. I wouldn't trust young Kirby 
 with his selfish indulgent nature, and his opportunities 
 of gratifying it I wouldn't trust him to make a good 
 husband to any girl. My brother was a better man 
 than he is, for all he made such a mess of things, but 
 they're just alike in that respect. Anything for pleas- 
 ure! I can see it as well as I can see anything, and 
 I see it much more plainly now than I did at first." 
 
 " Well, I feel more than ever that it's a risk," said 
 Sydney, after a long pause. " Still, it's a risk that 
 every marriage has to run. If a man has got himself
 
 236 WATERMEADS 
 
 into that kind of mess already, of course one would 
 be quite justified in making it a reason for rejecting 
 him only I think that in that case one would begin 
 earlier and stop him becoming intimate from the first. 
 I haven't done that, and with a man as young as 
 Kirby you can't say for certain that he will turn out 
 badly. You don't know enough about him." 
 
 " Well, I feel that I do." 
 
 " Yes, but my dear fellow, you can't look at the 
 question impartially any more than I can." 
 
 " No, I can't," said Giles. " I told you so at the 
 beginning. I'm in love with Rose myself." 
 
 He took up his palette and began to paint dili- 
 gently. But there was a flush on his cheeks, and he 
 hardly knew what colour he was putting on to the can- 
 vas. 
 
 " You're in love with Rose! " exclaimed Sydney. 
 
 " Yes, I am. I have been for a long time. I've 
 tried to hide it. I thought I should never fall in love 
 with a girl again. My first experience marked me 
 pretty deeply ; it has made a different man of me. I've 
 felt years older than I am until quite lately. It's 
 some relief to tell you what has happened to me, but 
 you needn't be afraid of my upsetting things. I'm 
 used to keeping my feelings to myself." 
 
 " But, my dear fellow ! To tell you the truth I've 
 had some idea that you you might be coming to like 
 Elsie in that way; you've been a good deal with her, 
 and oh, well, the idea just occurred to me." 
 
 Bellamy laughed. " Elsie can't have thought that," 
 he said. " We've been great friends. I dared not 
 trust myself to be too much with Rose. I'm not sure
 
 BELLAMY 237 
 
 that Elsie hasn't an inkling of the truth. But there 
 won't be any complications there." 
 
 " Oh, I didn't mean that. What I was going to say 
 was that the idea was pleasing to me. If it's Rose, 
 it will be just as pleasing in fact, a great deal more 
 so, because it would remove the other unpleasantness." 
 
 " It's very good of you to say that. There aren't 
 many men who would rather I married their daughter 
 than that Kirby's son did." 
 
 " I should think most men would, if they loved their 
 daughters. Only the snobs would prefer young 
 Kirby." 
 
 " Well, then, there are a good many snobs in the 
 world. I've got very little money, you know, and shall 
 never have much. That brother of mine was a spend- 
 thrift, amongst his other qualities, and we're not rich, 
 though my father has a good property." 
 
 " Like to like then, except that I've got practically 
 no money at all. My girls won't have a penny." 
 
 Bellamy looked at him with a smile. " Do you 
 really mean that you would welcome me as Rose's hus- 
 band ? " he asked. " She might marry anybody, as 
 they put it. She has already attracted to herself 
 what Lady Sophia calls the prize of the County." 
 
 " Oh, Sophia ! She thinks of nothing but that sort 
 of thing. Anyway, young Kirby isn't as big an egg 
 as that, however you like to look at him. I should be 
 sorry for the poor old County if he were. Could you 
 give Rose a comfortable home, Giles?" 
 
 " I might raise about six hundred a year, apart 
 from what I can make. That's beginning to count 
 for something, and may increase considerably prob-
 
 238 WATERMEADS 
 
 ably will, I should say. But I don't suppose I shall 
 ever touch the two thousand mark, with everything 
 included. I've nothing much to offer a girl like Rose." 
 
 " You've got more to offer her than she has ever 
 had, poor girl. It's good enough for me, Giles, and 
 you may be sure that she won't look at that side of it. 
 I wish you'd go in and win, and remove that Kirby 
 incubus from us." 
 
 Bellamy took up his brushes again. " I'll think 
 about it," he said, almost indifferently.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 MR. BLUMENTHAL 
 
 IT was not so curious, considering her remarkable od- 
 dities of character, that Mrs. Conway should have in- 
 vited Mr. Blumenthal to a tete-a-tete luncheon with 
 her at Watermeads, as that that gentleman should 
 have accepted the invitation. For Watermeads, as 
 has been said, was a three hours' railway journey 
 from London, with a two and a half mile drive tacked 
 on to the end of it, and Mrs. Conway had uncompro- 
 misingly announced that she could not send anything 
 to meet him, but that there would probably be a fly 
 at the station. 
 
 Mr. Blumenthal found a fly and drove up in it, 
 shortly before one o'clock. He wore a frock coat, a 
 silk hat, and patent leather boots, and carried a 
 neatly rolled umbrella with a gold top, though the 
 brazen August sky showed no sign of rain. He was 
 received at the door by Alice, in a clean cap and 
 apron, and shown through the great hall, upon which 
 he threw appreciative glances, into the parlour, which 
 was cool and inviting after the glare outside. So far 
 there had been little to indicate the extreme poverty 
 that brooded over Watermeads, and Mr. Blumenthal 
 had been told nothing about that poverty. Fred had 
 not sought to hide it from him. Mr. Blumenthal had 
 known that he was working with his cousin's firm, 
 
 239
 
 240 WATERMEADS 
 
 which was a sound and reputable one, and was about 
 to leave it for the still brighter promise of his uncle's 
 patronage. The name of the Right Honourable Mark 
 Drake was one to conjure with in the political party 
 with which Mr. Blumenthal, upon taking out his papers 
 of naturalisation, had identified himself. And it meant 
 money besides; Mr. Blumenthal happened to know 
 that. 
 
 But although the excessive poverty of Watermeads 
 had been concealed from Mr. Blumenthal, wittingly by 
 his daughter, unconsciously by Fred, he had none the 
 less received a series of slight shocks, which had some- 
 what aroused his keen critical faculty. The necessity 
 for the station fly was one of them. If not a motor- 
 car, a carriage and pair ought to have been expected 
 from such a house. The hurdles at the west gate, 
 which the flyman had had to get down to put aside, 
 provided the second. The opening of the door by a 
 maid of the appearance associated in Mr. Blumen- 
 thal's mind with respectable seaside lodgings, instead 
 of by a butler or a footman or both, as his own door 
 would have been opened, was the strongest. But the 
 imposing appearance of the house, the size of the great 
 hall, and the handsome staircase, had tended to mod- 
 ify the effect of these disappointments, and Mr. Blu- 
 menthal was merely a little puzzled, as he was left to 
 himself in the cool parlour, to reduce the moisture on 
 his face by hasty dabbings of his handkerchief, and to 
 wonder for the hundredth time what Mrs. Conway's 
 summons portended. 
 
 She had written quite politely, but rather in the 
 manner of one issuing a command, asking him for a
 
 MR. BLUMENTHAL 241 
 
 private interview on a matter of importance. The 
 rest of the family and their guests would be out for 
 the day. Would he kindly come by such and such a 
 train and leave by such and such another? They 
 would have plenty of time for their talk, and she 
 should be pleased to give him luncheon. Would he 
 oblige her by not mentioning her request to his 
 daughter, until after she had seen him? 
 
 The summons, remarkable enough, had not particu- 
 larly struck him as so. He was a kow-tower by na- 
 ture, and had formed an exaggerated opinion of the 
 importance of the people to whom fyis daughter was 
 about to ally herself, an opinion which Mrs. Con- 
 way's half gracious half peremptory letter had not 
 lessened. He knew very little of English life, outside 
 his City and suburban circles, though he thought 
 he knew a good deal. He wanted to get on so- 
 cially, and had formed the idea that the Conways 
 could help him. He was thus in an encouraging con- 
 dition to receive Mrs. Conway's proposal of a bar- 
 gain to be struck, with his money on the one side and 
 her family's status on the other, provided only that 
 she could find the right way of recommending it to 
 him. But he was quite unprepared to discover that the 
 striking of such a bargain was the purpose of her sum- 
 mons. All sorts of conjectures had passed through 
 his mind, from that as to whether he was to be ex- 
 amined as to his own personal fitness for the alliance 
 about to be contracted this accounted for the elab- 
 orate costume to an uneasy suspicion that some of 
 his dealings in the City might have come to those 
 exalted ears, and furnished matter for comment,
 
 242 WATERMEADS 
 
 though anything in that way was of course capable of 
 satisfactory explanation. The nearest he had got to 
 the truth was a possible discussion as to what he was 
 prepared to * put down ' for Freda, and in his slight 
 nervousness he had considerably increased this amount, 
 so that it could only be regarded as extremely hand- 
 some. 
 
 Waiting in the parlour, however, for Mrs. Conway's 
 appearance, he was inclined to reconsider this ques- 
 tion, or at least to leave it in abeyance till he should 
 see which way the wind blew. The parlour, charm- 
 ing as it was in its placid homeliness, was not the 
 sort of room likely to impress Mr. Blumenthal, whose 
 tastes ran to gilt and plush, and the more of them 
 the better. He did, however, know a great deal about 
 the value of pictures, and there were one or two hang- 
 ing on the walls which inclined the wavering balance 
 of his opinion about Watermeads once more to ap- 
 proval. He was busy examining one of them when 
 Mrs. Conway came in. 
 
 She was one of those women whose taste in dress 
 runs to all sorts of odd little pieces of silk and lace 
 and * trimmings,' tacked on according to a possibly 
 well thought out scheme, but creating the effect of 
 ornament rather overdone. No amount of orna- 
 ment, however, could ever strike Mr. Blumenthal as 
 too profuse, and Mrs. Conway appeared to him to 
 be a very well-dressed woman, as well as a majes- 
 tic one. 
 
 She did not shake hands with him, but bowed in a 
 stately and gracious fashion as she motioned him to 
 a seat. " I thought we might have our little talk be-
 
 MR. BLUMENTHAL 243 
 
 fore luncheon," she said, " unless you are very hun- 
 gry, Mr. Blumenthal." 
 
 Mr. Blumenthal was hungry after his journey, and 
 it was already half past one, at which time his habit 
 was to have finished a meal more substantial than 
 would agree with most men of middle-age who do not 
 go in for corrective exercise. But he politely dis- 
 claimed hunger, and took the chair indicated to him 
 with a smile of almost servile amiability. 
 
 He was a stout man of about fifty, with a florid com- 
 plexion and little dark moustache. His features were 
 not markedly Semitic, but were enough so, taken with 
 his name, to have given rise to the impression that he 
 was at least of Jewish origin. This, however, he had 
 always disclaimed, and was prepared to do so now, 
 forcibly, if it was that that was wanted to be discov- 
 ered about him. 
 
 Mrs. Conway made no apology for the possible in- 
 convenience she had put him to. " When one has some- 
 thing to discuss in private," she said, " it is better to 
 have a personal interview. That was why I asked you 
 to be good enough to come and see me at a time when 
 I happened to be alone. I am sorry that you should 
 have missed meeting my husband, but I quite hope that 
 in the future you will have other opportunities. At 
 present we are unable to ask a great number of peo- 
 ple to stay with us, but naturally, if your daughter 
 marries my son, we shall hope to have the pleasure of 
 seeing both you and Mrs. Blumenthal here." 
 
 It had not before occurred to her to hold out any 
 such promise, but she had been regarding Mr. Blu- 
 menthal during the progress of her speech, and was
 
 244 WATERMEADS 
 
 rather inclined to approve of him. The total unsuita- 
 bility of his attire for the purposes of his day had 
 not struck her, as it would have struck most people 
 accustomed to seeing men dressed in country clothes. 
 Her observant capacities did not run on those lines. 
 Mr. Blumenthal was a rich City man, and looked it. 
 His ingratiating manner also pleased her, as indicat- 
 ing a readiness to fall in with the views she was about 
 to express to him. 
 
 Mr. Blumenthal was delighted with her address. 
 He saw himself and his wife staying as guests in a 
 large country house, meeting all sorts of big * County ' 
 wigs he had all the names of the important residents 
 of this part of Meadshire at his fingers' ends and 
 talking about it afterwards. " I, too, am sorry not 
 to see Mr. Gonway," he said, " but it is a great bleas- 
 ure to make your acquaintance, Madam, and to hear 
 that my little Freda has had such a kind welcome." 
 
 " We are very pleased with Freda," said Mrs. Con- 
 way graciously. " She has earned the commendation 
 of all. Her manner towards myself is that of a 
 daughter towards a mother, which is exactly what it 
 ought to be, and naturally inclines me towards her." 
 Here she took a new breath. " Naturally, Mr. Blu- 
 menthal, a mother's chief thought in such matters as 
 these is for her children's happiness. If Freda had 
 been the daughter of one of our neighbours around 
 here, or of the large number of friends we have out- 
 side amongst people in a position like ourselves, 
 we should have welcomed this proposed marriage 
 warmly. She is a sweet girl I say it advisedly and 
 my own opinion is that Fred is assured of happiness
 
 MR. BLUMENTHAL 245 
 
 with her. I should not have cared for a moment about 
 anything that she might have brought with her; such 
 a thought would not have entered my head for a mo- 
 ment; it would have been utterly repugnant to me to 
 consider such a thing." 
 
 Mr. Blumenthal admired the easy flow of her dis- 
 course, and the play that she made with her shapely 
 hands. But his business habits of going directly to 
 a point, and his growing hunger, compelled him to 
 cut it short at this point. " Oh, yes, I quite under- 
 stand, Madam," he said. " Your marriages have been 
 made with people of your own sort, as you say, and 
 my Freda is not of your own sort. But she is a lady, 
 and very bretty, and I have spent, oh, colossal sums 
 of money in giving her every advantage, and the re- 
 sult is, Mrs. Gonway, that you are delighted with her, 
 and I am delighted, too, that you are delighted. But 
 that is not all. Freda is my only child, and I am 
 what you call a warm man. By and by I shall be a 
 millionaire. There is no doubt about that; I am not 
 far off it already, and I should like you to know it. 
 Freda will have my money after I am dead, and I in- 
 tend to provide her with a handsome dowry on her 
 marriage. How much I am not quite prepared to say, 
 but it will be a handsome dowry. It is what you call 
 quid pro quo, isn't it? Freda will have what your 
 young Fred can give her, and he will have what / can 
 give her. What you call gomfortable all round, eh?" 
 
 If Mrs. Conway had then and there demanded the 
 amount of Freda's dowry, Mr. Blumenthal would have 
 announced a sum rather less than he was prepared to 
 go to, but much in excess of what would have pro-
 
 246 WATERMEADS 
 
 vided for all that she had intended to bargain for. 
 But she wanted to talk * about it and about,' and did 
 not use her opportunity. 
 
 " That is quite satisfactory as far as it goes, Mr. 
 Blumenthal," she said. " I will not deny that, things 
 being what they are, the money side of the question 
 ** a consideration. I should notbe doing my duty by 
 myself or my family if I did not admit it. Now, I 
 don't know whether you are aware that the Conways 
 have lived here at Watermeads for nearly three hun- 
 dred years. They have always lived in the past in 
 considerable style, as became their position and the 
 size of their property. You have seen the outside of 
 this house, and you can judge for yourself what it 
 implies in the expenditure of its owners. In the past, 
 Mr. Blumenthal, the Conways would have had no need 
 to welcome a marriage for the eldest son of their house 
 that simply brought in money. They would have 
 scorned to consider it." 
 
 Mr. Blumenthal was beginning to wonder exactly 
 how much need there was of overcoming their scorn 
 in the present. The size of the house had certainly 
 impressed him, but so had the station fly, and the hur- 
 dles, and Alice in her cap and apron. He kept wary 
 silence for more to follow, with an agreeable anticipa- 
 tion of lunch in the background of his mind. 
 
 Mrs. Conway pursued her course, with intense ap- 
 preciation of her own powers of speech and clarity of 
 exposition. " That," she said, " has unfortunately 
 come to an end. Landed property is not what it was 
 not by any means and although the Conways are 
 as old a family almost as you will find anywhere,
 
 MR. BLUMENTHAL 247 
 
 and still live in the fine house which you have seen for 
 yourself, anything like the former state that was kept 
 up at Watermeads has unfortunately become impos- 
 sible. That things might not be better than they ac- 
 tually are I do not say. Mistakes have been made it 
 is not for me to say by whom or to impute blame to 
 anybody; I have always been ready with my advice, 
 
 and it has not always been taken. If it had been 
 
 However, that is not the point." 
 
 It was so very much not any kind of point that 
 should have been hinted at to Mr. Blumenthal that 
 that gentleman can hardly be blamed for wondering 
 if something rather serious was not at the back of 
 it. He knew that men of good birth are not immune 
 from temptations to financial irregularity, and he did 
 not want to be mixed up with any shady gentlemen of 
 quality who would sponge on him, and perhaps involve 
 his name in unpleasant rumour. 
 
 " Has Mr. Gonway been unfortunate in specula- 
 tion? " he enquired with a directness that demanded 
 an answer. 
 
 Mrs. Conway bethought herself. " I will not deny," 
 she said, " that at one period there was a gold mine, 
 which absorbed some thousands of pounds that could 
 more usefully have been employed otherwise. I was 
 entirely against the investment, but it held out such 
 hopes of a rich return that I allowed myself to be 
 overruled. Not one penny has ever come back from 
 it. There was a question of someone or something 
 turning out refractory, which I do not pretend to un- 
 derstand, but the result was as I had anticipated." 
 
 " Never touch a gold mine," said Mr? Blumenthal,
 
 248 WATERMEADS 
 
 with conviction. " What else has Mr. Gonway 
 dropped his money over ? " 
 
 Mrs. Conway did not notice his change of tone, 
 which was that of a man seeking for information and 
 meaning to have it. She was always ready to impart 
 information, especially to a new audience, and Mr. 
 Blumenthal appeared to her to be a highly satisfac- 
 tory one, owing to the interest he showed in what she 
 was telling him. 
 
 " I am not aware of any other investments of that 
 nature," she said. " When it turned out badly I took 
 a strong stand, and said, much as you have, Mr. Blu 
 menthal: ' A^o more gold mines!' In fact, no more 
 mines of any sort, or indeed anything that absorbs 
 money, which is badly wanted for other purposes, and 
 does not return it. I am happy to say that in that 
 respect my advice has been followed, though how far 
 that would have been the case if there had been 
 further sums of money that could have been treated 
 in that way I do not know." 
 
 " Then that was the end of money that could be 
 invested," suggested Mr. Blumenthal. 
 
 " That particular sum of money came out of the 
 proceeds of an important family portrait. It was by 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds, whom you may have heard of, 
 Mr. Blumenthal. It was of the Lady Penelope Con- 
 way, an ancestress of my husband's." 
 
 " I have seen the bicture in New York," said Mr. 
 Blumenthal. " It was sold for seventeen thousand 
 pounds." 
 
 " Unfortunately, we received nothing like that price 
 for it," said Mrs. Conway. " But what we did receive,
 
 MR. BLUMENTHAL 249 
 
 if part of it had not been invested in the way I have 
 told you of, would have set us right for a good many 
 years. As it was, other family treasures have had to 
 go, and I sometimes think that by and by we shall 
 have nothing left at all." 
 
 " You have been obliged to sell other bictures ? " en- 
 quired Mr. Blumenthal. 
 
 She told him what had had to be sold, and the prices 
 that some of the treasures had fetched; also the vari- 
 ous purposes to which the money had been applied. 
 It was satisfactory to pour out her troubles into the 
 ears of so sympathetic a listener. " Of course we 
 must educate our sons for the positions we hope they 
 will fill by and by," she said, " and in the way that 
 the sons of the family have always been educated. I 
 am far from grudging money for that. And we must 
 keep a roof over our heads, and provide ourselves with 
 food. I do all that I can to cut down expenses to the 
 utmost limit, but sometimes my task appears to me to 
 be almost hopeless. Ah, there is the luncheon bell. I 
 am sure you must be hungry after your journey; we 
 can finish our talk afterwards. I will ring for the 
 maid to take you up to my husband's dressing-room, 
 where you will find hot water and a clean towel. I 
 have no doubt that you would like to wash your 
 hands." 
 
 When Mrs. Conway and Mr. Blumenthal met again 
 in the dining-room, the atmosphere had somewhat 
 changed. Mrs. Conway had been asking herself 
 whither the conversation she had so much enjoyed 
 was leading, and been forced to the unpleasant conclu- 
 sion that she had let her tongue run away with her.
 
 250 WATERMEADS 
 
 She did not put it to herself quite like that, but was 
 obliged to acknowledge that her usual habit of sad- 
 dling anybody but herself with responsibility for the 
 family misfortunes must have given Mr. Blumenthal 
 a far deeper insight into those misfortunes than at 
 all suited her purpose. She spent rather a disagree- 
 able five minutes with her own thoughts until he re- 
 joined her, but made up her mind that the mistake 
 she had made was not past mending; and might even, 
 if properly handled, lead to good results. 
 
 As for Mr. Blumenthal, he followed the maid up to 
 Sydney's dressing-room with the uneasy feeling that, 
 in the expressive parlance of his business circle, he had 
 been * sold a pup,' and with the firm intention of exam- 
 ining the bargain a good deal more exhaustively be- 
 fore he closed with it. Why, if what this imposing 
 lady had been telling him was true, which there was 
 no reason to doubt, the family must be on the very 
 verge of bankruptcy. By her own showing they had 
 been living for years on the sale of their valuables, 
 and people did not do that, in Mr. Blumenthal's ex- 
 perience, until every other source of income was at 
 an end. The estate was sure to be mortgaged up to 
 the hilt, and might be foreclosed upon at any moment. 
 And if that happened, what became of the Conway 
 social value? Mr. Blumenthal's ideas upon such mat- 
 ters were not altogether in accordance with facts, but 
 it was quite clear to him that a County family di- 
 vorced from its estates, and not possessing a title, had 
 less to depend upon than a City family that might 
 come to possess both. No ; unless everything was 
 thoroughly examined, and found capable of being put
 
 MR. BLUMENTHAL 251 
 
 on a satisfactory business footing, Freda should be 
 summoned home forthwith. There were other fish in 
 the sea, amongst which she might disport herself. Mr. 
 Blumenthal was not going to pour golden money into 
 these waters. 
 
 His mood of suspicion was not lessened by the room 
 in which he was shown to wash his hands. If it re- 
 flected its owner's tastes, as it did, it reflected none 
 that were likely to find favour with Mr. Blumenthal. 
 It .was a large square room, like most of the rooms 
 at Watermeads, facing south. Sydney liked plenty 
 of air apd plenty of light, and had long since ban- 
 ished both curtains and blinds from the windows. The 
 carpet had disappeared at about the same time. It 
 had worn into holes, and Sydney had said that he pre- 
 ferred bare boards. He also liked plenty of floor 
 space, so the large four-post bed had been removed 
 at the time of his marriage, and a small iron one had 
 since been put into a corner of the room. The other 
 furniture was old and solid, but hardly corrected the 
 impression made by the large bareness and the small 
 iron bed. The paper .on the walls was faded and 
 stained, the paint of the woodwork had peeled and 
 cracked in the sun, the ceiling had fallen in one cor- 
 ner, but not extensively enough to demand the repara- 
 tion of the whole, and the lathes had been left show- 
 ing. 
 
 Sydney's toilet accessories were of the simplest. 
 Mr. Blumenthal brushed his sleek black hair with a 
 wooden-backed brush that had cost a few shillings 
 when all its bristles had been intact, which now they 
 were not, and looked with surprise at other toilet
 
 252 WATERMEADS 
 
 articles which formed a marked contrast to the heavy 
 silver that crowded his own dressing-table at home. 
 A threadbare dressing-gown hung from a hook on one 
 of the doors; an apparatus for the exercise of mus- 
 cles was fixed to the other. 
 
 There were many pictures on the walls, but none of 
 them were of any value. Mr. Blumenthal derived 
 some comfort from the names attached to some of the 
 old photographic groups, of which there was a large 
 number, but the comfort was small. The Conway con- 
 nections and status in the past were beyond doubt. 
 The trying question was, what were they worth in 
 the present?
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 AN OFFER 
 
 MRS. CONWAY had ordered quite a nice little lunch for 
 herself and Mr. Blumenthal. With late dinners once 
 more the order of the day, it was possible to make up 
 tasty little dishes to replace the joints and puddings 
 of the usual mid-day meal. There was a vegetable 
 soup, a dish of stuffed eggs, and another of kromeskis. 
 The sweet was a gooseberry fool, and there were lit- 
 tle biscuits and squares of cheese to finish up with. 
 There was a choice of beverages between ginger ale 
 and cold water, and a small cup of coffee was provided 
 afterwards. 
 
 Unfortunately, Mrs. Conway forgot to invite Mr. 
 Blumenthal to smoke when it came to this stage. 
 Under the soothing influence of one of the expensive 
 cigars that he carried in his pocket, he might have for- 
 gotten the various voids that his meal had done lit- 
 tle to fill. But he did not like to ask for permission, 
 and sat with a savage feeling of baulked desire always 
 increasing upon him, while his hostess held forth upon 
 a variety of subjects, none of which had any bearing 
 upon what was in both their minds. 
 
 Mr. Blumenthal was very near to * jucking the whole 
 goncern,' ordering his fly round forthwith, and driv- 
 ing back to the station hotel at Sailsby for a satis- 
 factory meal before taking the train back to Lon- 
 
 253
 
 254 WATERMEADS 
 
 don. But he wanted to see more of Watermeads, and 
 especially the pictures, and controlled himself suffi- 
 ciently to ask politely if he might be shown them. 
 
 Mrs. Conway graciously conceded the request. 
 There was yet an hour and a half before Mr. Blumen- 
 thal need leave to catch his train. When they had 
 gone over the house, perhaps they might finish their 
 talk on the terrace behind it. It was cool and shady, 
 and it would be pleasant to be out of doors. 
 
 Mr. Blumenthal made up his mind that he would 
 smoke when they were out of doors, with or without 
 permission, and lost something of his acute irritation 
 and discomfort of body as he made the decision. He 
 was interested in the pictures, and especially in the 
 reputed Holbein, about which he asked a great many 
 questions as he stood before it. " Oh, a Holbein, 
 no ! " he said, throwing out his hands when he had 
 closely examined it ; " but it is a beautiful bigture. 
 If Mr. Gonway would like to sell it, I will give him 
 five hundred pounds for it and take my chance. But 
 I should not try to sell it again. I should geep it." 
 
 " I don't think it is in the least likely that my hus- 
 band would sell it," said Mrs. Conway, with hauteur. 
 " It is a family portrait, and in spite of what has been 
 said is almost certainly by Holbein." 
 
 " By Holbein, no," said Mr. Blumenthal again. 
 " By some one of his school probably yes. But it is 
 a beautiful bigture, and I will give Mr. Gonway a 
 thousand pounds for it. It is zertainly not worth any- 
 thing like that, but when I like a bigture I do not mind 
 what I give for it." 
 
 He produced one or two instances of his picture-
 
 AN OFFER 255 
 
 buying feats, to which Mrs. Conway listened with cold 
 politeness. The very mention of money seemed to be 
 abhorrent to her, and the impression she created, or 
 would have created but for the talk before luncheon, 
 was that it was quite out of the question that anything 
 whatever should be sold out of Watermeads, and that 
 it was indelicate to suggest it. She promised, how- 
 ever, as Mr. Blumenthal pressed the point, to mention 
 his offer to her husband, and there the matter was 
 left. 
 
 Mr. Blumenthal's sharp black eyes were used to 
 their utmost capacity as they went over the various 
 show rooms of the house, but he made no remarks 
 upon the state of them, and by the time they were set- 
 tled on the garden terrace, Mrs. Conway had recov- 
 ered the greater part of her assurance of mind, and 
 was prepared to come to the point at once and finish 
 it all off before Mr. Blumenthal had recovered from 
 the impression created by his tour of inspection. 
 
 She cleared her throat preparatory to beginning 
 her speech, but Mr. Blumenthal, who was feeling 
 rather better, with a fragrant cigar between his teeth, 
 frustrated her. " Well, Mrs. Gonway," he said, in a 
 slightly more familiar manner than he had hitherto 
 used, " I am glad you have given me the obbortunity 
 of seeing something of how it is here. Without going 
 into questions more fully than is possible just at pres- 
 ent, I would not led my Freda marry your Fred as it 
 is now brobosed. Bot I think we might bossibly come 
 to an amigable understanding. What I would do 
 would be to dake over the broberty as it stands, with 
 the house and all its gontents, and do it up for the
 
 256 WATERMEADS 
 
 young beoble to live in it. I would also brovide them 
 with a suitable income. That is my offer, subjegt to 
 examination by lawyers as to amount of liability to 
 be gleared off the estate, about which I know noth- 
 
 ing." 
 
 Mrs. Conway had not quite taken it all in, but it 
 sounded very much like what she had been intending 
 to propose herself with one small exception of detail. 
 " I don't think," she said graciously, " that it would 
 be the best arrangement that could be made for the 
 young people to live here in this house with us, though 
 of course after my husband's death they will come 
 here as a matter of course. There is a very charming 
 house " 
 
 " Oh, I was not brobosing that they should live here 
 with you, Mrs. Gonway," Mr. Blumenthal interrupted 
 her. " That would never do. You have made it quite 
 clear to me that you cannot go on living here much 
 longer in any gase. What I therefore suggest is that 
 you should give up the house at once to your eldest 
 son, who as you say will have it as a madder of course 
 by and by. You will be relieved of an ingubus and a 
 whide elevant, and the young gouble will be handsomely 
 brovided for, and will be able to cut a dash in the 
 style of old times that you have told me about." 
 
 Mrs. Conway was collecting her faculties for of- 
 fended speech, but Mr. Blumenthal gulped down the 
 remainder of his coffee and rose from his seat. " Well, 
 that is my offer," he said, holding out his hand, " if 
 you will be good enough to talk it over with your 
 husband and ask him to write to me. Now I will drive 
 back to the station. I can find the fly for myself.
 
 AN OFFER 257 
 
 Goodbye, Mrs. Gonway, and thank you for a very 
 pleasant meeting." 
 
 He had shaken hands and taken himself off with a 
 quick step, before Mrs. Conway had time to open her 
 mouth. She opened it, nevertheless, when she was left 
 alone, and sat where she was for some time before she 
 bethought herself to close it. When she had closed 
 it she still continued to sit where she was until Parker, 
 Freda's maid, came out to her with her head held high 
 and a supercilious look upon her face that Mrs. Con- 
 way found it hard to put up with. " Mr. Blumenthal 
 asked me to remind you, ma'am," she said, " of the 
 message he sent to Mr. Conway about a picture he 
 wishes to buy." 
 
 Then Parker went indoors again, still carrying her 
 head and her nose high. And Mrs. Conway sat on 
 where she was. 
 
 It is doubtful whether the good lady had ever found 
 herself in such difficulties as to the best way in which 
 to carry on a discussion with her husband as when 
 the picnic party returned home, and she had to give 
 an account of her late interview. It did not at first 
 transpire that she had invited Mr. Blumenthal to it. 
 He seemed to have dropped in to luncheon in a casual 
 sort of way, and then behaved in a most * unaccount- 
 able ' manner. But a very few questions put Sydney 
 in possession of the facts of the case, and he showed 
 such dismay that Mrs. Conway was driven to defence 
 of her action almost immediately. As, for once in 
 a way she had been forced to admit to herself that she 
 had made a mistake, if not a series of them, she was 
 not so much at her ease as usual in her impartial ap-
 
 258 WATERMEADS 
 
 portionment of blame all round, but would probably 
 have argued herself into her customary attitude of 
 frustrated righteousness if she had met with enough 
 opposition. 
 
 But Sydney said quietly : " I think we had better 
 have Fred in and tell him about this. It's rather seri- 
 ous, mother." He went out of the room at once, and 
 for the first time in her life Mrs. Conway found her- 
 self in some disquietude at the prospect of a discus- 
 sion with one of her children. 
 
 Fred fortunately found some humour in the con- 
 templation of Mr. Blumenthal under the conditions re- 
 vealed to him, which eased the awkwardness, though in 
 the main he was inclined to take the matter more seri- 
 ously than his father. 
 
 " I could have told you, if you'd asked me," he said, 
 " that he was a difficult customer, mother. He's a 
 jolly obstinate one, too. If he's got it into his head 
 that Freda isn't doing as well for herself as he wants 
 her to, he won't make any bones about bringing our 
 engagement to an end." 
 
 " That, I should think, would be a matter for Freda 
 herself," said Mrs. Conway. " If Freda is the girl I 
 have always taken her to be, and I have no reason to 
 suppose she is not, in spite of the unaccountable way 
 in which her father has behaved, she will not allow him 
 to bring the engagement to an end." 
 
 " She isn't of age yet," said Fred. " Besides, al- 
 though I'm not marrying her for her money, it would 
 hardly be fair on her to cut her off from it. 7 can't 
 give her what she ought to have in that way; I wish 
 I could. I can't marry her on the four hundred a
 
 AN OFFER 259 
 
 year Uncle Mark is going to give me, and I don't know 
 when I shall have any more. It would mean asking 
 her to wait indefinitely." 
 
 " The man is quite right," said Sydney, " in saying 
 that we can't afford to live at Watermeads much 
 longer. When you get another point of view like that, 
 it brings things home to you. I'm not sure that it 
 wouldn't be the best thing to accept his offer, and make 
 the change now, once for all." 
 
 " Pray do not talk in that absurd way, Sydney," 
 said Mrs. Conway. " I may have made a mistake in 
 trying to discuss affairs with such a man pray how 
 could I know what he would turn out to be? but 
 there is no necessity to show offence with me by talk- 
 ing nonsense at me." 
 
 " He probably thinks," said Sydney, " that Water- 
 meads is heavily mortgaged. I suppose most people 
 would have raised mortgages before they began to 
 make the economies that we have been making for 
 years past. I haven't done it because I've always rec- 
 ognised that if things didn't go better, and we had to 
 sell the place, we should have to have something to 
 live on. I'm afraid you must have given him the idea 
 that things are worse than they really are, mother. 
 However, it's no use talking of that now. The mis- 
 chief's done, and we had better make up our minds 
 how we are going to mend it." 
 
 " Certainly not by forsaking our home just when 
 affairs seem to have taken a turn for the better," said 
 Mrs. Conway ; " and as for the mischief that you say 
 has been done, Sydney, I should wish to remind you 
 that you have not heard all that passed between Mr.
 
 260 WATERMEADS 
 
 Blumenthal and myself. If you had you would not be 
 so ready with your blame for my having made an ef- 
 fort abortive, it is unfortunately true, but still an 
 effort to put matters on a satisfactory basis for all 
 concerned. However, that is not the point. I am 
 quite sure that Fred would be the very last one to 
 wish that himself and his wife should take the place 
 of his father and mother." 
 
