THE POET AND THE PARISH
 
 THE POET AND 
 THE PARISH 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY MOSS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 1906
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1906 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 Published September^ iqob
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE TOWN TALKS i 
 
 II. MRS. LE GRAND EXPOUNDS . . .17 
 
 III. THE WAYS OF THE WICKED . . . 35 
 
 IV. LAMBS AND GOATS ..... 45 
 V. ' ' POOR LADY I" 64 
 
 VI. "THE VAPID, VEGETABLE LOVES" . . 76 
 
 VII. Fox AND CRANE gi 
 
 VIII. FELIX IGNORES THE RULES . . .115 
 
 IX. CRANE AND Fox 130 
 
 X. RACHEL BERNSTEIN ..... 148 
 
 XI. ON THE ROAD 165 
 
 XII. THE ZEAL OF PITCAIRN . . . .189 
 
 XIII. SOME MAY NOT LOOK OVER A FENCE ! . 200 
 
 XIV. MR. QUORN'S LUCK 209 
 
 XV. WHILE OTHERS MAY STEAL A HORSE . 225 
 
 XVI. THE HIGHROAD TO FAME .... 239 
 
 XVII. A TRIBE OF GUARDIAN ANGELS . . 262 
 
 XVIII. ADELAIDE OBEYS 281 
 
 XIX. "THE ROMANY RAWNIE" .... 293 
 
 XX. WHEN MORTAL GIRLS ! 304 
 v
 
 THE POET AND THE 
 PARISH 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 Gown Galfes 
 
 ONLY two guests at Mrs. Noel's lunch 
 party failed to accept their hostess's 
 statement as discriminating and final. It im- 
 pressed five admiring ladies as the essence of 
 accredited wisdom and a fair working guide 
 for their course towards Felix Gwynne. 
 
 To old Mrs. Bradish Laurence, who felt 
 sure she should like him, and to Alice Le 
 Grand, who already called herself his friend, 
 Mrs. Noel's dictum appeared a peerless flight 
 of idiocy. 
 
 The question had been raised how far it be- 
 hooved them to welcome a strange young man 
 whose poems might be called the ladies 
 hesitated at using so harsh a word, but
 
 2 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 finding no other to convey the shade regret- 
 fully proclaimed it "French in tone, my dear! 
 Decidedly French." 
 
 Of course they all knew what that implied, 
 without having themselves been through the 
 debasing experience of reading either Felix 
 Gwynne's verses, or his reputed models. 
 
 His mother was French ! 
 
 He was born in France! 
 
 He had never before been in America! 
 
 This much, added to the poems, weighed 
 heavily against him. 
 
 On the other hand, he came "home* 5 to in- 
 herit a fortune (another fortune, since he was 
 already amply provided for), and not only had 
 old Miss Anne left him riches, but actually she 
 had bestowed upon this foreign young man 
 her cherished, not to say coveted, country 
 place. Whatever treatment was due to Felix 
 Gwynne, poet, the owner of Chastellux could 
 not be lightly brushed aside as a mere negli- 
 gible versifier. 
 
 Then, after all, he was Stephen Gwynne's
 
 The Town Talks 3 
 
 son. Doubtless had Stephen lived (instead of 
 dying abroad before his baby had even been 
 born) he would have brought his family home, 
 and Felix might now have been a model citi- 
 zen of his native town "just like everybody 
 else," one optimistic lady regretfully believed. 
 
 This lenient view proved so plausible and at- 
 tractive that the tide was actually turning to- 
 wards poor 'Felix, when Mrs. Noel rallied the 
 waverers with her statement, immediately 
 drawing a sharp line between the friends of 
 this perplexing young man and those conscien- 
 tious buttresses of social order to whom the 
 eternal watchword of life is unfailingly 
 "Better not!" 
 
 Mrs. Noel swept in the ladies with a smile 
 whose sweet reasonableness entirely matched 
 her measured utterance. "I may be old-fash- 
 ioned, Cousin Emily," she directly addressed 
 Mrs. Bradish Laurence, "but it seems to me 
 that no one can fail to agree with me that liv- 
 ing writers take certain liberties at their 
 peril!"
 
 4 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 Being only on the verge of middle-age, Mrs. 
 Le Grand would have let this gem pass un- 
 questioned, but Mrs. Laurence's idea of just 
 compensation demanded perfect freedom of 
 speech for all really old ladies. By claiming 
 this compensation, and associating habitually 
 with her juniors, even at eighty she managed 
 to find life not quite flavourless. 
 
 "Living writers, you said, Georgina ?" The 
 old lady turned this over with relish. "How 
 interesting!" She appeared to ruminate to 
 come upon a slight difficulty. "But suppose 
 Felix dies to-night. When he's dead and 
 buried can he write anything he pleases with 
 propriety? And after he is dead, can we read 
 the books he wrote when he was alive, without 
 their hurting us? Does the poison evaporate 
 with him?" 
 
 "Don't!" whispered Mrs. Le Grand. 
 "You'll make them hate him." 
 
 Her admonition, however, came too late. 
 The tone of Mrs. Noel's voice, as she com- 
 pletely disregarded her flippant old cousin,
 
 The Town Talks 5 
 
 showed a finished and conscientious dislike to 
 Felix and all his works. "I can only say for 
 myself, I should be sorry that a son of mine 
 should have written any such book !" 
 
 "Not much danger of that," Mrs. Laurence 
 whispered audibly to Mrs. Le Grand. "Say 
 something, Alice. You have a boy." 
 
 Thus adjured, the younger lady began, pa- 
 cifically: "Don't you really think that it is 
 worth while for a man barely thirty to 
 have written good poetry, good enough to 
 last?" 
 
 "I know he is very talented. Of course we 
 must all recognise that." Mrs. Noel granted 
 so much to show her breadth of mind. "But 
 I can't help regretting that any woman's 
 son should have gone through experiences 
 which would enable him to describe such emo- 
 tions." 
 
 "Mercy, Georgina," Mrs. Laurence broke 
 in, incorrigibly, "are you at the stage of sup- 
 posing that every one lives through the things 
 they write about?"
 
 6 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 "Certainly. I cannot conceive of any one 
 being able to tell so much about things of 
 which they have no personal knowledge." 
 Mrs. Noel's manner was conclusive. 
 
 "Very true!" 
 
 "How could he possibly ... ?" 
 
 "She is perfectly right!" This in subdued 
 murmurs from the company. 
 
 "Carry that a little farther," Mrs. Lau- 
 rence was now out for big game, "and you'll 
 see queer things. Is Mrs. Humphry Ward a 
 proselytising Romanist, or an agnostic par- 
 son? Helbeck or Robert Elsmere? And did 
 George Eliot herself live through the episodes 
 of Grandcourt or Hetty? Why, if you were 
 right, no man could ever paint a Madonna, 
 without first going off and having a baby, so 
 as to depict maternal emotion, and . . ." 
 
 "I knew Felix Gwynne in Venice," Mrs. Le 
 Grand put in hastily. 
 
 At this the ladies relented enough to express 
 their interest in the reprehensible young man, 
 an interest almost bordering on vulgar curi-
 
 The Town Talks 7 
 
 osity. Relieved by her outburst, old Mrs. 
 Laurence leaned back, placidly watching the 
 subtleties of Mrs. Le Grand's defence. 
 
 "He's amazingly handsome." Alice 
 weighed her words. "He looks like a poet," 
 she further ventured, keeping a wary eye on 
 her audience. "A poet with short hair and 
 Colonel Noel's own laundress." 
 
 The atmosphere quivered with relief. Hav- 
 ing braced themselves for curls and worse, the 
 ladies felt slightly reassured. 
 
 Mrs. Le Grand played ace. "His grand- 
 father, who brought him up, was a very great 
 swell. Lived in a wonderful old place in 
 Brittany. They used to have boar hunts, and 
 all sorts of queer feudal amusements. The old 
 duke . . ." 
 
 "I thought he was educated in England," 
 Mrs. Noel corrected. 
 
 "He did go there to college." Mrs. Le 
 Grand thought best to get the worst over with- 
 out shirking. "To Stoneyhurst, the Jesuit 
 place,"
 
 8 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 The ladies now looked as if they understood 
 how the trouble began. 
 
 Alice, however, produced palliatives. 
 "They meant him for some post at the Vatican 
 you know how Royalist they all are! But 
 he wouldn't take it. He always travels a lot, 
 in the East and all over." 
 
 "I suppose he is very well off." Mrs. Lau- 
 rence now lent a hand. 
 
 "All the Gwynne money, and his mother 
 had some dot," Mrs. Le Grand reminded them, 
 knowing that any revenue derived from a book 
 of poems would impress the ladies as highly 
 evanescent. 
 
 Another happy item was his mother's early 
 death. It spared the shock of seeing a French- 
 woman installed in dear Miss Anne's place at 
 Chastellux. But, on the whole, distrust pre- 
 vailed to such an extent that Mrs. Le Grand 
 presently found herself saying with some 
 irritability: "If I felt as you do, Cousin 
 Georgina, and Adelaide were my daughter, 
 I'd pack her off to Europe for the whole
 
 The Town Talks 9 
 
 time that he is at large in this part of the 
 world." 
 
 Mrs. Noel looked her disdainful security. 
 