 " No, I shouldn't like that at all," said Fred quickly, 
 " and I don't think Freda would like it either." 
 
 " My dear boy," said his father kindly, " I know 
 very well how you'd be likely to feel about it. But I 
 think some arrangement might be come to with Blu- 
 menthal that would not make it seem odd that you 
 should come and live here. After all, lots of people 
 in our position have to let their houses because they 
 can't afford to live in them. We ought to have let 
 Watermeads long ago, before it got too dilapidated 
 for anybody to take. What we might arrange would 
 be simply to let it to Fred, whom we would rather have 
 here than anybody. The rent would be low, because 
 a lot of money would have to be spent on putting it 
 into order, but we should get rid of the burden of it, 
 and should be much more comfortable in a smaller 
 house. The property still brings in something in 
 fact, enough for us to live on, better than we live now." 
 
 " I think," said Mrs. Conway, " that the whole sug- 
 gestion is preposterous ; and if you had heard the way 
 in which it was made " 
 
 " It doesn't much matter how it was made, mother," 
 said Sydney. " Mr. Blumenthal is a business man and 
 probably made his business proposition in his usual
 
 AN OFFER 261 
 
 way. It isn't a bad one, you know for us, and we 
 ought to be able to come to terms with him when he 
 hears that there's no mortgage on the house, and very 
 little on the land. What I should like to do would 
 be to take over the Manor Farm. It would be a de- 
 lightful house to live in if we could raise some money 
 to make a few alterations." 
 
 " What I was prepared to suggest to Mr. Blumen- 
 thal," said Mrs. Conway, " was that Fred and Freda 
 should live at the Manor Farm, which Mr. Blumenthal 
 should do up for them, and that money should be pro- 
 vided to put the estate upon a paying basis." 
 
 Sydney stared at her, and then laughed rather rue- 
 fully. " Really, mother ! " he said. " I know you al- 
 ways act for the best, but don't you think that I 
 might have been consulted before these negotiations 
 were entered into? Well, I won't ask for an answer 
 to the question. I'm sure that you won't act in that 
 way again, and that's all that really matters now. I 
 think I will get into communication with Mr. Blu- 
 menthal, as he suggests. I'm not sure you haven't done 
 as well for us as if you had had your own way. I'm 
 tired of the struggle. It will be a happy day for me 
 when Fred can take it on with a better chance of suc- 
 cess than I have ever had. Dear old boy, I shall take 
 just as much pleasure in the revival of Watermeads for 
 you, as I should for myself. And if we can manage 
 it we shall be living next door, so to speak, and shall 
 share in all the fun that seeing the place lift up its 
 head again will bring. So I say, Hurrah for Fred 
 and Freda at Watermeads, and the rest of us living 
 happily at Manor Farm."
 
 262 WATERMEADS 
 
 " As usual, Sydney," said Mrs. Conway, " you are 
 ready to let a new idea run away with you. No doubt 
 it would provide you with amusement for the time be- 
 ing to make a complete change, but 
 
 " If I could raise a thousand pounds," said Syd- 
 ney, " I would make such a house of Manor Farm as 
 anybody in the world would be pleased to live in. It 
 would be much more than big enough for us, and with 
 the income we should have we should be able to live 
 like other people and see our friends. Oh, the relief 
 of having tl.2 burden removed, and being able to en- 
 joy life without that shadow always in the background 
 on one's mind ! It has been just as heavy on you as 
 on me, mother. You've borne your part. You'd be 
 more yourself living in a charming house like that with 
 everything nice about you than struggling on in a cor- 
 ner of this one. Let's make up our minds to it, I 
 say. Nothing else would be altered. We should be 
 what we've always been here, only more able to play 
 the part we used to play in the old days." 
 
 " I don't know what on earth Freda and I should 
 do with a house like Watermeads," said Fred. " I'd 
 much rather live at Manor Farm myself, and have you 
 here, Dad, if we could bring Blumenthal to see it." 
 
 " And pray is not that precisely what I ventured 
 to suggest myself?" enquired Mrs. Conway, "and 
 was treated with scorn for the suggestion." 
 
 " Blumenthal wouldn't see it," said Sydney. " Why 
 should he? I wouldn't take it from him either. Why 
 should I? I don't want him to do anything for me; 
 whatever he likes to do for his daughter that's 
 another thing. If what he does happens to suit me,
 
 AN OFFER 263 
 
 so much the better. And this does suit me, better than 
 anything I could have imagined. We could make a 
 glorious thing of the garden at Manor Farm. I'd al- 
 most rather work at that than at this garden ; it's 
 more compassable. As for furnishing, I should bar- 
 gain that we took what we wanted -from here. It would 
 hardly be missed, and we shouldn't take the very best 
 things. If it comes to be arranged I should want to 
 give it a proper start. The house wants a good deal 
 of adapting. I wonder if there is anything we could 
 sell that we don't particularly want the very last 
 sale of anything out of Watermeads it would be." 
 
 Mrs. Conway had been thinking. A phrase of her 
 husband's had struck her. If they left Watermeads 
 for Manor Farm they would still be the same as they 
 had always been. That was so, of course. And she 
 understood that it was not proposed to part with the 
 property, but only to let the house, as it were. Freda 
 was amenable, and obviously devoted to herself. She 
 would not want to arrogate to herself a position that 
 rightly belonged to her mother-in-law, even if she did 
 live in the great house. In fact, it would be natural 
 that she should lean on her for advice and support, 
 in a situation in which she would not at first find 
 herself at ease. Mrs. Conway saw herself almost as 
 much at the head of affairs at Watermeads, with 
 Freda nominal mistress there, as she was now, and 
 under conditions that would give more scope for her 
 genius than she had hitherto enjoyed. 
 
 " For myself," she said, " there would be nothing 
 derogatory in leaving Watermeads itself for a house 
 that was at one time the Dower House. Under cer-
 
 264 WATERMEADS 
 
 tain circumstances, which it would be painful to name, 
 it would be the natural place for me to live in. If I 
 had only myself to think of, I think I should prefer 
 it; it is simply because I do not think only of myself 
 that I should wish the idea more closely examined be- 
 fore it is seized hold of as if it were the one thing 
 that we had always desired to complete our happiness. 
 That is the mistake that is always being made. An 
 idea is new; therefore that idea is delightful. Novelty, 
 novelty, novelty. I sometimes think " 
 
 " There's a lot in what you say, mother," said Syd- 
 ney with a laugh. " One does welcome change, espe- 
 cially when almost any change one could have would be 
 for the better. But in this case there's no doubt about 
 it being for the better. We shall be able to live within 
 our income and enjoy life. That puts it in a nut- 
 shell. All the anxieties will be swept away, and that's 
 enough to make one sing for joy." 
 
 " You talked just now about selling something to 
 provide money for alterations at Manor Farm," said 
 Mrs. Conway. " I am absolutely against these sales, 
 as I have often said. Beautiful things disappear, and 
 in the long run the money for which they are sold dis- 
 appears too. But if it is absolutely necessary that 
 another picture should be sold I should stipulate 
 that it should be the last Mr. Blumenthal has taken 
 a fancy to the Holbein, and offers to buy it for a 
 thousand pounds." 
 
 By the end of the day Mrs. Conway had more than 
 recovered her equanimity. She had been derided, she 
 had been blamed. What she had done with the sole 
 purpose of helping others, while obliterating all con-
 
 AN OFFER 265 
 
 siderations of self, had been treated as if she, of all 
 people, were least capable of devising a workable 
 scheme, and carrying it through. And yet, look at 
 the result! Her husband had been all the evening 
 more light-hearted and younger in appearance and 
 manner, than she had seen him for a long time. Her 
 son was to be put into a position which, but for her, 
 he would not have filled for years to come. Her other 
 children were delighted with the changes that were 
 coming. She breathed heavily, as she thought it all 
 over. For herself, of course, it was the end of all 
 things. Her husband, with his light careless nature, 
 might take pleasure in his new toy, and forget all that 
 his renunciation meant; for her that was impossible. 
 Well, she must go on to the end, strong but belittled. 
 Some day, perhaps, her worth would be known.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 FRED IS DISTURBED 
 
 LADY KIEBY had invited all the young people of the 
 immediate neighbourhood to dine and dance at Prittle- 
 well House. She had given only three days' notice, 
 but there were few refusals, and the company she 
 managed to collect stretched the capacity of her din- 
 ing-room to the utmost, and gave her ball-room the 
 effect of being well-filled, while yet leaving comforta- 
 ble room for everybody to dance. 
 
 Jack Kirby arrived at Prittlewell from Cowes, just 
 an hour before dinner-time. He had asked for this 
 party, and it had been a matter of discussion between 
 his father and mother whether the request had not 
 betokened some serious intention on his part. Had he 
 made up his mind to propose, or was it to be a sort 
 of last look round amongst the pretty girls who would 
 be gathered together, so that he might judge whether 
 Rose still shone above the rest, and so make up his 
 mind to take the plunge? Lady Kirby inclined to the 
 latter view, Lord Kirby to the former, because of what 
 Jack had already said to him. But on cross-examina- 
 tion this had turned out to be less definite than he 
 had led his wife to suppose. Jack had spoken in high 
 praise of Rose's beauty. His father had told him that 
 nothing would please him better than for Jack to 
 marry Rose. Jack had said that he had a damn good 
 
 266
 
 FRED IS DISTURBED 267 
 
 mind to do so, and it was on this foundation that Lord 
 Kirby had built the hopes which had impelled him to 
 talk it over with Sydney Conway. 
 
 The party from Watermeads drove over to Prittle- 
 well in the ramshackle old landau hired from the Con- 
 way Arms. The three girls and Olivia were inside, 
 and Fred on the box. The almost continuous fine 
 weather of the past three months had broken at last, 
 and the night was cold and damp. Otherwise the car- 
 riage could have been left open, and Fred could have 
 talked to the girls. As it was, he was reduced to a 
 duologue with the driver, or to the solace of his own 
 thoughts. The driver had a vein of taciturnity, but 
 he liked Fred, as did most people around Watermeads, 
 and would have been willing to talk to him during the 
 five mile drive, if Fred had produced his usual amia- 
 ble loquacity. But Fred preferred his own thoughts, 
 and sat silent for the better part of the drive. 
 
 His thoughts, however, were not so happily serene 
 as might have been expected from the newness of his 
 engagement and the hours of pleasure he was about 
 to enjoy in the company of his beloved. In the first 
 place he had had a little tiff with Freda, which, al- 
 though it had been brought to a close with capitula- 
 tion on her part, and a kiss to follow, still disturbed 
 him. Freda had first of all objected to driving five 
 miles in a slow hired fly. Why couldn't they get a 
 motor from somewhere? She was sure her father 
 would pay. Fred had refused this vicarious offer, 
 with some dignity, and she had given in with a shrug 
 of the shoulders, but with no very good grace. She 
 had objected still more to Olivia coming with them,
 
 268 WATERMEADS 
 
 and Fred had had hard work to overcome this ob- 
 jection. She had said ugly things about Olivia, and 
 about his always wanting her to be everywhere with 
 them. He had tried to reason with her and to point 
 out how impossible it was to tell Olivia that they could 
 not take her with them, since neither she nor Elsie nor 
 Rose would ever have thought of any other arrange- 
 ment. She had accepted nothing that he had said, but 
 again had given way pettishly, and said she supposed 
 she should have to put up with it. Reconciliation had 
 followed, and Fred's distress at her unreasonableness 
 had been somewhat lessened by the reason she had 
 only then given for objecting to have Olivia with them. 
 If there had only been four of them he would have been 
 in the carriage with her. As it was she would have to 
 ' bore herself stiff ' for a crawl of nearly an hour. It 
 really was rather hard on her that his place should be 
 taken by Olivia, and she hated to think of his sitting 
 outside getting wet, if it rained, as it probably would. 
 
 The sense of dismay and unhappiness returned to 
 Fred as he sat beside the taciturn driver, and thought 
 it all over again. The solicitude she had shown on 
 his account, and her desire to have him with her, which 
 had made it easy for him to accept her kiss of rec- 
 onciliation, did not balance the memory of her unrea- 
 sonableness, or the hurt she had done herself. Why 
 should she * bore herself stiff ' in the company of 
 Elsie and Rose, even if her right to dislike Olivia for 
 no apparent fault were conceded? The phrase lit up 
 a good deal that had caused Fred a vague uneasiness. 
 He remembered now that neither Elsie nor Rose had 
 said anything to him in praise of Freda for some days
 
 FRED IS DISTURBED 269 
 
 past. She had once or twice said things about them 
 which, while nothing like the praise she had been 
 pleased to express at first, had prevented his think- 
 ing of her as having drawn back in her liking for 
 them. But he saw now that the three girls had hardly 
 at all been alone together in the way that would have 
 been natural if there had been the friendship and af- 
 fection between them that might have been expected, 
 and that all three of them were surely capable of evok- 
 ing. Freda had made a great friend of Penelope, and 
 they seemed always to have something to talk about 
 together. That was satisfactory, of course; Penelope 
 could hardly help being improved by her intercourse 
 with Freda. But surely her society ought not to 
 count above that of Elsie and Rose! 
 
 Fred had been made rather unhappy, too, by the 
 obvious pleasure which Freda took in the society of 
 the young men who had come to Watermeads. Giles 
 Bellamy she had told him definitely that she did not 
 like, and he had not shown himself in the least anxious 
 to ingratiate himself with her. But Edward Probert 
 she had almost seemed to be ' making a set at,' and 
 it had only been her reiterated laughing assurances 
 to Fred that it was only he whom she loved, and that 
 her friendship with Edward meant no more than if 
 he had been Fred's brother as she now thought 
 he would be some day that had allayed definite pangs 
 of jealousy. With none other of the young men whom 
 she had met had she acted in quite that way, but she 
 had seemed to take an interest in all of them, to be 
 testing and trying them, to wish to evoke their ad- 
 miration. There was no doubt that her manner was
 
 270 WATERMEADS 
 
 more lively, and her satisfaction greater, when she 
 was surrounded by young men, than when she was 
 alone with him and his family. Sometimes, when she 
 had been gay and bright in a crowd, she had shown an 
 absolute indifference to him that had wounded him 
 sorely. She had always made it up to him afterwards, 
 but it had left its mark. It was as if the indifference 
 were the basis of her attitude towards him, and she 
 wished to hide it, but could not help it peeping out. 
 
 It was not possible, however, for a young lover in 
 the early exaltation of his acceptance to believe that 
 indifference was really the reward of his love, from one 
 who still gave him so much that was the reverse of in- 
 difference. Fred wrenched his mind away from these 
 uneasy speculations, and dwelt upon the numerous 
 causes he had for happiness. 
 
 Freda had shown the liveliest pleasure and interest 
 in her father's proposal that she and Fred should live 
 at Watermeads. Even here there had been a drop 
 in the cup that had done something to spoil its flavour, 
 for she had not shared his dislike of the idea that they 
 would seem to be dispossessing his father and mother, 
 nor helped him to devise means for softening the 
 change for them. But as his father had shown noth- 
 ing but exhilaration at the prospect, there had been 
 justification for her, and it was Sydney who had 
 entered most readily into her plans for making Water- 
 meads what she would like it to be. Freda had shown 
 far greater interest in the house and all its surround- 
 ings since it had presented itself to her as her own 
 immediate home, and they had spent happy hours in 
 plannings and anticipations. Surely Fred was the
 
 FRED IS DISTURBED 271 
 
 most fortunate of men, in the prize he had secured, 
 and the rich shrine he would have in which to house 
 it. 
 
 And yet he was not entirely happy even in this 
 lucky aspect of his lot. Watermeads meant very 
 much to him. Before he had fallen in love with Freda 
 it had been the one centre of his hopes for the future. 
 He was to work and deny himself, and some day he 
 would get his great reward in seeing Watermeads re- 
 stored to itself, and he and his family happy and con- 
 tented in its complete possession. 
 
 But the reward was coming without his having done 
 anything to deserve it. It was falling to him too soon 
 and too easily. The fact that it was being presented 
 to him by a man whom, but for his relationship to 
 Freda, he would have rather disliked, and more than a 
 little despised, had no great weight with him, although 
 in the negotiations that had already been opened up 
 Mr. Blumenthal had not shown himself particularly 
 anxious to spare the susceptibilities of Fred and his 
 parents What was being given was being given to 
 Freda, and he and Freda were one. It ought to have 
 been an added pleasure to him to take back Water- 
 meads from Freda's hands. 
 
 Why, then, wasn't it? Surely not because Freda 
 had shown in a hundred little ways, even when she 
 had been most delightfully in sympathy with him 
 over what they were going to do together, how well 
 aware she was that she was the source from which it 
 was all to come! And yet there was no other reason 
 that he could fix upon for his inability to feel the full 
 thrill of pleasure at what lay before him. He would
 
 272 WATERMEADS 
 
 have liked to give Watermeads to her, and she never 
 let him forget that she was giving it to him. 
 
 Fred pulled himself back from the uncomfortable 
 thoughts that were taking hold of him. He had so 
 much to make him happy, and the dear girl was so 
 sweet to him that it would be the basest ingratitude to 
 let his mind dwell upon the few things that had hurt 
 and disturbed him. Absurd, too, when they were go- 
 ing to a long evening of pleasure together. His pulse 
 quickened as he thought of dancing with Freda. He 
 had not danced with her since he had been so foolishly 
 jealous, and then only once. It would be very differ- 
 ent tonight. There would be no Lord Mayor's son to 
 cross his path, and although he did not propose to 
 monopolise Freda altogether, nobody could object to 
 his taking about half of her dances least of all Freda 
 herself, under the circumstances. 
 
 There was no drop in Fred's recovered spirits dur- 
 ing the dinner which preceded the dance. Lord Kirby 
 took in Freda, and Fred sat next to her. Rose, who 
 had been taken in by Jack, was on Lord Kirby 's left, 
 and he made much of her, and much of Freda also. 
 Freda was more sparkling and gay than Fred had ever 
 seen her, and he was immensely proud of the effect she 
 was making on those about her. It was Jack who 
 seemed to have most to do with arousing the high 
 spirits in her. With his cheery self-assurance and 
 readiness to get on instant terms of familiarity with 
 anyone whom he was inclined to like, he put matters 
 on a basis of chaff, not over subtle, about Freda's 
 engagement, which drew a response from her that 
 showed her more ready with her tongue than Fred had
 
 FRED IS DISTURBED 273 
 
 ever known her in general company. Lord Kirby 
 roared with delighted laughter at her sallies, and oc- 
 casionally sought to give them a personal application 
 to Rose, who, however, sat rather silent, smiling but 
 not laughing, and appearing to wonder rather at the 
 new light in which Freda was showing herself. She 
 looked at her a good deal, and sometimes at Fred, to 
 see how he was taking the constant interchange of fa- 
 miliar banter with another man. But Fred kept a 
 pleased face, and occasionally joined in the chaff him- 
 self. His complaisance may have been partly ac- 
 counted for by the fact that Freda was assiduous in 
 finding his hand under cover of the table-cloth when- 
 ever opportunity offered, and pressing it. 
 
 Dancing began immediately after dinner, with the 
 shortest possible interval for the cigarettes and coffee 
 for the men. With the exception of the host, they were 
 all under thirty, and the pleasures of the table were 
 less to them than the pleasures of the floor. The din- 
 ner time conversation, with Jack and Freda as its 
 chief performers, had reached such a pitch that it was 
 quite in accordance with its spirit that Jack should 
 put in a bold claim for the first dance with Freda. He 
 affected great disappointment when she informed him 
 that of course she was going to dance it with Fred, 
 adding that for pure impudence some people were hard 
 to beat. He then offered himself to Rose, but she had 
 already been engaged by Giles Bellamy, and without 
 showing any keen signs of disappointment he ranged 
 round in search of a partner, beginning with the pret- 
 tiest girl he could find after those two, and taking them 
 in descending scale of looks until he found one disen-
 
 274 WATERMEADS 
 
 gaged, when he proceeded to make himself just as 
 agreeable to her as if she had headed the list. 
 
 The ball went with a swing, and Freda was the 
 queen of it. She might have engaged herself three 
 deep for every dance, if she had wished, but while she 
 was prodigal of her favours to all who came near her, 
 she still preserved herself for the claims that Fred 
 made upon her, and kept him happy and admiring, not 
 only of her but of the brilliant success she was making. 
 She refused to sit out any dances with him, but he was 
 hardly in a mood to press the request, for he enjoyed 
 this new aspect of Freda, laughing and excited and 
 brilliant in a crowd, and, since she made it plain to 
 him that he and he alone was the ultimate source of 
 all her pleasure, the more private assurance of that 
 fact could wait for a quieter time. 
 
 But after supper, which she had eaten in his com- 
 pany, when the ball was nearing its end, Fred received 
 a wound which, beginning with a mild uneasiness, grew 
 into something that made him angry as well as hurt, 
 and it was all Freda could do by the time the last 
 chord was struck by the band, and the last cups of 
 soup were consumed by the guests, to bring him round 
 to forgiveness of her. 
 
 Fred was dancing with Olivia, Freda, for perhaps 
 the third time, with Jack Kirby. After a few turns, 
 Fred, whose eyes were always in search of Freda when 
 he was not dancing with her, missed her and her part- 
 ner. They must have gone off to sit out somewhere, 
 and as Freda had refused to sit out any part of any 
 dance with him it struck him as * just a bit thick,' and 
 led him to wonder whether the very rapid intimacy
 
 FRED IS DISTURBED 275 
 
 that had come about between Jack and Freda was 
 after all quite so harmless in its bearings upon him- 
 self as he had thought. 
 
 At the end of the dance, the errant couple not hav- 
 ing reappeared, he set out on a search for them with 
 Olivia at his side. His discomfort of mind was so evi- 
 dent that she could hardly affect not to notice it, and 
 she said to him as they left the ball-room : " Let us 
 go and find Freda. We can all four have a talk to- 
 gether." 
 
 He was grateful to her, and they went through the 
 rooms into which other couples were dispersing them- 
 selves, but without finding the one they were in search 
 of. 
 
 Fred * cut ' his next dance, when it was made pain- 
 fully evident, by Freda's indignant partner coming up 
 to him and asking him where she was, that she also 
 was intending to cut it, and made a further search on 
 his own account. Nearly everybody was dancing, and 
 most of the rooms were empty. He ventured up the 
 great staircase, but the company was not large enough 
 to overflow the house, and unless Jack had deliberately 
 taken Freda off to a room not in public use, which 
 Fred hardly thought even he would have done, it was 
 not likely that he would find them upstairs. He went 
 into the conservatory, and opened a door leading into 
 the garden. The night was cold and damp, but it was 
 not raining, and it was just possible that they might 
 have gone out. 
 
 A paved path ran along the wall of the house, and 
 there were garden seats on it, but they were empty. 
 Fred walked a little way towards spaces not lit up by
 
 276 WATERMEADS 
 
 the windows of the house, and called Freda's name, 
 but there was no answer. 
 
 He went through the rooms again and returned to 
 the ball-room just as the last strains of a valse were 
 being played. There were Jack and Freda dancing 
 vigorously, and, to judge by their faces, in a high 
 state of satisfaction with one another. Fred felt 
 baulked and furious, and his feelings towards Jack 
 were murderous. 
 
 They came up to him smiling all over, and he made 
 a gallant effort to smooth the frown from his face. 
 Whatever he was feeling, he could not make a scene 
 there, and then. 
 
 They had intended to have a little lark with him, it 
 appeared. They had been on the terrace when he had 
 come out and called, and had given him the slip, enter- 
 ing the house by another door. When Jack Kirby 
 found that he was not inclined to take this particular 
 little joke in the spirit in which it was said to have 
 been devised, he slipped off with a light word, and left 
 Freda to cope with Fred. 
 
 Freda then consented to sit out a dance with him, 
 and they had it out together. She was patient and 
 kind, but pained at his ill-humour with her. She had 
 meant no harm at all, but wouldn't have done what she 
 had if she had known that he would take it like that. 
 Surely he must see that it was only meant for fun, or 
 how could they have laughed about it as they had 
 when he had caught them? And surely he could trust 
 her! She knew how much he loved her, but it didn't 
 look like the right sort of love if he couldn't trust her 
 out of his sight.
 
 FRED IS DISTURBED 277 
 
 The poor badgered unhappy young man felt the 
 ground slipping away from him. It seemed unreason- 
 able still to be angry with her, and yet he could not 
 feel satisfied, in spite of her quiet show of reason. She 
 had sat out nearly the whole of two dances with Jack 
 Kirby, and the interval between them, and yet she had 
 told him that she was going to dance to every bar of 
 the music, and until now had refused to sit out with 
 him at all. 
 
 " Well, I did suddenly feel a little tired and hot," 
 she said, " and when he said we would go and get cool, 
 I said yes, without thinking." 
 
 " But why sit out the whole of the next 
 dance, too, when you were engaged to somebody 
 else?" 
 
 " Only to that silly little clergyman's son, who had 
 poked himself in. I didn't want to dance with him, 
 and had been meaning to ask you to rescue me. Really, 
 Freddy dear, I do think you are unreasonable. You 
 didn't mind my having heaps of fun with Jack at din- 
 ner " 
 
 " You call him * Jack ' already, do you ? And you 
 met him for the first time an hour or two ago ! " All 
 Fred's jealousy surged up in him again, and he would 
 willingly have wrung Jack Kirby's neck if opportunity 
 had offered at the moment. 
 
 Freda laughed. " That slipped out," she said. 
 " Everybody calls him Jack at Watermeads." 
 
 " Did you call him Jack when you were with him? " 
 
 " Don't be so absurd, Freddy. Of course I didn't." 
 
 "Did he call you Freda?" 
 
 " I shan't answer such questions as that."
 
 278 WATERMEADS 
 
 " Please answer this one. Did he call you by your 
 Christian name? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " What did you talk about all that time? " 
 
 Freda appeared to be struggling with her temper, 
 which had so far been under perfect control. Her 
 mouth wore its ugly look, and her eyes were frowning. 
 But when she spoke it was with the same persuasive air 
 as before. " Well, we talked about you, chiefly," she 
 said. " You could have listened to every word we said, 
 and if you had, you couldn't have helped being pleased. 
 I wish you would leave off being angry, Freddy. It 
 spoils the whole evening, and I have been enjoying my- 
 self so much." 
 
 Fred left off being angry by and by, and even en- 
 joyed his drive home, when he managed to squeeze 
 into the carriage by the side of Freda, who showed 
 great sweetness towards him. But he was still sore 
 within him, and all through what remained of the night, 
 as he struggled with himself to get a right view of 
 what had happened, and what should be his attitude 
 towards it, cold waves of doubt and dismay came surg- 
 ing over him, and Freda's sweetness, now that he was 
 removed from personal touch with it, hardly made 
 headway against the flood. 
 
 What his thoughts would have been, if he had ac- 
 tually overheard the conversation which she had told 
 him would have pleased him so much, may be judged by 
 the repetition of that conversation.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 IN JACK'S ROOM 
 
 " I SAY, it's precious hot in here, and I've been danc- 
 ing all the time, like a marionette. So have you. Let's 
 go out and get cool somewhere." 
 
 Thus far Freda had told the truth about herself and 
 Jack Kirby. What followed had not been exactly in 
 accordance with her statements to Fred, though it had 
 touched them at certain points. 
 
 " Well, I told Fred that I was going to dance all the 
 time," she said, " and shouldn't sit out at all. But it 
 is awfully hot." 
 
 Jack left off dancing at once, and led her away with 
 decision. " Oh, yes," he said. " Fred won't mind. 
 Besides, you'll have lots of time to obey him in. Bet- 
 ter show your independence a little while you've got 
 the opportunity." 
 
 Freda laughed. " I do pretty well what I like," she 
 said. " It's just as well to begin as you mean to go 
 on." 
 
 Jack did not respond to this speech, with his usual 
 quickness of repartee. He was leading her quickly 
 down a long corridor, past the open doors of the 
 rooms which were being used between the dances. He 
 opened a door at the end. " Now, we'll have a com- 
 fortable little talk," he said, as they entered the room. 
 " Would you like me to go and get you a drink ? " 
 
 It was his own room that he had brought her to, as 
 279
 
 280 WATERMEADS 
 
 was evident from its furniture and decorations. On 
 the walls were school and college photographic groups, 
 with various other trophies of sport and pleasure such 
 as a young man likes to surround himself with. There 
 were a good many flowers in the room, which, however, 
 did not look as if that sort of embellishment was cus- 
 tomary to it. Possibly it had been intended to use it 
 during this evening, with the rest ; but its door had re- 
 mained closed, and no-one had as yet entered it. 
 
 Freda looked round her in apparent surprise. " No, 
 I don't want anything to drink, thank you," she said. 
 " But why have we come here? This isn't one of the 
 sitting out rooms, is it ? " 
 
 " It's my own room," said Jack, with a glance at 
 her face. " It's for me and my particular pals. I 
 had it rigged up, but I didn't mean to let the regular 
 horde in. Sit you down. It's not a bad room, is it? 
 I've got all my childhood's treasures here. My first 
 tooth is knocking about somewhere. This is my Eton 
 * burry.' These are the pads I got beagling at Cam- 
 bridge. I say, I've got a Cambridge group with Fred 
 in it somewhere. I think it's in a book. Would you 
 like to see it ? " 
 
 " Yes, I should," said Freda, seating herself on the 
 sofa that had been carelessly indicated to her. Al- 
 though she had glanced at the door, which remained 
 open, during the progress of Jack's somewhat voluble 
 speech, she had apparently decided to accept the situa- 
 tion without comment. 
 
 He took an album from a table and showed her a 
 photograph. " I think I'll shut the door and leave the 
 window open," he said. " There's a bit of a draught."
 
 IN JACK'S ROOM 281 
 
 Freda looked up quickly as he crossed the room, 
 but when he had shut the door and turned to- 
 wards her again she was looking at the photograph 
 with interest, and did not seem to have noticed his 
 remark. 
 
 " Dear old Fred ! " she said. " I must tell him that 
 you have shown me this. I don't think he has it. Are 
 there any more of him ? " 
 
 She turned over the pages. There were no more 
 groups that included Fred, who had not adorned the 
 aristocratic circle in which Jack Kirby had moved at 
 Cambridge. There were a good many handles to the 
 names written under the photographs, and Freda 
 showed some interest in the young men thus indicated, 
 and tracked them down from one group to another, 
 until Jack suddenly took the book away from her. " I 
 say," he said, " Fred wouldn't like you to be looking 
 out for all the good-looking fellows, you know. You 
 must keep your admiration for him, but I don't mind 
 you giving a little to his intimate friends. You've 
 never said how nice / look. Now I'm going to remove 
 temptation out of your way." 
 
 She allowed him to take the album from her knee, 
 and leant back against the cushions in the corner of 
 the sofa as he put it back upon the table. " How 
 close may I come ? " he asked her with a grin. 
 
 " I think you had better sit in the other corner," she 
 said primly. 
 
 He plumped himself down instantly. " Perhaps I 
 might come a bit nearer if I feel cold," he said. " I'm 
 quite safe, you know. I'm a tremendous fellow for re- 
 specting other people's property."
 
 282 WATERMEADS 
 
 " Yes, I should hope so. Besides, you're somebody 
 else's property yourself, aren't you? " 
 
 " Oh, I say ! What do you mean by that ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing. Only little birds have been whisper- 
 ing. And I've got a pair of eyes, you know." 
 
 " Nobody knows that better than I do. They're a 
 pair of the prettiest optics I've ever seen. In fact, 
 they were the first thing I noticed about you." 
 
 " Thank you very much. But you mustn't say such 
 things about me." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " You know why perfectly well. At least, I don't 
 mind you're saying them about me, as long as you 
 don't say them to me." 
 
 " But that wouldn't be honest, would it ? Whatever 
 else I am, I'm dead honest. I say, are you frightfully 
 in love with Fred? " 
 
 " Don't you think he's worth it? " 
 
 *' I think he's a capital fellow. Jolly lucky one, 
 too." 
 
 " Poor Freddy ! I'm afraid he hasn't been very 
 lucky so far. I wonder he's as nice as he is, brought 
 up in that awful house." 
 
 " What, Watermeads ? Why, it's a very fine house. 
 It's a better house than this." 
 
 " I don't think you'd say so if you were to stay in 
 it for any time. I never knew that anybody lived like 
 they do, except clerks in offices, and people like that." 
 
 " They are hard up, of course. But don't you get 
 enough to eat? " 
 
 " Yes, of a sort ; and they're putting the best face 
 they can on it while I'm with them. Penelope told me
 
 IN JACK'S ROOM 283 
 
 that it is quite different at other times. And my maid 
 has let in a lot of daylight. It's as much as I can 
 do to persuade her to stay with me there. It was quite 
 a relief to dine here tonight, and see people who live 
 in a civilised manner again as I'm used to at home." 
 
 " Well, I'm jolly glad we thought of asking you 
 then." He seemed somewhat at a loss to know how to 
 treat her revelations. " I say, why are you going to 
 marry Fred, if it's as bad as all that ? " 
 
 " I didn't know how bad it was. I knew he came of 
 a good old family, and that they lived in a big house. 
 I'd no idea that they were so poor that they could 
 hardly afford to live there, or anywhere else. Why, 
 do you know how many servants they keep for that 
 great place? " 
 
 " No, and I don't much care. I know they're hard 
 up ; but they're very nice people all the same." 
 
 " Oh, I know that you think one of them is." 
 
 His face became a trifle more serious. " Well, I do 
 like little Rose a good deal," he admitted. " You 
 haven't any objection to that, have you?" 
 
 " Not the least. It doesn't matter to me whom you 
 like." 
 
 " What, not a little ? Supposing only supposing, 
 mind you that anything came of it, we should be see- 
 ing a good deal of one another, shouldn't we? " 
 
 " Perhaps so ; perhaps not. But nothing will come 
 of it." 
 
 " How do you know ? You don't know what my in- 
 tentions are. I haven't told you." 
 
 "Your intentions are one thing; hers are another. 
 She won't have you."
 
 284 WATERMEADS 
 
 "Did she tell you that?" 
 
 " No, she didn't. I told you before that I have a 
 pair of eyes in my head." 
 
 " Well, what have they seen then ? I think she did 
 like me a bit. But I haven't been here for nearly a 
 month. Has she changed? She doesn't seem quite so 
 friendly as she was." 
 
 " A good many things can happen in a month. I 
 don't know whether she liked you or not, a month ago. 
 Probably she liked you quite well enough to marry you 
 if you had asked her then. You're a pretty good 
 match, you see, for a girl without any money. But 
 you're not the only match in the world." 
 
 " Now look here, you've got to tell me what you 
 mean. Don't let's have any more talking in riddles. 
 Is there another fellow that chap Bellamy, for in- 
 stance? He seems to be always hanging round. I 
 should hardly have thought I had much to fear from 
 him." 
 
 Freda laughed. " If you're on the look-out for a 
 rival," she said, " you won't find him in a younger 
 son." 
 