 "Oh, I know," Alice went on. "Adelaide is 
 the soul of discretion. But then she's never 
 seen any one like Felix. The way all sorts of 
 women fall clown before him is simply scandal- 
 ous. I believe a good half the things we hear 
 happen in spite of him. And he would never 
 dream of vindicating himself. Felix cares far 
 too little what people think." She went on to 
 recount how "Albert Yule" had positively suf- 
 fered from showers of vicarious attention 
 when he was in London, merely because of 
 being fresh from a walking trip with Felix. 
 
 "Shall we go into the drawing-room for our 
 coffee?" Mrs. Noel ignored all reference to 
 her daughter. Adelaide, with her looks, her 
 training, and a naturally correct taste, was 
 comfortably certain to marry some accounta- 
 ble fellow citizen. Even New York or Boston 
 could hardly offer a mate thoroughly congenial 
 to so complete a daughter of her own parish.
 
 io The Poet and the Parish 
 
 For generations none of the family had ever 
 married "away," and it was most improbable 
 that a girl of such environment and hereditary 
 influence should need barriers to protect her 
 from the showy attentions of a scatter-brained 
 poet, whose book was not of a nature to be laid 
 before any carefully reared maiden. Mrs. 
 Noel would as soon have expected her 
 daughter to flirt with a fiddler! 
 
 In the drawing-room Adelaide herself bent 
 over a huge salver of ugly Georgian silver, 
 laden with old Sevres coffee-cups. 
 
 "I often wonder where that girl gets her 
 straight nose and her height," Mrs. Laurence 
 whispered to her ally. "Georgina at her best 
 was never handsomer than the Sully portraits 
 of Queen Victoria ; and, dear knows ! Anthony 
 Noel is a good creature, but red-faced and 
 stocky ..." 
 
 "Hush!" Mrs. Le Grand whispered. 
 "Haven't you been naughty enough for one 
 day?" 
 
 "If it weren't for those eyes," the old lady
 
 The Town Talks 1 1 
 
 went on, "she would be uninteresting. Too 
 regular, too perfect and restrained. But her 
 eyes have a look that isn't usual." 
 
 "I know what you mean." Mrs. Le Grand 
 was studying the girl. "I see something more 
 in them than she's ever likely to have any use 
 for, but just what is it?" 
 
 "Nothing after all" the old voice softened 
 "but what belongs in every unspoilt young 
 thing; a little more feeling than she herself has 
 had time to find out about. Then Adelaide's 
 really good good up to the point where good- 
 ness stops being unattractive. It's a positive 
 charm with her. But here she comes." 
 
 "Coffee, Cousin Emily?" Nothing could 
 be prettier than Adelaide's manner to her old 
 kinswoman. 
 
 Mrs. Laurence looked her well up and 
 down, nodding approval. Her tall slim figure 
 was set off by a pleasantly inevitable way of 
 dressing. No one could imagine Adelaide 
 Noel planning or fuming over her wardrobe. 
 She had completely the air of ordering what-
 
 1 2 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 ever pretty garment season or fashion 
 might demand, and wearing it without con- 
 sciousness or effort. She was simple, direct, 
 and above all unaffectedly imbued with the 
 traditions in which she had been reared. 
 
 "Come and talk to your old cousin." Mrs. 
 Laurence had particularly coaxing ways with 
 young people. "And tell me all about your ad- 
 mirers." 
 
 "Dear Cousin Emily!" Adelaide laughed 
 more girlishly than the dignity of her air led 
 you to expect. "I haven't one to my name !" 
 
 "Don't be so secretive, child. At your age I 
 didn't know the meaning of the word. What 
 of that sunburnt young man with the coach, 
 young young I forget his name?" 
 
 "Do you mean Harry Wentworth ? But his 
 engagement is out to-day, to Sophie Connor. 
 It was a secret till three o'clock, but I can tell 
 now. It's almost half-past." Adelaide's con- 
 science was as literal as the multiplication 
 table. 
 
 "As if that prevented his having asked you
 
 The Town Talks i 3 
 
 first!" the old lady objected. "Never mind, 
 my dear, it's quite right and honourable not to 
 betray your conquests, but there can be no 
 harm in telling me whom you like best." 
 
 "I like no one better than you, Cousin 
 Emily. You say such nice things," Adelaide 
 assured her. "But I'm in no hurry to be mar- 
 ried. It's very pleasant, just so. I don't 
 mean," she added simply, "that I never want 
 to. It seems a right and natural thing to do," 
 she blushed with a sudden sense of reserve, 
 "but not yet, not for ages and ages." 
 
 "That is where you are wrong." The old 
 lady had also grown serious. "You're a 
 nice creature now, my dear; but in our 
 family the sap soon turns to wood. You 
 won't find the adjustment of life an easy 
 matter once you've passed thirty. We grow 
 inflexible." 
 
 "I don't think that has happened to you, 
 even now, cousin." The girl affectionately 
 patted the wrinkled old hand. 
 
 "I've always been an unworthy member.
 
 14 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 Did they never tell you what a wretch of a hoy- 
 den I was? No? Well, it's very discreet of 
 them to forget." The old lady seemed only 
 moderately gratified at this reticence. "Will 
 you see if my carriage has come, dear," she 
 hesitated, "and if you ever do get into trou- 
 ble about your affairs, come to me on the sly, 
 child. I'm full of experience." 
 
 "Trouble! Darling Cousin Emily!" Ade- 
 laide stooped and kissed her. "Fancy my 
 being in trouble ! But thank you all the same. 
 I'll be sure to come oftener than ever, but only 
 because* you are such a dear." 
 
 "I shall always feel" Mrs. Noel's voice 
 came from another group "that old Miss 
 Anne hardly had a right to leave Chastellux 
 to him. There were much nearer relatives 
 with lifelong associations. Who knows if this 
 young man will ever go near the place?" 
 
 "My husband says the will is a perfect curi- 
 osity," put in a lady whose part had hitherto 
 been unenterprising chorus. The chance had
 
 The Town Talks 1 5 
 
 been slow in coming, but now all attention fo- 
 cussed upon her. "Yes, it is to be kept up 
 just as it was in her lifetime. A man always 
 at the front door to be ready before any one 
 could ring. There is a sum specially set apart 
 for wages and everything. The old green- 
 houses are to be taken care of forever, and her 
 old horses. But Chastellux' room, the one 
 where he slept after the battle of Red Bank, is 
 for the new master." 
 
 "Were you ever there?" the ladies queried. 
 
 "Not I, but my husband. He says that Miss 
 Anne dressed every evening and had din- 
 ner served in state, though she was nearly 
 ninety and lived alone. A butler and a second 
 man, with course after course, though the poor 
 soul herself could only digest a little gruel." 
 
 "It is a beautiful house, standing back from 
 the river," Mrs. Le Grand struck in. "My 
 father used to take me to see Miss Anne when 
 I was a girl. Albert Yule says nothing is 
 changed. He has gone up two or three times, 
 looking after things for Felix."
 
 1 6 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 "Now there is another person I do feel sorry 
 about!" Mrs. Noel was not above mildly 
 punishing Alice for her discreet championship 
 of those two culprits, Mrs. Laurence and 
 Felix. "Albert Yule has such unusual friends. 
 He dines at one's house himself, and is just 
 like everybody else, but he belongs to clubs 
 with newspaper people, and all sorts of men 
 you never hear of, writers and painters." 
 
 "I wonder what would happen" Mrs. Le 
 Grand permitted no criticism of Albert Yule 
 "if any of us had to spend a month in one of 
 those Western towns where they shoot to kill 
 if you want to know who a person is." 
 
 "At least, Alice dear," Mrs. Noel hastened 
 with a doubtful peace offering, "that is a ques- 
 tion none of us need ask about your friend 
 Felix Gwynne."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 . Xe (Brand Bipoun&0 
 
 IN spite of the preceding ripple, Felix's ar- 
 rival in town caused small commotion. 
 People vaguely heard that he had come, that 
 he had stopped a night with Mrs. Le Grand, 
 and dined with a batch of Albert Yule's ir- 
 regular acquaintances. Harry Le Grand had 
 little to say of his wife's guest, but Yule's 
 friends found the newcomer an excellent lis- 
 tener, disposed to talk of anything rather than 
 his own achievements. Then it was bruited 
 abroad that he had shut himself up at Chastel- 
 lux, whither the luckless man of business was 
 compelled to follow him, since he positively de- 
 clined to set foot in town while the fine 
 weather lasted. Interviewers failed to catch a 
 glimpse of him; Albert Yule confessed that 
 poets were naturally unmanageable, but set all 
 17
 
 1 8 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 Mr. Gwynne's peculiarities down to excess of 
 modesty and shyness. 
 
 One day Felix himself called upon Mrs. 
 Bradish Laurence, and she fell in love with 
 him. "He looks exactly like Lord Byron," 
 she thereafter affirmed, "and talks like an 
 angel, or at least I think he did. Possibly he is 
 one of those people who can't say 'good-morn- 
 ing' without making you feel you've enjoyed 
 treasures of eloquence." 
 
 "I was almost tempted to stay North, on the 
 chance of his paying me another visit," the old 
 lady confided to Adelaide Noel, who was help- 
 ing a travel-seasoned maid to dispose of many 
 belongings in a south-bound train, "but this 
 early sleet is too much for old bones. You are 
 very good to come and see me off ! Have you 
 met him yet?" 
 
 Adelaide had not seen Mr. Gwynne. 
 
 "Well, when you do," Mrs. Laurence 
 seized upon every chance to undermine Noel 
 home influence, "don't be too everlastingly 
 discreet."
 
 Mrs. Le Grand Expounds 19 
 
 Adelaide straightened her slim young back 
 from bending over a footstool, looking out 
 over her furs with frank amusement. "How 
 am I to begin?" she humoured the old lady. 
 "In my place, what would you do first?" 
 
 "Mercy, child," Mrs. Laurence broke out, 
 "how can I tell you? But so much is certain, 
 mark my words ! If you are not a little foolish 
 now, at the right time, some find day you'll let 
 yourself in for a reverberating piece of folly. 
 That is what happens when any young thing 
 is too everlastingly prudent." 
 
 "But, Cousin Emily," the girl protested, "I 
 really do everything I wish to !" 
 
 The old lady vibrated between pity and im- 
 patience at an innocent who extracted so little 
 flavour from the fleeting time of youth. For 
 all her wisdom, Mrs. Laurence could never 
 quite realise that some palates are not agree- 
 ably tickled by pepper and ginger. 
 
 "Do you never feel like skipping dinner 
 visits, or breaking an engagement?" she 
 asked.
 
 20 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 Adelaide revolved the question honestly. 
 "Why, no," she answered gravely. "I can't 
 see what pleasure there would be in that." 
 
 "Do you never fancy a bit of the moon, or 
 wish that Sunday would fall in the middle of 
 the week, just for a change?" the old lady 
 called after her as a shout of "All aboard" hur- 
 ried the girl from the train. 
 
 On her way from the station Adelaide pon- 
 dered on these strange suggestions. Why 
 should any one object to paying proper visits, 
 and this reminded her of owing one. There 
 was plenty of time before dinner. 
 
 "Yes," the trim maid answered, "Mrs. Le 
 Grand is at home; not in the drawing-room 
 the library, miss." 
 
 Coming in from a nipping frost, Adelaide 
 felt unusually alive to the comfort of Alice Le 
 Grand's luxurious firelit room. A faint lamp 
 hardly conquered the gloom of a late Novem- 
 ber day, and there was a pleasant sense of in- 
 formality in the attitude of a young man who 
 lounged at his ease in a big armchair before
 
 Mrs. Le Grand Expounds 21 
 
 the hearth. Adelaide's quick glance took in 
 the cigarette, the general air of intimacy. 
 With many of her friends she would have felt 
 the odium of breaking in on a tete-a-tete, but 
 Cousin Alice always had people about, and 
 seemed to like sharing them. The stranger 
 was standing up. 
 
 "Adelaide, this is Mr. Gwynne." Mrs. Le 
 Grand added : "My cousin, Miss Noel." 
 
 Adelaide's first impression was surprise. 
 This widely heralded being proved so much 
 less startling than she had been led to expect. 
 Indeed, a happy mixture of scented Turkish 
 attache and hirsute Italian brigand would have 
 more nearly met her anticipations than this si- 
 lent young man, neither tall nor short, dressed 
 like all the world rather better, perhaps. 
 This she decided after a second's quiet inspec- 
 tion. 
 
 In the uncertain light his face showed pale, 
 and after bowing with a touch of foreign 
 punctilio, he preserved complete silence. She 
 also noticed that he no longer lounged, but sat
 
 22 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 up decorously; the cigarette had been thrown 
 aside. 
 
 "I have just been to see Cousin Emily off." 
 Adelaide was too comfortably sure of herself 
 to be constrained by this speechless presence. 
 She saw no reason for Mr. Gwynne's disliking 
 her. 
 
 "Your Mrs. Bradish Laurence," Mrs. Le 
 Grand explained to the stranger. 
 
 "Have you many old ladies of that stripe, 
 Miss Noel?" Felix asked, as if the subject 
 pleased him. 
 
 The brilliancy of his smile positively 
 shocked Adelaide. There was little facial 
 change, but a radiating light and vividness, a 
 betrayal of mood and feeling quite unlike her 
 accepted standard of human intercourse. In- 
 evitably it produced in her an added aloofness, 
 and then his speaking so freely of one's rela- 
 tions an older person, too. "I do not quite 
 understand!" She turned clear eyes on him, 
 faintly disapproving. 
 
 Felix had risen from his chair, and stood
 
 Mrs. Le Grand Expounds 23 
 
 with his back to the fire, looking eagerly into 
 her face. A young lady given to snubbing was 
 a rarity to a young man whose path had been 
 beset with only too much complaisance. 
 Friends or enemies variously attributed his 
 lack of fatuity to an utter absence of vanity, 
 or to a conceit so huge as to ignore the chance 
 of any one's finding him other than delightful. 
 As a matter of fact, Felix's own sensations 
 were far too interesting for him to waste time 
 in speculating upon what impression he might 
 be making. He either keenly craved people's 
 company or their absence. Boredom was 
 unknown to him, for the simple reason that on 
 its most distant approach, he invariably fled. 
 
 "Mrs. Laurence is so very kind," he ex- 
 plained politely, "so wise and witty like some 
 enchanting eighteenth-century person, and 
 then modern too, to her finger tips." 
 
 Finding his reply properly impersonal, 
 Adelaide relaxed a trifle. Possibly Mrs. Le 
 Grand's strong tea loosened her tongue un- 
 duly, for she presently imparted Mrs. Lau-
 
 24 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 fence's last query, the one to which she could 
 find no answer. 
 
 "And you never cry for the moon?" Felix 
 asked, "or wish Sunday morning would, once 
 in a way, fall on Wednesday afternoon?" 
 
 Adelaide laughed. "No, never. It would 
 be so upsetting. You would not know whether 
 to go to church or not." Then remembering 
 his papist upbringing, she repented of this ref- 
 erence to religion. To her, Catholicism was a 
 peculiarity which its votaries must know to be 
 a disqualification. It was hardly kind for for- 
 tunate people to touch on something in the 
 nature of a congenital defect, like talking lawn 
 tennis to a cripple. 
 
 Conscious of a vague obstacle in the talk, 
 Mrs. Le Grand struck in : "My cousin Miss 
 Noel is not restless. Life is seriously satis- 
 factory to her. A frivolous person like our 
 old friend puzzles her, though for a young 
 creature she has some tolerance." 
 
 At this Adelaide was distinctly ruffled. Too 
 bad of Cousin Alice to turn one inside out for
 
 Mrs. Le Grand Expounds 25 
 
 a stranger. All trace of relaxation had van- 
 ished as she rose to leave. 
 
 "Pray tell me one thing," Felix asked with 
 a twinkle of mischief; "you see, Miss Noel, 
 I'm almost a benighted Frenchman ..." 
 
 Why, so he was, and she had quite lost sight 
 of it, listening to the silver tone of his flawless 
 English. 
 
 "In this good town, does one shake hands, 
 or not?" His question came in apparent good 
 faith. 
 
 Adelaide hesitated. "Only with friends, I 
 think," she answered after due consideration. 
 
 Inwardly amused, Felix bowed with careful 
 formality, sinking back into his lounging pos- 
 ture at the last rustle of her departing dra- 
 peries. 
 
 "And you urge me to go about, to balls and 
 things." He turned on Mrs. Le Grand, re- 
 monstrating. "Don't you see what a mess I 
 should make of it? Miss Noel was afraid of 
 me, even here, under your eye. Heaven only 
 knows what she thought I might be up to!"
 
 26 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 "There are very few like Adelaide," Mrs. 
 Grand protested. "And the married ones are 
 much less unapproachable. I merely think it 
 stupid in you to come all the way over here, 
 and then shut yourself up and see no one. If 
 you were in Borneo you would take the trouble 
 to look up the native ways, and after all, this 
 place has ties, for you." 
 
 He smoked, obstinately. "I know all Yule's 
 people, and hear about the rest, from him and 
 you." 
 
 "Not the same," she objected, adding with 
 much wile, "it's really because of your aris- 
 tocratic prejudices. You secretly think every- 
 thing here hopelessly bourgeois. You don't 
 mind when it's frankly impossible, like Albert's 
 entourage, but the others you can't put up 
 with, the quasi-aristocrats." 
 
 "Nothing of the kind," he rose to her bait, 
 "and, dear lady, pardon me, but you do use 
 words . . ." 
 
 "I know," she confessed, "it's disgusting. 
 That's where you are different. You can ex-
 
 Mrs. Le Grand Expounds 27 
 
 press the thing without talking like a sales- 
 lady. I can't. Have you no missionary 
 zeal?" 
 
 This he passed over with a protest. "But I 
 don't go about, formally, anywhere, not in 
 London or Paris. It doesn't amuse me, now. 
 As for the other, you know it's all nonsense. 
 For that matter, could there ever have breathed 
 a more domineering aristocrat than my old 
 kinswoman at Chastellux? certainly no one 
 who spent more time thinking about it?" 
 
 Mrs. Le Grand was quick to seize this open- 
 ing. "And how do you suppose Miss Anne 
 would relish it, if she knew of your never 
 meeting any of the family or the family 
 friends?" 
 