 He considered this. " Her people would consider 
 that sort of thing, of course," he said. " They'd be 
 quite right to. But I'm quite sure she wouldn't, if 
 she liked a fellow." 
 
 "Oh! wouldn't she?" in a tone of innocent en- 
 quiry. 
 
 " Now what do you mean by that ? What a girl you 
 are for talking in riddles ! Do you think she's the sort 
 who would make up to a fellow she didn't care for, 
 just because he was rich and all that? "
 
 IN JACK'S ROOM 285 
 
 " It doesn't matter what I think, does it ? You 
 know her much better than I do. Besides, I never said 
 anything about making up to anybody. Did she make 
 up to you ? " 
 
 " No, it's just what she didn't. I've been rather 
 making up to her. Everybody knows that. But she 
 hasn't seemed to mind." 
 
 " No, I don't suppose she has. Well, let's talk 
 about something else. You won't get me to say any- 
 thing against Fred's sisters, if you try all night." 
 
 " I don't want you to say anything against them. 
 But who is it that you think is likely to cut me out? 
 Is it that parson fellow, Probert? They wouldn't 
 want her to marry a country parson, if they're like 
 what you say they are, would they? " 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't keep on making me look as if 
 I was running them down. If they are like that 7 
 never said they were -it would be quite natural that 
 they should get Edward Probert to the house as much 
 as they could." 
 
 "Oh, you call him Edward, do you? I say, that's 
 hardly fair. You've never called me Jack. I think 
 you might, you know." 
 
 " Certainly not. If you think Mr. Probert's just 
 an ordinary country parson, you're much mistaken. 
 He is the eldest son of a baronet, of an old family, who 
 is very rich. He is only going to be a clergyman until 
 he succeeds." 
 
 " You seem to know a lot about him. Who told you 
 all that?" 
 
 " Well, you can guess that it's been a good deal 
 talked about."
 
 286 WATERMEADS 
 
 " Who by? Has Rose talked about it? " 
 
 " I told you you wouldn't make me say anything 
 against Rose, and you won't." 
 
 " I suppose you mean she has. I'd have hardly 
 thought that of her. She isn't like that. In fact, I 
 don't mind telling you, quite in private, you know, that 
 I've been a bit inclined to put my goods in the shop- 
 window, just to give myself a leg up; and it hasn't 
 worked." 
 
 Freda kept silence, but allowed herself a knowing 
 smile, looking down at the fan with which her hands 
 were playing. 
 
 " Now what are you grinning at ? " enquired Jack. 
 " Upon my word, you're like a sphinx. Have you got 
 anything to tell me, or haven't you? " 
 
 She roused herself. " No, I've nothing to tell you," 
 she said. " At least, nothing that you can't find out 
 for yourself, or don't know already. You said that 
 people as poor as they are would naturally be on the 
 look-out for money, and you wouldn't blame them. I 
 wouldn't blame them, either; in fact I haven't, though 
 it hasn't been very pleasant to see how important that 
 side of me is." 
 
 " Why, have you got money ? " 
 
 She looked a little surprised. If Jack had never 
 been able to consider himself apart from such accidents 
 as his birth had brought him, she certainly hadn't 
 either, with regard to her parentage. She did not 
 know whether to be pleased or vexed to find that he 
 did not know her to be an * heiress.' " I never thought 
 about all that, before I came to Watermeads," she 
 said. " I've often been told that father was very rich,
 
 IN JACK'S ROOM 287 
 
 and of course I'm his only child. But somehow I've 
 never thought about it in connection with myself." 
 
 " And now you do, eh? " 
 
 " Well, I can hardly help it. That awful old Mrs. 
 Conway got father to come down and see her while 
 we were all out. I didn't know about it till afterwards, 
 as she kept it dark. She wanted to get something out 
 of him, but I think, from what he has written to me 
 since, he saw through her at once. Father is very 
 clever. He's such a dear, too. He only thinks about 
 what is good for me. He is quite ready to clear all 
 the horrible debts off Watermeads, and provide hand- 
 somely for Fred and me to live there. I call that 
 handsome of him after the way he was treated." 
 
 " You don't seem to think much of your futures- 
 in-law." 
 
 " Well, I don't like to see the ugly side of anybody's 
 nature. Perhaps I've been shielded from all that too 
 much. I suppose they can't help it, as they have so 
 much come down in the world, but I did think when 
 I went to Watermeads that it was myself they liked 
 because they were all very nice to me at first and 
 it has been a shock to find that I'm only looked on as 
 one of father's money bags." 
 
 " Poor little girl ! " Jack edged himself a little to- 
 wards her on the sofa, and she did not suggest, as be- 
 fore, that he should keep his distance. " It must be 
 rather beastly. I didn't know they were like that. It 
 makes one think a bit about one's own little affair. 
 But it's disgusting that you should be bothered by that 
 sort of thing." 
 
 He put his hand sympathetically on her shoulder.
 
 288 WATERMEADS 
 
 She did not shake it off, but leant forward and wiped 
 what might possibly have been an incipient tear from 
 her eyes, though they were shining, and seemed quite 
 dry. " I ought not to have told you anything," she 
 said hurriedly. " It was the last thing I meant to 
 talk about when we came in here. Please forget all 
 I've said, and don't breathe a word of it to anybody 
 outside. It would be awful if they were to know." 
 
 " Why, of course I should never do that. What do 
 you take me for? I'm very glad you told me. Look 
 here, I want you to look on me as a pal. If you've 
 got yourself in a mess, and don't know how to get 
 out of it, let me help you. I liked you awfully, you 
 know, the very first minute I set eyes on you. I'd do 
 a lot to help you, and you won't find I'm a bad sort 
 of chap to confide in." 
 
 She used her handkerchief again, and this time 
 there was a suspicion of dampness to be cleared away. 
 " I think you're awfully kind," she said. " I suppose 
 that is what has made me say as much as I have to 
 you. It's rather hard to be always pretending to be 
 in the highest spirits and to be feeling very happy 
 when one isn't happy at all. Tonight I have felt 
 rather happy; it has been so comforting to feel that 
 people like me, not because of father's money but be- 
 cause of myself. You see you didn't know anything 
 about the money, but it didn't make any difference to 
 you. I suppose that is partly what has made me talk 
 to you." 
 
 Jack did not reflect that she had talked a good deal 
 before her father's money had been mentioned. He felt 
 that he was better than other men in this respect, and
 
 IN JACK'S ROOM 289 
 
 in particular, better than the Conways, upon whom 
 this nice pretty girl's disclosures had thrown a sin- 
 ister light. It was gratifying that she should have 
 recognised in him a friend in whom she could safely 
 confide. He must show her that she could trust him 
 all the way. 
 
 He moved a little closer to her on the sofa and took 
 the hand with which she was making play with a little 
 handkerchief of lace and embroidery. " Look here, 
 little girl," he said, " tell me all about it, as you've 
 told me so much. What about Fred? He isn't like 
 the rest of them, is he? It wasn't your money he was 
 after when he asked you to marry him." 
 
 " I'm sure he's fond of me," she said. " He's aw- 
 fully jealous. I don't know what he'll say when he 
 knows I've been in here with you." 
 
 " Oh, we'll get out of that all right. We'll slip out 
 into the garden, and say we've been there. He can't 
 object to that." 
 
 Freda did not object either. " Of course, I can't 
 be certain of anything," she said. " I've never thought 
 about money before, but all sorts of ideas are being 
 put into my head, and I can't help them worrying 
 me. Fred is quite ready to live at Watermeads on 
 the money my father is going to give me." 
 
 " What, live at Watermeads with all the rest of the 
 family ! Are they going to live on your father's 
 money too? Surely not!" 
 
 " They are going to move to a smaller house. They 
 will have the rent of Watermeads, and it will be their 
 house still, and everything that will be done to it to 
 make it like other houses will be done with father's
 
 290 WATERMEADS 
 
 money. He told me that it would cost thousands of 
 pounds to put it into order. Oh, I don't know. 
 They're bargaining still. Father is very generous, but 
 he doesn't like to be put upon. Fred hardly says any- 
 thing to me about it. We just talk about what is 
 going to be done." 
 
 " It all sounds pretty beastly. Honestly, I never 
 thought they were like that. Are you sure you're not 
 making a mistake? " 
 
 " I go by what father says. He wrote first that if 
 he had known how things were he wouldn't have let 
 Fred propose to me." 
 
 " Did he? That's pretty strong. I say, little girl, 
 are you quite sure that you'd better go on with it? 
 I can see you're very fond of Fred, and I don't think 
 there's much wrong with him, but " 
 
 " I can't feel as certain about Fred as I did at 
 first," she interrupted him. It seemed that he was not 
 to take it for granted that she was very fond of Fred. 
 
 " Well, if you feel like that, hadn't you better cut 
 it all out, while there's still time? You must remember 
 that if you make a mistake now you won't be able to 
 mend it afterwards." 
 
 She rose from her seat. " I've given my word," she 
 said simply. " It is too late to draw back now. 
 Really, Jack, we mustn't stay here any longer. Are 
 my eyes all right. They don't look as if I'd been 
 mopping them, do they ? " 
 
 They didn't look in the least like that, but were 
 hard and brilliant as she stood facing him. His 
 own were moist, with a not pleasant moisture, as 
 he said : " You dear little Freda, if you think I've
 
 IN JACK'S ROOM 291 
 
 been nice to you, give me just one kiss. I'll never 
 tell a soul." 
 
 She did not shrink from his gaze. " You ought not 
 to," she said. " But if you won't tell anyone, you 
 may, just one." 
 
 He kissed her on the lips, and she returned his kiss. 
 It was like strong wine to him, and he stood looking 
 at her for an instant, and she at him, as if waiting 
 for something more. But before he could speak they 
 heard Fred's voice calling * Freda,' from the garden. 
 
 Both of them started guiltily. " Come this way," 
 said Jack, and led her quickly through another door 
 from the one by which they had entered the room, into 
 a lobby, and thence into the garden. 
 
 The long paved path was round the corner of the 
 house, and Fred's footsteps were heard approaching 
 them. " We'll play hide and seek with him," whispered 
 Jack, " and say we did it for a lark." 
 
 They moved into the shade of some trees, but Fred 
 was already returning on his steps. " Now we'll slip 
 in and let him find us dancing," said Jack. " Darling, 
 give me just one more." 
 
 But Freda refused. " You've had quite enough 
 for the present," she said.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 AN ENGAGEMENT 
 
 ELSIE and Rose went up to the room they had shared 
 together since they were little girls, just as the sun 
 was rising above the trees in the garden. The fit of 
 sulks that the otherwise admirably behaved summer 
 had recently indulged in was over, and the new day 
 smiled broadly on Watermeads, as if to encourage the 
 happiness that many previous days had brought it. 
 
 The moment the door was shut Rose turned to em- 
 brace her sister. " Darling, what is it ? " she asked. 
 
 Elsie returned the embrace. Her eyes were full ; she 
 put her cheek against the soft flesh of Rose's neck; 
 she was the softer of the two at that moment. " Dar- 
 ling," she said, " I knew you knew. Do you think any- 
 one else has guessed? " 
 
 They fell apart, and gazed at one another, their 
 eyes full of love and enquiry. " I've known nearly 
 from the first that it was you," said Rose. " I've 
 laughed sometimes when I've seen that other people 
 didn't see it. Why haven't we talked about it, darling? 
 You've known it was coming, haven't you ? " 
 
 " No," said Elsie, with a happy laugh. " I thought 
 it was Olivia all the time. And yet there was some- 
 thing I didn't let myself think about it, but I sup- 
 pose it was that that made me " she hesitated 
 " readv for it."
 
 AN ENGAGEMENT 293 
 
 " You do love him. I know you do. I knew you 
 did." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I do. I think I'm the happiest girl in the 
 world." 
 
 They talked to one another during the process of 
 undressing and hair-brushing, and for a long long 
 time afterwards, lying close together in the same bed, 
 until the sun had climbed high into the sky, and signs 
 of life in the house betokened that the new day had 
 begun in earnest. 
 
 It was Edward Probert who had declared his love, 
 in some nook of the house in which such a different 
 scene had been enacted a few hours before. As Elsie 
 unfolded her story it seemed like a glimpse into some 
 shy untroubled paradise, tremulous with unimagined 
 happiness and hope. He had always loved her, almost 
 from the first moment he had seen her, and the longer 
 he had known her the more his love had grown. He 
 had not revealed it earlier, partly because of the joy 
 of getting to know her better and finding in her al- 
 ways some new thing to love and to trust to, partly 
 because he could hardly believe that his declaration 
 would not be a surprise to her. But there had been 
 something all the time that had led him to hope. He 
 could not have loved her quite so well if he had not 
 rested himself on the feeling that she showed towards 
 him, even though she herself might be unaware of its 
 quality. There had been no rapture of surprise when 
 she had put her hand into his and pressed it, as a sign 
 that she was his, but only a deep happiness almost too 
 full for words. They were one in all love and under- 
 standing from the first. Words had been used after-
 
 294 WATERMEADS 
 
 wards in the sweet intercourse of lovers, but not to 
 bridge doubts. There were no doubts between them, 
 nor ever would be. 
 
 Elsie wept softly for her new found happiness. 
 Breaking full upon her in this way it was almost more 
 than she could support. " It is like a deep well," she 
 said. " The more I dip into it the more there is to 
 find. Rose darling, he's so good. It isn't only that 
 he's handsome and kind and nice all through. Per- 
 haps I might have loved him if he had been only that 
 it's enough to make you love him dearly. But I 
 feel that there's something behind all that something 
 that one can trust to and know that it will never fail 
 you." 
 
 " He's a dear," said Rose. " I love him too, and 
 most of all for loving you, who are far the best of 
 us." 
 
 " Rose, you say you've seen. Olivia won't be ? " 
 
 She did not finish her sentence, but Rose understood 
 it. " Olivia likes him," she said ; " but she doesn't love 
 him not in that way. She will love him as I do, be- 
 cause he is going to be your husband. Oh, Elsie, how 
 heavenly it will be having you married and living so 
 near us." 
 
 Elsie laughed happily. " It's all heavenly," she 
 said. " And there's so much of it that one has hardly 
 had time to think of yet. We had very little time to 
 talk. We didn't want to stay away for long and get 
 noticed. We never once mentioned Lutterbourne, ex- 
 cept that he asked me if I liked the idea of being a 
 clergyman's wife. I shall like it, you know. I mean 
 not only because it is Edward. But because it's him
 
 AN ENGAGEMENT 295 
 
 I shall like it better than anything. I shall be able 
 to help him more than I should otherwise. And he 
 well help me, too. One thing that I have known about 
 him is that he loves his church and his work. Per- 
 haps I might have guessed how it was with me when 
 Lady Sophia said something the other day about his 
 having a very soft job, or some horrid expression of 
 that sort, which left him plenty of time to amuse him- 
 self in. I felt angry, and said I knew he wasn't like 
 that." 
 
 "What did she say?" 
 
 " Oh, she looked at me and said : * Oh, so that's how 
 you feel about it, is it? ' That might have made me 
 think, but I was only cross with her. No, I've never 
 known that I loved him until tonight." 
 
 " I wonder if she guessed." 
 
 " It looks as if she did, now I remember what she 
 said and how she looked. She's very sharp. Well, 
 I suppose she'll be pleased. Everybody will be pleased, 
 especially darling Dad. That makes me happier than 
 ever. Oh, Rose, there's isn't anything to do with it 
 nothing at all that isn't happy." 
 
 By and by, as Elsie talked, Rose grew more silent, 
 and at last Elsie said to her : " I wonder if I should 
 have found out about myself if you and I had talked 
 about everything, as we always have. Rose darling, 
 why haven't we? Now I've told you everything, isn't 
 there something for you to tell me? I'm not to be 
 selfish about my own happiness. I don't want to be. 
 It makes me love all those whom I do love much more, 
 even you, darling." 
 
 For answer Rose burst into tears. " Oh, I'm very
 
 296 WATERMEADS 
 
 unhappy," she said. " I'll tell you everything. I've 
 wanted to for a long time, but I didn't know what there 
 was to tell. I'm not sure that I can tell you properly 
 now." 
 
 It came out little by little. In much of what she 
 said she seemed to be learning things about herself 
 for the first time. She had liked Jack Kirby. She 
 had known that he wanted something more of her than 
 that, and it had flattered her a little, and perhaps 
 made her want to give him more; but whatever it was 
 that she had felt for him it had been nothing like 
 what Elsie had disclosed of her love for Edward. " I 
 know now that I never could," she said. " I hope I 
 couldn't before, if he had said anything to me; but 
 I had been thinking about other things horrid things 
 and I don't know what I should have done if he had 
 asked me, as I thought he might." 
 
 The * horrid things ' had been no more than what 
 Jack could have given her, if he had asked her to 
 marry him, and she had liked him well enough to con- 
 sent. " We have always been so poor here," she said, 
 " and it has made a lot of difference to us, and we 
 have talked about it so much. Even about Fred, you 
 and I talked openly of his marrying an heiress to put 
 things straight. I ought not to have thought about 
 all that side of it at all; but I couldn't help it and 
 I wasn't sure that I didn't love him a little though 
 I know now that I don't, and never have. I thought 
 Dad would be pleased." 
 
 " I believe Dad would have hated it. I believe it's 
 that that has been worrying him. I'm sure he doesn't 
 like him, and he said something to me before we went
 
 AN ENGAGEMENT 297 
 
 off this evening that seemed to clear everything up 
 about his not being like himself lately, I mean sud- 
 denly." 
 
 " What did he say? " 
 
 " He kissed me and said: * Well, go and enjoy your- 
 self, darling, but I wish Prittlewell and all its occu- 
 pants were at the bottom of the sea.' ' 
 
 They discussed this for a time, and agreed that the 
 cryptic speech might have * meant that,' and proba- 
 bly did, in the light of Lord Kirby's visit a week or so 
 before, the object of which had never been disclosed. 
 " It would be like him darling old Dad," said Elsie. 
 " People outside might think that he would be pleased 
 for us to marry rich men, but we know it wouldn't 
 count with him at all, really. He loves us too much." 
 
 " I haven't been very nice to him lately," said Rose. 
 " I've been thinking too much about other things. 
 But I don't want anybody but Dad now. He loves 
 me and I love him." 
 
 " So do I," said Elsie, " and loving Edward makes 
 me love him all the more." 
 
 " I suppose it would have been like that with me if 
 I had really loved Jack the least little bit. It was 
 having my mind full of him and not loving him that 
 made me neglect dear old Dad. I'll make it up to 
 him now. Oh, it's such a relief to have it all over 
 and know where I am again. It's like waking up from 
 a horrid dream." 
 
 " It can't have been so bad as that, darling. If it 
 had, you wouldn't have been in any doubt at all." 
 
 " It seems like that now. He wasn't nice a bit this 
 evening. He seemed to take it for granted that I
 
 298 WATERMEADS 
 
 that I wanted him ; but somehow he didn't seem to 
 want me nearly as much as he has before. He was 
 quite pleased to have that horrid Freda making eyes 
 at him." 
 
 The adjective was startling to both. It was the 
 first time that any adverse criticism of Freda had been 
 used by either of them. 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Then Elsie said 
 with conviction : " I hate her. I don't believe she's 
 straight; and I don't believe she loves Fred a bit." 
 
 This also had to be considered. " She is making 
 Fred very unhappy," said Elsie. " Look how she be- 
 haved this evening going away with Jack like that! 
 I suppose it was to make Fred jealous. She can't be 
 satisfied with the love he gives her. She must have 
 scenes and excitement with it." 
 
 " I never really liked her," said Rose, " though I 
 tried hard to at first. And I believe she hates you and 
 me." 
 
 " She has tried to be nice sometimes." 
 
 " She hasn't tried much, lately. I'm sure she's a cat 
 at heart, and she can't help showing it. She likes to 
 make us feel that we are nothing beside her, because 
 we are poor, and she can have everything she wants. 
 She's turning up her nose at us all the time; and she 
 tries to make others see us as she does." 
 
 " I've thought that, too. I suppose it is natural 
 now that I should think of everything in connection 
 with Edward, but sometimes, when we have all been 
 talking together, she has seemed to be saying to him 
 that she and he understood one another, and we are 
 beneath them altogether. I don't know why she has
 
 AN ENGAGEMENT 299 
 
 done it to him particularly. I haven't noticed it so 
 much with Giles, or the others." 
 
 " Giles doesn't like her. He told me so." 
 
 "Did he? When was that?" 
 
 " The first day. I was trying to make the best of 
 her, and he listened without saying anything. Then 
 I said: * Don't you think she's nice? ' and he said: ' If 
 she marries Fred, I shall try to like her.' He didn't 
 say any more, but he must have meant that he didn't 
 like her." 
 
 " I wonder why he said if she marries Fred." 
 
 " Well, I don't believe she would marry him if she 
 could get somebody she liked better. I suppose Giles 
 thinks that, too. He sees a lot, though he doesn't say 
 much." 
 
 " He has always hated Jack." 
 
 " I know, and you all used to laugh at him for it ; 
 / never did. I wasn't at all sure that he wasn't right. 
 Now I think he is. At least, I don't hate Jack, but 
 I definitely don't like him. I think it was perfectly 
 horrid the way he went on with Freda tonight. And 
 taking her away like that ! I suppose that's what they 
 call flirting, and perhaps that's all he wanted of me." 
 
 " I don't think so, darling. Perhaps he is what they 
 call flighty, and is ready to amuse himself with any 
 pretty girl. But it wasn't only that with you. He 
 does like you awfully, I'm sure, and I can't really dis- 
 like him myself, because of that. I think he means 
 more, too. He took you in to dinner tonight, and you 
 sat on the other side of Lord Kirby. You were the 
 most honoured person there after Freda. And she was 
 first because she has just become engaged."
 
 300 WATERMEADS 
 
 " Lord Kirby has always been very sweet to me. 
 That was one reason why I thought it wouldn't be 
 so bad, if Jack did ask me, and I could make up my 
 mind to it." 
 
 " I think he will ask you, darling. He amused him- 
 self with Freda tonight, and I do think it was rather 
 horrid of him, with you there. But I'm sure she led 
 him on." 
 
 " I think so, too. Oh, don't let's talk about it any 
 more; it's all so horrid. We'll talk a little more about 
 you and Edward, and then we'll go to sleep." 
 
 Edward Probert came over early in the morning. 
 His interview with Sydney Conway was short, but 
 eminently satisfactory. Sydney was immensely sur- 
 prised, having got quite another idea into his head 
 with reference to this suitor, but upon a cursory self- 
 examination he found also that he was immensely 
 pleased. The advantages of the marriage offered to 
 his daughter were beyond question, and when offered 
 by a young man whom he liked and respected he was 
 able to draw considerable satisfaction from them. 
 There was Elsie, handsomely provided for, to an ex- 
 tent that he could hardly have hoped for her. De- 
 cidedly, a father might take pleasure in such a match 
 for his daughter. Advantages offered by Jack Kirby 
 had not weighed with him. But this was different. 
 
 He also found his mind wonderfully cleared of the 
 hamper of parental jealousy that had troubled it. It 
 was sweet to him to see his dear child so happy in her 
 love, which rather increased than lessened her love for 
 himself. He made himself happy in her happiness, and 
 it was an added joy to know that for some time at
 
 AN ENGAGEMENT 301 
 
 least she would not be far removed from him. After 
 all, the dread he had indulged on his own behalf, of 
 the first signs of love in one of his daughters, had 
 only been the result of that passionate dislike which 
 he had felt for the one man who had sought for them. 
 He knew now that if the menace of Jack Kirby's court- 
 ship should be removed from Rose, and Giles Bellamy 
 should succeed with her, he should feel just as happy 
 about her as he did about Elsie. And Elsie had 
 whispered him a word which encouraged him to think 
 that that danger was now past. 
 
 Mrs. Conway received the news with equanimity and 
 forbearance. It appeared that she had known that this 
 would happen from the first, and she had only not said 
 so because her feelings and experience in such mat- 
 ters were, naturally, of no consequence whatever. 
 However, if a mother's love was of any use to Elsie 
 at the present conjuncture of affairs, or at any fu- 
 ture time, she might perhaps be glad to know that 
 she had it. As for the man she had chosen, Mrs. Con- 
 way had observed him closely, and she had seen very 
 little that she could not approve of in him. Time 
 would show, but she was quite inclined to hope that he 
 would stand the test. She rebuked her husband, in 
 private, for referring to Edward's worldly expecta- 
 tions. Love, she explained, was too sacred a thing to 
 be mixed up with such mundane matters, and for her 
 part it would have made no difference if Edward had 
 been a simple curate with no expectations whatever; 
 she would have welcomed him just the same, and she 
 should like him to know that. But in a subsequent 
 conversation with Lady Sophia she showed as complete
 
 302 WATERMEADS 
 
 a knowledge of Edward's immediate relationships as 
 could be drawn from a book of reference having to do 
 with the Baronetage of the United Kingdom, and even 
 discussed the probable length of life that might be al- 
 lowed to Edward's father, in view of that enjoyed by 
 Sir Vivian's fathers before him. 
 
 It was Penelope who took the news to Freda, with 
 her breakfast, which she had ordered in her bedroom 
 at eleven o'clock. 
 
 Freda's beauty, undeniable when she was at her best, 
 was not of the early morning sort, and she looked 
 positively ugly when Penelope announced her astound- 
 ing news. 
 
 " I thought you'd like to know, Freda. Edward 
 asked Elsie to marry him last night at the ball, and 
 he came over at ten o'clock to see father. So it's all 
 settled." 
 
 "Edward! Elsie!" exclaimed Freda. "Don't be 
 silly, Penelope. I'm not in the mood for tiresome 
 jokes. I'm much too tired." 
 
 Penelope looked at her critically. " You do look 
 tired," she said. " In fact you look awful. I shouldn't 
 go downstairs if I were you before you've had another 
 sleep. But it's quite true about Edward and Elsie. 
 He is with her now, in the parlour. I'm very glad 
 myself, because Elsie will be * my lady.' Cooky told 
 me so. Father is very pleased, too, and so is mother, 
 though she pretends not to be. Oh, I forgot to say 
 that Fred sends his love, and is longing for you to 
 come down. He wants to know how long you'll be." 
 
 Freda ignored this message, and asked her some 
 questions about what had happened. But she knew
 
 AN ENGAGEMENT 303 
 
 no more than she had told already. " I can see quite 
 plainly that you are not pleased," she said. " Why 
 aren't you ? " 
 
 " Oh, go away," said Freda crossly. " I've got a 
 splitting headache, and you're making it worse with 
 your chatter. Tell Fred I'm not well, and I shan't 
 be down till lunch time."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 LUTTERBOURNE RECTORY 
 
 WHEN Freda came downstairs at last, just before 
 luncheon, all traces of ill-humour had left her. She 
 was fresh and smiling, and congratulated Edward and 
 Elsie so nicely, and with such apparent delight in the 
 news of their engagement, that Elsie was stricken with 
 compunction at having criticised her, and Rose, who 
 was standing by and watching her carefully, could 
 find no fault with her attitude. Edward was pleased 
 with it, too. His handsome face lit up as she offered 
 him her felicitations. " Well, we've both been through 
 it now," he said, with a happy smile. " By and by we 
 shall all be living close to one another, and taking an 
 interest in each other's establishments." 
 
 Fred had come up to greet his Freda. She had for- 
 bidden him to kiss her in public, but in the atmosphere 
 of the moment he thought he might put his arm round 
 her waist to show that she was his, as Elsie was Ed- 
 ward's. She looked up at him with a loving smile, 
 and gave him a kiss, before she disengaged herself. All 
 Fred's doubts of the night before were swept away, 
 and he felt as happy as a king. If Edward had se- 
 cured one treasure, he had secured another. There 
 would be nothing but peace and contentment, both at 
 Watermeads and Lutterbourne, when the present 
 strong emotions should have led to their appointed 
 end. 
 
 304
 
 LUTTERBOURNE RECTORY 305 
 
 " We're all going over to Lutterbourne this after- 
 noon," Fred told Freda. " You'd like to come, 
 wouldn't you? I didn't like to disturb you to ask." 
 
 The Conways had always been meaning to go over 
 to Lutterbourne throughout the summer. Edward had 
 suggested it several times, but Lutterbourne was 
 nearly twelve miles away, and it had generally been 
 too hot for a bicycling expedition, which was the only 
 means of locomotion available at Watermeads for such 
 distances. Edward, on his motor-bicycle, had come 
 constantly to Watermeads, and the invitation so far 
 had remained in abeyance. 
 
 But it was necessary now for all of them to see the 
 house to which he was so soon to transfer Elsie, and 
 he had torn himself away from her for an hour to 
 commandeer a couple of cars, and to telephone such 
 instructions to his housekeeper as would ensure a fit- 
 ting welcome for a large party. 
 
 It was Freda's last day at Watermeads. She was 
 going to join her father and mother for a month's 
 sojourn at Scarborough, where Fred was to follow 
 her in a week's time. Her last day was to have been 
 devoted to Fred and the family alone, and no-one had 
 been invited for the usual afternoon games. But she 
 assured Fred, when they were alone together for a 
 moment, that it would give her the greatest pleasure 
 to go over to Lutterbourne. " It's such a splendid 
 thing for Elsie to have caught such a swell as Ed- 
 ward," she said, " that we must all make as much of 
 her as possible. Besides, I want to see the house she 
 is going to live in. So I really don't mind, Freddy 
 dear. We shall be able to be alone this evening."
 
 306 WATERMEADS 
 
 Fred didn't like her saying that Elsie had * caught ' 
 Edward ; but she used so many expressions of that sort 
 without meaning anything by them that he was get- 
 ting used to it. No doubt she had learnt them all 
 from her father, and would grow out of them in time. 
 They didn't represent anything in her own charming 
 nature, least of all this particular one, in a matter in 
 which she had shown herself to be as unselfishly pleased 
 as any of them. Nevertheless, he put in his mild pro- 
 test. " It's odd that Elsie never had any idea that 
 it was she Edward wanted," he said. " None of us 
 had. We were all mistaken, weren't we you included, 
 darling? Freda, I don't believe you're half as 
 sharp as you pretend to be. Now say something nice 
 about that." 
 
 " What do you want me to say ? " she asked, with a 
 shade of tartness. 
 
 " Well, I hoped you'd say that love had blinded your 
 eyes. I'll say it for you. You do love me, don't you, 
 darling? " 
 
 " Oh, of course," said Freda. " But as for Elsie 
 not knowing ! Oh, well, I'm very glad she's mak- 
 ing such a good match, though I should think it would 
 be rather a bore for her to have to play at being a 
 clergyman's wife until Edward comes in for his prop- 
 erty. I'm glad it's her, and not me. Come on, 
 Freddy, let's go in to lunch." 
 
 The whole family crowded into the two cars, with 
 Freda and Olivia in addition, and soon covered the 
 twelve miles of winding road that lay between Water- 
 meads and Lutterbourne. When they got halfway 
 they met Lady Sophia Raine on her way to pay them
 
 LUTTERBOURNE RECTORY 307 
 
 a friendly call, and after some parley Mrs. Conway 
 joined her in her carriage, and the horses' heads were 
 turned towards Lutterbourne. 
 
 The situation had been shortly explained to Lady 
 Sophia as the carriage and the first car had halted 
 close to one another. Sitting upright in her seat she 
 had said to Elsie : " My dear, I'm very glad to hear 
 it. I'd give you a kiss if I could get at you." And 
 to Edward she had said : " You're a very lucky young 
 man. I shall be near you to see how you behave, and 
 if you don't treat her as she deserves to be treated, 
 you'll have me down on you." 
 
 She expressed her pleasure now at length to Mrs. 
 Conway, when they had waited for the dust of the 
 cars to disappear, and were rolling comfortably to- 
 wards their destination behind the two handsome but 
 easy-going horses. " It's as good a match as the dear 
 girl could make," she said, " and he's a thoroughly 
 nice young man into the bargain, which is always an 
 advantage in these matters. I said I should try to 
 bring about something of the sort myself, if you re- 
 member, when he first came into the County, but I'd 
 hardly thought of beginning to move, when, lo and be- 
 hold, you've done it all yourself, Jane ! I congratulate 
 you sincerely, but confess that I didn't think you had 
 it in you. Now you have only to bring that young 
 Kirby to book for Rose, and you can sit down and 
 enjoy yourself till Penelope is old enough to be pro- 
 vided for. Whether you'll be able to do as well for 
 her as for Elsie and Rose is extremely doubtful, but 
 by the time she's ready they ought to be able to do 
 something for her. I once knew a poor country par-
 
 308 WATERMEADS 
 
 son with four pretty daughters and not a shilling to 
 bless them with I won't tell you his name. The eldest 
 picked up a Captain in the Rifles, and lucky to get 
 him. The second or third, it doesn't matter which, 
 stayed with her, and married the younger son of a 
 peer a man in the same regiment. The next married 
 his father he was sixty-five and a martyr to gout, 
 but that didn't matter. The youngest might have 
 done better still, with the chances she had, but she 
 ran away with an actor. Still, it just shows how one 
 thing leads to another in these affairs, if you only 
 start right. Jane, I was coming over to ask you what 
 you'd been able to manage with the Blumenthal man. 
 You wrote to me that you had got him to come down, 
 and promised to write again when you had seen him, 
 but you never did. What happened? I suppose you 
 made a mess of it, as you didn't write. I wish you'd 
 asked me to come and help you." 
 
 Mrs. Conway told her what had happened, or as 
 much of it as was necessary to introduce the news of 
 the arrangement that was in course of being made, to 
 which she was now completely reconciled. " It is not 
 quite what I had in my mind," she said, " but the man 
 was difficult and headstrong. I can't say, though, 
 that he has behaved badly in the long run. Sydney 
 is pleased with the way things are going, and I am 
 now leaving the negotiations entirely to him. There 
 are certain things I don't like in the arrangements; I 
 cannot say that Freda has quite fulfilled my early 
 hopes of her, and she is hardly doing what she might 
 to make it agreeable to me to go and live in a small 
 house and leave the big one to her. However, I don't
 
 LUTTERBOURNE RECTORY 309 
 
 complain. Now that I know her father, I can see where 
 she gets her obstinate and domineering spirit from, 
 and can forgive it. I should have been quite willing 
 to give her the benefit of my long experience in man- 
 aging a large household ; but if she thinks she knows 
 better than I do about such matters, very good! So 
 be it ! " 
 
 " Oh, she's showing the minx already, is she? " re- 
 turned Lady Sophia. " Well, one could see it plainly 
 enough in her from the first. You won't be in a posi- 
 tion to drive it out of her, Jane; so I shouldn't try, 
 if I were you. Well, I think you've done well for your- 
 selves out of Blumenthal, and you've done it without 
 taking anything from him that you don't give an 
 ample return for. You'll certainly be better off at 
 Manor Farm than you have been at Watermeads, and 
 you'll lose nothing but the burden of a great house 
 that you can't afford to keep up. I'm very glad in- 
 deed that things are at last taking a favourable turn 
 for you and Sydney. He deserves it, poor fellow, after 
 the plucky way in which he has been facing his trou- 
 bles for years. He must be delighted with this ar- 
 rangement of Elsie's. I'm not sure that it isn't the 
 best of all the things that are happening to you nowa- 
 days. There's no fault to be found with it anywhere." 
 