 This struck Felix as reasonable. Just now 
 he felt greatly under the spell of his unex- 
 pected inheritance. His imagination wove a 
 whimsical sentiment about the unknown old 
 woman who had in a way trusted him with 
 what she deemed a great dignity. "If you 
 really think that," he slowly conceded, "I'll go
 
 28 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 everywhere for a few weeks not too many- 
 dear lady, and meet them all. I'll even open 
 my doors to them, if they will come." 
 
 "They'll come gladly enough." Having ac- 
 complished her object, Mrs. Le Grand felt 
 some alarm at the responsibility of sponsoring 
 an unaccountable meteor. 
 
 "I've induced Felix Gwynne to accept a lot 
 of invitations," she confided to her husband, 
 that night. "I hope it will turn out 
 well !" 
 
 "I suppose he don't eat with his knife." 
 Harry Le Grand's literalness was a fact to 
 which his wife never grew accustomed, al- 
 though it had constantly met her at every point 
 of the compass, day in and day out, for four- 
 teen endless years. Why she had married this 
 honest gentleman was a problem which Alice 
 found increasingly difficult. Probably be- 
 cause there had been no valid reason to the 
 contrary. Not that she was unhappy! 
 Merely, life with him would have been a trifle
 
 Mrs. Le Grand Expounds 29 
 
 lonely, but for Albert Yule. Not that she dis- 
 liked Harry; in fact, she adored Freddy, their 
 only boy, who precisely reproduced his father. 
 She had even scant complaint to make of her 
 stepdaughter, though respect for Bessy's 
 eighteen years rather checked a theoretical 
 leaning towards Bohemianism of a self-con- 
 scious kind. Mrs. Le Grand belonged to that 
 numerous class of women who find their nat- 
 ural playfellows too conservative, too trite, 
 while sensitively shrinking from the lack of 
 usage often accompanying the qualities for 
 which they yearn. Harry once reduced her in 
 one of his rare epigrams : "Alice is like the 
 man who would be a sport, but beer made him 
 sick!" Inwardly, she shrank from the truth 
 of this. She could not rise to the plane of Al- 
 bert Yule, who never seemed to care where 
 people lived or what they did, so long as they 
 offered him any one point of interest or amuse- 
 ment. At her urgent request, Yule had lately 
 brought to tea a brilliant young scholar named 
 Brown, whose grasp of comparative philology
 
 30 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 made him the wonder of two continents. 
 Finding Mrs. Le Grand quite astray on his own 
 subject, whither she conscientiously led him, 
 he politely planted his feet upon ground which 
 he felt to be hers. He seemed ravaged by a 
 thirst for Mrs. Le Grand's views upon divorce 
 and Le Contrat Social. He fairly pursued 
 her, with philosophic directness of speech, until 
 Bessy happened in on them. After this poor 
 Alice heard him murmuring dreadful compli- 
 mentary things to a highly antagonised lis- 
 tener. In the course of a week, meeting Miss 
 Le Grand in a street-car, he lavishly paid her 
 fare and accompanied the astonished girl to 
 her own door, facilitating the passage of every 
 crossing, by a protective grip of her elbow. 
 Bessy arrived at home in a state of burning 
 wrath, also she felt disturbed about the carfare: 
 Mr. Brown's appearance suggested the im- 
 portance of every nickel. 
 
 Albert was sitting with Mrs. Le Grand when 
 the angry victim whirled in, red and breathless 
 from Mr. Brown's last effort.
 
 Mrs. Le Grand Expounds 3 1 
 
 "He positively boosted me up my own front 
 steps." The girl was quite serious about the 
 enormity of his offence. 
 
 "But he is so intelligent," Mrs. Le Grand 
 put in half-heartedly. 
 
 "No use, dear lady," Albert Yule protested. 
 "You don't really like them any better than 
 Bessy here. You demand that a man shall 
 have all the wisdom of the ages stored away 
 in his head, that he shall have conquered cir- 
 cumstances, worked his way through college, 
 supported a family, mastered a science and a 
 few arts, and still find time to get all the fa- 
 cility and accomplishments that he shall 
 polish his nails . . . Oh, not that of course," 
 at a gesture of dissent. "Don't be literal 
 you know what I mean, that's a figure of 
 speech. You require finish. It's the same 
 thing. You never get beyond wincing when 
 they come out with the wrong word, the high- 
 school word. Correct in the dictionary, 
 wrong in a parlour. Stick to your own kind, 
 you're really happier with them. A second
 
 32 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 drawing off the others is all you've the palate 
 for." 
 
 "You mean I'm a snob," she complained, 
 "but I don't see why there needs must be an- 
 tagonism between brains and manners. Some 
 people have both. Look at you, and there is 
 Felix Gwynne." 
 
 "The trouble about Felix . . ." Albert 
 began. 
 
 "But must there be trouble?" she inter- 
 rupted. "You always take for granted that 
 things are to go wrong with him." 
 
 "The trouble," Albert persisted, "will al- 
 ways be that every woman who runs across 
 him is bound to be thinking of him in one way 
 or another in relation to herself. It is not his 
 fault. He does something to their imagina- 
 tions. Why, even you . . ." 
 
 "Me!" Alice was indignant. "Old enough 
 to be his mother?" 
 
 "Yes, or almost old enough." Albert at 
 times talked hideously like a husband. "And 
 of course any unsophisticated youth of thirty,
 
 Mrs. Le Grand Expounds 33 
 
 with a continental training, naturally needs a 
 protector for his inexperience. You, my dear, 
 are only safely mothering him. That's why 
 you hate to see him in Mrs. Darling's opera 
 box. Mrs. Laurence was ready to grand- 
 mother him. Bessy only craves a few minutes' 
 sensible talk with him, all to herself, however. 
 Adelaide only cares to help in planting his 
 steps in safe and seemly paths. Each one of 
 you feels a special mission towards him, and 
 believes that the others grievously misunder- 
 stand, and better keep away. In fact, Master 
 Felix is seldom out of your thoughts, while 
 he, poor lad, isn't bothering his head about one 
 of you. Women are really less to him than to 
 any man I know." 
 
 "I wonder, are you right?" Alice had a dis- 
 concerting consciousness of hoping for more 
 from Felix than the young man ever gave, 
 that he would unburthen himself of revela- 
 tions which would test her endurance, while 
 duty compelled her to listen. This he never 
 did! That she should be called upon to re-
 
 34 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 prove him for undue familiarity of manner, 
 for attempting even to hold her hand, without, 
 perhaps, exactly stopping him. This he never 
 offered to do, yet more than once she thought 
 of it. "I wonder, are you right?" Introspec- 
 tion showed her things she did not care to see. 
 
 "Of course I am!" Albert had not studied 
 her for years without learning somewhat of 
 the ways of woman. "That is the whole diffi- 
 culty. And I think you might do just as well 
 to reckon with Bessy. In love she would be 
 the most diverting spectacle, still, just for our 
 idle amusement . . ." 
 
 "Bessy !" Mrs. Le Grand received this with 
 incredulous surprise. Notwithstanding her 
 speech about protecting Adelaide, she had 
 never seriously thought of Felix in relation to 
 any immature young girl.
 
 Wags of tbe TKHtcfce& 
 
 ALTHOUGH full of interest in himself, 
 Felix had by no means grasped the ex- 
 tent of his importance to the world at large, 
 his own simple demand being that people 
 should interest him or leave him alone. Nor 
 could he conceive that the fact of his writing a 
 book should give him lustre in quarters where 
 the book itself gave only offence. Therefore 
 he often found happy sanctuary in a club, to 
 the constant annoyance of many disapproving 
 ladies who thought Mr. Gwynne could not be 
 better occupied than in analysing their mys- 
 terious souls, or worshipping their eye- 
 brows. 
 
 Passing through the smoking-room of this 
 refuge he was hailed by a shout from a group, 
 who had almost ceased to rate him as an out- 
 35
 
 36 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 sider from the moment that he had left the 
 entire company perceptibly poorer from a bout 
 at poker. In the esteem of these gentlemen he 
 had quite lived down his liaison with literature. 
 Indeed, they had obligingly forgotten it. 
 
 "Ask him!" 
 
 "See if Gwynne can do it !" 
 
 "Just a second ! Two to one, did you say?" 
 The speaker made hasty jottings in a small ac- 
 count book. 
 
 "Are you ready, Gwynne?" the first ques- 
 tioner called through a cloud of smoke. 
 
 Felix paused somewhat restively on the 
 threshold. He was in full tide of resolve to 
 answer a note before it slipped from his mind, 
 general politeness being his present form of 
 piety toward Miss Anne's memory. 
 
 "How do you pronounce . . . ?" A red- 
 faced young man removed his cigar to 
 enunciate the difficult combination with all 
 clearness. 
 
 "Wait a minute," called another voice. 
 "Better explain first. My brother had an
 
 The Ways of the Wicked 37 
 
 awful time getting a name for his yacht. All 
 the good ones seemed taken. Now he's rooted 
 up this somewhere, got some woman to help 
 him, and I bet him that not a man at the club 
 could pronounce it. None of us could. All 
 right now, Gwynne, are you listening? Here 
 goes then. Two to one you can't, if I spell it 
 off fast M. N. E. M. O. SY. N. E. . . ." 
 
 "Oh ! Oh !" a half-dozen voices exclaimed 
 as Felix apologetically performed the feat. 
 "He must have heard ! Some one must have 
 told him!" 
 
 "I think," solemnly volunteered a copper- 
 coloured man of very quiet manner, "that the 
 bet was loosely laid, do you see ? Gwynne has 
 written a book." 
 
 By this time Felix was smiling delightedly; 
 the note, a long-delayed answer to a dinner in- 
 vitation, had quite passed from his mind. 
 "Yes, you're right," he put in, entirely seizing 
 their point of view, and eager to clear himself 
 of what they would certainly consider ped- 
 antry. "I shouldn't have answered. Count
 
 38 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 me out. It's like playing a professional. I 
 have to know some of those queer old things, 
 on account of writing a little sometimes." 
 
 "My bet was laid without reserve," said the 
 loser, drawing out a roll of clean money. 
 "Have a drink, Gwynne?" 
 
 "No, he must come along with me, we're 
 late now." This from Albert Yule, who had 
 followed Felix unobserved. 
 
 "All the same he's a good fellow to back," 
 the copper-face remarked, as the two friends 
 disappeared. "Gwynne puts up a good game 
 of billiards. I don't understand how he hap- 
 pens to write books. He has money of his 
 own." 
 
 "He's a queer chap. My wife was keen on 
 him, but he turned her down every time she 
 tried," chuckled the man who lost on Felix. 
 "She nailed him for a theatre party, and he 
 never showed up. We waited a half-hour, and 
 telephoned all over town. Not a trace of him. 
 I believe he'd gone off to the circus with Le 
 Grand's little boy."
 
 The Ways of the Wicked 39 
 
 "You'll get cold food for being behind time. 
 These dinners are punctual," Albert Yule 
 scolded, as the hansom jolted over intersecting 
 car-tracks. 
 
 "Honestly, I didn't know it was so late." 
 Felix showed penitence. "But those men were 
 immense." 
 
 "Your tastes are more catholic even than 
 mine," Albert confessed. "Or else you are 
 only being perverse. I should never have ex- 
 pected you to take up with that gang. Some 
 of them may be good enough for games, till 
 the whiskey gets in on their . . ." 
 
 "Don't worry, old man." Felix was never 
 unperceptive. "You needn't bother about my 
 drinking. 'I really don't like it." 
 
 "I never meant that." Mr. Yule was not 
 quite sincere. What Felix said was no doubt 
 true, in the main, but at times he had been 
 known Albert went on: "I should have 
 thought they'd merely bore you." 
 
 "Bore? Oh, Lord, no!" Felix waxed en- 
 thusiastic. "They are splendid, so natural,
 
 40 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 no pretence. If you don't know their way, 
 you're wrong. That's all, so simple. They 
 don't try to impress you. Now there are 
 people that awful old codger who will talk 
 about the London club he goes to, and how he 
 once saw Carrillac at Homburg." 
 
 "That's natural, too; natural to him," Al- 
 bert pointed out. "If he had a cousin a duke, 
 he'd expect you to mention it." 
 
 Some dozen men were already at table when 
 Yule and Felix made their way into a low- 
 ceilinged room with long mirrors at either end. 
 A physician was telling some curious fact 
 about the Chinese methods of fly-fishing. 
 With upturned sleeve he showed a particular 
 twist of the wrist employed by a Celestial Am- 
 bassador. 
 
 The late comers found their seats, and fell 
 with appetite upon an excellent plain dinner. 
 
 An Orientalist branched off with some de- 
 tails of fly-fishing as revealed in a lately dis- 
 covered palimpsest. The talk flowed on, gay, 
 easy, full of first-hand experience. Here sat
 
 The Ways of the Wicked 4 1 
 
 a young war correspondent, fresh from the 
 East, full of the white man's benevolence to 
 subject races. There a young clerk whose 
 delicate gift of lyric verse had survived a life 
 of drudgery and care. The newspaper con- 
 tingent dined with one eye on the clock. A 
 musician, vague, idealistic, flung the bridle to 
 his hobby an occult bond between rhythm 
 and virtue. The newspaper men rallied about 
 Wagner, the Orientalist prophesied a revolu- 
 tion caused by the rapidly encroaching Asiatic 
 scale. "Do you know gipsy music?" Felix 
 suddenly asked. "It certainly has the rhythm 
 which is not virtue, I suppose, Gather?" 
 
 "I always find it difficult to believe that 
 gipsies have a genuine music, or language," 
 the fly expert put in. "Hybrids and tinkers." 
 
 "But they have." Felix grew eager. He 
 told of strange wanderings in Danubian prov- 
 inces, of sheepskin-clad men and half-savage 
 women coming down from the mountains to 
 dance and sing about his camp-fire. "Gipsies 
 really know how to live," he exclaimed with
 
 42 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 growing excitement. "They persist in their 
 own untrammelled ways, following their own 
 promptings, travelling like kings in their 
 own carriages while we, earth-born crea- 
 tures . . ." 
 
 "He doesn't look exactly earth-born, to- 
 night," whispered the minor poet to a news- 
 paper man who scoffed aloud : 
 
 "While we crawl along at a worm's pace in 
 the Limited Express!" 
 
 Felix joined in the general laugh at his ex- 
 pense, and, eschewing rhapsody for the rest of 
 the evening, lapsed to the plane of mere lis- 
 tener, but listening with a zest which loosened 
 every tongue. 
 
 "Confound that Smart Alec for interrupt- 
 ing you," Gather grumbled to Felix, as they 
 were putting on hats and coats. "Could you 
 whistle one of those tunes now ?" 
 
 Felix nodded assent. "But not here!" 
 
 "Stop at my place, there's a piano. I'd give 
 anything to get an air, just while your talk is 
 fresh in my head."
 
 The Ways of the Wicked 43 
 
 "Yule," Felix explained, "I'm going with 
 Gather. Will you come along?" 
 
 "Too late, I've had talk enough for one 
 night." Albert buttoned his fur-lined coat. 
 "So have you for that matter. You look 
 played out." 
 
 "No," Felix pleaded. "No ! This is good. 
 I feel alive." 
 
 "Better go to bed," muttered Yule, "and not 
 sit up till morning talking like an archangel." 
 
 Felix flushed with displeasure. His whole 
 life long his looks had brought him privileges, 
 heaped them upon him, which he would have 
 rather sought and struggled for himself. If 
 he did look like an archangel it was deadly of- 
 fence even to hint that he talked like one. 
 With a short nod to Albert he strolled off with 
 the delighted musician. 
 
 There may be, of course, many respectable 
 reasons for a man's reaching his inn afoot at 
 the same hour when other people are driving 
 home from balls. Nevertheless, when one 
 Mrs. Wheatland and her daughter Angela,
 
 44 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 alighting from their carriage, met Felix in the 
 hotel vestibule, noting the hour and his air of 
 absent-minded elation, the mother drew back 
 with disapproval. He had not been at the ball, 
 it was nearly five o'clock ! If she had been told 
 by an eye-witness, Mrs. Wheatland would not 
 have believed that he had spent the time since 
 midnight whistling odd barbaric melodies, and 
 discussing a few such trifles as time and eter- 
 nity, with a crack-brained fiddler named 
 Harold Gather. 
 
 Feeling a sudden chill return to earth, in the 
 gaudy hotel rotunda, he audibly ordered 
 whiskey to be sent to his room. This Mrs. 
 Wheatland heard, and drew her own conclu- 
 sions. "It is quite evident," she remarked re- 
 provingly to her daughter, "that Mr. Gwynne 
 needs no more of that to-night." 
 
 Offering no opinion, Angela turned wake- 
 ful eyes for a long, searching gaze at the re- 
 treating and unconscious back of Felix 
 Gwynne. Little Miss Angela was not in per- 
 fect accord with the maternal standard.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 fcambs anO (Boats 
 
 IN the beginning Felix felt only amusement 
 at the attitude he inspired; then, suddenly, 
 he found his nerves on edge. Sheep and goats, 
 ranged in two well-defined bodies, made clear 
 his place beyond shadow of doubt. The goats 
 hailed him as a new and exciting member of 
 their community, while not a bell-wether in 
 the opposing flock but looked doubtful and an- 
 noyed if he so much as drew within bowing 
 distance. If his taste had inclined to flirtation 
 with other men's wives, opportunities were 
 practically unlimited, but the obvious cold- 
 bloodedness of such diversion offended him. 
 With no little tendency towards gaiety and 
 easy manners, he still resented being invariably 
 told off to the most decolletee woman present, 
 and being unfailingly greeted by proffered 
 
 45
 
 46 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 cocktails, invariably having the limit raised if 
 he sat down to a game of cards. Did these 
 people think that, to be witty, a story must 
 needs be outrageous? And if their women 
 considered him so very lax, why did the men 
 so endlessly trust him? 
 
 Unfortunately, steadfastness of purpose was 
 hardly among his virtues, and before long, the 
 hospitable, friendly goats secured all of the 
 poet's leisure; all, that is, not claimed by Mrs. 
 Le Grand and Albert Yule. 
 