 Very little fault could have been found with Lut- 
 terbourne Rectory as a spacious home for a young 
 married couple, and, but for the still more spacious 
 surroundings that were attached to Edward Probert's 
 future, it would have been possible to anticipate for 
 him and Elsie a long and happy life spent there within 
 the shadow of the Lutterbourne church tower.
 
 310 WATERMEADS 
 
 The large red brick house was set in the midst of 
 lawns and trees, and no roof could be seen from its 
 windows but that of the church itself, the graveyard 
 of which was separated from the garden only by a 
 great hedge of holly and yew. The previous incum- 
 bent of Lutterbourne had been a noted gardener, with 
 money in abundance to ride his hobby. Edward had 
 demurred somewhat at the amount of labour and the 
 heavy wages bill involved in keeping up the garden, 
 but had not yet taken steps to cut any of it down. 
 Now, of course, it would be kept up as before, and it 
 was a great satisfaction to be able to show those care- 
 fully tended acres, with their great stretches of shaven 
 turf, their innumerable delights of colour and scent, 
 and the rare trees and shrubs that their late owner 
 had planted everywhere. If it was known far and 
 wide as a ' specimen ' garden, it was also one in which 
 care had been taken through long years to plant for 
 beauty as well as interest. Not even the Watermeads 
 gardens, beautiful as they were in their wilder growth, 
 could beat that of Lutterbourne Rectory in sylvan 
 charm. 
 
 The house was less attractive in its existent state, 
 though it held out the most encouraging promise. 
 Edward had furnished only his study, a dining-room 
 and a few bedrooms. The rest was a large emptiness, 
 but clean and swept, and showing that satisfactory 
 quality of dignity, proportion, and subdued ornament, 
 which was the fine gift of the men who built such 
 houses as this two hundred years ago. What could 
 have been more delightful for a prospective bride than 
 to be introduced to such a house, and told that she
 
 LUTTERBOURNE RECTORY 311 
 
 could have her way with it? It was the first-fruits 
 of the tangible gifts that were to be brought to Elsie 
 by her young lover, whose command of the means to 
 supply such accessories to married life as a house fur- 
 nished exactly as she should wish it to be, came in 
 for the first time to enhance the joy he had already 
 given her in offering himself. That he could give her 
 a home, and at once, was all that had hitherto mat- 
 tered to her, in the accidents of his lot. What he 
 could give her over and above could not make him the 
 more dear, but was something for them to share to- 
 gether that would add pleasure to a life already in 
 prospect overflowing with it. Elsie could hardly speak 
 as they all went over the rooms together her heart 
 was so full. It was as if a miracle had happened to 
 her, which had changed her completely from the girl 
 she had been twenty-four hours before. It was too 
 soon as yet to plumb the depths of her happiness. She 
 could only move quietly along her appointed path, and 
 allow its waves to wash gently over her. 
 
 So she talked little, but the rest of them talked a 
 great deal, and much was settled for her about which 
 she was not even capable of forming an opinion. 
 
 Edward's only trouble was that as host and cicerone 
 it was impossible for him to get a moment alone with 
 Elsie. He wanted to say just the loving private word 
 that would seal her his anew in this first visit of hers 
 to their future home. The side that was there for all 
 the world to see he could exhibit to the crowd, but 
 there was another meaning that the old house, con- 
 secrated through years to happy family life, was 
 waiting to whisper to her ears alone, with him as its
 
 312 WATERMEADS 
 
 interpreter. The need to touch those chords became 
 so insistent with him that when Lady Sophia drove 
 up and he went out to welcome her, he managed to 
 say, behind Mrs. Conway's broad back : " Do for good- 
 ness' sake manage for me to be alone with Elsie just 
 for a few minutes." 
 
 Lady Sophia nodded her sapient sympathetic head, 
 and directly they had reached the sitting-room, said: 
 " You two go and look at the church together. I've 
 got something to say that I don't want you to hear. 
 You can come back in ten minutes." 
 
 When they had slipped away, she announced that 
 she had nothing to say except that she would be glad 
 of a cup of tea as soon as possible, but that if she 
 didn't arrange for the young people to have a few 
 minutes alone together nobody would think of it. 
 
 Edward and Elsie went as far as the church porch, 
 and sat on one of its old oak benches. They were in 
 complete privacy. The hot summer air brooded over 
 the flowers and grass of the churchyard, which was 
 kept like a garden. The humming of the bees and the 
 noise of rooks in the Rectory elms were the only sounds 
 that broke the stillness. Time seemed to be pausing 
 for a blissful moment in this quiet green spot, con- 
 secrated to the eternal rest of those who in their time 
 had gone through such sweet emotions as had come to 
 these young lovers, and had now passed to where love 
 has a more perfect fulfilment than the happiest of 
 lovers can know. The sweetness of the vows which 
 these two renewed in the shade of the porch was 
 touched with solemnity. They went into the cool still 
 church. It would have as much to do with the life
 
 LUTTERBOURNE RECTORY 313 
 
 they were to lead together as the house where their 
 days would be spent. They knelt for a little time 
 at the altar rails ; it seemed natural to both of them 
 to do so, and neither had asked it of the other. 
 When they rose again, they kissed, standing where 
 they were before the altar, and looking into one 
 another's eyes, but not speaking, and then went out 
 to join the rest. 
 
 Tea had been served in the garden, under the shade 
 of a great lime on the lawn. They were still sitting 
 in a group when the noise of a large motor was heard 
 from the other side of the house, and presently Jack 
 Kirby made his appearance, from the French window 
 of one of the rooms, and advanced towards them with 
 the air of one receiving a warm welcome. 
 
 There were those among them who were quite 
 pleased to see him, of whom Edward, who had not 
 forgotten that it was at Prittlewell he had put his 
 happiness to the test, was one. But his arrival was 
 not an unmixed pleasure to others, and it had the ef- 
 fect of breaking up the group, which showed a 
 tendency to move away in separate particles, as he 
 explained to all and sundry that he had motored over 
 to Watermeads, and hearing that everybody had come 
 to Lutterbourne thought he might as well come too. 
 By the time that he had settled himself to his overdue 
 tea, Sydney Conway, with Elsie, Rose, Olivia and the 
 three children, had moved off. Fred had made efforts 
 to get Freda to come, too, but she had remained seated 
 in her basket chair, ignoring his touches and whispers. 
 So he had perforce remained himself, standing awk- 
 wardly at her side, with annoyance beginning to dis-
 
 314 WATERMEADS 
 
 turb his mind, and a strong distaste for his one time 
 friend's society growing stronger and stronger within 
 him. 
 
 Jack had thrown a look at the three girls moving 
 away across the lawn, as if he would either have called 
 them back or thrown out a promise of joining them 
 by and by; but his eyes had returned to Freda, who 
 was evidently not intending to move, and this had ap- 
 parently satisfied him. It had all passed in a second, 
 but had been as plain in its meaning to Fred as if it 
 had been put into words. Jack wanted to amuse him- 
 self with somebody when he had finished his tea, and if 
 Rose was not there, then Freda would do very well. 
 
 It was Lady Sophia who announced to him the news 
 of the engagement. " I suppose you don't know what 
 has happened yet," she said, in her uncompromising 
 fashion, " or you'd have produced one of your grace- 
 ful speeches, as it came about at your little entertain- 
 ment last night. There's a happy man here, and I 
 think you might help yourself to what you want, and 
 let him go off to find company that he'll enjoy a good 
 deal more than yours." 
 
 Edward, who had been supplying the wants of his 
 belated guest, laughed and went off at once, to escape 
 further explanations and congratulations. Jack, who 
 had been about to put a piece of damp tea-cake into 
 his mouth, arrested its progress and stared. He was 
 seldom to be seen at a loss, but he was so seen now, 
 as the meaning of Lady Sophia's words penetrated to 
 his understanding. He changed colour a little, and 
 again he threw a glance at Freda, of enquiry and sus- 
 picion.
 
 LUTTERBOURNE RECTORY 315 
 
 Lady Sophia laughed openly at his disconcerted air. 
 " Oh, you needn't be alarmed," she said. " Nobody 
 has been trying to steal a march on you. It's Elsie 
 that has been fallen in love with, and if Rose gets 
 half so nice a husband she'll be a lucky girl, but I 
 don't see any signs of his coming from anywhere at 
 present." 
 
 Jack had recovered himself during the progress of 
 this speech, and made appropriate comments on the 
 news imparted to him. Lady Sophia cut them short 
 by announcing that the gnats were more than usually 
 troublesome and that she should go and sit 
 indoors until her carriage came round. She invited 
 Mrs. Conway to accompany her, and ordered 
 Fred to go and tell her coachman to be ready in 
 half an hour. 
 
 Fred inwardly confounded his godmother, but could 
 not very well escape obedience to her instructions. 
 " Come with me," he said to Freda. " You haven't seen 
 the stables yet." 
 
 Freda looked up at him with a clear gaze. " I don't 
 want to," she said. " I hate the smell of stables, and 
 it's very hot. I'll stay here and keep Mr. Kirby com- 
 pany." 
 
 " We shan't give you the slip a second time," said 
 Jack, with a laugh. " You'll find us sitting here like 
 good children when you come back." 
 
 Fred went off, the set of his shoulders showing acute 
 displeasure. He was hardly out of earshot before 
 Jack said in a low voice : " Can't we get away some- 
 where before he comes back? You can make it all 
 right with him afterwards."
 
 816 WATERMEADS 
 
 But Freda was not quite ready for such an open 
 overthrowal of all allegiance or else not ready to al- 
 low Jack to believe that he could have his way with 
 her. " I'm very comfortable where I am, thanks," she 
 said. 
 
 He threw her a baffled frown, but said coolly, " Oh, 
 all right. I thought you'd like a little talk, that's all. 
 What about Rose, and what you told me last night? 
 I believe you were kidding me about Rose." 
 
 She laughed at him. " So that I could gain your 
 attentions for myself, I suppose," she said. " That's 
 how I should have done it, isn't it? " 
 
 " What do you mean by that? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh, how dull you are ! " she said with a shrug of 
 the shoulders. " If I had wanted to put you off Rose, 
 should I have told you she liked somebody else bet- 
 ter than you? It would have made you jealous, and 
 all the keener. At least, I should think so, if you're 
 like everybody else. I told you what I thought was 
 the truth, because we were talking as friends. If you 
 don't believe that, / don't mind. I can do very well 
 without you as a friend." 
 
 He grinned at her. " I don't quite know what to 
 make of all that," he said. " I can't do without you 
 as a friend. I like you far too much. I say, I don't 
 believe Fred has found that footman. Do just come 
 for a little walk." 
 
 " We'll go and find the others if you like," she said 
 unconcernedly, rising from her seat. " I'm not going 
 to hide myself with you again, if that's what you 
 want." 
 
 " Come along then," he said, springing up to join
 
 LUTTERBOURNE RECTORY 317 
 
 her, and they went off together in the direction that 
 the others had taken. 
 
 The lawn merged into a thick growth of trees and 
 shrubs, and it was some time before they found the 
 rest of the party in the further spaces of the gar- 
 den. Fortunately for Fred's peace of mind when he 
 hurried back from his search, they were all together.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 OLIVIA SPEAKS 
 
 THE post bag at Watermeads was usually brought in 
 about halfway through breakfast. It was unlocked 
 at the table and the letters handed out by the head 
 of the house, usually with appropriate comment. Dur- 
 ing the past few days its coming had been more 
 eagerly looked for than ever before. Freda had been 
 gone five days ; Edward wrote to Elsie every day, 
 although he also saw her every day; the negotiations 
 with Mr. Blumenthal were nearing completion; and 
 Giles Bellamy had departed from Watermeads a week 
 before, summoned to his brother, who was ill, in 
 Switzerland. He had become so intimate with the Con- 
 ways that news was awaited from him just as if he 
 were a relation. 
 
 " One for you, Elsie ; Lutterbourne postmark ; I 
 wonder who that's from. Bill, bill, circular, circular. 
 Mr. Blumenthal to me; that will settle us up, I hope. 
 Here's one from Giles at last ; hope it's to say he's com- 
 ing back. That's all. Fred, my boy, that young 
 woman of yours wants keeping up to the mark. Per- 
 haps there's something enclosed in her father's letter." 
 
 There was an enclosure in Mr. Blumenthal's letter, 
 but not the one that had been suggested. It was a 
 cheque for a thousand pounds, and the missive that ac- 
 companied it simply said that he enclosed payment as 
 
 318
 
 OLIVIA SPEAKS 319 
 
 agreed for the picture he had bought, and should like 
 it packed and sent to him at an address in London as 
 soon as possible. He should be writing on other mat- 
 ters shortly. 
 
 " Well, that's very kind of him," said Sydney. " A 
 cheque for a thousand pounds doesn't come our way 
 every day, does it? Still, I never actually agreed to 
 sell him the picture ; it has never been mentioned in our 
 correspondence. You only told him that you would 
 put the offer before me, didn't you, mother? " 
 
 " I said I did not think it likely that you would 
 care to sell anything," said Mrs. Conway. " He then 
 increased his offer from five hundred pounds to a thou- 
 sand, and sent me rather an impertinent message by 
 that objectionable woman Parker asking me not to 
 forget to put it before you. I have mentioned these 
 facts more than once already, and the remembrance 
 of them is painful to me. They are exactly as I have 
 told them, and if I could be relieved of repeating them 
 all over again I should be glad." 
 
 " Yes, I thought that was how it was," said Sydney. 
 " Well, it's a very handsome price to offer, and if he's 
 so anxious to have the lady I think we'll send her to 
 him, and keep his thousand pounds. What do you 
 say, children? " 
 
 " If / might be permitted to give my opinion," said 
 Mrs. Conway, " I should wish to point out that his 
 money has already been allocated to a certain purpose. 
 If the negotiations with Mr. Blumenthal are brought 
 to a satisfactory conclusion, which I have no reason 
 to suppose they will not be, it was to be used for 
 adapting Manor Farm to to "
 
 320 WATERMEADS 
 
 " To a residence suitable for a family of distinction. 
 Quite right, mother. It must be put aside for that." 
 
 " If it is accepted now," said Mrs. Conway, " it will 
 be frittered away. I am not speaking without experi- 
 ence. The money that was received for the sale 
 of " 
 
 " Oh, surely we don't want to go into all that, 
 mother ! If I pay the cheque in, I shall keep the money 
 for what is decided except a few pounds, perhaps 
 but no, I don't know that we should want to spend 
 any of it; Grandfather John's benefits are far from 
 being exhausted yet. Still, I'm inclined to agree that 
 it would be better not to take it till all the business 
 with Blumenthal is finished. What do you say, Fred? 
 It looks as if he were offering this to make things 
 easier for us. He was quite certain that the picture 
 wasn't by Holbein, wasn't he, mother? " 
 
 Mrs. Conway shut her eyes wearily, and opened 
 them to say : " I have already said so several times. 
 I will repeat it again if you wish." 
 
 " Well, I shouldn't like to take advantage of his 
 generosity. What do you say, Fred?" 
 
 Fred aroused himself from the dejection into which 
 he had fallen at not having received a letter from 
 Freda for three days running. " Somehow I don't 
 seem to see that sort of generosity in him," he said. 
 " I should think it's more likely that he wants to get 
 something more out of you on our behalf, and thinks 
 he'll tie your hands by sending you the cheque now. 
 7 don't want any more than you've already offered, 
 father. You've given way enough as it is. If you can 
 do without the money for a bit I should send the
 
 OLIVIA SPEAKS 321 
 
 cheque back to him, and say that you'll complete this 
 bargain with the other." 
 
 He spoke with some bitterness. Apart from his 
 disappointment with Freda, to whom he had written 
 long and loving letters every day since her departure, 
 he was becoming more and more incensed with the busi- 
 nesslike attitude of Freda's father. A delicate affair 
 of this sort ought to have been settled with the ut- 
 most regard for the feelings of those concerned. But 
 it was being conducted as if his father needed to be 
 bound down at every point, in case he should take ad- 
 vantage of some loophole to escape the liabilities upon 
 which he had shown himself nothing but accommodat- 
 ing; while Fred himself was being treated as if it were 
 no affair of his whatever, and he was just to consider 
 himself part of the bargain and not the most im- 
 portant part either that was being struck on behalf 
 of Freda. A great deal of his pleasure at the prospect 
 of living in a revivified Watermeads had disappeared 
 during the process of the negotiations. He would be 
 living there as the pensioner of Mr. Blumenthal, and 
 it was becoming increasingly plain to him that Freda 
 would do little to make that obligation sit more lightly 
 upon him. He thought that his father, who was so 
 open-handed to others, though always ready to skimp 
 himself, felt the way in which he was being treated, 
 and he was determined, if he could, to save him further 
 annoyance. 
 
 " Oh, well, business is business," said Sydney. " At 
 least, business men are always telling one so, but it 
 seems to me that they do rather make troubles for 
 themselves in it which they might avoid. I'll write and
 
 322 WATERMEADS 
 
 tell him I will hold his cheque, and we'll settle up 
 everything together sale of the picture and all. Now 
 let's see what our friend Giles has to say." 
 
 Giles Bellamy had written shortly to say that his 
 brother was dead, after a short illness. He was bring- 
 ing his body back to England, and might have to be 
 at home for another week. After that he should be 
 returning to Watermeads. 
 
 That was all, except messages of greeting to the 
 family, and only Sydney knew how much was meant 
 by his news. Mrs. Conway, it is true, said : " Then Mr. 
 Bellamy is now in the position of an eldest son," and 
 sat ruminating. But Sydney said shortly : " Oh, no, 
 he told me that his brother had a child," and she had 
 by that time reflected that, whether elder son or not, 
 Bellamy's eligibility was not so marked as that of Ed- 
 ward Probert, and did not feel sufficient interest in 
 him to enquire whether the child was a boy or a girl. 
 
 When Sydney came to think it over by himself, he 
 could not remember that Giles had said more than his 
 brother had a child. Whether it was a boy or a girl 
 was likely to be of some importance to him, if his 
 father's property was entailed, as probably it was. It 
 was of some importance to Sydney, too. He had 
 rushed with relief to the idea of Giles marrying Rose, 
 as a refuge from the distasteful thought of Jack 
 Kirby marrying her. But there was a good deal of 
 difference between Giles Bellamy as a landscape artist, 
 even if a rising one, and Giles Bellamy as an elder son. 
 Supposing that it should turn out that he should take 
 his brother's place, then nobody, not even Sophia 
 Raine, could say anything but that he would be a
 
 OLIVIA SPEAKS 323 
 
 good match for Rose from the material point of view. 
 They would not say so otherwise, since they had been 
 expecting her to marry Jack Kirby. 
 
 Sydney was inclined to believe that Giles's brother 
 had left a little girl. It would fit in so well ; and things 
 were in the way of fitting in well at Watermeads just 
 now. These favourable winds blew in cycles, and it 
 was very long since they had blown at all. It was 
 highly improbable that they had blown themselves out 
 yet. Yes, the little Bellamy was almost bound to be 
 a niece and not a nephew. And Rose was almost bound 
 to fall in love with Giles, if he once showed her that 
 he was in love with her. She certainly liked him, very 
 much indeed all of them did at Watermeads. Syd- 
 ney especially had found him a more agreeable com- 
 panion even than Edward Probert, whom he also 
 liked. 
 
 As for the detested Jack Kirby that menace 
 seemed to be fading away. Nothing had happened on 
 that evening at Prittlewell, which had seemed to him 
 to have been arranged to the end that the thing he 
 dreaded might happen. And at Lutterbourne on the 
 following day, when Jack Kirby had pushed himself 
 in among them, Sydney had had him under his eye the 
 whole time, except when he had been drinking his tea 
 with Fred and Freda. He had talked and laughed in 
 his usual free self-satisfied manner, with Rose and all 
 the rest of them, but he had made no attempt to get 
 Rose to go away with him alone, as he had so often 
 done at Watermeads, and had said goodbye with no 
 announcement of another visit shortly. Nor had any- 
 thing been seen of him since. Sydney understood that
 
 324 WATERMEADS 
 
 he .had left Prittlewell, and might not be down again 
 for some time. Such pieces of news filtered through. 
 And yet it had seemed to be settled, from what Lord 
 Kirby had let out, that he would be spending some 
 time at Prittlewell, and chiefly on account of bring- 
 ing his courtship of Rose to an end. 
 
 Well, if he still wanted her, but was inclined to put 
 off his wooing, he might now find that whatever chance 
 he had seemed to have was gone, and a better man 
 than he had taken his place. Sydney hoped that Giles 
 Bellamy would not tarry. Elder or younger son, 
 whichever he might be, he would be welcome. He was 
 a man, and one to whom a father might well trust 
 his daughter's happiness. 
 
 It was Sunday, and no games were played at Water- 
 meads on Sundays. Mrs. Conway, who had not played 
 games since her childhood, had made this rule when 
 her own children were very small, and often referred 
 to it, as being in the nature of a feather in her 
 spiritual cap. There was no narrowness of mind in 
 it, she was wont to explain. She would not say that 
 games on Sunday were wrong except cards and bil- 
 liards nor that the Christian Sunday should be kept 
 like the Jewish Sabbath. But it was better to mark 
 one day in seven off from the rest, and by devoting 
 Sunday to thoughts suitable to the day, and refrain- 
 ing from ordinary amusements, the rest of the week 
 would be all the brighter. This consolation was some- 
 times needed by the active-minded active-bodied fam- 
 ily to whom it was offered, when Sunday afternoon 
 was hanging heavy on their hands ; but on this partic- 
 ular Sunday afternoon the air of pause and quietness
 
 OLIVIA SPEAKS 325 
 
 was agreeable to most of them after the excitements 
 they had recently gone through. 
 
 Olivia was the only visitor to the house, and she was 
 now again so much a part of the family that she was 
 hardly like a visitor. She came up from her Sunday- 
 school and stayed until it was time to go home to give 
 her father his tea. Fred, who was feeling unhappy, 
 and in need of some distraction of mind, walked across 
 the park with her. It was in his mind that he might 
 talk to her about Freda, to whom she had always 
 shown herself courteous and kind, although Freda had 
 not liked her and had taken no particular pains to 
 hide the fact. He found it difficult to talk to Elsie 
 and Rose about Freda. They said nothing against 
 her, and sometimes succeeded in saying something 
 nice about her; but it was becoming plain to him that 
 they did not want to talk about her at all, and it 
 was only by resolutely shutting his eyes to the ob- 
 vious inference from that fact that he could avoid an 
 unpleasant shock to his sensibilities. 
 
 They went through the garden and out into the 
 park through a little hand gate. So far neither of 
 them had spoken. Olivia was one of those whose very 
 silence is companionable, and Fred, busy with his 
 thoughts, was already soothed by it. He had known 
 her so intimately and for so long that there was no 
 necessity to keep up a flow of chatter with her, as with 
 other girls. She looked beautiful in her graceful free- 
 moving youth far more beautiful, if he could only 
 have seen it, than Freda, whose looks depended not 
 upon the quiet soul that was in her, as did Olivia's 
 in some measure, but upon her mood of the moment,
 
 326 WATERMEADS 
 
 and more than a little on the way she was dressed. 
 Olivia wore a white frock and a big black hat. Her 
 fine tapering hands were ungloved, and she held some 
 roses in one of them, but needed to hold nothing to 
 give them employment. A fair indication of char- 
 acter may be drawn from the way hands are carried 
 when they have nothing to do. 
 
 Olivia spoke first, and sympathetically to the point, 
 while Fred was searching for an opening phrase. 
 " This is rather a dull Sunday for you, I'm afraid. 
 One seems to miss people one loves more on Sunday 
 than on other days. I used to miss father frightfully 
 on Sundays, when I first went abroad. I'm sure you 
 must be missing Freda." 
 
 " Yes, I am," said Fred. " And there's no second 
 post on Sundays, which makes it worse. I've only had 
 one letter from her since she went away, and I can't 
 think why." 
 
 It would have been easy enough to make some light 
 excuse for Freda's silence, which would have carried 
 with it no consolation; but that was not Olivia's way. 
 " It is a long time to be without a letter," she said, 
 " even if you do get one tomorrow morning. I don't 
 wonder at your being bothered at not hearing from 
 her. Still, one does learn to make excuses for people 
 who don't write when you think they ought to. No 
 two people are quite alike in the way they look upon 
 their duties as correspondents." 
 
 " I should have thought that if you loved somebody 
 very much you'd have wanted to write to them," said 
 Fred, out of the bitterness of his heart. 
 
 " I know. That's just what one does think when
 
 OLIVIA SPEAKS 327 
 
 one feels sore at not hearing. But it doesn't follow 
 really." She smiled at him. " It would with you," she 
 said, " and I think it would with me ; perhaps it would 
 with most people. But one knows from one's own ex- 
 perience that there are exceptions. You will forget 
 all about Freda's silence when you do hear from her, 
 Fred." 
 
 " Oh, I shall get a letter tomorrow all right," he 
 said more cheerfully. " I ought not to let myself feel 
 annoyed with her. I don't know whether it's a partic- 
 ular failing of mine to be irritable. I never used to 
 think it was. I suppose when one loves somebody very 
 much one is apt to be exacting. All sorts of things 
 upset one, and yet when they come to be explained 
 there's nothing in them." 
 
 Olivia knew that irritability was not at all a failing 
 of Fred's, and she knew how much reason Freda had 
 given him for being constantly under its sway. She 
 also knew something about Freda that she had not 
 breathed a hint of to anybody, and she had been very 
 deeply exercised in her mind as to what she ought to 
 do about it. She had been walking in the wooded part 
 of the garden at Lutterbourne Rectory with Bobby, 
 a little in advance of the rest, just before Jack Kirby 
 and Freda had joined them, and she had seen what 
 she had seen through an opening in the shrubs, though 
 nobody else had seen anything. 
 
 Now, suddenly, her duty in the matter seemed to be 
 plain. Knowing what she knew, Fred's speech seemed 
 to her infinitely pathetic. He was constantly being 
 upset by signs of Freda's essential indifference to him, 
 of which Olivia, after what she had seen, had no doubt
 
 328 WATERMEADS 
 
 whatever; and she was very clever in explaining them 
 away. That was what it had meant, though he was far 
 from knowing it. Wasn't it better to give him a hint 
 of the truth, however painful it might be to him, than 
 to go on as she had begun, encouraging him to think 
 that Freda loved him as he loved her? She did not 
 ask herself whether it was possible for her to tell him 
 the damning proof she had of Freda's unfaithfulness 
 to him, in the kisses she had allowed Jack Kirby to 
 shower on her, and had in some measure at least re- 
 turned; nor whether what she could find words to say 
 to him would do anything to break the illusion he was 
 under. She simply felt that it was impossible to keep 
 silence while he, her friend, was being so cruelly de- 
 ceived. What would come of it must come; but she 
 saw nothing but increasing unhappiness for him in the 
 path he was treading. She would at least set up her 
 warning in it. 
 
 " Fred," she said, with a catch in her breath. " We 
 are very old friends, you and I. I must say something 
 to you because of that that I hate saying. I think 
 that all the little things that hurt you and some of 
 them aren't little things ought not to happen, and 
 wouldn't happen if she loved you as you love her. 
 You can't imagine them happening with Elsie and Ed- 
 ward. I don't believe that the explanations she gives 
 you, and that satisfy you for the moment, are always 
 true ones. I think she does just what she likes, and 
 makes up any excuse that she thinks will satisfy you. 
 She doesn't treat you as she should." 
 
 Fred's surprise at this speech was so great, that for 
 the moment he could not rally his thoughts to it. Its
 
 OLIVIA SPEAKS 329 
 
 significance, as spoken by Olivia, passed him by; it 
 fitted in only too well with what he was feeling about 
 Freda himself, though he was doing all he could to 
 keep off the convictions that were crowding in upon 
 him. " She often makes me very unhappy,*' he said. 
 " But she has made me very happy, too. I can't not 
 trust her. That would be the end of everything." 
 
 Olivia was at a loss now. She had spoken on the 
 impulse of the moment, and without any definite end 
 in view, except to relieve herself of the burden of mak- 
 ing false excuses, and to set up her warning for him. 
 But how could that warning be made effective, unless 
 she were to tell him what she had seen? When she had 
 once spoken, she knew that she could not do that, at 
 least now. It would cover her with shame. Not even 
 for Fred's sake could she do it, though she wanted so 
 much to help him. Then how was she to open his 
 eyes ? 
 
 She spoke hurriedly. " I have seen many things," 
 she said, " and so have Elsie and Rose, and others, too, 
 which make me sure that it is Watermeads she wants, 
 Fred, and not you. It sounds a horrid thing to say, 
 and you know that I wouldn't say it unless I were 
 quite certain. I tried we all tried to be nice to her, 
 when she first came; we felt that we must trust her, 
 just as you feel. But it was of no use. She hates me 
 I don't know why and she doesn't like either Elsie 
 or Rose. She doesn't like anybody but herself. She 
 isn't worthy of you, Fred." 
 
 Fred had recovered himself now. " What are you 
 saying, Olivia?" he asked, in a hard voice. "I love 
 Freda, and she is going to be my wife. You and she
 
 330 WATERMEADS 
 
 don't like one another I know that but you ought 
 not to speak of her like that to me." 
 
 " How does she speak to you of me, Fred? " she 
 asked quietly. 
 
 He hesitated a moment. " I have never heard her 
 say anything against you without protesting," he 
 said. " But even if she has, it's quite different. If 
 it were anybody else who had said what you have 
 except perhaps Elsie or Rose I should never have 
 spoken to them again. Please don't say that sort of 
 thing again." 
 
 They had come to the gate leading to the Vicarage 
 garden. Olivia put her hand upon it and stood fac- 
 ing him. She felt no irritation against him for the 
 manner in which he had spoken, but only a deep pity 
 for him. " Dear Fred," she said, " it hasn't been 
 easy to say what I have, but I know that I was right 
 in saying it, because of our old friendship. If you 
 will think it over, you will know that I shouldn't have 
 said anything like that just because she and I don't 
 get on well together. It wouldn't be me to do it. I 
 know that you are very unhappy, and I know that you 
 have reason to be unhappy. It is because I don't want 
 you to be more unhappy still that I have spoken. 
 Goodbye ! " 
 
 She held out her hand, but he did not take it. He 
 turned and left her without a word.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 SUNDAY NIGHT AND MONDAY MORNING 
 
 WHEN Fred turned away from Olivia at the gate of 
 the Vicarage, he did not go home again, but crossed 
 the river and went through meadows and country lanes 
 until he reached the beech woods that rose above 
 Watermeads to the north. There he spent some hours, 
 wandering about in complete solitude, and sometimes 
 sitting at the roots of a great tree, poking the red 
 beech mast with his stick, his face always set in de- 
 jection, and seldom raised to the bright green roof 
 above his head. 
 
 Olivia's words had bitten in to him. At first, as he 
 walked quickly away from her towards the distant 
 shelter of the woods, he was angry. What right had 
 she to speak like that? Didn't she know that to re- 
 veal her dislike for Freda in that way would make her 
 own position impossible, since they would be living side 
 by side, perhaps for years to come? He would keep 
 it from Freda, of course, but how could he overlook 
 it himself, as Freda's husband? It would always be 
 between them. And what was it that she had spoken 
 for, except to express the same sort of dislike against 
 Freda that Freda had expressed against her, and that 
 he had refused to listen to, even from Freda. He sup- 
 posed that these mutual jealousies, or whatever one 
 liked to call them, were not uncommon amongst girls; 
 
 331
 
 332 WATERMEADS 
 
 Freda felt them, and so, unfortunately, did Elsie and 
 Rose. But it was not like Olivia to express them. 
 
 No, it was not like her. Almost unwillingly he came 
 to recognise that her speech to him could have been 
 dictated by no such feeling. He knew her far too well 
 to make it possible for him to believe it. 
 
 The conviction only added to his distress. It was 
 not Olivia whom he wanted to think about, but she re- 
 mained to him, when his anger against her had died 
 away, a quiet insistent voice, which only too surely 
 strengthened and pointed what another voice within 
 himself had been striving to say, if he would only listen 
 to it, now for many days past. He was still trying 
 to turn a deaf ear to it, not yet ready to allow it to 
 be heard, and to balance what it had to say against 
 the proofs he clung to that it was a lying voice. All 
 his unhappy thoughts were gropings amongst mem- 
 ories to find support for the wished-for conviction that 
 Freda loved him. He would admit the force of no evi- 
 dence to the contrary; but the evidence was becoming 
 increasingly vocal, and to combat it piece by piece 
 strained his faith to the breaking point. When at 
 last, as dusk was falling, he made his way homewards, 
 he had reached no conclusion ; the one he had wished 
 to reach was further from him than before, and the 
 opposing one he was still keeping at bay. But he was 
 more unhappy than he had ever been, and when he 
 reached home went straight up to his room, feeling 
 physically ill, and unable to play his part in the life 
 of his family. 
 
 When Olivia had spoken as she had, and gone in- 
 doors, she had a revulsion of feeling which caused
 
 SUNDAY NIGHT AND MONDAY MORN 333 
 
 her to ask herself why she had spoken at all. What 
 good had she done? What good could she have ex- 
 pected to do? Unless she had been prepared to tell 
 Fred what she had seen in the Lutterbourne garden, 
 he could only have taken her warning as an expres- 
 sion of dislike towards Freda, and it was natural that 
 he should have rejected it as he had done. 
 
 But she had felt a strong impulse to speak out, and 
 while she did not examine herself as to the source of 
 that impulse she yet knew that it had been a right one, 
 and by and by she was asking herself what she could 
 do further. For she felt more strongly than ever that 
 Fred was preparing for himself a lifetime of unhap- 
 piness, and it was the duty of his friends to save him, 
 if they could, while there was yet time. 
 
 One thing became clear. She need no longer keep 
 to herself what she had seen. She could tell it at least 
 to Elsie and Rose, and they three could take counsel 
 together. It would be a relief to share the base secret, 
 which seemed to stain her mind whenever its image 
 came before her. 
 
 She told them as they walked slowly home from 
 church together in the falling darkness, just at the 
 time when Fred was leaving the sylvan chapel of his 
 unhappy thoughts, buoying himself up with memories 
 of love passages between himself and Freda, but still 
 sinking under the weight of other memories. 
 