 One night at the opera he found himself 
 close to little Miss Wheatland, not in the same 
 party, however. Though decidedly recalci- 
 trant, Angela was effectively rounded up 
 among her own kind, and Mr. Gwynne's host- 
 ess ranked well forward with the friskiest of 
 youthful matrons. Through one act Felix and 
 the girl sat elbow to elbow on either side of a 
 brass dividing rod. When the lights went up, 
 some spirit of mischief prompted Mrs. Dar- 
 ling to introduce him, possibly a desire to be 
 avenged for the glances cast by Mrs. Wheat-
 
 Lambs and Goats 47 
 
 land on a shoulder strap, large, no doubt, for 
 diamonds, but as raiment decidedly inade- 
 quate. 
 
 Angela had fluffy, golden hair, real fluff, 
 real gold, soft and rebellious as a baby's curls. 
 Big and melancholy grey eyes looked out of a 
 small pale face. Beyond this, she seemed a 
 slim little girl, nothing more. She raised those 
 eyes to Felix without a shade of coquetry, but 
 in a queer appealing way, as if, finding herself 
 in distress, she hoped any stranger might 
 chance to prove a friend. She met his sugges- 
 tion that they should walk in the foyer with a 
 moment's hesitation; the belligerent swish of 
 Mrs. Wheatland's fan hardened her resolu- 
 tion. With a wilful movement of her pretty 
 head she rose and joined him in the aisle. 
 Amused at this byplay, Felix sauntered at her 
 side. It was hard to talk, jostled as they were 
 by parties of men and girls, musicians scurry- 
 ing to and fro, groups of reporters visibly ex- 
 changing items on jewels and costumes, a 
 prima donna using her free night to see
 
 48 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 "Lohengrin" for the thousandth time, a dress- 
 maker eagerly scanning toilettes. 
 
 A rosy-cheeked girl, common and loudly- 
 dressed, passed on the arm of a young man pos- 
 sessing all the style and confidence of a suc- 
 cessful floor-walker. She and Angela bowed. 
 The strange girl for all her vulgarity had a 
 frank air of good nature. She was distinctly 
 a personality, rather alarming but not without 
 attraction. Felix grew sensible that Miss 
 Wheatland's footsteps lagged, then, in an eddy 
 of the crowd, the strange girl had drifted up 
 to them. She gave a questioning look, an- 
 swered by the slightest affirmative sweep of 
 Miss Wheatland's lashes. Felix considerately 
 began to study a contralto and her aunt till the 
 singer rolled huge black eyes too obviously for 
 his benefit. Turning back to his companion he 
 found the stranger nowhere in sight, but Miss 
 Angela, blushing furiously, was thrusting a 
 letter into the bosom of her pretty fluffy 
 bodice. Again Felix looked away, vaguely 
 amused yet sorry. Though evidently naughty,
 
 Lambs and Goats 49 
 
 this little lady was not hardened or skilful in 
 wrong-doing. And then he caught a hint of 
 unshed tears not far behind Miss Angela's long 
 dark lashes. To cover her embarrassment he 
 chattered platitudes about the fat tenor, man- 
 aging to protect her from hovering youths till 
 a loud gong summoned promenaders to their 
 seats. 
 
 On leaving the lobby, she suddenly broke 
 her silence, tremblingly, with emotion : 
 "Thank you, Mr. Gwynne!" 
 
 That was all, but already he felt her freed 
 from the shadow of vulgar intrigue. The 
 child's tone showed genuine pain. "Let me 
 know if I can help," he managed to whisper, 
 before depositing her under her mother's wing. 
 
 Angela would certainly never have gone so 
 far as to let him know. Indeed, it was quite 
 beyond his power to furnish tangible aid, since 
 Mrs. Wheatland could hardly incline to re- 
 ceive Felix Gwynne's remonstrances upon her 
 attitude towards Tommy Gordon. Really, 
 there was much to say on the mother's side.
 
 50 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 Angela, not yet twenty, must needs bestow her 
 affections on a beggarly lieutenant of artillery, 
 belonging to unknown people in an unfashion- 
 able quarter of her own city. And the provok- 
 ing child furthermore refused to take the 
 slightest interest in life, because of an insignifi- 
 cant young man, stationed at Luzon or Min- 
 danao, some place "out there." 
 
 A promise had been wrung from Angela to 
 wait till she was twenty-one. Having given 
 her word, the girl was filled with regret. Sup- 
 pose he should die ! Her opinion of Tommy's 
 attraction was such that it seemed only likely 
 for him fatally to draw bullets, poisoned ar- 
 rows, and tropical fevers. Neither was 
 Tommy to write to her, but in her present state 
 of irritation and forlornness, she contrived to 
 appease her hunger for news by an occasional 
 glimpse of letters addressed by him to Miss 
 Charlotte Tone, a "bachelor girl," "touch 
 operator," and Angela's guardian angel. A 
 chance acquaintance, made in a blizzard, never 
 countenanced by Mrs. Wheatland, "Charlie"
 
 Lambs and Goats 5 i 
 
 Tone, from sheer good-will, had become a go- 
 between for these luckless lovers. Mrs. 
 Wheatland persisted in treating the whole 
 matter as a childish fancy, sure to be forgotten 
 if intelligently ignored. She asked her fa- 
 vourite dull young man to dine at least once a 
 week, thereby transforming him, in Angela's 
 esteem, from bore to enemy, and never per- 
 mitted reference to the name of Tommy Gor- 
 don. 
 
 Little Angela had spirit and a heart. Con- 
 sequently, when she met Felix Gwynne at the 
 public library, one chilly December morning, 
 her grey eyes darkened with pleasure as the 
 memory of their former meeting brought a fine 
 shade of rose to her white cheeks. 
 
 Felix was heartily tired of making his choice 
 between fast women and colonial history. He 
 would have preferred the absence of Angela's 
 leashed poodle, a restless dog, but in spite ot 
 this drawback, he welcomed the sight of a per- 
 son who struck his fancy as both pretty and 
 genuine.
 
 52 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 To her he represented sympathy and forbid- 
 den fruit. She would have felt sharp disap- 
 pointment, had he not followed her from the 
 building. At first they talked of the poodle. 
 Then she shyly mentioned having heard of 
 him from Adelaide Noel and blushed at 
 her own stupidity. Of course everybody 
 had heard of him. Were not his pictures 
 in half the magazines, his poems on every 
 bookstall ? 
 
 "Miss Wheatland," he hesitated. This was 
 no case for laughing remonstrances, for teas- 
 ing. The child's thin face spoke of real 
 trouble; still, upon what ground could he in- 
 vite her confidence ? 
 
 Angela met him half-way. "You want to 
 speak to me about the other night?" She 
 verged on defiance. 
 
 "Yes," nothing could have been gentler 
 than his manner, "if you will let me?" 
 
 She merely nodded. 
 
 "You shouldn't be doing that sort of thing, 
 you know." The paternal ring of his voice
 
 Lambs and Goats 53 
 
 surprised himself, but Felix had perfect respect 
 for the standard of a nice young girl. 
 
 "That's all very well!" Angela disen- 
 tangled the poodle from a fire plug; "but when 
 a man wants to do anything, he just does it. 
 No one ever stops him. As if I enjoyed be- 
 having like a common chambermaid !" she 
 ended aggressively. 
 
 "Is there no other way?" He at once 
 granted the gravity of her case. 
 
 And then she told him all about it, the out- 
 lines, that is, without sentiment, in dry little 
 phrases. There was no word of love, of emo- 
 tion, merely, "My mother does not consider me 
 engaged to Lieutenant Gordon. I only knew 
 where he was from the papers. When Miss 
 Tone sent him a letter he answered it, just to 
 her, not me." She spoke looking straight in 
 front of her, the little head held very erect. 
 All at once she broke out impulsively : "Don't 
 you suppose I'd rather be walking with him 
 openly, at this very minute, than reading a 
 letter to another woman on the sly? Perhaps
 
 54 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 that is not exactly polite to you," she added, 
 with a smile which made him see hidden possi- 
 bilities of fun and cheerfulness in the perse- 
 cuted little lady. 
 
 "If he ever gets leave," this was the best 
 Felix could offer, "let me know. I'll try to 
 help." 
 
 Angela thanked him with tears in her eyes, 
 the child was worn and lonely. This helping 
 hand, this sympathy, fairly conquered her de- 
 fiant state of reserve. Felix himself all at once 
 felt a queer wistfulness at the sight of her utter 
 devotion to a commonplace young soldier, 
 probably possessing little to recommend him 
 beyond a pair of broad shoulders and the 
 glamour of his uniform. The simple, passion- 
 less love of a girl seemed a precious posses- 
 sion. There had come into Angela's eyes 
 a look, quickly veiled, which made him 
 more than envious of Lieutenant Tommy 
 Gordon. 
 
 In spite of a butterfly exterior, Angela was 
 stable; her feeling for Tommy waxed loyal as
 
 Lambs and Goats 55 
 
 a fixed star. Having once cared, this slim 
 creature cared forever. There could be only 
 Tommy ! But she had also treasures of friend- 
 ship and gratitude. She would gladly have 
 perished for the sake of Felix Gwynne. This 
 not being exactly called for, she promptly con- 
 stituted herself his champion, scouting all tales 
 to his discredit, and setting him down as a man 
 grievously misunderstood. 
 
 "Do you know, Adelaide," she confided, a 
 few days later, "people don't appreciate Mr. 
 Gwynne. All those horrid women have their 
 claws on him, but I don't really believe it is 
 what he likes." 
 