 To Elsie, who had been feeding on thoughts of love 
 so pure and untroubled, the disclosure was a stinging 
 shameful blow. To Rose also it was painful hearing, 
 about the man who had certainly made love to her, up 
 to the very time of his treachery, although the qual-
 
 334 WATERMEADS 
 
 ity of his love had been suspect from the first. Olivia 
 had not ignored the shock that it might be to her to 
 hear of Jack Kirby's lightness ; but with her clear eyes 
 she had seen pretty well how matters stood with Rose, 
 in spite of the silence that had been religiously kept 
 between the three girls. She would do best to keep 
 up that pretence of there being nothing between her 
 and Jack Kirby, and if Rose was still in doubt about 
 him, the revelation of what he was would clear her 
 thoughts ; Olivia would be helping Rose as well as Fred 
 by her disclosure. 
 
 Rose spoke first. " How horrid and disgusting ! " 
 she exclaimed indignantly. " Why, he had only seen 
 her for the first time the night before ! " 
 
 " It must have begun then," said Elsie, after a short 
 pause. " It's all horrid, and we needn't think too 
 much about it. It makes her what we have felt her 
 to be, and it's what she is that matters." 
 
 Rose wrenched her mind away from the disgust and 
 contempt she was feeling against Jack, and turned it 
 on to Freda. " Fred couldn't marry her if he knew," 
 she said. " He ought not to marry her. I'm glad it 
 happened. There's no doubt about her now, but we 
 have all ready known what she is for a long time, ex- 
 cept poor Fred." 
 
 But who was to tell Fred? As they talked it over, 
 the disclination of all three of them to do so became 
 stronger. Face to face with a man's love for a girl 
 who was unworthy of him they felt instinctively that 
 there were aspects of it which they could not gauge. 
 They shrank from the thought of how Fred would take 
 the disclosure. Supposing he were to hear it, and still
 
 SUNDAY NIGHT AND MONDAY MORN 335 
 
 go on! None of them formulated this unpleasant 
 dread, but it was there in the background of their 
 minds. 
 
 It was Rose who told her father that evening. She 
 had taken the duty upon her. She would say noth- 
 ing that would imply a personal interest in what had 
 happened, but she divined now how unhappy the fear 
 of an attachment on her part had made him, and she 
 wanted him to know that the fear was groundless, and 
 to know it thus indirectly from her. 
 
 He heard her with a grave face, and kissed her be- 
 fore he spoke, in token that the shadow between them 
 was cleared away. " I can't say I'm surprised," he 
 said. " I was doubtful about her from the very first, 
 but wouldn't admit it to myself, and made the best 
 of her. But it has become plainer and plainer to me 
 that she only accepted Fred because she thought him 
 a good match, and that she doesn't really care for 
 him." 
 
 " But Fred isn't a good match, is he? " said Rose, 
 " in that sort of way, I mean? " 
 
 " Oh, well, ,one doesn't see these things until one is 
 put upon the track. People like that want something 
 that their money alone can't give them. It wouldn't 
 occur to one that they could expect to get anything 
 particular out of us, as we are now. But now I know 
 Mr. Blumenthal, from the dealings I've had with him, 
 I can see how it goes with him. With the money he's 
 prepared to spend, which probably isn't enough for 
 him to miss, Freda would have a good deal more here 
 of what they want than she could get by marrying 
 somebody of their own sort. He sees that, I know, and
 
 336 WATERMEADS 
 
 I'm afraid it's only too plain that she sees it, too, and 
 that that's why she accepted Fred." 
 
 " She must have loved him a little surely ! " 
 
 " I don't know. She can't have helped liking him. 
 I doubt whether a girl like that has it in her to love 
 anybody much. She must be thinking of what she can 
 get out of them all the time." 
 
 " But, father dear, how could she let Mr. Kirby 
 treat her like that?" 
 
 The * Mr. Kirby ' instead of the * Jack ' which had 
 never failed to offend his ears every time it had been 
 spoken, fell gratefully on them. " Mr. Kirby," he said, 
 " would be a great feather in her cap, if she could 
 catch him. She'd throw over Fred tomorrow. If it 
 has gone as far as this shows it has, she probably will 
 throw him over tomorrow. Very likely that's what her 
 silence means. When Fred does hear from her it will 
 be to say that she finds she doesn't love him enough, 
 or some such nonsense; anyhow, to break it off." 
 
 " Oh, if she only would ! That would be the very 
 best thing that could happen." 
 
 " I'm afraid it would. But it will be a blow to poor 
 old Fred." 
 
 " Shall you say anything to him about what Olivia 
 saw, father? " 
 
 " Not till after he has had her letter. If she doesn't 
 write what I think she will, well, I suppose I shall 
 have to tell him. We'll see what happens." 
 
 Freda's letter came the next morning. She had been 
 thinking it all over, she wrote, and although she hated 
 to give him pain, she thought it better to be truthful 
 and say that she had found out she didn't love him
 
 SUNDAY NIGHT AND MONDAY MORN 337 
 
 enough to marry him. She had thought she did at 
 first, and would take all the blame for the mistake. 
 But he had often made her unhappy, by the way he 
 hadn't trusted her, and although she had been patient 
 and put his mistakes right many times, she felt that 
 she could not go on doing that for ever, and they 
 must grow further apart instead of coming nearer to- 
 gether. It also, it appeared, had made her unhappy 
 to find that so much was expected at Watermeads to 
 be done by her father. It was plain to her now that 
 she herself counted for very little. Nobody really liked 
 her, and she wanted affection above all things, and 
 couldn't live without it. She had done all she could 
 herself to please them, but supposed that it was im- 
 possible for them to regard her apart from her father's 
 money, and of course, if that was the general feeling 
 about her, nothing she could have done would have 
 helped matters at all. But it had hurt her very much, 
 and as the arrangement that had been suggested was 
 that the whole family should live next door to them, 
 when she was married, she would never be able to get 
 rid of this feeling, which would grow worse instead of 
 better. 
 
 This was the gist of her letter, which ended on a 
 note of forgiveness for all the wrong that had been 
 done to her, and of hope that if ever she and Fred did 
 meet again they would meet as friends. He must 
 understand, however, that her decision was final. 
 
 Fred began to read this precious missive at the 
 breakfast table, but had not gone far with it before he 
 rose and left the room, to be alone with his pain. 
 
 It was severe enough, but he was more prepared for
 
 338 WATERMEADS 
 
 the news than he had imagined, and the good stuff in 
 him enabled him to bear it with fortitude. Even as he 
 read the sentences that showed the feline nature of the 
 girl he had loved, above every other quality in her, his 
 illusions began to drop away from him. She was like 
 that. Olivia had put it plainly, and he had seen it, 
 too, thought he had shut his eyes to it. He had fallen 
 in love with a face and a form, and endowed their 
 owner with attributes which nothing she had ever 
 shown him had proved her to possess. This vigorous 
 shake was already separating the two elements that 
 were necessary for love. The face and form remained 
 to wound his thoughts whenever he thought of them 
 and longed for them. But such longing was weakness 
 to be resisted. Nothing else in Freda was worthy of 
 love, and even as his heart throbbed its worst he was 
 already turning away from her with something very 
 like contempt for what she essentially was, and the 
 healing process had begun. 
 
 He went to find his father. Sydney looked at him 
 with a slight apprehension. He knew well enough 
 what had happened, and was glad of it, but feared how 
 Fred might be taking it. But a glance at his face re- 
 assured him. He had been rather weak under the in- 
 fluence of his passion, but the strength in him would 
 enable him to throw it off. 
 
 " Well, dear old boy," said Sydney, when he had read 
 the letter, not without muttered expressions of impa- 
 tience, " you'll know how sorry I am for you without 
 my having to say it. But I'm damn glad, too. Yes, 
 damned glad. Now, I'll tell you something about 
 her."
 
 SUNDAY NIGHT AND MONDAY MORN 339 
 
 He told him, and Fred laughed bitterly at the re- 
 cital. " When I read what she wrote there," he said, 
 " it did come to my mind to write back and tell her 
 that she was mistaken about me, and that I did trust 
 her, and always should. I'm glad I felt I couldn't do 
 that, before you had told me what you have. To think 
 of what she said to me about that fellow only the night 
 before! No, I knew I couldn't trust her, though I 
 didn't know why. We'll never let him show his face 
 here again the blackguard ! Did you say it was Rose 
 who told you? What does she feel about it?" 
 
 " Oh, Rose is all right. I think one might have 
 trusted Rose a bit more than one did about him. I 
 don't believe it would ever have come to anything, even 
 if this hadn't happened. She'd have seen through him. 
 Well, dear old boy, it's hard for you, but you're well 
 out of it. A girl who would let herself be kissed like 
 that! I never really liked her, and latterly I'd come 
 definitely not to like her, though I tried not to show 
 it. One felt she wasn't straight." 
 
 This was too much for Fred just at present. He 
 said : " Well, it's done with now. I shan't answer her 
 letter. I don't like the things she says of all of you. 
 There was no necessity for it, as she was breaking off. 
 She might have let me down easier; but perhaps it's 
 just as well. I might have wanted to mend it, and now 
 I don't. But I don't want to talk about her just yet 
 awhile. I did love her, and I suppose I do still in a 
 sort of way. It hurts like the devil; but I shall get 
 over it." 
 
 When the news was broken to Mrs. Con way, she 
 said that it was what she had expected from the be-
 
 340 WATERMEADS 
 
 ginning. " When she came up to me and kissed me," 
 she said, " I felt that it was a Judas kiss. I felt a 
 shudder run down my spine. I said to myself : ' Is this 
 the girl my son has brought me to love as a daughter ? ' 
 You will all do me the justice to remember that I hid 
 my feelings. I saw you all making much of her, de- 
 ceived by her surface attractions, which to me meant 
 nothing, and less than nothing, and I asked myself 
 whether you had all been stricken blind." 
 
 " But, mother dear ! " expostulated Elsie, " we all 
 had to be nice to her at first. We didn't know what 
 she was like, and she did try to make herself agree- 
 able. I think we all saw through her pretty quickly." 
 
 " Very well, Elsie," said Mrs. Conway, in a tone of 
 patient forbearance. " Then we will say that nobody 
 was deceived but myself. I have no wish to bandy 
 words, and, as you are now engaged, you naturally 
 know more about such things than your own mother. 
 We need say no more about it ; but what I should wish 
 to know, if I may be permitted to ask, is what be- 
 comes of our plans about Manor Farm, and what it 
 is proposed to do about Mr. Blumenthal's cheque for 
 the Holbein." 
 
 " I shall send it back," said Sydney. " As for 
 Manor Farm, I'm afraid there'll be nothing doing. 
 I'm sorry, because I had looked forward to all that, 
 and I think we should have been better off there than 
 here. However, we must just go on as before, and 
 trust to something happening to keep us going. After 
 all, it's rather a relief not to owe anything to Mr. 
 Blumcnthal." 
 
 " If I might be allowed to make a suggestion," said
 
 SUNDAY NIGHT AND MONDAY MORN 341 
 
 Mrs. Conway, still speaking with an air of infinite pa- 
 tience and self-renouncement, " it would be that Mr. 
 Blumenthal's cheque should not be returned to him 
 without further consideration. I am wholly against 
 the sale of valuables from this house, as I have often 
 said before. Pictures and other treasures are disposed 
 of, and " 
 
 " And the money that they fetch is disposed of 
 too," interrupted Sydney. " Oh, yes, mother, we know 
 all about that. Well, in this case we won't dispose of 
 the picture. I'm very glad I didn't pay in the cheque. 
 I don't want to be beholden to Mr. Blumenthal for 
 anything." 
 
 Mrs. Conway shut her eyes, and opened them again. 
 " If I might sometimes be permitted to continue a 
 speech ! " she suggested. " What I was about to say 
 when you interrupted me, Sydney, was that in this one 
 instance the picture is not one that we particularly 
 value. I for one, though I have not pressed the view, 
 have always had a strong dislike for the type of face 
 it represents, and have often felt uncomfortable at 
 looking up and finding the eyes fixed upon me. How- 
 ever, that is not the point. What I should wish to 
 point out is that Mr. Blumenthal, being what he is, 
 is not likely to have offered a considerable sum of 
 money for something of which he does not know the 
 value. He struck me as being remarkably astute in 
 such matters in some ways unpleasantly so and I 
 personally can see no obligation entered into by ac- 
 cepting the price he is ready to pay for something we 
 are ready to sell. I might just as well say that I was 
 under an obligation to the butcher who buys a sheep
 
 342 WATERMEADS 
 
 from me, or a lamb, at the market price, or to the 
 dairyman who " 
 
 " Yes, it's a good parallel, mother. You needn't 
 press it. If it was purely a matter of business with 
 
 Blumenthal ! Perhaps it may be, but it would be 
 
 going directly against the principle I've always 
 adopted in selling things, and that you have felt at 
 least as strongly as I have. We don't want to sell 
 pictures or anything else unless we're in actual need of 
 money that we can't get elsewhere. We're not in ac- 
 tual need of money just now, though we may be in a 
 year or so's time, unless affairs improve. We were go- 
 ing to use Blumenthal's thousand pounds for adapting 
 Manor Farm. As we're not going to adapt it, but go 
 on living here, I think we won't sell the picture." 
 
 " I will say no more," said Mrs. Conway resignedly. 
 " If there were any chance of my being listened to, 
 which I ought to know by this time there is not, I 
 should ask why the idea of our removing ourselves to 
 Manor Farm should be given up. I should perhaps 
 have urged that the advantages to ourselves of having 
 a smaller house to keep up are the same as they were 
 yesterday, and the day before, and the day before 
 that. I might have pointed out that Mr. Blumenthal 
 is not the only wealthy man in England at the present 
 time, and that by advertising in papers, as is done 
 every day, someone might be found who would be 
 pleased to take this house off our hands, and pay 
 whatever sum might be agreed upon per annum for 
 doing so. However, I should only be talked down, and 
 I prefer to keep silence." 
 
 " It isn't a bad idea, you know," said Sydney re-
 
 SUNDAY NIGHT AND MONDAY MORN 343 
 
 flectively, " to see whether there's yet a chance of let- 
 ting Watermeads furnished. The game has been let 
 down to almost nothing, but there's plenty of cover, 
 and anybody who cared about having a place like this 
 might be willing to do all that was necessary in return 
 for a nominal rent. I'm afraid we should almost have 
 to give the place away, but at any rate it would be 
 kept up, in a way we can't do ourselves. I think your 
 suggestion's worth turning over, mother. But Blu- 
 menthal no! I won't sell Blumenthal a picture or 
 anything else. I've done with Blumenthal, I hope for 
 ever."
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 FREDA PULLS IT OFF 
 
 NOTHING had been said to Mrs. Con way about what 
 was known of the passages between Freda and Jack 
 Kirby, nor had they been mentioned at all amongst 
 those who knew of them, since Rose had spoken to her 
 father. But there was an uneasy feeling that some- 
 thing more would be heard. They had not yet got 
 rid of Freda and her * ways.' 
 
 Light began to trickle through when Lady Sophia 
 came over on that Monday afternoon, to ask about 
 something that was worrying her. She had got hold 
 of one of the threads of a possible story, and wanted 
 to see if she could collect a few others. 
 
 Sydney and the girls were playing tennis, with Ed- 
 ward Probert; and Olivia was in the garden with them. 
 Fred had gone out for a long walk over the hills. 
 Mrs. Con way and Penelope were in the parlour to- 
 gether. 
 
 Penelope had taken the news about Freda with un- 
 expected feeling. She had burst out crying, and said 
 that she loved Freda, and asked why she had not writ- 
 ten to her, if they were never going to see her again. 
 She had not even sent her a message. 
 
 Mrs. Conway was still carrying on the work of con- 
 solation, when Lady Sophia was shown in. But her 
 sensible speeches had so far failed of their effect, and 
 
 344
 
 FREDA PULLS IT OFF 345 
 
 Penelope was still fighting against the sense of desola- 
 tion that had come over her when she had first felt 
 herself to be betrayed. She clung to her mother's side, 
 and refused to be dislodged upon hints that the visitor 
 had something to say which she wished to say in pri- 
 vate. " If it's about Freda," she said, lifting a tear- 
 stained resentful face, " I want to hear it. Every- 
 body is against her but me, and she was very kind to 
 me, and I love her." 
 
 Mrs. Conway, adamant in imposing her will upon all 
 around her except Penelope, had not the fortitude to 
 send the child away against her expressed wish, and 
 Lady Sophia had no particular objection to saying 
 what she had to say before her, if Mrs. Conway did 
 not object to her hearing it. Besides, the end of 
 another thread showed in Penelope's speech. 
 
 " Why is everybody against Freda ? " she asked. 
 
 " I am sorry to have to say," said Mrs. Conway, 
 adapting the tone of her speech to Penelope's infant 
 ears, " that Freda has behaved very badly." 
 
 " She hasn't," said Penelope hotly. " She says that 
 Fred doesn't love her enough, and she doesn't want to 
 marry him. And she knows that nobody likes her 
 here, she says, and it isn't true. 7 like her, and I shall 
 write and tell her so, and ask her to come back. I 
 know her address at Scarborough, and I shall write 
 this afternoon." 
 
 A fresh burst of tears punctuated her speech. " Oh, 
 she's in Scarborough, is she? " exclaimed Lady Sophia, 
 as Mrs. Conway essayed to assuage Penelope's grief. 
 " That lets in daylight. And she has written to Fred 
 to break off her engagement! I see. Yes, it's begin-
 
 346 WATERMEADS 
 
 ning to fit in now, and, upon my word, it's been a 
 pretty quick business." 
 
 " I don't want to hear anything more," said Pe- 
 nelope, breaking away from her mother's heavy 
 blandishments. " I shall go and talk to Cooky. She 
 didn't like Parker, but she did like Freda. She and I 
 were the only ones in this house that did, except Fred, 
 and Fred hasn't behaved well to Freda. She says so, 
 and / believe her, if nobody else does." 
 
 She flung out of the room. " Poor child ! " said 
 Mrs. Conway. " She has a loyal and tender nature, 
 and naturally at her age it is difficult to see ill in any- 
 body. I wouldn't have it otherwise, but there is no 
 doubt, Sophia, that you and I were right in our first 
 estimation of that girl's character. She has behaved 
 shamefully abominably. I am only thankful that she 
 was found out for what she is before the marriage took 
 place; otherwise I tremble to think what would have 
 happened in the future. We have been nursing a 
 viper to our bosoms. I abominate strong language, 
 but in this case it is excusable." 
 
 Lady Sophia asked a few questions which put her 
 in possession of the facts, as far as they were known 
 to Mrs. Conway. " Yes, I see it all now," she said. 
 " Upon my word, I can hardly help admiring the girl's 
 cleverness. If she brings it off with young Kirby, 
 she'll have done a stroke for herself in a few days that 
 one would hardly have believed it possible she could 
 have managed in weeks. Oh, but she's clever! But 
 what a minx ! Oh, what a minx ! " 
 
 " What upon earth has young Kirby to do with it? " 
 enquired Mrs. Conway, much mystified.
 
 FREDA PULLS IT OFF 347 
 
 " Oh, well, I'll tell you. That afternoon we went 
 over to Lutterbourne something struck me about those 
 two. I really could hardly tell you what it was 
 exactly; it was so slight that nobody else noticed it. 
 But I was pretty certain that there was an under- 
 standing between them. Well, George and I dined at 
 Prittlewell last night, and I disengaged a few facts. 
 The first was that they had only met the night be- 
 fore I noticed them eyeing one another, and I thought 
 I might perhaps have been mistaken, as it would hardly 
 have given them time for anything. But I didn't al- 
 low enough for that little minx's cleverness. She had 
 set herself to catch him, and done it on the barest op- 
 portunity. Upon my word, it's a masterpiece, as we 
 used to say in Norfolk." 
 
 " I wish you would speak plainly, Sophia," said Mrs. 
 Conway, with a slight approach to the air of weariness 
 with which she was wont to protest against the stupidi- 
 ties of her own family. " I can't make head or tail of 
 what you are saying." 
 
 " No, I don't suppose you can," returned Lady 
 Sophia. " You wouldn't think it possible that she 
 could have brought it off in so short a time, or thrown 
 dust in all your eyes while she was doing it. Well, I'll 
 go on. Lord Kirby took me in, and he wasn't nearly so 
 jovial and country-squirish and inclined to slap one on 
 the back as usual. I'd already found out that he was 
 as pleased at the idea of young Jack marrying Rose 
 as you could be, and it crossed my mind that some- 
 thing might have gone wrong there, and that was the 
 reason why he was depressed. I'll own I hadn't put 
 two and two together then, which was perhaps stupid
 
 348 WATERMEADS 
 
 of me ; but I had very little to go on, and wasn't think- 
 ing of Freda for the moment. Well, I brought in 
 Rose's name, and I saw I was right about his being 
 down in the mouth about that, from the way he took 
 it. I didn't press him in any way, but asked him pres- 
 ently where his son was. Oh, he had had an invitation 
 to shoot grouse in Yorkshire. He didn't know when 
 he'd be back, and he said it in a way to make me think 
 he didn't much care. He didn't want to talk about 
 Jack, I could see, and I didn't go on ; but after din- 
 ner I got a little more out of Lady Kirby. It is a 
 fact, is it, Jane, that Freda is now in Scarborough?" 
 
 " Yes, certainly, she went to join her parents there. 
 But " 
 
 " Well, then, young Kirby has gone to join her 
 there. Lady Kirby told me she hasn't tumbled to 
 anything whatever yet that Jack's shooting engage- 
 ment wasn't for another three or four days after he 
 left Prittlewell, and he was spending the interval at 
 Scarborough. She laughed about it, and said her hus- 
 band was annoyed, as he wanted him at Prittlewell. 
 She didn't know what on earth he was doing with him- 
 self at Scarborough, but supposed he was up to some 
 mischief. Well, we do know what he's doing at Scar- 
 borough, and I wish I'd known at the time that that 
 was where your little minx had gone." 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me," exclaimed Mrs. Conway, 
 " that " 
 
 " Oh, my dear Jane, it's all as plain as a pike-staff 
 now. It was pretty obvious from the beginning that 
 she didn't really care about Fred, but was only using 
 him as a climb-up out of her suburb. Why on earth
 
 FREDA PULLS IT OFF 349 
 
 people like that always go and settle themselves in 
 suburbs, if they're so anxious, as they always are, to 
 get out of them again, I don't know. But there it 
 is. She got herself down here, at any rate, and di- 
 rectly she saw somebody who would suit her better 
 than Fred, she made a set at him. Well, all I can 
 say is that if she does manage to hook him she'll 
 deserve all she gets by it. I've never seen a smarter 
 piece of work. Why, it was all done in less than 
 twenty-four hours, and the second time she can't have 
 been alone with him for more than a couple of minutes, 
 yet there he is following her up! I shouldn't wonder 
 if she has hooked him by this time. You see she waited 
 for a few days before getting rid of Fred. Most prob- 
 ably she didn't write to him until she had made sure 
 of the other. She's too sharp to throw over one cer- 
 tainty without getting another. The next thing that 
 we shall see will be a paragraph in the paper. But 
 Lord Kirby won't like it; I'm pretty sure he won't. 
 Well, Jane, I'm afraid it's an end of our plans for 
 Rose." 
 
 Mrs. Conway's brain was in a whirl. She had known 
 her friend to build up enormous structures before upon 
 a single brick as foundation, and the whole edifice to 
 collapse when the brick had been discovered to have 
 been out of place, or not strong enough to bear the 
 weight. But she had never known her actually invent 
 a fact upon which to build. In this instance she would 
 not have said that Jack Kirby had gone to Scar- 
 borough unless she were sure of it; and his object in 
 going there was plain enough, even if the suspicions 
 Lady Sophia had claimed to have had of him and
 
 350 WATERMEADS 
 
 Freda beforehand might have been the fruit of her own 
 fertile imagination. It was certainly very * odd,' but 
 she could not bring 'herself to believe, without further 
 proof, that it had all meant what Lady Sophia had 
 unhesitatingly taken it to mean. 
 
 " I think you must be exaggerating," she said. 
 " There is no doubt about young Kirby having paid 
 very marked attentions to Rose. I have not been at 
 all anxious that anything should come of it, as I have 
 a strong objection to early marriages, and Rose is not 
 yet twenty. But I have not interfered in any way be- 
 cause, unfortunately, any interference on my part 
 would most probably be only the signal for revolt. A 
 mother's word and a mother's love in this family count 
 for nothing. However, that is not the point. Of 
 Freda I can believe anything. She would certainly do 
 all she could to attract a young man in that position, 
 and it is quite likely that she may have thrown over 
 Fred, so wickedly, because she has hopes of being able, 
 as you say, to * catch ' young Kirby. But I cannot 
 believe that he would be so foolish as to be caught in 
 that way. He has eyes in his head. He can see what 
 she is." 
 
 " Oh, well, so has Fred got eyes in his head, and he 
 didn't see what she was. How is poor Fred, by the 
 by? He's very well out of it, but he can't be feeling 
 particularly spry for the moment, I should think." 
 
 Mrs. Conway said that Fred had not considered it 
 necessary to inform her how he was feeling. A 
 mother's love was ready for him, if he felt any desire 
 for it, to console him for the worthless love that he 
 had lost, but apparently it was valueless to him.
 
 FREDA PULLS IT OFF 351 
 
 " Well," said Lady Sophia, " it's rather unfortunate 
 that two of the marriages we have hoped so much 
 from should have collapsed at the same time. Still, 
 Elsie's engagement is satisfactory enough, and we 
 must be content with that for the present. Somebody 
 else will turn up for Fred ; Rose, too, I hope. There's 
 plenty of time. What I am interested in now is to 
 see whether that little minx will pull it off. I will let 
 you know, Jane, the moment I hear anything, and if 
 you hear something first you must let me know. If she 
 does come to Prittlewell, I shall make the best of her; 
 but the first thing I shall tell her will be that she has 
 behaved very badly to Fred, and that I saw through 
 her from the very first." 
 
 Whatever comfort there may have been in this for 
 Lady Sophia, there was very little for Mrs. Conway, 
 who might think that she persuaded others that she 
 also had seen through Freda from the first, but was 
 well aware in her own mind that she had done nothing 
 of the sort. The whole episode of Freda's visit rankled 
 more and more in her bosom. She saw herself taken in 
 by the girl's careful behaviour when she had been feel- 
 ing her way, and then gradually thrown over, and 
 treated first with indifference, and then with ill-dis- 
 guised contempt. There had been passages of arms 
 with her latterly that Mrs. Conway had revealed to 
 nobody. Freda had made it clear that she saw through 
 her intention of keeping the reins in her own hands, 
 and had taken a pleasure in slighting her claims, and 
 showing her that after her own marriage, when she 
 should take up her abode at Watermeads, Mrs. Conway 
 would be expected to keep her place and not interfere.
 
 352 WATERMEADS 
 
 This had all been very hard to bear, and but for the 
 tangible advantages that would come from the mar- 
 riage the harassed lady would have declared open war- 
 fare and done her best to end the arrangement. 
 
 And now, on the top of all this, the advantages had 
 been withdrawn, and there was nothing to show for the 
 slights that she had suffered. They rankled intolera- 
 bly. This chit of a girl, who but for her father's 
 wealth would probably have been ogling men as wait- 
 ress in a tea-shop so Mrs. Conway gained some slight 
 relief in putting it to herself had been deferred to 
 by those whom she had simply used as a stepping- 
 stone to still greater advantages for herself. Mrs. 
 Conway burned to tell her that such a family as them- 
 selves would be degraded by having anything to do 
 with her, and would willingly have sacrificed one of the 
 remaining treasures of Watermeads to have done so be- 
 fore Freda had herself cast them off. And worse than 
 anything was the thought that, possibly in the near 
 future, this same intolerable chit of a girl might be 
 in a secure position, ostensibly higher than their own, 
 to use scorn of them still further. It would have been 
 through them that she would have raised herself to 
 the position, and the scorn would be all the harder to 
 bear because whatever steps might be taken to repel 
 it would not hurt her in the least. 
 
 As for Freda having taken Rose's property away 
 from her which was how the irate lady expressed it 
 to herself it hardly bore thinking of. The separate 
 factors of the whole were of such maddening quality 
 that she could only take refuge in a sense of their in- 
 credibility. It was like a nightmare from which she
 
 FREDA PULLS IT OFF 353 
 
 must awaken to find that at least the fear of Freda 
 marrying Lord Kirby's son and heir was one that 
 could be laughed at. 
 
 That prospective relief, however, was wrenched from 
 her when Lord Kirby paid another visit to her hus- 
 band, and, with an extremely downcast air, confessed 
 that he had been mistaken in his son, and that he was 
 being asked to accept as his daughter the girl whom 
 he had welcomed to his house only the week before as 
 Fred's prospective bride. 
 
 His purpose in coming at all was not at first plain, 
 but when Sydney understood that it was a somewhat 
 surprising claim upon his sympathy, he responded to 
 it warmly. He had been rather ashamed of the way 
 in which he had received Lord Kirby on his previous 
 visit, and seemed to himself to have behaved rather 
 like a snob in pointing out the superiority of his own 
 birth to that of a man who had raised himself to what 
 would generally be considered a still higher level. 
 After all, Lord Kirby, even if he had rested himself 
 upon his wealth and title, had shown himself eager to 
 endow a penniless girl with them, and as that girl was 
 Sydney's daughter, Sydney need not have sought to 
 wound the donor of the gift-horse by such a very hos- 
 tile criticism of its teeth. 
 
 Lord Kirby heaped coals of fire on his head by say- 
 ing, with a dejected air: "I'm afraid you were right 
 about Jack after all, Conway. It isn't right for a 
 young man to be so changeable in these matters, and 
 I didn't think he had it in him to behave as he has. 
 I suppose you saw something in him that I never have 
 seen, and, as it turns out, you were quite right in ob-
 
 354 WATERMEADS 
 
 jecting to him as a husband for your little Rose. He 
 isn't good enough for her, and I've told him so pretty 
 straight." 
 
 " Oh, well," said Sydney. " I never felt that his at- 
 tentions to Rose were much of a compliment to her; 
 but I've been very sorry since that I expressed myself 
 about them as I did to you. I did dislike the idea of 
 a marriage, and I suppose I allowed myself to get 
 too much worked up about it. I can see now 
 that if he had looked upon it in the same way as 
 you did, I shouldn't have had anything to feel sore 
 about." 
 
 " Ah, that's just it," said Lord Kirby. " It's find- 
 ing him just ready to rush about after a pretty face, 
 and being ready to pay for what he wants with mar- 
 riage that gets at me. I don't know that I was any 
 better than other young fellows when I was his age, 
 but I didn't marry in that way, anyhow. I wanted 
 something more than a pretty face, and I got it, and 
 have been a happy man ever since. Jack would have 
 got it with your little Rose, and one of the prettiest 
 faces with it; I'm hanged if I think he will with this 
 girl he's taken up with now, and I've told him so, 
 pretty straight." 
 
 " Is he determined to marry her? " 
 
 " Oh, he's off his head about her. She's led him on. 
 She's a cunning one. I saw it beginning at my own 
 table, but never thought it was more than youthful 
 high spirits. She must have got hold of him that very 
 evening, and engaged to your son, too, and no doubt 
 throwing dust in his eyes while she was playing for a 
 bigger fish ! You'll excuse my putting it like that, Con-
 
 FREDA PULLS IT OFF 355 
 
 way. In the eyes of a girl like that, of course my 
 boy would be a bigger fish than yours." 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Sydney, with a laugh ; " we're not 
 going to quarrel about that sort of thing any more. 
 Well, it's plain enough what she is up to. I wonder 
 that he can't see that himself. Does he suppose that 
 she suddenly fell in love with him at your ball, and for- 
 got all about Fred on the instant, like Romeo with 
 Rosaline and Juliet?" 
 
 " I saw Mrs. Pat play Juliet," said Lord Kirby. 
 " I don't know what he thinks about it. He just wants 
 her, and he's determined to have her. I suppose she 
 knew how to play her cards so as to get him. I do think 
 she's done most of it, Conway, and I told Jack so 
 pretty straight when I wrote to him. He's annoyed 
 about it, but I don't care. I thought I'd just come 
 over and ask you what you thought about it whether 
 there's any real reason why she should have chucked 
 over your Fred, nice fellow as he always seems to be 
 whether he got tired of her, or anything of that sort, 
 I mean just so as to see if there's any excuse. When 
 a girl is going to marry your son, you want to think 
 the best of her you can, naturally. I don't like it, 
 but I'm not going to cut myself off from Jack, and 
 I shall have to make the best of it." 
 
 " Oh, then he is going to marry her." 
 
 " Oh, lor' yes. Didn't I say so? He's proposed and 
 been accepted. It will be in the papers tomorrow or 
 the next day." 
 
 " Well, I'm afraid I can't give you any consolation," 
 said Sydney, after digesting this piece of information. 
 " Fred was devoted to her, and treated her with the
 
 356 WATERMEADS 
 
 utmost patience and kindness, though he'd had good 
 reason to see which way the wind was blowing before 
 ever this happened. No, there's no fault she can find 
 with him, nor I think with the rest of us. The best 
 I can say is that, having got what she wants and a 
 great deal more than she could ever have expected to 
 get it will be to her own interest to behave herself. 
 Nobody is bad all through, and she's no exception to 
 the rule. We all liked her well enough as long as it 
 was to her interest to make us like her. Oh, you'll 
 get along with her." 
 
 " It's cold comfort," said Lord Kirby.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 FRED GETS ON 
 
 IT was fortunate for Fred at this time that the ap- 
 proach of a General Election, to be fought mainly on 
 an issue extremely interesting to the Right Honourable 
 Mark Drake, should have aroused that ancient Par- 
 liamentary war-horse to activities that he had long 
 since laid aside. It was one of his numerous little od- 
 dities that he liked to stay in London when the greater 
 part of his friends and acquaintances were out of it; 
 and when Fred wrote to him from Watermeads in the 
 middle of August, to tell him the news of his broken 
 engagement, and to say that he should be glad if he 
 could give him some work to do, he summoned him up 
 to London at once, and kept him so busy that he had 
 little time to brood over his vanished hopes. 
 
 His uncle found Fred an unexpectedly competent 
 helper. He had always been diligent and methodical in 
 whatever he had taken in hand, and spared himself no 
 pains and no time in doing whatever he was set to do 
 to the very best of his ability. He was always amiable, 
 and watchful of his chief's requirements. The old man, 
 who hated to think of himself as old, whose brain was 
 as active as ever, but whose strength was decreasing, 
 was sometimes irritable and captious, but he was not 
 like Cousin Henry, on the look-out for occasions for 
 blame, and grew more and more attached to Fred, as 
 
 357
 
 358 WATERMEADS 
 
 he grew more to rely upon him, and to find him always 
 responsive and accommodating. Clever, too, he began 
 to discover, in a way he had certainly not expected of 
 him, when Fred had taken his fancy and he had offered 
 him a secretaryship that he had looked upon as little 
 more than a sinecure. Fred's modest abilities, which 
 had been somewhat at a discount in Cousin Henry's 
 office, where initiative was wanted to give them fruition, 
 showed up very well when he was required to get up 
 a subject under his chief's tutelage. He got up his 
 subjects remarkably well, and showed an increasing in- 
 terest in them. His uncle was delighted with him, but 
 did not tell him so. He only showed that he liked to 
 have him with him ; and his fits of irritability made but 
 a slight mark upon the cordiality of his general be- 
 haviour. 
 
 When he had been working with his uncle for three 
 or four weeks, Fred was surprised to wake up one 
 morning and find himself feeling happy. He was look- 
 ing forward with zest to his day's work, and the pleas- 
 ures that would come with it. These were, in detail, 
 just the ordinary habits of a young man with enough 
 money to live the life of his fellows in that part of 
 London where men with money, young, middle-aged and 
 old, most do congregate; but it was all fresh and de- 
 lightful to Fred, who had hitherto lacked this feeling 
 of assurance and opportunity. 
 
 He had found for himself a set of rooms in West- 
 minster, from which there was an open view of the 
 river and the Houses of Parliament. Uncle Mark had 
 made him a present with which he had been enabled to 
 furnish them, chiefly with things that had been sent
 
 FRED GETS ON 359 
 
 up from Watermeads. These bright rooms were still 
 a new and a great pleasure to him, and with the con- 
 veniences and the excellent service attached to them 
 were more agreeable even than his rooms at Cambridge, 
 and much more so than his rooms at Hillstead. 
 
 He liked the valeting he got, and to feel that he 
 could be well-dressed without anxiety as to his tailor's 
 bills. He liked the way in which his breakfast was 
 served, which was the only meal he had in his rooms, 
 and was somehow different from the one that had been 
 put upon his table every morning at Hillstead, though 
 its constituent elements were the same. Sometimes he 
 walked across St. James's Park to the Bath Club, to 
 which he had lately been elected, and breakfasted there, 
 after a swim. He generally lunched at his other club, 
 and was beginning to make friends there; for clubland 
 is never empty even in August, or perhaps Mark Drake 
 would not have found himself so comfortable in Lon- 
 don during that month. 
 
 In the evening he dined either at his club, or at a 
 restaurant, if he did not dine with his uncle. He often 
 worked in his rooms afterwards, and sometimes went to 
 a play or a music-hall, in company ; but not very often, 
 because play-going now meant stalls, or at least dress- 
 circle, instead of pit, as heretofore; and four hundred 
 pounds a year is not unlimited wealth. 
 
 On this sunny September morning life seemed to be 
 very good to Fred, as he stood at his window in his 
 pyjamas silk, from a shop in Bond Street and 
 looked out over the sparkling river. Then he suddenly 
 realised that there was something missing, and stopped 
 whistling to wonder what it was.
 
 360 WATERMEADS 
 
 He was a little shocked to discover the reason. He 
 had awoke without that uneasy sense of loss which had 
 never been absent from his first waking since he had re- 
 ceived Freda's letter of dismissal. Nay more; he had 
 been fully awake for at least five minutes, and her 
 image had only just crossed his mind, and that with- 
 out any sense of drop in his spirits, but only a little 
 added seriousness at the thought that it should be so. 
 
 The seriousness merged into grateful relief of mind 
 as he examined himself on the bearings of this portent. 
 He was cured, and in an incredibly short space of time, 
 considering the weight of the malady he had laboured 
 under. Or if not completely cured for Freda's image 
 was to return to him many times yet, and, even as he 
 thought about her now, had power to trouble him yet 
 convalescent, with recovery beyond all doubt. 
 
 He had fought hard against the tyranny of his pas- 
 sion, but had never been able to rid himself of the ex- 
 pectation that what he was fighting for would bring 
 some result other than emancipation from it. Some 
 day he would meet Freda again. She would see that 
 he was indifferent to her, and it would disturb her. 
 She could never be anything to him again, and when she 
 should have married another man she would not want 
 to be. But she would at least see what she had lost; 
 for, naturally, if he had shown himself less dependent 
 upon him, during their engagement, she would have 
 been more dependent upon him, and the probability was 
 that he would not have lost her. He would, in fact, 
 retrospectively, get back some of his own. 
 
 But this morning, for the first time, such expecta- 
 tions were seen to be not worth hugging to himself, to
 
 FRED GETS ON 361 
 
 have been indeed but the dregs of desire for her of 
 which he had not yet been able to purge himself. He 
 saw Freda at last free from the veil of illusion which 
 had always clung about her, and if some shreds of 
 the veil would blow before his eyes yet for some time 
 longer, he would still be able to see her in the main for 
 what she was a snarer of men's hearts, but with noth- 
 ing to give in return, or at least nothing that would 
 have brought him any happiness when once the novelty 
 of possession of her had worn off. He was free from 
 his shackles, and could enjoy the new life that had al- 
 ready become pleasant to him to the full. As he 
 walked up to his uncle's house later in the morning, 
 the bright September sunshine had a fresh quality of 
 brilliance for him, the life all about him was gayer and 
 brighter in his eyes. He was a new man, and a happy 
 one. 
 
 It was on that same morning, by a chance that made 
 him afterwards mark the day with a white stone in his 
 memory, that his uncle showed him what headway he 
 had made in his favour, and what he was prepared to 
 do for him. This was nothing less than to help him to 
 a seat in Parliament, and to see him through with the 
 career that he had offered to his father thirty years 
 before, and withdrawn upon his marriage. 
 
 The suggestion almost took Fred's breath away. It 
 was made in characteristic fashion, at the end of their 
 morning's work together. Mark Drake stood before 
 the fireplace, in which a few logs were burning, for age 
 had chilled his blood, though it had not bowed his 
 frame nor wrinkled his face. He was a fine figure of 
 an old man, with his fresh colour and his white hair
 
 362 WATERMEADS 
 
 and pointed beard. He was always very carefully 
 dressed, and the only relaxation of costume he allowed 
 himself in the privacy of his own house was a plum 
 coloured smoking jacket in place of the black braided 
 morning coat which he wore out of doors. 
 
 " We shall have the General Election on us in three 
 or four months now," he said, " and we're coming in 
 with a majority that's going to beat all records. The 
 new Parliament is going to be largely one of young 
 men, and I don't see why you shouldn't be in it, Fred. 
 I've been thinking lately that I should like to see you 
 there, chiefly from selfish motives. I've got a good deal 
 to say still, and I should like to have some of it said 
 in the House. It wouldn't be a bad thing for you, 
 either, to have me behind you until you found your own 
 feet. How do you feel about it yourself? " 
 
 Fred had little to say, except that he had never 
 thought of such a thing at all, and that he doubted his 
 own abilities. 
 
 " Oh, as for that," said his uncle, " you're not a 
 genius, but you're not a fool. I thought you were when 
 I first saw you, and it won't do you any harm with 
 your constituents if they think so, too, at first, for 
 most of them will be fools themselves and they'll take 
 to one of their own sort. As a matter of fact, you're 
 just as well up in the subjects we've been working at 
 as most of the talkers who will be stumping the coun- 
 try between now and Christmas, and a good deal bet- 
 ter than many who will get elected without any diffi- 
 culty. You've never spoken in public, but it's no more 
 difficult to get the hang of that than to know what to 
 write, and you've learnt to do that better than I should
 
 FRED GETS ON 363 
 
 ever have expected of you. You've got a tongue in 
 your head; in fact, you rattle it a bit too much for 
 my taste sometimes. You're always pleased with 
 yourself if you make a joke, even if it's a damned bad 
 one, and that goes a good way with an audience. 
 You'll find you can't make one bad enough to prevent 
 some ass from guffawing, and carrying the rest with 
 him. Oh, you'll do all right on the platform. It will 
 be different in the House; but we can talk about that 
 when you get there." 
 
 " What about a constituency ? " asked Fred. " I 
 think it would be rather a lark, but time is getting on." 
 
 " Well, I don't carry safe seats in my pocket, as 
 some people seem to think I do. There aren't any safe 
 seats now, either, for us, though the other side will find 
 themselves in the same boat in that respect, this time, 
 unless I'm much mistaken. But I think I can manage 
 to get you adopted as a candidate somewhere. We'll 
 try for a County constituency, if we can find one. A 
 country gentleman, or his son, is still worth something 
 to us, especially if he isn't too advanced. I'm less ad- 
 vanced than I was by reason of age, and you're less 
 advanced than you might be by reason of knowing very 
 little about it all. You can keep to Free Trade as 
 your main plank; a few gags will do for the rest, for 
 this election anyhow, and you must throw some sops 
 to the Dissenters, but for God's sake don't say that I 
 take that view of their epoch-making requirements out- 
 side. Oh, you'll do all right, as an amiable young ass 
 of the land-owning classes, with his heart in the right 
 place and his ideas sound as far as they go. I'll 
 pay all your expenses, and make you whatever allow-
 
 WATERMEADS 
 
 ance is necessary. Now we'll go and lunch at the 
 Reform." 
 
 Thus Fred was launched on a course that would 
 have seemed impossible to him a few weeks, or even a 
 few days before. He was inspected by the enlightened 
 electorate of West Russetshire, or by such of them as 
 essayed to direct the opinions of the rest in the di- 
 rection in which Fred was prepared to go, and made 
 an agreeable impression on them. The former candi- 
 date on his side had also been a young man anxious 
 to win his Parliamentary spurs, but had unexpectedly 
 succeeded to an uncle's peerage. His type had been 
 found to go down well, and Fred was the nearest ap- 
 proach to it that could be procured at such short no- 
 tice. Besides, he was going to cost nothing, either to 
 party or local funds, and was hoped to be in the way 
 of getting a few big guns down to speak for him. His 
 opponent was a carpet-bagger from London, with a 
 foreign name that was thought to be worth a good 
 many votes to Fred's side, and his way entirely to 
 make, both in public and private life. So was Fred, 
 in truth, a carpet-bagger, but stress was laid upon his 
 stake in the country, as represented by Watermeads 
 and its acres; and as Meadshire and Russetshire were 
 a good many counties apart, the meagreness of his 
 stake, in its present condition, was not embarrassingly 
 apparent. 
 
 As our story is concerned with Watermeads, it will 
 not be necessary to follow Fred's fortunes in the con- 
 test into which he threw himself with such vigour dur- 
 ing those autumn months. Its effect upon himself was 
 that by the time it was over Freda had become noth-
 
 FRED GETS ON 365 
 
 ing but a memory to him, which was hardly even pain- 
 ful. He was heart-free, and enjoying his life im- 
 mensely. 
 
 One cold November afternoon, Fred, who had just 
 arrived in London from one of his numerous visits to 
 his constituency, went to the Bath Club for a Turkish 
 bath. Simply attired in a blue checked duster, with 
 another thrown over his shoulders, he entered the 
 largest of the heated chambers and found it tenanted 
 by a figure in a similar lack of costume. The figure, 
 already in a profuse state of perspiration, was that 
 of Jack Kirby. 
 
 Now Fred had already considered what he should 
 do when he should meet Jack Kirby, which he must 
 sooner or later, either in London or in Meadshire. 
 Two months before, he would have turned his back 
 upon him, for he had done him an injury which he was 
 powerless to resent in any other way. But lately he 
 had come to see that Jack Kirby had done him no 
 injury whatever, but, on the contrary, relieved him of 
 something that would have made all his life miserable. 
 This view of the situation had also been impressed upon 
 him by Uncle Mark, who had perhaps most endeared 
 himself to Fred by the feeling he showed at the way in 
 which he had been treated ; for sympathy had been very 
 apparent under the attitude of cynicism which he had 
 adopted towards the affair, and it had been grateful 
 to feel that in some measure he was inclined to make 
 Fred's trouble his. Uncle Mark had dispensed himself 
 from the engagement he had long since made to shoot 
 partridges at Prittlewell in September. He didn't 
 mind old Kirby, he said, but he wasn't going to meet
 
 366 WATERMEADS 
 
 that young cub, or run the risk of meeting the girl 
 who had behaved so badly. " You're well out of it, 
 all the same," he had said, " and the next time you 
 meet that conquering hero I should tell him so, if I 
 were you, and wish him joy of his bargain." So Fred 
 had decided that he would not cut Jack Kirby, when 
 he should meet him; and now that he had at last met 
 him, he was prepared, if not to follow his uncle's ad- 
 vice, at least to show no signs of embarrassment. 
 
 Jack, however, showed them strongly, as Fred said: 
 " Hullo ! Having a stew ? " and arranged the blue 
 checked duster from his shoulders on to the back of 
 a canvas chair, so as to temper the first shock of heat 
 to his frame. Jack Kirby seemed to feel the need of 
 more clothing, and less personal moisture, to support 
 the encounter with dignity, by the movements he made 
 as he replied : " Oh, how are you, Conway ? I didn't 
 know you were a member here." 
 
 Fred carefully arranged himself in his chair. The 
 dryness of his skin seemed to give him an advantage 
 over Jack Kirby, which he made haste to use before it 
 should disappear. " When are you going to get mar- 
 ried? " he asked affably. " I saw the notice of your 
 engagement in the paper, but I haven't seen any notice 
 of the wedding yet." 
 
 Jack Kirby mopped his super-heated brow. " Look 
 here, Fred, old chap," he said. " We've always been 
 pretty good pals, and I've felt rather bad about taking 
 the wind out of your sails in the way I did. Still, 
 a fellow can't altogether help himself in these affairs, 
 can he? I wouldn't have done it unless I'd fallen des- 
 perately in love with Freda."
 
 FRED GETS ON 367 
 
 " I'll forgive you," said Fred. " I fell in love with 
 her myself, and I know what it's like. How is she, by 
 the by?" 
 
 " I suppose you mean you're not in love with her any 
 more," said Jack, rather sulkily. " Well, she didn't 
 treat you very well, I'm bound to say. She didn't care 
 about you I've found that out and she ought not to 
 have let you think she did, or got engaged to you." 
 
 Fred felt a slight sensation of discomfort, either at 
 this direct statement, or at the first pricking of his 
 pores. " Why did she get engaged to me, then, if she 
 didn't care for me ? " he asked. " She didn't tell me 
 that in her letter, and I should rather like to know." 
 
 " Oh, well, she thought you were rather a bigger bug 
 than you turned out to be." Jack Kirby was begin- 
 ning to pick himself up a little. " I don't blame a girl 
 for thinking of that sort of thing when she wants to 
 get married. Most of them do. She thought she'd 
 get on with you all right, but when she came to try 
 it she found she couldn't. I don't blame her for say- 
 ing so, either, and cutting it all out while there was 
 time though of course it was a nasty jar to you." 
 
 " Well, it was rather, at the time. But I don't 
 blame her much, either, now, for swopping me for a 
 bigger bug than I had turned out to be. I suppose 
 you've satisfied yourself that she won't swop you for 
 a bigger one still, if he happens to turn up." 
 
 Jack Kirby did not rise to this provocation. " It's 
 a rummy thing," he said, with an air of some dejec- 
 tion, " that I never used to think I should mind if a 
 girl I wanted took me because of all that sort of thing. 
 But I find I do, Fred, old chap. I don't mind telling
 
 368 WATERMEADS 
 
 you, because I can see quite plainly that, though you 
 may be a bit annoyed at what happened and quite 
 rightly, too; I should myself it hasn't really hit you. 
 You're not in love with her any more, are you now? " 
 
 " Well, no, I'm not," said Fred. " I shouldn't have 
 said it myself, at least not to you, but as you've tum- 
 bled to it that she wanted something out of me and 
 got engaged to me for it, I don't mind telling you that 
 I found that out some time ago, and all my people 
 found it out long before I did. So perhaps it's not al- 
 together unnatural that when she wanted something 
 out of you still more, and chucked me over for it, I 
 shouldn't worry myself much more about her; and in 
 fact, I don't." 
 
 " I say, that's a bit thick, you know to say she took 
 to me for what she could get out of me." 
 
 " Is it? I'm sorry; but I thought you said it your- 
 self." 
 
 " Well, I did say that it counted. I didn't say it 
 was all that counted, and I don't think it is. I 
 shouldn't care for her any more than you do, now, if 
 I thought so. Do you think that's all there was to 
 it, when she let me make love to her? " 
 
 A memory of the very early stage at which she had 
 let him make love to her came up to anger Fred. He 
 was not yet able to regard the whole episode of his 
 own brief love-making with the indifference he had 
 hitherto shown for the benefit of Jack Kirby. " I 
 don't know why I should be expected to discuss it 
 with you," he said, as stiffly as his now melting condi- 
 tion permitted. " Whatever I think about it, it was a 
 pretty dirty trick to make love to her in the way you
 
 FRED GETS ON 369 
 
 did, and it doesn't make it any better that if she'd been 
 somebody else she wouldn't have let you do it." 
 
 " Well, I can't help feeling that myself," Jack Kirby 
 admitted, in such a tone that Fred's irritation van- 
 ished, and he actually felt sorry for him. " And it's 
 a pretty beastly thing to feel," he added. " She's got 
 hold of me, the young monkey, and I'm desperately 
 gone on her. But I wish to goodness I wasn't. She plays 
 all sorts of tricks on me, because she knows I can't do 
 without her, and to tell you the honest truth she gives 
 me a devil of a time. She'd better be careful though. 
 She isn't the only spilikin in the box, and if I found 
 somebody that took my fancy, she might find herself 
 left. However, I don't seem to come across anybody 
 I'm likely to get so keen on as I am on her, and I 
 suppose I shall go through with it. I'm damned if I'm 
 going to stand any nonsense, though, when we're mar- 
 ried. Well, I'm going to get shampooed. We might 
 have a talk in the cooling room, when you've sweated 
 it off." 
 
 Fred was not anxious for a further talk, and as the 
 couch on which he presently recuperated himself was 
 not within confidential talking distance of Jack 
 Kirby's, and he wanted to go to sleep besides, the en- 
 counter brought nothing further in the way of in- 
 formation.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 UNCLE MARK VISITS WATERMEADS 
 
 UNCLE MARK paid his promised visit to Watermeads 
 late in November. It is doubtful whether he would 
 have paid it at all if he had not received an invitation 
 to Elsie's wedding for a few weeks later. He explained 
 to Fred that a function of that sort was quite be- 
 yond him, but he did not wish to appear disagreeable, 
 and if they really wanted him he would go down for 
 a quiet week-end beforehand. He didn't want any fuss 
 made on his account. His servant would look after 
 him, and he would take the liberty of sending down 
 some wine, and a few other delicacies to which he had 
 grown accustomed. Perhaps they could manage a sit- 
 ting-room for him next to his bedroom, which should 
 have a south aspect, if possible. He was getting too 
 old to wish to be always in company, though he hoped 
 to see a good deal of the family. He was sure they 
 wouldn't mind not asking people to meet him, but he 
 would like to make the acquaintance of the Vicar, who 
 might be asked to dinner on Sunday evening, if con- 
 venient, or on Saturday, if more convenient still. But 
 he had always found the clergy riper on Sunday 
 evening, when their day's work was done. 
 
 Colonel Raine lent a carriage to fetch the great man 
 from the station. Little accommodations of this sort 
 would frequently have been made for the Conways, by 
 
 370
 
 UNCLE MARK VISITS WATERMEADS 371 
 
 more than one of their neighbours, had not Sydney dis- 
 liked accepting them. This occasion, however, was an 
 exception. 
 
 The carriage picked Sydney up at Watermeads, and 
 he drove to the station to meet the six o'clock train. 
 It was a bitter winter night. The wind blew in great 
 gusts, and a sleety rain drove against the windows of 
 the carriage. But it was snug enough inside, with 
 a footwarmer and a great fur rug. 
 
 Sydney's thoughts were sombre, as he was carried 
 smoothly along in a way that had been familiar enough 
 to him in the days of his spacious youth, but now 
 seemed almost as strange as if he had been one of his 
 own cottagers, enjoying a ride in a rich man's carriage 
 on the way to the polling booth. The situation guided 
 his thoughts to the poverty that had beset him for so 
 many years, and he asked himself how far it had af- 
 fected his happiness, and exactly how much he really 
 wanted to be rich again, or at least able to live in the 
 way in which he had been brought up. 
 
 His conclusion was that a great deal of what he had 
 at one time missed he missed no longer. A simple way 
 of living suited him better on the whole than a life sur- 
 rounded by observances, which, however well one was 
 served, added to responsibilities, and evoked duties 
 which were irksome, and pleasures, many of which were 
 irksome, too. He had enjoyed his life during the last 
 thirty years; there was little of it he had not enjoyed. 
 The great blot had been the anxiety as to the future, 
 which had hardly ever been absent from his mind, and 
 was now almost more of a burden on him than it had 
 ever been.
 
 372 WATERMEADS 
 
 It had been a great disappointment that the way of 
 release recently held out had come to nothing. Until 
 the hope of being able to compass life in a smaller 
 house had raised his spirits, he had hardly realised 
 what a burden Watermeads had become; and to take 
 it up again, with no immediate expectation of relief, 
 seemed intolerable. 
 
 He was greatly worried, too, over the details of 
 Elsie's wedding. It was to be ' quiet ' ; that went with- 
 out saying. A big wedding was so much out of the 
 question at Watermeads that it had not even been dis- 
 cussed. But for a daughter of the house to be mar- 
 ried without any ceremony whatever was equally out 
 of the question. Clothes must be provided, friends and 
 neighbours must be asked, and entertained; there were 
 a hundred and one little expenses to be faced, which 
 mounted in the aggregate to a considerable sum, and 
 Sydney hardly knew where it was to come from. He 
 half wished that he had accepted Mr. Blumenthal's 
 offer for the Holbein. And yet that could not have 
 been done without obligation, for apparently Mr. 
 Blumenthal's offer had been far above the market 
 price: another expert had been asked to inspect 
 the picture, and had said that it was certainly 
 not the work of Holbein, and its owner would be 
 lucky if he got a hundred pounds for' it at public 
 auction. 
 
 The clouds, indeed, were gathering round Water- 
 meads again, in spite of recent good fortune in Elsie's 
 engagement, and in Fred's new and brilliant start in 
 life. It seemed to be quite impossible to let the house 
 in its present condition; and to go on living in it
 
 UNCLE MARK VISITS WATERMEADS 373 
 
 meant its getting worse and worse, and themselves 
 poorer and poorer, with no end in view but to get rid 
 of it at last, when .it would be less in value than it 
 was now. 
 
 It was perhaps curious that Sydney should almost 
 have made the decision to sell Watermeads at once, and 
 get rid of all his burdens by doing so, when the last 
 chance of saving it, which had been lately so much in 
 his mind, should have been actually on the point of 
 presenting itself. Surely, he had thought, Uncle 
 Mark, having behaved so generously towards Fred, 
 and now ready for complete reconciliation with him- 
 self, would stretch out a helping hand when he came to 
 Watermeads and saw for himself to what a pass things 
 had come! Perhaps it was only the reaction from his 
 high hopes that had set in, now that they were on the 
 very point of coming together again. And yet his 
 doubts and depression were not altogether without 
 cause. 
 
 For nearly thirty years his uncle, who had once 
 treated him as a son, had given him the cold shoulder, 
 and the temperature of that shoulder had been no 
 higher because he had done it without showing offence 
 against him, but only a cynical indifference. It was 
 now nearly six months since his meeting with Fred, 
 and his first expressed willingness to take up again the 
 threads of relationship. But he had not moved an inch 
 towards doing so, except with regard to Fred himself, 
 and nothing had seemed to be further from his thoughts 
 than to offer the substantial help which had been an 
 accepted thing between them before the break. The 
 nearest he had come to it was to talk to Fred about
 
 374 WATERMEADS 
 
 the future in such a way as seemed to show that he 
 had much the same ideas in his head about him as he 
 had once had about his father. But even leaving out 
 of account the possibility of his throwing over Fred, 
 if he should give him some cause of displeasure, as he 
 had thrown over Sydney, there was nothing definite to 
 count on; Watermeads and its crying wants were still 
 outside the pale of his generosity. 
 
 Sydney threw off his depression in some measure as 
 he waited at the station for the train to come in. He 
 was in some excitement at the nearness of the long de- 
 ferred meeting. He had been very fond of his uncle, 
 and some shreds of affection clung to him still. They 
 had parted, the one as a young man, the other as a 
 middle-aged one, but still in the prime of his active 
 life. Sydney was now about the same age as his uncle 
 had been then, but still felt the same sort of de- 
 pendence on him, such as he had grown past feeling 
 for any other man in the world. It mattered much to 
 him whether his uncle would treat him as he had been 
 used to do, or as the stranger he had made of him dur- 
 ing the greater part of Sydney's life. 
 
 Mark Drake, amply swathed in furs, but tall and 
 upright beyond the due of his age, seemed hardly 
 changed to Sydney as he stepped out of his carriage, 
 followed by Fred, and came forward to greet his 
 nephew.. " Well, Sydney, my boy," he said as he shook 
 hands, " here's a nice night for an old fellow to be out 
 in! I hope you've got something that will take us 
 home to a fire pretty quick. Come on ! We'll leave 
 Gates to bring on the luggage in a fly."
 
 UNCLE MARK VISITS WATERMEADS 375 
 
 Sydney experienced an extraordinary thrill of pleas- 
 ure at this speech, not abundantly cordial in itself. It 
 bridged the years. Uncle Mark was still the kindly 
 rather selfish autocrat, and he had not the slightest 
 objection himself to play the old part of obedience and 
 assistance, in recognition of that careless affectionate 
 * Sydney, my boy,' which had not fallen on his ears for 
 so long. 
 
 No reference whatever was made to their estrange- 
 ment as they bowled along the dark country roads in 
 the smooth-running carriage, which Uncle Mark said 
 he much preferred to a motor-car. But he seemed to 
 show himself completely oblivious to all that he must 
 surely have known when he said : " You manage to 
 keep some good horses still, then. You were always a 
 good judge of a horse, Sydney." 
 
 " Oh, this isn't my carriage," said Sydney. " I bor- 
 rowed it, as it's such a beastly night." 
 
 Uncle Mark made no comment upon this, but began 
 to talk about Fred and his chances in West Russet- 
 shire. " I think he'll get himself in all right," he said. 
 " Sydney, my boy, why don't you go down and speak 
 for him? You used to be a pretty good hand at it. 
 He's coming on himself, but he isn't up to you yet. I 
 doubt if he ever will be. You used to be a clever fel- 
 low, Sydney. I hope the country life you chose for 
 yourself hasn't sapped your brain." 
 
 So that was to be the note on which the past was to 
 be treated, if it was mentioned at all; and apparently 
 no awkwardness was to be admitted by shirking it. 
 Sydney felt a drop in his sensations of pleasure at 
 the meeting. He was to be held at arm's length, after
 
 376 WATERMEADS 
 
 all, in spite of the surface cordiality that was to be 
 kept up. He passed over the reference to his choice, 
 which, as Uncle Mark knew perfectly well, unless he 
 had withdrawn his interest from him during the years 
 of estrangement so far as to have forgotten all about 
 it, had been no choice of his. " You have made Fred 
 a Free Trader," he said ; " but I'm not at all sure that 
 I'm one any longer, though I should like to be for the 
 sake of our old times together. If we could get a mod- 
 ified Protection, it would be a great thing for people 
 like myself." 
 
 " Ah, you've swallowed the bait, I see," said Uncle 
 Mark, without any diminution of friendliness. " You 
 talk it over with Fred, Sydney. He'll put you right. 
 Still, if you're not sound, you'd better not go election- 
 eering with him." 
 
 He changed the subject again. Sydney would have 
 liked to talk immediate politics with him. He had done 
 so in the past, and it had never been expected of him 
 that he should keep his own views in the background. 
 Uncle Mark had rather preferred that they should dif- 
 fer in some respects from his own, for the sake of the 
 discussion. But now, apparently, his views were not 
 worth considering. Uncle Mark wanted to keep 
 friends, but not to be bothered. 
 
 The meeting between Uncle Mark and Mrs. Conway 
 had considerably exercised the minds of those who were 
 about to witness it. It had been agreed upon between 
 Elsie and Rose that Uncle Mark would behave with 
 perfect propriety, and would most probably ignore the 
 old quarrel entirely. But they could not feel quite 
 sure about their mother. She had talked a great deal
 
 UNCLE MARK VISITS WATERMEADS 377 
 
 about Uncle Mark's visit, and had expressed herself 
 over and over again as being ready to forgive and for- 
 get. But it was plain that she had not forgotten any- 
 thing, and it was doubtful whether her forgiveness 
 would be brought to bear upon the situation created 
 by his visit without some expression of it, possibly 
 awkward in its effect. She had, however, rejected all 
 attempts to discover exactly how she intended to re- 
 ceive him. She hoped she knew what to say and do 
 without prompting from her own daughters. If they 
 could not trust her to behave as became a Christian 
 and a gentlewoman, let them say so at once, and not 
 take refuge in unmannerly hints. If there was one 
 thing she abhorred it was lack of candour. As they 
 were on the subject, however, she should like to say 
 one thing to them. They had already heard discussed 
 very unfortunately as she thought, but she was 
 tired of asking that extremely private matters should 
 not be discussed before them; if she had asked it once 
 she had asked it a hundred times, but no notice had 
 been taken, and she sometimes thought that she had 
 only to say a thing to have the opposite of it done 
 immediately. However, that was not the point 
 They had already heard discussed the possibility of 
 Uncle's Mark's doing something to help their father 
 in the unfortunate state to which he had been reduced, 
 largely through the unaccountable behaviour of Uncle 
 Mark himself. It might very well be wished that some- 
 thing of that sort should come about, and she should 
 do what she could, and she hoped that they would all 
 do what they could to make his very short visit a
 
 378 WATERMEADS 
 
 pleasant one to him, so that he might see that his 
 fears on their father's account had been entirely with- 
 out foundation, that although his own countenance 
 had been, unaccountably, withdrawn from him, he had 
 gained the great compensation of a happy family life, 
 and that Uncle Mark might possibly regret that he 
 had cut himself off from it. But in order to do this 
 it was not necessary that they should show how little 
 their own mother counted in the aforesaid family life. 
 She would not now go into the distress of mind that it 
 frequently caused her to realise that this was so. She 
 only wished to say that for their own sakes as well as 
 for their father's it would be well for them to re- 
 member at least as long as Uncle Mark was with them, 
 that their mother was still their mother, even if they 
 chose to forget it at other times. It would be ex- 
 tremely disloyal if they allowed him to go away with 
 the idea that he had been right after all in his unac- 
 countable behaviour at the time of her marriage, when 
 he had gone so far in his insensate objections to her- 
 self as a wife for their father as actually to permit 
 himself to say that he might just as well have mar- 
 ried his kitchenmaid, and he doubted whether he would 
 so much have bored himself for life if he had 
 done so. 
 
 In the adjustments that the two girls made with 
 themselves over this speech adjustments that were so 
 frequently necessary when their mother wished to say 
 just one thing to them, and said it at such length, so 
 that filial feeling might if possible be preserved in face 
 of self-revelations not altogether conducive to it 
 they did not at first understand that the great prob-
 
 UNCLE MARK VISITS WATERMEADS 379 
 
 lem as to ' what Uncle Mark had said ' had at last 
 been solved for them. When they did understand it, 
 they both laughed, rather guiltily, and then agreed 
 that it was an awful thing to have said, and no wonder 
 mother had been upset by it. There they left it, and 
 agreed further that, although it was not fair to say 
 that they had shut her off from the family life, still they 
 must be careful not to let Uncle Mark see that they 
 loved their father much better than they did their 
 mother. This fact had long been acknowledged by 
 them, and there was no disloyalty in mentioning it be- 
 tween themselves. They had never admitted it to any- 
 body outside, not even to Olivia, and it was the limit to 
 which their criticism of their mother went in their own 
 most intimate confidences. Mrs. Conway was a good 
 deal more fortunate than she knew in the admirable 
 loyalty of her daughters. 
 
 They were all at the door when the carriage drove 
 up, in spite of the icy blast that was driving against 
 the house, fortunately obliquely to the south front; 
 for there was no porch, and the great hall, which made 
 such an agreeable place of resort in the summer, was 
 almost unusable in the winter, except when it was shut- 
 tered and curtained for the night. The majesty of 
 Mrs. Conway's greeting was somewhat spoiled by the 
 necessity of hurrying Uncle Mark into the house at a 
 run, and immediately banging the door behind him. 
 He came, as it were, full tilt upon her, but as she re- 
 coiled she said : " Welcome to Watermeads ! Though 
 we have not seen you for so many years there is still 
 a warm place for you here." 
 
 She held out her hand, and Uncle Mark took it, and
 
 380 WATERMEADS 
 
 replied with a laugh : " I shall be very glad to find it 
 then, for I'm nearly frozen." 
 
 The anticipated awkwardness of the meeting was 
 over. Mrs. Conway stood aside, apparantly ruminat- 
 ing upon whether her speech had made quite the effect 
 she desired, while Uncle Mark shook hands with Elsie 
 and Rose and Bobby and Billy and Penelope, and then, 
 divesting himself of his heavy coat with Fred's help, 
 wondered how long Gates would be following with the 
 luggage. 
 
 He was led into the parlour, which was warm and 
 cozy enough with its bright fire and close-curtained 
 windows, and then he smiled upon Elsie and said: 
 " Well, my dear, so you're going to get married ! I 
 hope the lucky young man is going to be shown to me. 
 He'll have to be something quite special if I'm to be 
 pleased with him." 
 
 The look he gave her was very kind, and he turned 
 it upon Rose, too, and smiled at her. The two girls, 
 at least, it was plain, had found favour in his eyes. 
 He handled the close-cropped polls of Bobby and 
 Billy, and said that Fred had told him they were good 
 cricketers already ; and he put his hand on Penelope's 
 shoulder, and said she was like her mother. In the 
 shortest possible time he had shown that he meant to 
 be friendly with the family, but Mrs. Conway had not 
 time even to breathe hard once at having had no 
 further notice taken of her since her speech of welcome 
 before he turned to her and said : " Well, my dear lady, 
 I think you did well to choose a country life for your- 
 self and your family. You look hardly older than 
 when I last saw you; nor does Sydney, now I come to
 
 UNCLE MARK VISITS WATERMEADS 381 
 
 look at him ; and as for the young people, the sight of 
 them makes me want to end my own days in the coun- 
 try." 
 
 Mrs. Conway swallowed it. She had put on at least 
 six stone in weight since Uncle Mark had last seen her ; 
 her hair was grey, and the large bones of her face had 
 lost the softening disguise of youthful flesh. But she 
 swallowed it, and a bland smile overspread her fea- 
 tures. " I think I may say the same about you, Uncle 
 Mark," she replied, with ponderous graciousness. " To 
 see you looking so much the same makes me feel a girl 
 again." 
 
 All her resentment had been killed in a moment. 
 She felt friendly and at ease, and but for the hurried 
 outbreak of talk from her husband which immediately 
 followed her speech she would have engaged Uncle 
 Mark in intimate conversation there and then, and ex- 
 pected the rest of the family to stand by and listen to 
 her. 
 