 "He is old enough to choose." Adelaide 
 was non-committal. 
 
 Angela shook her fluffy head. Though 
 younger, by right of a wider experience she 
 secretly felt far older and wiser than Ade- 
 laide. 
 
 "That kind of man is different," she 
 sagely explained. "Poets are not sensible 
 about little things. I think a nice girl could
 
 56 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 influence him a lot. He is so considerate. I 
 hate to see that Mrs. Darling sprawling all 
 over him." 
 
 Adelaide made a gesture of disgust, but re- 
 called with satisfaction his perfectly decorous 
 manner towards herself. Whether aroused by 
 Angela's view, or because the halo of mysteri- 
 ous evil had attraction, even for her, when 
 next they met, she greeted Felix with a certain 
 tempered friendliness. 
 
 The most incongruous events usually spring 
 from entirely natural causes. Felix had 
 grown tired of sophisticated women, also his 
 vanity had finally been nettled by the evident 
 opposition offered him by chaperons and du- 
 ennas. The possibilities of a young girl's un- 
 wavering affection, as shown in Angela, had 
 opened to him new ideals of life and happi- 
 ness. 
 
 Adelaide, on her part, grew to look on him 
 as a brand to be snatched from the burning. 
 Wherever his wider view clashed with prec- 
 edent as she knew and honoured it, without
 
 Lambs and Goats 57 
 
 misgiving, she set this laxity down to bad ex- 
 ample and ignorance. 
 
 When a conscientious young girl finds a 
 mission in a starry-eyed poet, when to the joy 
 of an enchanting lover is added the glory of 
 becoming a sanctified, female Perseus, the end 
 is not far to seek. It went quickly, all the 
 quicker, that to Felix Adelaide also appeared 
 as a field, or rather, as Andromeda chained to 
 a rock, menaced by a devouring monster of 
 dulness and prejudice. 
 
 He grew impatient to rescue this gentle 
 maiden from cramping, soulless bonds of cus- 
 tom and cowardice. He would show her life 
 and beauty. Together they would see new 
 countries. She would learn to know his 
 friends, to speak his language. Warmed and 
 quickened, she would still bring him her unde- 
 filed treasures of maidenliness. It was only a 
 matter of weeks! 
 
 Even then it might never have come about, 
 but for the unconscious aid of Mrs. Darling. 
 After skimming through his poems, this enter-
 
 58 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 prising lady was entirely convinced that Felix 
 could and gladly would furnish her with a 
 whole set of new and delightful sensations. 
 To do her justice, she would have greatly pre- 
 ferred being obliged to moderate his advances, 
 but as her mere casual propinquity (the same 
 country-house sheltered them both for a Sun- 
 day) failed to elicit any unmanageable symp- 
 toms, she proceeded to find herself in his path 
 as often as permitted by the easy conditions of 
 a married people's house-party. Alas, poor 
 lady ! When they dispersed on Monday morn- 
 ing not so much as a tender hand pressure 
 stood to her credit, not an encroaching glance ! 
 And as for further endearments, not by a per- 
 fect fusillade of eyebeams, not by ambuscades 
 in favouring corners, not by leaning over the 
 arm of his chair till her shoulders almost 
 grazed his cheek, had she been able to provoke 
 so much as one look of gratified conscious- 
 ness. 
 
 Her methods might be of the crudest, but 
 with a man whose verses discoursed so ravish-
 
 Lambs and Goats 59 
 
 ingly upon the potency of bodily charms, she 
 had judged any indirect appeal to be the most 
 thriftless waste of time and opportunity. To 
 her utter discomfiture Felix was merely polite 
 and slippery ! 
 
 How could the poor lady guess that what- 
 ever sensations she might arouse, he would 
 never turn for their gratification to a woman 
 who offended his taste; that poking her lips, 
 her shoulders, her bejewelled white hands at 
 him for a whole mortal Sunday merely 
 clinched his determination to spend the after- 
 noon of his deliverance with Adelaide Noel ! 
 
 The Noel chairs did not lend themselves to 
 ease or informality, but the relief of not having 
 to be on his guard was so immense that Felix 
 missed neither cigarettes nor the relaxation of 
 deep-cushioned lounges. 
 
 He could be indefinitely and peacefully 
 silent. Adelaide was never restless or curious. 
 She would never give silence a personal turn. 
 Her gentleness and restraint filled him with 
 quiet content. They seemed exquisitely at
 
 60 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 home together. Suddenly it came over him 
 that in a few minutes he must go, he had been 
 with her for hours. The idea of separation 
 was preposterous. He wished to be with her, 
 uninterruptedly. They were dining at the 
 same house, but he hardly relished the pros- 
 pect of seeing her between two other men, at 
 the far end of a long table. People never 
 had the sense to put him at her side. 
 
 Without giving the matter much conscious 
 thought, Felix was in every direction a con- 
 noisseur. In all things he valued the good of 
 its kind, and with little experience of it, he 
 felt quite certain that of her particular kind 
 Adelaide was an unflawed and beautiful ex- 
 ample . . . To have her gaze into your eyes 
 would be worth while; to quicken her tranquil 
 heart beat . . . 
 
 He had watched her so intently that even 
 Adelaide's composure wavered. Her hands 
 lay motionless on her knee, her still body kept 
 its easy poise, but with a movement of the head 
 and neck which he had learned to know and
 
 Lambs and Goats 61 
 
 watch for, she slowly turned towards him a 
 look of gentle inquiry. 
 
 The flash with which he met her glance 
 made her quickly stand up, with a natural im- 
 pulse for flight, and this brought him in an in- 
 stant to her side. 
 
 They stood quite close, with indrawn breath, 
 facing each other with truthful eyes . . . 
 
 And then Adelaide felt herself engulfed 
 with strange, new knowledge. Never had she 
 imagined it would come like this . . . He 
 had never even spoken a word of love to 
 her, never asked her to marry him! Where 
 was the long, slow courtship of her imagin- 
 ings? Yet she had no doubts! It was right, 
 marvellously, surprisingly right that he should 
 take her in his arms, kiss her go on kissing 
 her divinely right. Of that she felt quite 
 sure! 
 
 Presently he let her go all but her hands 
 .she stood at arm's length from him. 
 
 He was looking at her curiously, half smil- 
 ing. "Aren't you ashamed " she had never
 
 62 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 imagined anything like the tenderness of his 
 voice "just to behave like a natural girl? 
 They haven't been able to spoil you, to make 
 you prudent, wary ... ?" 
 
 "Wary!" It was pretty to see the pride of 
 her upheld chin, in spite of a shyness that could 
 not meet his eye. "I'm never wary !" 
 
 "And whenever you love a man," Felix 
 went on in that same voice that seemed to melt 
 her heart within her "do you let him take 
 you SO' and this and this ... ?" 
 
 "Whenever!" Adelaide trembled in his 
 arms. "But it can only happen once . . ." 
 
 "And you trust a man?" 
 
 "A man! You, Felix!" His name came 
 from her lips quite simply. 
 
 "Can't we be married before dinner?" He 
 seemed perfectly serious. 
 
 "Oh, Felix!" She gently drew away from 
 him. 
 
 "But don't you see," he urged, "presently 
 you'll say 'Time to dress!' Then you'll close 
 your door on the tip of my nose, and later
 
 Lambs and Goats 63 
 
 there'll be people, and later you'll go home 
 and I'll go home and there are things we 
 want to say ! And there'll be rows and rows 
 of brick walls between your lips and mine, 
 dear . . ." 
 
 "Please, Felix!" she interrupted him. 
 
 "But if we get married ... !" 
 
 This time she laughed a little and took 
 refuge behind her parents' wishes. 
 
 By way of expediting matters Felix de- 
 clared his unalterable resolve not to leave the 
 house till he should in due form have de- 
 manded Adelaide's hand in marriage from 
 Colonel Noel!
 
 CHAPTER V 
 44 poor 
 
 "A I ^HERE was nothing downright objec- 
 X. tionable, nothing you could take hold of, 
 in his way of asking me for her, except his not 
 seeming to realise that we shouldn't like it," 
 Colonel Noel confessed to his wife. "But 
 upon my word, I'm surprised at Adelaide's 
 fancying the fellow." 
 
 Mrs. Noel uttered soft maternal murmur- 
 ings. While by no means trusting Felix, she 
 could not but feel the distinction of an alliance 
 with the last Gwynne of Chastellux. Then the 
 mere fact of his seeking Adelaide suggested the 
 germination of better instincts, the gentle- 
 manly asserting itself above the poetic. A 
 mother-in-law-about-to-be is naturally opti- 
 mistic. Through vicarious marriage only can 
 she reach the dignity of grandmotherhood. 
 64
 
 " Poor Lady!" 65 
 
 "He's very handsome," she finally offered, 
 "and, of course, we know just who he is." 
 
 "Handsome in a way." The Colonel saw no 
 virtue in a mere fortuitous combination of fea- 
 ture, and for some unfathomed reason, mas- 
 culine yearnings seldom extend to possible 
 grandchildren. "If you like that kind. But I 
 should hardly have expected Adelaide's head 
 to be turned. He's like like" the Colonel 
 here made the one imaginative effort of his life 
 "he's like sweet native champagne, Geor- 
 gina, or new Madeira. We shan't know 
 what to do with him in the family. Can I 
 quote poems to him after dinner, over our 
 cigars ?" 
 