 She saw her way clear now. It would be easy, in 
 face of the friendliness he was evidently anxious to 
 show, to have a pleasant confidential talk with him 
 which would put everything right. This would be far 
 better than ignoring the past altogether. She would 
 take him to task, gently and affectionately, for the 
 absurdities of his behaviour thirty years before, but 
 without showing the slightest trace of ill-feeling about 
 it. He would be led to see that it was he and not they 
 who had suffered most from the long estrangement ; but 
 she would show him how entirely ready she was to for- 
 give and forget, and the end would be a cementing of 
 the new alliance between them, in which Uncle Mark
 
 382 WATERMEADS 
 
 would receive more from the loving care and attention 
 of a good woman than he could return, however sub- 
 stantial the benefits might be with which he would be 
 eager to repay them. 
 
 It was rather irritating, then, that, until the time 
 half an hour later when Uncle Mark was ensconced in 
 the rooms that had been prepared for him, she should 
 hardly have been able to get in a word edgeways with 
 him. It was not only her daughters, whom she had 
 warned against this very behaviour, who took up more 
 of his attention than could have been wished for; but 
 Sydney and Fred constantly cut in in front of her 
 when she was on the point of speech it hardly ever 
 went further than that and who actually, both of 
 them, tried to dissuade her from accompanying Uncle 
 Mark upstairs, to see that everything was as he wished 
 there. That, however, she * would not have.' If re- 
 duced, by the attitude of those who should have acted 
 so differently, to a conversational cipher, she would at 
 least not be dislodged from her place as mistress of the 
 house, and solicitous hostess. She attended herself to 
 the fires, which needed no attention, in both rooms, 
 pointed out to Gates the wardrobe and the chest of 
 drawers, into which he was already putting his mas- 
 ter's clothes, satisfied herself as to the temperature of 
 the hot-water jug standing in the basin, showed Uncle 
 Mark where she had put writing-paper, envelopes, pen- 
 holders, nibs, blotting-paper, ink on the writing table 
 slightly shifted the position of an easy chair, and 
 put a footstool in front of it, and showed in every way 
 that she could hardly do enough for the welfare of her
 
 UNCLE MARK VISITS WATERMEADS 383 
 
 guest, before she was led away, almost forcibly, by her 
 husband. 
 
 She made no expostulations. She was accustomed 
 to this treatment, she told herself, and it was her duty 
 to put up with it without complaint. Her time with 
 Uncle Mark would come on the morrow.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 UNCLE MARK LEAVES WATERMEADS 
 
 " MY dear Sydney, I think you have the most charm- 
 ing family that I have ever come across. I wish very 
 much that I had known them earlier, especially those 
 two dear girls of yours. Why you have kept them 
 buried here for so long I don't know, but at least it 
 has done them no harm." 
 
 Sydney was getting rather tired of this note, which 
 had been repeated more often that it might have been 
 thought likely that a man of Uncle Mark's ready tact 
 would have found necessary. 
 
 " I'm glad you like them," he said. " They are dear 
 girls, and they're the same all through. As for keep- 
 ing them here, I don't know that they have been buried 
 any more than other girls in country houses, and if 
 they have it hasn't been my fault. I haven't had the 
 money to let them go about." 
 
 They were in Uncle Mark's sitting-room on Sunday 
 morning. He had breakfasted, and was sitting in an 
 easy chair by the window, through which the winter 
 sunshine was streaming gratefully. He had announced 
 his intention of walking to church later on, as it was 
 so fine, and had asked that Sydney should come and 
 talk to him beforehand. 
 
 " Well, now, I want to have a little talk with you 
 about money," he said. " I've undertaken to see Fred 
 
 384
 
 UNCLE MARK LEAVES 385 
 
 through, you know, and if he goes on as well as he has 
 begun he ought to do very well. But as we have made 
 friends again after all these years you must give me 
 the pleasure of letting me do something for you, Syd- 
 ney. I'm afraid you have been having rather a hard 
 time in this great barrack of a house, though your 
 children haven't suffered, I'm glad to see." 
 
 Sydney repented of his momentary annoyance, and 
 thanked him for his kindness, but almost inaudibly. 
 The revulsion of feeling was too much for him. The 
 help that he had begun to fear would not be held out 
 to him was now being offered, in the careless but gen- 
 erous fashion that he knew so well of old. He could 
 not convince himself that Uncle Mark had treated him 
 well, but if he was now ready to amend his treatment 
 all the past would be wiped out. They would be to- 
 wards one another what they had been thirty years be- 
 fore. 
 
 Uncle Mark went on. " I want your little Elsie to 
 have a pukka wedding," he said. " If it's possible at 
 this time of day to give her something more elaborate 
 in the way of clothes than you've been able to manage, 
 I should like that for her. I shall give her a present 
 myself, naturally, but what I want to give you, Syd- 
 ney, is for what you'll have to do for her, to get mar- 
 ried in the way she ought to be. You'll do entirely 
 what you like with it, of course; but that was in my 
 mind when I wrote the cheque, and hoped you wouldn't 
 mind accepting it for the sake of old times." 
 
 The cheque he held out was for five hundred pounds, 
 which was munificent for the purpose indicated, but so 
 inadequate for any other purpose that Sydney had
 
 386 WATERMEADS 
 
 thought him prepared to consider that the blow to his 
 hopes was almost overwhelming. It was not quite so, 
 because, with the necessity he had for so long experi- 
 enced of taking each difficulty as it came, and shutting 
 his eyes to the one that should come after, the relief 
 at having this one about Elsie's wedding so satisfac- 
 torily solved was great. Also, the possibility of larger 
 adjustments was not entirely barred, though from his 
 manner of speaking Uncle Mark did not appear to 
 have them in his mind. 
 
 The time, however, for their discussion could not be 
 now, as Sydney had hoped it might be when summoned 
 to his uncle's presence. The handsome present was in 
 the nature of a blocking motion, which made it impos- 
 sible to bring the larger question forward until a new 
 opportunity should arise, and Sydney, grateful for the 
 temporary assistance given him, but with a sinking 
 feeling at heart, prepared to follow him in amiable 
 conversation about anything but the cloud that was 
 gathering over Watermeads. For Uncle Mark had 
 waved his thanks aside in his own large manner, and 
 had embarked at once upon a flood of the idle but 
 amusing chatter which had made him always such an 
 agreeable companion. 
 
 He was delightfully talkative and friendly to Elsie 
 and Rose as he walked between them to church. He 
 confessed that he did not often go to church in Lon- 
 don, but in the country he rarely missed a Sunday. 
 " It's the only thing left," he said, " that really brings 
 us all together, those at the top and those at the bot- 
 tom. At least it ought to, and if I stop away I'm 
 not doing my duty by the opinions I hold. Besides, I
 
 UNCLE MARK LEAVES 387 
 
 like the feeling of something still going on that has 
 gone on for centuries. You know, when Mr. Gladstone 
 went to stay in Oxford towards the end of his life he 
 did nothing but deplore the changes that he saw there ; 
 so if a great respect for the past isn't proper for an 
 advanced Radical like myself but of course it is 
 I'm in good company. Oh, yes, an old country church 
 is one of the best things left to us; and when it 
 has a parson like that perfectly delightful Vicar of 
 
 yours ! I don't know that I've ever met a country 
 
 parson I liked better." 
 
 " He's a darling," said Elsie. " And didn't you like 
 Olivia, Uncle Mark?" 
 
 " My dear ! If I were fifty years younger or say 
 forty yes, I should have nourished hope forty years 
 
 ago ! But what can Fred have been thinking 
 
 about all this time? I'm not going to waste my time 
 over Fred now; I can have him to myself when I can't 
 have you but I shall ask Fred a serious question 
 when I do talk to him again. If I had seen Olivia 
 when Fraulein Blumenthal was brought to me for in- 
 spection, I shouldn't have made the mistake of think- 
 ing she would do. We haven't mentioned Frank-in 
 Blumenthal before. I won't ask any questions about 
 her. I take it that you saw through her, in a way 
 that we blind men can't. We are all taken by a pretty 
 face, you know, even the oldest of us. But to do us 
 justice we get over it when we find there's nothing else. 
 Fred has got over it. In fact, I think his recovery has 
 been a wonderfully quick affair, considering how badly 
 he was hit, poor fellow! I don't want him to marry 
 yet, but if he must marry, as most men do, I think
 
 388 WATERMEADS 
 
 he had better not wait too long, considering that 
 
 Well, I mustn't say too much, but that would give me 
 infinite pleasure." 
 
 Here was something for Elsie and Rose to think 
 over. That Fred had completely recovered they now 
 knew, and were very glad of it, though they were a 
 little surprised, too. For when he had last been at 
 Watermeads, five or six weeks before, he had not com- 
 pletely recovered, and the plan which both of them had 
 formed, directly his engagement to Freda had been 
 broken off, of encouraging him to fall in love with 
 Olivia, had seemed unlikely of fulfilment. 
 
 And yet Fred had seemed, even in his then state of 
 comparative melancholy, to take more pleasure in 
 Olivia's society than he had taken at any time since her 
 return. He had ' made it up with her ' over the way in 
 which he had received her warning about Freda. She 
 had told them that he had been ' perfectly sweet ' about 
 it, but she had not shown on her side any anxiety 
 to ' catch a heart on the rebound,' as they had hoped, 
 from experience drawn from the course of love in nov- 
 els, might come about. It seemed unlikely, to judge 
 by the same experience, that she would have spoken to 
 them about Fred in the frank affectionate way which 
 she always used, without a flicker of the eyelids or the 
 slightest change of colour, if she had been in love with 
 him. But she was undoubtedly fond of him, and he 
 of her. Their close friendship might blossom into love, 
 although there were no signs of the blossoming at 
 present. 
 
 But here was Uncle Mark, whose every word had a 
 quality of omnipotence about it in his present relation-
 
 UNCLE MARK LEAVES 389 
 
 ship to the family, taking the same view as they did 
 about Olivia, and the extreme advisability of Fred's 
 marrying her. It was rather exciting, for it removed, 
 at least, all danger of his quarrelling with Fred on the 
 same subject as he had quarrelled with his father about, 
 if Fred should fall in love with Olivia ; and, more than 
 that, a word from him might very well light the spark 
 that was presumably now ripe for ignition in Fred's 
 heart. 
 
 What a dear Uncle Mark was, showing himself so in- 
 terested not only in the material welfare of the family, 
 but in their most private and youthful affairs ! He 
 had had them all up into his room between breakfast 
 and church time, and made them the most magnificent 
 presents laughing and joking the whole time, and re- 
 fusing to listen to a word of thanks. Elsie a hundred 
 pounds for a wedding present, Rose twenty ' for a 
 frock or a little bit of jewelry,' Bobby and Billy a 
 fiver each, to do what they liked with ' except to put 
 in the savings bank,' Penelope a golden sovereign 
 there Was trouble about the discrepancy later, and 
 Bobby and Billy each gave her ten shillings on the 
 quiet, and to keep her quiet. The way he had given 
 his presents had been such fun, and had quite put into 
 the shade Cousin Henry's former benevolences. He 
 seemed to be made of money, and to be willing to be- 
 stow it wherever it was wanted. When the news of 
 his thoughtful and splendid present for Elsie's wed- 
 ding came out, of which he refused to hear a word fur- 
 ther, it was felt that there was nothing he could not do, 
 or would not do, to make life smile at Watermeads. He 
 had more than justified the expectations aroused by
 
 390 WATERMEADS 
 
 his visit. But it still remained something of a puzzle 
 how he could have let so many years go by without 
 taking any notice of them, since he so liked young peo- 
 ple, and was so wonderful in understanding them. 
 
 But there was one member of the family whom the 
 golden stream left untouched. Uncle Mark made no 
 tangible present to Mrs. Conway, and although he was 
 abundantly polite whenever necessity demanded that 
 he should be in close proximity to her, he showed a 
 surprising agility in avoiding it at other times, and 
 seemed anxious to keep as many of the family around 
 him, as a sort of bodyguard, as were available for the 
 purpose. He also steadily refused to listen to any 
 speech of hers beyond its second, or at most its third 
 sentence, breaking in upon it with a quick use of his 
 own wit, and a courteous smile that divested the in- 
 terruption of all offence, but had the practical effect 
 of keeping her out of the circle of talk. For when he 
 had thus taken the ball out of her hands he always re- 
 turned it to one of the others, and left her ruminating 
 upon another opening, which, when it came, was as 
 promptly closed to her as the one before. 
 
 It was all so dexterously done, however, that Mrs. 
 Conway, while her annoyance began to burn against 
 her daughters, who were behaving in exactly the way 
 she had warned them against, had no suspicion that 
 Uncle Mark was seeking to avoid her, conversationally 
 or in any other way. She liked him immensely, chiefly 
 because he seemed to like her so much. She even 
 hugged to herself a sense of her own brilliance in con- 
 versation, because whatever she did begin to say was 
 so immediately understood and so cleverly interpreted
 
 UNCLE MARK LEAVES 391 
 
 that it gave her quite the air of being clever and under- 
 standing herself. In spite of the unaccountable way 
 in which the two girls had ignored her warning, and 
 drawn to themselves attentions which it was plain 
 enough that Uncle Mark would have paid to her, if he 
 had been left to himself, she could see how he was feel- 
 ing about the disastrous mistake he had made thirty 
 years before. He showed in every look and action that 
 he acknowledged how wrong he had been in his judg- 
 ment of her. But she wanted him to say so. If only 
 she could get him to herself for half an hour, she was 
 sure he would say it in his own charming fashion; and 
 then would be her chance of showing on her side how 
 entirely she had forgiven and forgotten. 
 
 When it at last dawned upon her that, unless she 
 took steps to create the opportunity, Uncle Mark 
 might leave the house on the next day without her hav- 
 ing had a word alone with him, she told him, in the 
 presence of the family, that she wished to have a lit- 
 tle private talk. They had been sitting over the tea- 
 table in the parlour, and Uncle Mark had just an- 
 nounced his intention of going upstairs to write a few 
 letters. 
 
 He rose from his chair upon her word. " That will 
 be delightful," he said, beaming upon her. " Give me 
 half an hour for my letters, and then you and Sydney 
 come up for a little chat. After that we'll come down 
 again and amuse ourselves all together until dinner 
 time." 
 
 He almost skipped out of the room, and had shut 
 the door behind him before anything further could be 
 said.
 
 392 WATERMEADS 
 
 Sydney laughed. " What is our little private talk 
 to be about, mother?" he asked. "I don't think he 
 wants one, you know. If he did he'd have said so. He 
 and I had our little private talk together this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " Quite so," said Mrs. Conway severely, " and every 
 other member of the family, too, except myself. I 
 should like to ask, pray, if there is a conspiracy be- 
 tween you all to keep me entirely shut out from the 
 intercourse that you yourself, Sydney, and all my own 
 children from the eldest to the youngest, find so agree- 
 able. It seems to me quite unaccountable, the way in 
 which, the moment I open my mouth to speak, one or 
 another of you breaks in and takes the very words out 
 of my lips. Uncle Mark pays me the most courteous 
 attention, but he is hardly allowed to address himself 
 to me at all. It seems to me that you have all for- 
 gotten yourselves completely, and I have really begun 
 to wonder " 
 
 " Oh, I don't think there has been anything wrong, 
 mother," said Sydney. " Uncle Mark evidently likes 
 to amuse himself with the youngsters, and we old peo- 
 ple must stand aside a bit. But you and I can have 
 a little chat with him presently. We'll go up at half 
 past six." 
 
 He looked at his watch and was moving away, but 
 Mrs. Conway arrested him. " I shall be glad if you 
 will kindly listen to what I have to say, Sydney," she 
 said. " It is extremely distasteful to me to speak be- 
 fore the children, but it is just an instance of the un- 
 accountable treatment I complain of that when I pro- 
 pose a quiet little talk with Uncle Mark, you should
 
 UNCLE MARK LEAVES 393 
 
 immediately consider it necessary to take part in it 
 yourself. I suppose I am not to be trusted alone with 
 him. Pray, what do you think I have to say to him, 
 that you must be there to listen, like a policeman, and, 
 if I am to judge by what has gone on ever since he 
 came into the house, probably to prevent my saying 
 anything to him at all ? " 
 
 " Oh, come now, mother ! It was Uncle Mark him- 
 self who invited me to join your little confabulation. 
 Why should you object?" 
 
 " I shouldn't talk to him about anything that the 
 whole family can't join in, if I were you, mother," said 
 Fred. " I know his little ways pretty well by this time, 
 and it's quite obvious that he doesn't want it." 
 
 " Bobby and Billy and Penelope, leave the room," 
 said Mrs. Conway. 
 
 The three children obeyed, and Elsie and Rose 
 would have followed them, but their mother ordered 
 them to remain where they were, unless they had lost 
 all sense of respect and obedience. 
 
 " Look here, mother," said Sydney. " I don't think 
 you quite understand the situation, or Uncle Mark, 
 either. I didn't want to say anything until after he 
 had gone, but perhaps I had better say it now, though 
 I don't want it to make any difference in our treatment 
 of him, and of course it won't. He likes all the chil- 
 dren, and has been extraordinarily kind and generous 
 to them. No doubt he'll go on being so, and I think 
 he'll stick to Fred, and may do all sorts of big things 
 for him by and by. But you and me we're back num- 
 bers, and he has no more idea of taking us into his fa- 
 vour and helping us through our difficulties at least,
 
 394 WATERMEADS 
 
 the big ones than he has had at any time these last 
 thirty years. I've come to see that quite plainly, 
 knowing him as I do. I shan't talk to him at all about 
 the big difficulties; he wouldn't let me if I wanted to. 
 I think you must make up your mind to keep silence, 
 too. He won't listen to you any more than he will to 
 me. Let's be grateful to him for what he is doing for 
 Fred, and take him here as he wants to be taken. 
 There's nothing more to be expected from him." 
 
 Mrs. Conway made a gesture with her hands, and 
 emitted a sound expressive of impatience. " Really, 
 Sydney," she expostulated, " for a man of supposed 
 ability, you take the most absurd and wrong-headed 
 views that it is possible to imagine. You make me won- 
 der sometimes if your brain is not giving way. No- 
 body who has observed Uncle Mark during his visit 
 here could possibly doubt unless they are determined 
 to shut their eyes to all facts that he has been 
 brought to see the enormity of his mistake in the past, 
 and that he is determined by all means in his power 
 to put it right. As to his affording pecuniary relief 
 in the difficulties to which you refer, it may perhaps 
 surprise you to hear that nothing has been farther 
 from my mind than to touch upon such matters with 
 him, and I must say that I am surprised and pained 
 to find that, when he has already done so much, and 
 has shown himself so extraordinarily generous, you 
 should be able to think of him in no connection but 
 that. It is not the right spirit in which to regard an 
 affectionate relative, restored to us after years of es- 
 trangement and misunderstanding. Personally I would 
 rather eat bread and water for the rest of my days
 
 UNCLE MARK LEAVES 395 
 
 than show myself so lacking in nice feeling. But I sup- 
 pose that nothing 7 can say or do will " 
 
 " Well, we'll have our chat with Uncle Mark in half 
 an hour, mother," said Sydney, preparing to leave the 
 room. " As long as it isn't money you want to talk 
 about, I don't mind." 
 
 Uncle Mark departed next morning with Fred, leav- 
 ing behind him some very agreeable memories. Mrs. 
 Conway had not been able to make an opportunity of 
 assuring him of her forgiveness for the past, but was 
 convinced that she had only been prevented from do- 
 ing so by the mischievous interference of her husband 
 and children. Uncle Mark had been cordial towards 
 her to the end, and she thought that when he wrote 
 to her thanking her for her hospitality, as of course 
 he would do, she might reply, and unload herself of 
 some of the many things she had wished to say to him. 
 But he wrote to Sydney instead, and only sent her a 
 message a warm one, it is true, but one that gave no 
 opening for a return letter from her. She was 
 thwarted to the last, but looked forward to many fu- 
 ture visits from Uncle Mark, and a complete under- 
 standing between them, both as regarded the past and 
 the future. 
 
 Sydney was under no illusions as to future visits. 
 He knew that Uncle Mark had no intention of coming 
 again, and that the breach between them would remain 
 as it had been, except that an interest in the two girls, 
 and possibly in the two younger boys, would be added 
 to his interest in Fred. 
 
 He knew very well why. There had been indications 
 of the stirring of old affections towards himself, which
 
 396 WATERMEADS 
 
 might have led to a revival of their close relationship ; 
 but they had come to nothing. Uncle Mark had 
 broken with him years before because of the wife he 
 had chosen for himself; and the cause of offence still 
 remained.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 AT ELSIE'S WEDDING 
 
 THANKS to Uncle Mark's handsome present, Elsie was 
 married from Watermeads in a way that would not 
 have disgraced the house in its former affluent days. 
 Country neighbours were entertained to an old-fash- 
 ioned breakfast, which lacked nothing in profusion or 
 decoration. The library, which was the least out of 
 repair of the great reception rooms, was made fit for 
 use, and in it were displayed a collection of wedding- 
 presents which in number and quality testified to the 
 popularity of both bride and bridegroom. Elsie's 
 trousseau, also, earned the admiration of her girl 
 friends. A round sum from Uncle Mark's present had 
 gone to supplementing the somewhat meagre one that 
 had first been allocated to it. 
 
 It would not have been possible to entertain numer- 
 ous guests from a distance without putting a great 
 many more rooms into repair; but the Conways' circle 
 of friends was now almost entirely confined to those 
 who lived near them. Sydney had no relations with 
 whom he was intimate, and Mrs. Conway was in a 
 like case, except for Cousin Henry and his family. 
 But Cousin Henry, his wife and his eldest daughter, 
 who was to be a bridesmaid, were invited to stay at 
 Watermeads from the day before the wedding until the 
 day after. They were the only guests who slept in 
 the house. Edward's relations were much more numer- 
 ous, and, it must be confessed, more ornamental. A 
 
 397
 
 398 WATERMEADS 
 
 large party of them assembled at Lutterbourne Rec- 
 tory, and others enjoyed the hospitality of Lady 
 Sophia Raine, who showed great interest in the affair 
 from beginning to end. 
 
 Some awkwardness had been anticipated over the 
 meeting of Fred and Cousin Henry, for they had not 
 parted the best of friends. Indeed, it was considered 
 doubtful if Cousin Henry would accept the invitation 
 held out to him. But he did so without demur, and 
 showed no animus whatever against Fred when they 
 met. In fact, he seemed to have entirely reverted to 
 the ponderous but placid Cousin Henry of his former 
 visit, and Elsie and Rose had some difficulty in identi- 
 fying him with the ogre he had made of himself as 
 Fred's employer. His wife and daughter were not 
 more interesting than before, but behaved themselves 
 with more amiability as guests than they had done as 
 boarders. Mrs. Wilkins even allowed Mrs. Conway to 
 patronise her, and her daughter, who was now seven- 
 teen and quite pretty, seemed anxious to make friends 
 with her girl cousins, and at least justified her inclu- 
 sion with Rose, Penelope, Olivia and two sisters of 
 Edward's in the train of bridesmaids. 
 
 It was to Mrs. Conway that Cousin Henry un- 
 burdened himself of certain matters that had exercised 
 him, during a confidential talk on the evening of his 
 arrival. These two got on very well together. Cousin 
 Henry thought his hostess an amiable and sensible 
 woman, in contradistinction to the views that his wife 
 held about her, and she was inclined to act as his 
 backer, and to show all and sundry that she at least 
 thought her own relations as good as anybody else's.
 
 AT ELSIE'S WEDDING 399 
 
 It seemed that Cousin Henry had formed matri- 
 monial projects for Fred and one of his daughters, and 
 had been greatly disappointed when Fred had become 
 engaged to Freda Blumenthal. He had never meant 
 his dismissal of him to be taken seriously, and wondered 
 now whether something couldn't be fixed up, as the 
 other affair had come to nothing. Anybody who mar- 
 ried one of his daughters would find himself in pos- 
 session of a tidy sum with her; and they would all 
 get a good deal more after his death than people 
 might think from the quiet way in which it suited him 
 to live. 
 
 Mrs. Conway received the proposal politely, and 
 with a great many words, the total effect of which was 
 that under present circumstances it was hardly good 
 enough. Cousin Henry accepted her opinion without 
 resentment, but in some dejection. He said he sup- 
 posed that now Fred had been taken up by his grand 
 relation and was going to be a Member of Parliament 
 and all, he'd have a right to look higher. Well, it had 
 only been an idea of his, and Mrs. Conway needn't let 
 it go further; but he would say this, that if things 
 had turned out as he had had in his mind, Fred might 
 easily have touched the three thousand a year mark 
 before he was thirty, and a good deal more than dou- 
 bled it by and by, to say nothing of what his wife 
 would have had. He thought he should like this to be 
 known now, as it had all come to nothing ; and it might 
 be remembered also that he had come forward with his 
 offer at a time when the gentleman who had since taken 
 everything in hand hadn't lifted a little finger to do 
 anything at all.
 
 400 WATERMEADS 
 
 Mrs. Conway, then waxing confidential, told him 
 that Uncle Mark had not entirely fulfilled the expec- 
 tations aroused by the revival of relations with them. 
 What he would do for Fred by and by remained to be 
 seen. She was far from wishing for his death; such 
 anticipations, which were far too common amongst 
 people with rich relations, were abhorrent to her; but 
 when a man was nearing eighty it was to be supposed 
 that he would die at some time or other, and when 
 Uncle Mark did die, the probability was that he would 
 leave Fred all his money. Sydney had said that there 
 was not the slightest chance of his leaving him any- 
 thing substantial, and had said it so strongly almost 
 with violence that she could only suppose Uncle 
 Mark had told him so himself, although he would not 
 admit this to be the case. She would not go into the 
 reasons for this unaccountable decision preferring a 
 son before his parents but there were certain persons 
 who would not be guided in their treatment of others, 
 or in the management of their own affairs, and Cousin 
 Henry could see for himself that Sydney, against whom 
 she did not wish to breathe a word of criticism, was 
 one of them. As she was speaking to a relation, and 
 in the closest confidence, she would say that Sydney 
 had made a mess of things in dealing with Uncle Mark, 
 and the result was that here they were with this great 
 house on their hands, and a property that hardly sup- 
 ported itself, and no prospect as far as she could see, 
 of anything but ruin in two or three years' time at the 
 most. 
 
 Cousin Henry may have thought that this was a hint 
 to him to come to the rescue, which, to do Mrs. Conway
 
 AT ELSIE'S WEDDING 401 
 
 justice, it was not, all she wanted being a ready listener. 
 He said perfunctorily that he hoped it wasn't as bad 
 as that, and went on rather hurriedly to the affair of 
 Fred's engagement to Freda, and Freda's subse- 
 quent engagement to Jack Kirby. This, he said, was 
 causing great excitement in Hillstead, and the airs 
 that Blumenthal gave himself over his daughter mar- 
 rying the only son of a lord were something beyond 
 belief. "They do say though," he said, "that the 
 young man is trying to get out of it. They say the 
 wedding has been put off once I don't know whether 
 it's true or not and no date is fixed for it yet, 
 though with pots of money on both sides there's no 
 reason why they shouldn't have been married long ago. 
 
 " Of course the money would have been a great help 
 here," concluded Cousin Henry ; " but the Blumenthals 
 are nobodies, and as the Honourable Kirby doesn't 
 have to consider money with the girl he marries, it's 
 not to be wondered at if he gives her the go by after 
 all." 
 
 Mrs. Conway let it be known that, if the Blumen- 
 thals were nobodies, the Kirbys were hardly more, in 
 the estimation of their neighbours. " Personally," she 
 said, " I would prefer to have nothing whatever to do 
 with such people. Lord Kirby is quite a self-made 
 man, and the fact that he has been raised to the peer- 
 age counts for nothing in these days. Why, Mr. 
 Blumenthal could be raised to the peerage if he 
 paid enough money, and I wonder that has not 
 occurred to him, as he seems to think so much of 
 that sort of thing. However, Sydney likes Lord 
 Kirby, and he and his wife have been invited here to-
 
 402 WATERMEADS 
 
 morrow. As for the son, nothing would induce me to 
 have him in the house, and if that horrible cunning dis- 
 gusting girl does marry him, and comes to live at Prit- 
 tlewell, I shall cut her; and if you ever have the op- 
 portunity of telling her so, Henry, I shall be obliged 
 if you will do so." 
 
 Cousin Henry said that he hardly knew the Blumen- 
 thals himself that sort of person wasn't much in his 
 line and owing to her behaviour to Fred neither he 
 nor his family now took any notice of Miss Blumen- 
 thal. But if Lord Kirby would like to hear what was 
 thought of the affair, and of the Blumenthals gener- 
 ally, by the more respectable inhabitants of Hillstead, 
 and Mrs. Conway would introduce them, he would have 
 great pleasure in telling him. 
 
 The introduction was made on the following day 
 when the guests were assembled in the library after 
 the ceremony in church, and before the wedding break- 
 fast. It was very long since any room at Water- 
 meads had been thus full of a well-dressed cheerful 
 crowd, most of them in the best of humours with them- 
 selves and one another, and creating a very babel of 
 noise ; but Lord Kirby and Cousin Henry found a cor- 
 ner apart and had an agreeable conversation together. 
 
 Lord Kirby was beaming with good nature, and was 
 a very different man from the unhappy one who had re- 
 cently taken such cold comfort from a visit to Water- 
 meads. He was only too pleased to make the reason 
 of his cheerfulness known to Cousin Henry, when he 
 heard that he was indirectly interested. 
 
 " I'm glad to be able to tell you, sir, that we've got 
 out of it," he said. " I've no wish to say a word
 
 AT ELSIE'S WEDDING 403 
 
 against the young woman, now the danger's past, and 
 she's welcome to as good a husband as she can get by 
 her way of going to work about it. But my boy 
 ought to have seen what she was up to from the sud- 
 denness with which she threw over our young friend 
 here as nice a young fellow as I ever wish to meet, 
 and well out of such a marriage, I say. Well, he did 
 see it, I'm happy to say, when she began to make eyes 
 at a friend of his staying in my house. I won't men- 
 tion his name, but he's the eldest son of an earl of an 
 old creation, and I suppose she thought, if she could 
 catch him, that would be better than marrying the 
 heir to a new barony. So I dare say it would have 
 been, from her way of looking at things, but the young 
 man wasn't taking any, and went and told Jack all 
 about it. Well, I'm glad to say that Jack came to 
 me. If he'd gone straight to her she might have 
 worked round him, for she's as cunning as the devil. 
 But I took a strong line. I said, * Look here, my boy, 
 that's not the sort of young woman you want to 
 marry. She'll have pots of money, but you don't want 
 pots of money with the girl you marry; you want 
 something else, and she hasn't got it. Pull yourself 
 together and throw her over, as she threw young Con- 
 way over,' I said. ' He's got over it all right, and 
 you'll get over it, and precious glad to be rid of such 
 a girl in a few months' time.' Well, he took my ad- 
 vice. He didn't like doing it, because the young minx 
 had got a hold over him, and I suppose she reckoned 
 on that, and thought that if her third try failed she 
 could fall back on her second. However, she'll find 
 herself left now, with everything to begin over again,
 
 404 WATERMEADS 
 
 and no great chance, I should say, of getting hold of 
 anybody who would have suited her book as well as 
 Jack. He wrote her a letter, and went straight off to 
 Canada the day before yesterday. He's going to 
 shoot moose, or caribou, or something of that sort. 
 I don't care what he shoots, as long as he comes back 
 cured from his infatuation for that young party." 
 
 Cousin Henry expressed deep interest in this re- 
 cital, and felt it. It would be a tit-bit with which to 
 regale his wife by and by, and afterwards his friends 
 at Hillstead. He asked Lord Kirby how the Blumen- 
 thals had taken it. 
 
 " Oh, as you might expect," said Lord Kirby, with a 
 laugh. " They're going to bring an action for 
 breach, and ask for unheard of damages. But, bless 
 you, they won't bring any action. They don't want 
 the money, and it will queer the girl's chances for ever, 
 if it's brought out in court the way she's behaved. 
 Everybody will be laughing at her. They wouldn't 
 think of facing it. No, Miss Freda will have to swal- 
 low it, and begin all over again, as I said. Serve her 
 right, too! Fancy not being content when she'd 
 caught my son ! " 
 
 There then was the end of Freda's connection with 
 Watermeads, and of the disagreeable possibility of 
 her settling down as a neighbour within a few miles. 
 To no-one did Lord Kirby's news, as passed on by 
 Cousin Henry, bring greater relief than to Mrs. Con- 
 way, who, however, stated that she had foreseen it 
 all along, and gave Cousin Henry to understand that, 
 in some way which she did not explain, she herself had 
 been responsible for bringing it about. The rest of
 
 AT ELSIE'S WEDDING 405 
 
 the family said very little about it, except Penelope, 
 who cried, when a Bowdlerised version of the episode 
 was put before her, and said that when she grew up 
 she should ask Freda to live with her. 
 
 One of the most gratifying products of Elsie's wed- 
 ding was the pleasure shown in it by Edward's pa- 
 rents. Sydney had from the first been a little doubt- 
 ful as to the way in which they would take it. Sir 
 Vivian Probert had no more reason to wish his son 
 to marry a girl with money than Lord Kirby, but the 
 poverty of the Conways had reached such a pitch that 
 in the eyes of a man so rich as Edward's father it 
 might possibly have outweighed the effect of their 
 respectably ancient birth. It would have been galling, 
 at least, to have to entertain the Proberts to the kind 
 of wedding which was all that could have been af- 
 forded Elsie but for Uncle Mark's present. 
 
 Elsie had stayed with them in Norfolk, and they 
 had taken greatly to her. And Lady Probert had 
 stayed with Edward at Lutterbourne Rectory, and 
 helped in the elaborate furnishing which the house was 
 undergoing; but she had not come over to Water- 
 meads. No difficulties whatever had been made about 
 money by Sir Vivian's lawyers, and the settlements 
 upon Elsie, which Sydney had left entirely to the other 
 side, had been handsome. Nevertheless, there had been 
 a sensation of doubt in Sydney's mind. They had ac- 
 cepted Elsie as a daughter-in-law, but he dreaded that 
 in some way or other they might show themselves not 
 best pleased with the necessity. Left to live his life in 
 the way that suited him, Sydney cared little for out- 
 side opinion, and wore his poverty gracefully. It was
 
 406 WATERMEADS 
 
 only when brought into contact with unavoidable com- 
 parisons that he showed himself thin-skinned and 
 nervous. 
 
 But everything went well. Sir Vivian Probert was 
 a gentle-mannered courteous man who looked older 
 than his years. He was rather deaf, and was apt to 
 keep silence when conversation was general. But he 
 was an agreeable companion to those whom he liked, 
 and he liked Sydney from the first, and Sydney liked 
 him. He took the earliest opportunity of expressing 
 his pleasure at Edward's marriage with Elsie, and did 
 it in such a way that all Sydney's fears were swept 
 away; for he felt that his girl was received as she 
 deserved to be, and the poverty of her parents did not 
 weigh a single grain against what she was in herself. 
 Edward's young sisters showed themselves devoted to 
 her, and Lady Probert hardly less so. 
 
 Lady Probert was a handsome woman, with quiet 
 and distinguished manners. With regard to her, there 
 was probably some reason for the kind of doubt with 
 which Sydney had been troubled. She was as nice as 
 possible to him, but towards Mrs. Conway she held 
 herself somewhat stiffly. That lady put on her most 
 majestic air of dignity in conversation with her, but 
 they spoke to one another very little, and seemed mu- 
 tually pleased to keep apart. If Edward had warned 
 her that his bride's mother was not quite so charming 
 as the rest of the family, that might have accounted 
 for her having stayed for a week at Lutterbourne with- 
 out coming over to Watermeads, and also for the ab- 
 sence of warmth which she now showed towards her. 
 These speculations crossed Sydney's mind, and were
 
 AT ELSIE'S WEDDING 407 
 
 dismissed from it. They were not of the sort that 
 could be pursued with any advantage. 
 
 Sir Vivian showed himself greatly interested in 
 Watermeads. Sydney took him and his wife over some 
 of the rooms of the house. Lady Probert told him 
 that her husband could never see any house without 
 wanting to live in it, and that their own house was 
 always being altered in little ways, though it had come 
 to them so perfect that it was difficult to improve it. 
 She smiled affectionately at her husband, who seemed 
 to be lost in a dream of speculation, as he looked 
 round the splendid rooms which only wanted money ex- 
 pended on them to make them something quite ex- 
 ceptional. She knew what he was thinking of. It 
 would have given him more pleasure to have such a 
 house as Watermeads to deal with than to contemplate 
 his own beautiful Elizabethan Hall, where there was 
 nothing left to do, and life was a little dull for a man 
 with such tastes as his. 
 
 He and Sydney went round the gardens after break- 
 fast. " This is just the sort of thing I should like to 
 develop," said Sir Vivian. " It has infinite possibili- 
 ties, and one could go on for ever, and never spoil the 
 particular charm it has at present. My garden is all 
 formal very fine of its sort, but there's nothing more 
 to be done with it; and the ground all round it is as 
 flat as a pancake." 
 
 " If you'd like to rent the place," said Sydney with 
 a smile, " you can have it for the keeping up. I can't 
 afford to do anything here." 
 
 " I'll think about that," said Sir Vivian, in all seri- 
 ousness.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE RETURN OF GILES 
 
 GILES BELLAMY had not returned to Watermeads in 
 the summer, nor had he been there since. He had ac- 
 cepted the invitation to Elsie's wedding, but had after- 
 wards written to say that he should not be able to 
 come, as his father was ill. He had written once to 
 Sydney before this, and that was all that had been 
 heard of him. 
 
 Sydney had been rather distressed about him. After 
 their talk together at Sandford Hole, he had at least 
 expected him to pay court to Rose. He had said that 
 he loved her, and Sydney had let him know that his 
 suit would be welcome. And now it was five months 
 since he had left them. Had he drawn back, or what 
 was the reason for his long silence? 
 
 His first letter, written a week or two after he had 
 returned home, had said that his father wanted him 
 at home, and he did not know when he should be able 
 to leave. There was a great deal of business to be 
 done. Then the weeks had passed, and nothing further 
 had been heard from him. 
 
 His brother had left a little boy. Sydney had 
 learnt that from Lady Sophia, to whom it came nat- 
 ural to acquire such details of information. So Giles 
 had not become an eldest son by his brother's death, 
 and his eligibility was no more marked than before. 
 
 408
 
 THE RETURN OF GILES 409 
 
 After a time Sydney began to think that it was just 
 as well that nothing had come of his fancy for Rose, 
 which did not seem as strong as he had thought it 
 himself, since he had let all these months go by with- 
 out coming near her, or even caring to have word of 
 her. Sydney would have welcomed Giles as a son-in- 
 law, but he was no great matrimonial catch, and Rose 
 was very young still. With Elsie gone, Rose counted 
 for more than before at Watermeads. Her father 
 didn't want her to marry anybody at present. 
 
 But soon after the new year, Bellamy made his ap- 
 pearance at Watermeads, from the same rooms as he 
 had occupied before. He arrived at tea-time, and was 
 given a welcome that ought to have pleased him. Even 
 Mrs. Conway expressed pleasure at his reappearance, 
 and rallied him heavily about not having let them 
 know what he was doing, or when he was coming back. 
 
 He was not much more communicative about himself 
 than before, but explained shortly that he had been 
 very busy with his father over estate work and other 
 family matters. His father was not in good health, 
 and wanted him with him. He should be living at 
 home for the greater part of the year; he was going 
 to pack up the things from his rooms in the village, 
 and would return home in a week's time. 
 
 Sydney walked back with him to his rooms later on. 
 There seemed to be a good deal more to be said, and 
 there was nowhere at Watermeads to say it in private, 
 for all the family congregated in the parlour in the 
 winter time, and privacy was a difficult matter to ac- 
 complish. 
 
 Nothing was said between the two men for some
 
 410 WATERMEADS 
 
 time as they walked together down the drive in the 
 winter darkness, faintly lit by stars in a clear sky. 
 Sydney felt some slight annoyance with his companion. 
 If he had come, after all these months, expecting to 
 be received on the same terms as those on which he 
 had left, it was surely his part to say so. It was 
 not for Sydney to ask for explanations, though he 
 wanted to hear them. 
 
 Presently Giles did speak, and without any prelim- 
 inary beating of the conversational bush. " I've come 
 down here purposely to ask Rose to marry me," he 
 said, " if you still give me your permission." 
 
 " Oh, have you ? " said Sydney drily. " I thought 
 you'd forgotten all about her." 
 
 " Did it look like that ? " replied Giles at once, with- 
 out taking any notice of the stiffness of his manner. 
 " No, I wasn't likely to forget her. But things have 
 changed for me a good deal at home. My father felt 
 my brother's death very keenly. He never seemed to 
 care for me much as long as Geoffrey was alive; but 
 that's all changed now. He can't do without me. He 
 was always waiting for Geoffrey to go and settle down 
 there and look after things with him, and now Geof- 
 frey's dead I've got to do it. In fact, as long as he's 
 alive I've got to drop the artist and live and behave 
 as a country gentleman; perhaps I ought to say as 
 an estate agent, for it's my father I shall have to look 
 after the place for now, and when he dies it will be my 
 nephew." 
 
 He seemed to have said all he had to say for the 
 present. " Well," said Sydney, after a pause of re- 
 flection, " then what about Rose? "
 
 THE RETURN OF GILES 411 
 
 " I told my father that I wanted to get married. I 
 said that if I settled down at home I must have a house 
 of my own and an income. It is that that has kept me 
 so long away." 
 
 " You mean he didn't see it." 
 
 " He was prepared to give me an income, but he 
 wanted me to live at home with him and my mother, 
 and the child. But he has given way now. I'm to 
 have my house it's a very pretty one and a thou- 
 sand a year if I marry. If I don't, I shall live with 
 them at the big house. It's all agreed upon now ; and 
 that's what I have to offer Rose." 
 
 " Well, I've no objection to your offering it to her," 
 said Sydney, after another pause. He was unable to 
 say it with any warmth. He liked Giles, though his 
 reserve and matter-of-factness were not the qualities 
 that made him like him, and they were all that were 
 apparent just at the moment. But what he had to 
 offer with himself was nothing very brilliant for a girl 
 as beautiful as Rose, and Sydney remembered that so 
 far it had been he only who had encouraged Giles to 
 hope for Rose, and was rather sorry that he had done 
 so, now that the danger of her marrying someone 
 whom he disliked was quite of the past. 
 
 " I'll make her happy if she'll have me," said Giles. 
 
 Sydney was touched by something in his voice. 
 " Oh, my dear fellow, I'm sure you will." Then he 
 laughed and threw off his restraint. " The fact is," 
 he said, " that one has been rather spoilt by Elsie's 
 marriage. Still, one has no right to expect that for 
 both one's daughters. Try your luck, Giles. I don't 
 know whether she'll have you or not. She likes you
 
 412 WATERMEADS 
 
 we all do but I've seen no signs of anything else. I 
 shall say nothing to anybody until you come and tell 
 me something further." 
 
 Giles tried his luck the next day. He and Sydney 
 went for a long walk in the morning, with Rose and 
 Olivia. Giles and Rose gradually dropped behind. 
 Sydney remembered his undertaking of the night be- 
 fore, but did not consider it so binding on him that he 
 need refrain from saying to Olivia with a smile : " Do 
 you think anything very serious is going on between 
 those two behind? " 
 
 Olivia looked at him with startled surprise. " What, 
 have you seen it then ? " she asked. 
 
 It was Sydney's turn to show surprise. " Seen 
 what ? " he asked. 
 
 Olivia hesitated, and turned her eyes away from 
 him. " Oh, nothing," she said. " I thought from 
 what you said " 
 
 She broke off. " Tell me what you mean," he said. 
 " What 7 meant was that oh, I don't see why I 
 shouldn't say it, though I said I wasn't going to 
 Giles wants to marry Rose, and I wondered whether 
 he was telling her so." 
 
 A blush crept over her cheeks as she looked at him 
 again. " Are you quite sure of that? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes, I am. He told me so. Come now, Olivia, 
 what's your little secret? Is it that she wants him to 
 tell her so ? You can't have seen that, have you ? " 
 
 She laughed at him now. " Of course I've seen it," 
 she said, " for ages past, and so has Elsie. You must 
 be blind if you haven't; but I believe men are all blind 
 in those matters."
 
 THE RETURN OF GILES 413 
 
 He wanted to hear more. It was incredible to him 
 that this had been going on, and he had had no idea 
 of it, loving Rose as he did and watching her so care- 
 fully. But Olivia convinced him. " I think 7 sus- 
 pected it," she said, " when everybody else, even Elsie, 
 thought she liked Jack Kirby. I'm sure she didn't 
 know it herself then, though; but it was partly that 
 that was making her unhappy. She hasn't been 
 happy, you know, since Giles went away. Didn't you 
 notice her when his letter came to say that he couldn't 
 come to Elsie's wedding? " 
 
 No, Sydney had not noticed that, nor various other 
 little signs that had been as plain as print to Olivia's 
 sympathetic eyes. " Oh, I'm so glad that he does love 
 her," she said happily. " I thought he must, but I 
 couldn't be sure. Dear Mr. Conway, do you really 
 think he can be telling her so now ? " 
 
 "I'll risk a look back," said Sydney. "If they 
 have fallen a long way behind " 
 
 He looked back, but Giles and Rose were nowhere 
 to be seen, in the long straight road between the beech 
 woods up which they had been walking. 
 
 " They've given us the slip," said Sydney. " I think 
 that settles it." 
 
 The news that was presently conveyed to Mrs. Con- 
 was such a surprise to her that she was unable at 
 first to say that she had seen it coming all along, al- 
 though she did say so later to Lady Sophia, and quitr 
 believed it. Rose's happy blushing face, as she told 
 her that she and Giles had found out that they loved 
 one another, should have given her a great deal of
 
 414 WATERMEADS 
 
 pleasure, but she was unfortunately not apt to be 
 much affected by the happiness of her elder daughters, 
 and her mind had to adapt itself to the material 
 side of the question before she could have leisure to 
 regard the sentimental. When she was told all that 
 had been settled, she expressed a modified approval, 
 but this attitude did not bring her enough of satis- 
 faction, and it was finally on the sentimental side of 
 the engagement that she concentrated herself. 
 
 " No doubt," she said to Lady Sophia, " the world 
 will consider us demented to permit a daughter of ours 
 to marry a man with so little, but " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know about that," interrupted Lady 
 Sophia. " I don't call a thousand a year, with a 
 charming house thrown in, so very little. Lots of peo- 
 ple better off than you, Jane, would jump at it if the 
 man was all right ; and Giles Bellamy is all right. I've 
 had him under my eye for some time now, and I ap- 
 prove of him." 
 
 " I was just about to say that it is his character, 
 and his deep, though unassuming love for Rose, that 
 makes one think nothing of possibly straitened means," 
 said Mrs. Conway. " In my mind love is everything 
 in these matters. If Rose had married young Kirby, 
 as at one time seemed not improbable, I doubt if I 
 should ever have got over it. The wealth and rank 
 he would have given her would only have been the gold 
 framing to a picture of misery such as I should trem- 
 ble to anticipate for a daughter of mine." 
 
 " Oh, well," said Lady Sophia, " as that little affair 
 didn't come off, it's just as well to say that we didn't 
 want it to. I don't object to young Jack myself, and
 
 THE RETURN OF GILES 415 
 
 I think he'd have made quite a good husband for Rose 
 if the minx hadn't come between them. It would have 
 been nice to have had her at Prittlewell, too, instead 
 of right up there in the wilds of Cumberland. Still, 
 if she's happy, dear child! Oh, I think it's quite a 
 good marriage for her, Jane. I was talking to Ron- 
 ald Grenville up in London the other day. He knows 
 all about art and artists. He said that Giles Bellamy 
 was a very rising man, bound to be an Academician be- 
 fore long. So that's something to look forward to. 
 I don't suppose it will begin and end with a thousand 
 a year. No; you've done remarkably well for Elsie, 
 and not at all badly for Rose. In fact, things seem 
 to be looking up all round. Is Mark Drake going to 
 do anything for Sydney, by the by? Watermeads is 
 still the weak spot, isn't it? With Elsie and Rose set- 
 tled, and Fred on his way to be Prime Minister, it's 
 a pity you can't fix yourselves up more comfortably 
 here." 
 
 It was true that Watermeads was still the weak 
 spot. Sydney talked about it to Giles, who had been 
 so closely connected with the family life that it held 
 few secrets from him. 
 
 " Of course we've had an extraordinary amount of 
 good fortune lately," he said. " Elsie and Rose well, 
 in the state to which we have been reduced, one could 
 hardly have expected either of them to marry so well. 
 Then there's Fred provided for unless he gets up 
 against Uncle Mark, as I did ; but I don't think that's 
 likely to happen. If Uncle Mark makes him his heir, 
 then Watermeads will be all right, too. But in the 
 meantime what's to happen ? "
 
 416 WATERMEADS 
 
 "It's hard luck," said Giles. "It's such a jolly 
 place, too. You know I think it's jollier as it is now 
 than if it were kept up like other country houses. I 
 shall never forget last summer; Edward Probert won't 
 either." 
 
 Sydney laughed. " You were both in love," he said. 
 " But I enjoyed the summer, too. There's a lot to be 
 said for a simple way of living amongst friends. If 
 one could live in a corner of the house, as one does, 
 and not feel that all the rest was going downhill fast! 
 But one can't even do that with an easy mind. I'm 
 selling things all the time to keep us going. What 
 does one do, Giles, in a case like mine? There must 
 be plenty of other land-owners whose property doesn't 
 support them." 
 
 " I suppose they have to sell sooner or later. Or 
 else they let their big houses, and live in smaller ones." 
 
 " If I could do that ! I really thought Vivian 
 Probert had an idea of renting the place. He's got a 
 fine house of his own, of course, but he's got heaps of 
 money, and I thought he'd taken enough of a fancy to 
 Watermeads to want it. But that possibility seems to 
 have disappeared, like all the others. He'd have to 
 spend thousands on putting the place into habitable 
 repair before he began to amuse himself with it, and 
 I suppose that frightens him off. If I could only do 
 it myself, I believe I could get a good rent for the 
 house. Then I would go and live at Manor Farm, and 
 look after the place from there. I wish I could. I'm 
 getting tired of the struggle, Giles. I love Water- 
 meads, but I've devoted the greater part of my life to 
 it, and it's getting too much for me. I should be glad
 
 THE RETURN OF GILES 417 
 
 to let it go now at least for my life-time. I should 
 like to see Fred here some day, but I'm inclined to 
 think I shan't be able to keep it for him. Well, it's 
 on the knees of the gods. They have been holding out 
 one hope after another during the last year, and then 
 withdrawing them. Yet, somehow, I can't feel that I'm 
 going to lose Watermeads altogether, after keeping it 
 going for so long. Something will turn up. I haven't 
 really given up hope yet."
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 AT MANOR FARM 
 
 JUNE had come round once more. All the lilacs and 
 thorns and laburnums and syringas were flowering in 
 the overgrown gardens of Watermeads, to say nothing 
 of rhododendrons and azaleas, and the countless 
 flowers that grew among the tall grasses of the once- 
 trim lawns, and made them so much more beautiful, 
 just for this month at least, than they had been in the 
 days of their shaven pride. 
 
 But the period of neglect, however occasionally 
 happy in its results, was coming to an end for Water- 
 meads. The vast repairs that had become necessary 
 to keep the house from tumbling about its owners' ears 
 had been set in hand, and were now nearly complete; 
 and when the structural repairs which absorbed so 
 much money and showed on the surface so little re- 
 sult, should be finished, there would set in a further 
 period of revivification, which would restore the old 
 house to the glories of its past, and make it once more 
 one of the rich and stately country homes of England. 
 
 For Sydney Conway had found the money to restore 
 the fabric of his house, and Sir Vivian Probert was go- 
 ing to rent it, when it should be put in sufficient order 
 to enable him to exercise his taste upon it. 
 
 A few days after Giles Bellamy had returned to 
 Cumberland it having been settled that his marriage 
 
 418
 
 AT MANOR FARM 419 
 
 with Rose should take place at Easter he had written 
 to Sydney with a story that had aroused excitement at 
 Watermeads. 
 
 It was the story of Holbein's * Unknown Lady.' 
 Some diligent German investigator had got on to the 
 track of a once known picture of Holbein's or rather 
 on to the fact of there having been such a picture, 
 whose whereabouts had been known until early in the 
 eighteenth century. It had then disappeared com- 
 pletely. A good deal had been written about it in art 
 magazines and papers in Germany, and several pic- 
 tures had turned up claiming to be the lost master- 
 piece. But they had either been manifest forgeries, or 
 had not tallied with the close description of the orig- 
 inal which had been the investigator's discovery. 
 Until now, the interest had been confined to Germany, 
 but Giles had seen the first mention of it in an English 
 periodical, and the description there given had tallied 
 with what he remembered of the picture at Water- 
 meads. 
 
 On the same morning as Giles's letter had been re- 
 ceived, the expert who had recently decided against 
 the authenticity of the Watermeads picture had paid 
 an unheralded visit to look at it again. He had then 
 unhesitatingly pronounced it to be genuine, and tin- 
 one that was being sought for, and had offered to sell 
 it at a high price, with a suitable commission to be 
 paid to himself. 
 
 Others visitors, all more or less anxious to do some- 
 thing for themselves in the matter, had followed in 
 quick succession, and an offer from one of them of five 
 thousand pounds down for the picture the purchaser
 
 420 WATERMEADS 
 
 to take all risks had nearly been accepted by Syd- 
 ney. But it had occurred to him to ask if the prin- 
 cipal for whom the agent was acting happened to be 
 a certain Mr. Hermann Blumenthal. The agent had 
 refused to disclose the name of his principal, but had 
 already shown by the way he had taken the unexpected 
 question, that the guess was probably a true one. 
 " Then you can go back and tell Mr. Blumenthal, if 
 it's he who wants to buy it," said Sydney, " that I 
 wouldn't sell it him for fifty thousand. And you might 
 ask him, too, if he happened to have heard anything 
 about the missing picture from Germany when he saw 
 this one last August." 
 
 By and by, however, Sydney was almost inclined to 
 wish that he had closed with this offer, even though 
 Mr. Blumenthal had shown himself in so mean a light 
 about it. For controversy raged hotly over the pic- 
 ture, which was sent up to London to be exhibited, 
 and there were at least as many who scoffed at the 
 idea of its genuineness as of those who were convinced 
 by it. If he had been able to provide any evidence as 
 to its purchase by whatever ancestor of his had 
 brought it to Watermeads the scoffing might have been 
 silenced. But the most diligent research failed to pro- 
 duce any reference to the picture whatever. There was 
 nothing even to show that Grandfather Frederic, who 
 had reigned at Watermeads at about the time the pic- 
 ture seemed to have been last known of in Germany, 
 had ever visited that country. But he had bought 
 pictures elsewhere, and there was a record of some of 
 his purchases. This cut both ways, for if he was made 
 out to be something of a connoisseur, which was to
 
 AT MANOR FARM IJ1 
 
 the good, why had he left nothing in writing about 
 such a valuable find as this? Sydney's opinion, ex- 
 pressed only in the bosom of his family, was that it 
 was certainly he who had brought the Holbein to 
 Watermeads, but that he had probably acquired it dis- 
 honestly, and had been wise to say nothing about it. 
 
 Eventually the picture had been sold at auction and 
 had fetched eight thousand pounds, a very inad- 
 equate price if it was really the missing picture, but 
 a very satisfactory one if it were not. Sydney was 
 inclined to hope that evidence would turn up to show 
 that it was not, when Mr. Blumenthal was declared to 
 have been the ultimate purchaser. 
 
 But, at any rate, there had been the money with 
 which Watermeads could be put into structural repair, 
 and Manor Farm adapted for the residence of him- 
 self and his now depleted family. And directly the 
 repairs had been set in hand, Sir Vivian Probert had 
 offered to rent Watermeads as his second country 
 house, and terms had been agreed upon in about the 
 time that it had taken Mr. Blumenthal to reach his 
 first objection in a similar negotiation. x 
 
 The repairs to Watermeads were nearing comple- 
 tion ; the adaptation of Manor Farm was already com- 
 pleted. Giles and Rose were staying there on their n 
 turn from their honey-moon tour. Edward and Elsie 
 had come over from Lutterbourne for the afternoon. 
 Fred had come down for the week-end. The enlight- 
 ened electors of West Russetshire had given him a ma- 
 jority of seventeen votes over his opponent, and he 
 now represented them in Parliament, when- lu- pro- 
 fessed himself enormously busy; but his cares did not
 
 422 WATERMEADS 
 
 appear to sit very heavily on him when he came down 
 to Watermeads, which he had done almost every week 
 during the spring. Olivia had come to tea, to see 
 Elsie and Rose, and they were all to play tennis after- 
 wards, quite in the happy way of the previous sum- 
 mer, but on the newly laid court at Manor Farm in- 
 stead of at Watermeads. The only absentees of the 
 family were Bobby and Billy, now blissfully happy in 
 their first summer term at Charterhouse, whence they 
 wrote home weekly letters exuding cricket at every 
 pore. 
 
 Manor Farm was as pretty a country house of its 
 size as could be found anywhere. It was stone-built 
 and stone-roofed, and nestled amongst its trees in a 
 setting of garden and orchard, busy steading, mellow 
 barns and outbuildings, deep-grassed meadows, with 
 the river running its placid course not far away a 
 very haunt of country peace and contentment. Its 
 fifteenth century timbered hall, running up to the roof, 
 had been restored, and made as pleasant a family meet- 
 ing place as the great hall at Watermeads. Round it 
 clustered an irregular series of rooms, some large and 
 some small, which gave as much accommodation as the 
 family which now so happity occupied it could want. 
 There were spacious ' offices ' besides, in which Cooky 
 had found herself a new home almost as much to her 
 taste as the last, though she had not yet been brought 
 to acknowledge it. Alice remained as housemaid, and 
 there was a parlour-maid besides. There was a groom- 
 gardener, and a boy to help him in his dual occupa- 
 tion; and there were horses in the stables, and not 
 only farm horses.
 
 AT MANOR FARM 
 
 " Do you remember, mother," said Sydney, over tea 
 in the hall, " that about this time last year we were 
 waiting for a telegram from Fred to tell us what 
 Grandfather John had fetched at Christie's? We were 
 full of hope, of course we always were in those days 
 but I don't believe any of us could have expected to 
 be so happy in a year's time as we all are now. We've 
 really been extraordinarily lucky. But what a lot has 
 happened since then, eh? " 
 
 Mrs. Conway breathed deeply. She had gained at 
 least as much from the changes that had taken place 
 as her husband. She had enough money and enough 
 servants to relieve her of all necessity for domestic 
 contrivance; she could entertain her friends whenever 
 she wished to, and she had her carriage once more, in 
 which she could visit them in turn. All the limitations, 
 in fact, under which she had laboured for so many 
 years had been removed; but so had the grievances 
 which had added salt to her life and point to her 
 tirades. She had taken refuge in a sombre reserve, 
 big with the sense of irretrievable loss, but was grad- 
 ually finding expression for this attitude, and in quite 
 a short time might be expected to have as much to say 
 about the unaccountable behaviour of those about her 
 in making themselves happy under the bereavement as 
 when she had raised her voice in protest under the 
 heavy burden of existence at Watermeads. 
 
 " If you are referring to Elsie and Rose, Sydney," 
 she said, " I am quite aware that the past year has 
 brought them as much happiness as young wives are 
 entitled to before they can have had experience of the 
 sadder side of life. I myself, as a young wife, was
 
 424 WATERMEADS 
 
 completely I might almost say blissfully happy, 
 and I certainly . should not wish it otherwise for my 
 daughters. If the past year had done no more for 
 us than to bring Edward and Giles into the family, 
 I should indeed say that we had reason to congratulate 
 ourselves." 
 
 " The Reverend Edward Probert will return suita- 
 ble thanks," said Sydney, " which will be seconded by 
 Mr. Giles Bellamy." 
 
 Mrs. Conway closed her eyes and opened them 
 again. " I am fully aware also," she continued, " that 
 Fred has, to use a vulgar expression, fallen on his feet, 
 and Bobby and Billy are being well educated, which 
 is all to the good, though I could wish that their 
 letters contained more references to lessons and 
 were not always full of this eternal playing at 
 cricket." 
 
 " Well, that only leaves you and me and Mother 
 Bunch," said Sydney, " and I don't think any of us 
 three has much to complain of. You're a happy per- 
 son now, aren't you, Mother Bunch? No complaints 
 to make of life, eh? " 
 
 " I like living here better than at Watermeads," 
 said Penelope. " So does Cooky, though she pretends 
 she doesn't. But I should like to have a pony." 
 
 " Well, if you're a good girl you shall have a pony. 
 Thank goodness one can manage these little affairs 
 now. I don't suppose you'd care about a pony, 
 mother, but if there's anything else that would make 
 life pleasant for you in a small way we'll see if we 
 can't manage to let you have it." 
 
 " Think well, mother," said Elsie. " There are lots
 
 AT MANOR FARM 425 
 
 of things I should ask for if such an offer were made 
 to me." 
 
 " Thank you, Elsie," said Mrs. Conway, " but I am 
 not in need of such advice. When you reach my age, 
 and have been through all that I have although I 
 hope and pray that that may never happen to you 
 you will not perhaps be so inclined to pin your hap- 
 piness to toys. I want nothing, Sydney, I thank you. 
 I have a roof over my head, food to eat, and a bed to 
 sleep in ; there are countless thousands who are not so 
 well off as I am. I am content, and more than con- 
 tent." 
 
 " Oh, well, that's good hearing, mother," said Syd- 
 ney. " Then you and I are in the same boat, because 
 I'm more than content, too. In fact, I haven't been 
 so happy as I am now for years and years. Come 
 along, children, and let's get to work. Fred and I 
 put up the wire this morning, and we shan't have to 
 do quite so much ball-hunting as last time." 
 
 They went out, through the paved garden in front 
 of the house, round by the old orchard and down to 
 where a lawn had been levelled by the river. Sydney 
 walked with the step of a young man again. He was, 
 in fact, supremely happy. The lovely June weather, 
 the beauty of his surroundings, the society of those 
 whom he loved or liked, the pleasure of his game he 
 could enjoy it all now that the weight of care which 
 had hitherto clogged his life was removed. The way 
 was clear right ahead of him. He wanted nothing 
 more than he had, or would have, till the end of his 
 
 life. 
 
 Mrs. Conway, left alone with Penelope, as she had
 
 426 WATERMEADS 
 
 been on that first summer afternoon when we first made 
 her acquaintance, sighed heavily. 
 
 " What's the matter, mother ? " asked the sharp- 
 eyed child. " Why does Dad enjoy himself so much 
 and you don't enjoy yourself? " 
 
 Mrs. Conway sighed again. " When you grow 
 older, darling," she said " you will find out that some 
 people have light natures, and nothing makes much 
 impression on them, while other people have 
 have " 
 
 " Have heavy natures, I suppose," Penelope helped 
 her out. " Yes, I've found that out already. I had 
 a heavy nature myself about Freda; but I've got over 
 it now. I thought we had treated Freda rather badly, 
 but now I think she treated us rather badly. So I 
 don't worry about her any more. If I were you, 
 mother, I should give up grumbling. I'm sure you 
 have plenty to make you happy." 
 
 Penelope made a sudden exit, and went down through 
 the orchard to join the others. Mrs. Conway was 
 stricken to the heart by her speech. Her own dearly 
 loved child had turned against her, following in the 
 footsteps of the rest, on whom she had expended an 
 infinity of attention and maternal love, with such pain- 
 ful and unaccountable results. If Penelope could 
 speak to her like that, what a dreadful and sinister 
 light it threw upon the influence to which the poor 
 child was subjected! Oh, that light and shallow na- 
 ture, to which she had entrusted her own happiness 
 years before, what mischief it could work, perhaps 
 for she must be fair without meaning to work mis- 
 chief! Well, she had made her own choice long ago,
 
 AT MANOR FARM 427 
 
 and must go through with it unto the end. But one 
 thing she would not have. She had seen her elder 
 children led away, until a mother's love and a mother's 
 authority alike had been meaningless to them. She 
 would not allow her youngest to be drawn away along 
 the same path. She would act before it was too late. 
 Much as she would miss the child, Penelope must be 
 sent to boarding-school. 
 
 Having made this decision, and prepared a few 
 heads of the discourse she would presently deliver to 
 her husband on the subject which would bring him 
 to a right view of the situation he had created, if any- 
 thing could Mrs. Conway put on her gardening 
 apron and went out to tend the flowers in the paved 
 garden in front of the house. She had taken to gar- 
 dening with some zest since settling at Manor Farm, 
 and, if the truth must be told, thoroughly enjoyed 
 spending money on it, to an extent that would have 
 shocked her a few weeks earlier. When she had busied 
 herself for some time with her trowel and scissors and 
 watering pot, she suddenly realised, as she stood up 
 and straightened her broad back, that she was enjoy- 
 ing herself excessively. There were no troublesome 
 accounts to take her indoors, and set her wondering 
 how she should ever square them; there were no wor- 
 ries waiting her whatever. She could enjoy her pot- 
 tering with a clear mind, and for as long as she 
 wished. And afterwards she could go in and read a 
 novel, by Edna Lyall, until it was time to dress for 
 dinner. She gained at that moment some slight in- 
 sight into the new freedom of mind which was so hap- 
 pily affecting the spirits of her husband. But she was
 
 428 WATERMEADS 
 
 not made to accept contentment. With a shake of 
 the head she corrected her impulse towards sympathy 
 with him. He must always remain her cross ; but she 
 would do her duty, and bear with him to the end. 
 
 After they had played a set, and sat for a time 
 watching another one, Fred and Olivia strolled off 
 along the river bank, and presently found themselves 
 in the wilder parts of the Watermeads gardens, where 
 the ground, carpeted with the skiey blue of wild hya- 
 cinths, rose and fell between profusely flowering shrubs 
 and groups of tall-springing trees. 
 
 They had become the closest friends, these two, 
 since that parting at the gate of the Vicarage, where 
 Olivia had given Fred the warning that had so soon 
 proved itself to have been justified. It was long since 
 that little disturbance had been cleared away between 
 them. She had shown herself so kind and sympathetic 
 over Fred's trouble, when it had lain heavy upon him, 
 and he had seen, when once he had begun to throw off 
 his trouble, what affection and loyalty had prompted 
 her difficult speech to him. As Freda's image had 
 faded from his mind, Olivia's filled it more and more. 
 Just that sense of rest and security, which had al- 
 ways evaded him in Freda, were to be found in Olivia, 
 however she might be tested. And her beauty, to 
 which he presently seemed to himself to have been 
 strangely blind, grew and grew upon him, until he 
 came to think of her with the tenderest admiration. 
 
 He kept these feelings, when they became strong, al- 
 most shamefacedly to himself. It would be offering 
 her a love as light as he saw his love for Freda to have
 
 AT MANOR FARM 429 
 
 been to make them apparent to her. She must be 
 shocked by them, and he could hardly hope that they 
 would be returned, so short a time after he had made 
 her the confidante of his sore and stricken heart. He 
 felt debased by the memory of his love for Freda. 
 Olivia had helped to heal that wound, but it was too 
 recent for her to have forgotten it. 
 
 But still his love for her grew and would not be 
 denied. He thought of her constantly in the midst of 
 his busy life, and the thought of her was a pure re- 
 freshment. The few weeks in which he was not able 
 to spend a day or two at Watermeads so that he might 
 see her were dull and blank to him. Presently he made 
 up his mind to put his fortune to the test, but diffidence 
 in her presence held him back, and for week after week 
 he returned to London, loving her increasingly, but 
 still ignorant of whether her feeling for him contained 
 'any love. 
 
 They had been talking, in the most friendly inti- 
 macy, of the new life that had begun at Watermeads. 
 They were in entire agreement about it. The years of 
 struggle that had come to an end had been happy 
 years for those who had grown up in them. " I sup- 
 pose," Fred had said, " that I've already had more fun 
 out of Watermeads than ever father had. I don't be- 
 lieve I shall enjoy it more than I have already if it 
 ever comes to be mine in such a way that I can live 
 in it well, as the Proberts are going to." 
 
 " It's the place one loves," said Olivia. " I love it, 
 too, you know, Fred. It isn't the house so much; or 
 at least it certainly isn't the way of living thut the 
 house seems to demand. Dear Mr. Conway found that
 
 430 WATERMEADS 
 
 out long ago; and that's why he's happy in having 
 given up the house, for a time. He keeps all the rest 
 that he loves that all of us love." 
 
 Fred smiled at her. " You've grown up to it all 
 just as we have," he said. " I believe you do love 
 Watermeads just as much as we do." 
 
 " Yes, I do," she said simply. " I didn't know, till 
 I came back to it, how much I loved it. I feel as if 
 I never want to leave it again." 
 
 The impulse came to him to ask her now, and his 
 heart leapt into his throat at the audacity of the 
 thought. He looked away, and said in a matter-of- 
 fact voice, which, however, shook as he spoke : " I 
 wish you'd say you never will leave it, dear Olivia. It 
 has always been the chief place in the world to me, 
 but I know now that it will be nothing to me without 
 you." 
 
 She did not reply, and he summoned up his courage 
 to go on. " You know all about me," he said, " and 
 what I was thinking of last summer. I'm ashamed of 
 that now but if you forgive it ! " He had meant to 
 say more, but came to an abrupt end. 
 
 They walked a few paces, and he stole a look at 
 her face. She was blushing deeply, and the tears 
 stood in her eyes. But as he looked at her she looked 
 at him, and then he knew that there was no question 
 of forgiveness between them, but only the question of 
 love. And that question was already answered. 
 
 THE END
 
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