 "Cousin Emily Laurence says he talks well 
 on almost any topic. We must try to draw 
 him out to-morrow night, when so many 
 strange cousins will be here to inspect him. 
 You know, dear," Mrs. Noel gently reminded 
 him, "how you enjoyed telling stories to Mr. 
 Lowell, when we breakfasted at the Embassy 
 in London. He was quite a well-known poet,
 
 66 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 and a perfect man of the world too, just like 
 everybody else." 
 
 The Colonel shook a pessimistic head. "Do 
 you really think she can care for him?" This 
 idea proved difficult of assimilation. 
 
 "Adelaide is never a girl to dwell much on 
 her feelings, even to me," Mrs. Noel owned. 
 "But if you will notice, restrained and digni- 
 fied as she is, she certainly does like to slip off 
 alone with him occasionally. And her in- 
 fluence over him is really beautiful. He is 
 doing whatever she wants about the wedding, 
 the invitations and all that." 
 
 "Whatever she wants! I should think so!" 
 Colonel Noel fairly snorted. "Isn't the man 
 going to get Adelaide?" 
 
 In the interest of family harmony, Mrs. 
 Noel thought well to suppress Felix's inclina- 
 tion for a hasty trip to the mayor's office, or 
 any speedy and informal way of tying the 
 knot. Adelaide herself truly felt no wish for 
 hurrying into marriage. A genuine frosty 
 maidenliness possessed her, the unrealised idea
 
 " Poor Lady ! " 67 
 
 of surrender was vaguely painful. To leave a 
 home where she had known perfect happiness 
 promised a grievous wrench. She would have 
 chosen to wait a year, two years; there was 
 no need for haste. But Felix's unguarded 
 state unconsciously appealed to every latent 
 maternal instinct. His irregular bouts of ap- 
 plication, the days on which he came to her fe- 
 verish and restless ; the weeks during which he 
 would not work ; the periods when he vanished 
 from sight to emerge with pale face and blaz- 
 ing eyes, in a quiver with the passionate ex- 
 citement of production all this aroused her 
 womanly sense of order. She must help him. 
 He stood in need of a companion to remind 
 him of engagements, to see that he kept to rea- 
 sonable hours, that he ate, worked, and 
 amused himself with measure and system. 
 This feeling produced in her a remote but 
 gracious tenderness, which softened all reserve 
 and inspired him to bear with patience the in- 
 terval between their formal betrothal and the 
 wedding day.
 
 68 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 He had quickly succumbed to the Noel as- 
 sertion that anything short of a church, a 
 bishop, and eight bridesmaids would show 
 lack of respect for Adelaide. He bore every- 
 thing on that trying day with admirably con- 
 trolled restiveness, under the eyes of an as- 
 sembled throng of selected lambs; not a goat 
 was bidden to wish him joy ! 
 
 "Aren't you going to?" Bessy Le Grand 
 whispered to Angela. This young lady had a 
 natural taste for kissing which seized every 
 decorous opportunity of outlet. "I suppose 
 Adelaide won't mind, just for once." 
 
 "I don't know!" Angela's kisses had been 
 all for Tommy, but something in Felix's air 
 went to her heart. The sense of endurance, of 
 waiting till the end of this tiresome ceremony, 
 she saw it so plainly. How could Adelaide 
 subject him to it! Pegasus as a trick 
 mule! 
 
 "Dear Angela!" Adelaide kissed her with 
 affection. "I shall miss you very much." 
 
 This note jarred upon the girl's overstrung
 
 " Poor Lady! ' 69 
 
 feelings. Could she herself miss any one, re- 
 member her dearest friend, if she were free to 
 link her arm in Tommy's and go forth into the 
 world at his side ? And Felix, with the face of 
 a morning star! How could his wife think of 
 anything else on earth? Wife! The very 
 word brought flaming colour to Angela's pale 
 cheeks. 
 
 Felix was holding her hand. "The same to 
 you," he whispered. "I have every kind of 
 conspiracy up my sleeve." 
 
 "Don't mind about me, now. Just be 
 happy!" Angela felt a sudden catch in her 
 throat. 
 
 Adelaide was conscious of a queer thrill, not 
 pleasant, as Felix, with tender eyes, kissed her 
 little cousin. It was all very well for Bessy Le 
 Grand to bounce up with a vigorous embrace, 
 but Angela blushed and blinked away a sus- 
 picion of tears from her long lashes. Adelaide 
 knew of Tommy, but he seemed a shadowy 
 creature, far less substantial than Mrs. Wheat- 
 land's sturdy opposition. That love for a man
 
 70 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 should make a nice girl ready to cast off every- 
 thing she had known before, was simply be- 
 yond Adelaide's power to accept. Life should 
 not be like that! It must be full, tranquil, 
 blended of many strands; she could not con- 
 ceive that to Angela the whole world resolved 
 itself into Tommy, with a hazy background of 
 Miss Tone and Felix. Any one who was kind 
 and promised help. 
 
 Consequently the blush, the unshed tears, 
 her husband's sudden animation cast a trifling 
 shadow athwart her calm content. 
 
 But for this unnoticed flaw, nothing could 
 exceed the perfection of Felix's demeanour, 
 until the pair were joined at the railway sta- 
 tion by Adelaide's elderly nurse. At this a 
 certain feline contraction of lip and eyebrow 
 should have warned Adelaide that the poet's 
 limit of endurance had been slightly over- 
 stepped. Effie, as a spoilt family servant, pre- 
 sented an exasperating caricature of the family 
 attitude towards Felix. In their brief inter- 
 course, she treated him with imperfectly veiled
 
 " Poor Lady ! ' 71 
 
 distrust, and invariably spoke of Adelaide and 
 to her, as to a person nobly enduring un- 
 reasonable trials. Though far from vain, hav- 
 ing known an atmosphere where petting and 
 admiration were a matter of course, Felix was 
 growing weary of being treated as inferior by 
 a parcel of stupid Noels. The retainer's bur- 
 lesque of the family's ill-hidden opinion had 
 finally irritated him into a state of resentment. 
 Moreover, he had been only braced to endure 
 till the moment when he should have Adelaide 
 to himself, quite beyond the reach of damag- 
 ing influences. These coming weeks in Miss 
 Anne's old house were to give him a blessed 
 familiarity with his young wife, a true inti- 
 macy, never to be reached if she were under 
 even a shadow of Noel espionage. With 
 something like a scowl he whispered, "Send 
 her home. There are plenty of women at 
 Chastellux to look after your things." 
 
 Adelaide smiled gently. "Now? Why, 
 they would think we were crazy, after it's all 
 keen arranged !"
 
 72 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 His mobile eyebrows made light of public 
 opinion. 
 
 "Beside," she went on, "I must have some 
 one of my own. I should be homesick. And 
 dear old Effie is just like one of the family." 
 
 Felix thought this unpleasantly true, but of- 
 fered no further objection. 
 
 On reaching Chastellux, Effie grew all-per- 
 vading. Immediately ensconced in Adelaide's 
 dressing-room, she bustled to and fro, unpack- 
 ing bags, arranging toilette implements. Felix 
 hovered about for a minute, then stalked away, 
 angry and indignant. Before long he knocked 
 at the door. Adelaide sat before a long glass, 
 covered to the chin by a voluminous dressing- 
 gown of softest grey, while Effie twisted her 
 abundant hair in orderly coils. 
 
 Before her mistress could speak, the woman 
 bustled forward, opening the door a crack. 
 "Miss Adelaide will be down presently, sir." 
 
 By way of answer, Felix pushed past her, 
 seated himself in a high-backed chair covered 
 with old, flowered chintz, and in grim silence
 
 " Poor Lady! " 73 
 
 watched her place the last hairpin. "Now you 
 can go," he announced. "Mrs. Gwynne does 
 not need you further." 
 
 "Oh, that she does!" Effie disputed. 
 "There's a world of hooks on her dinner 
 gown." 
 
 Blushing as deeply as ever Angela could, 
 Adelaide hesitated at taking either side. She 
 deplored Effie's intrusion, yet those hooks 
 were a prosaic reality. Then also, she felt in- 
 finitely shy at being left so alone with Felix. 
 All at once he seemed quite different no 
 longer docile, but overpowering. For his fu- 
 ture good she struggled against a cowardly 
 desire to do his bidding, to yield herself with- 
 out reserve but then Effie had feelings, too ! 
 It would not be just for her to show unkind- 
 ness. 
 
 Before she could decide, Felix had spoken. 
 "Understand, old woman ! I am master. 
 When I say 'go' . . ." He glanced towards 
 the door. His voice admitted of no question. 
 
 With a look of outraged dignity Effie made
 
 74 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 her way from the room, first to enlighten old 
 Miss Anne's pampered household, then to 
 write Mrs. Noel a full account of all that had 
 passed. But in Effie's version the master 
 darkly figured as depriving his poor young 
 wife of the most ordinary attentions due a 
 gentlewoman. 
 
 Once alone with her husband, Adelaide ral- 
 lied every faculty. It must begin now, the sit- 
 uation brooked no delay. He must be made to 
 see that it was impossible to show temper, 
 actual temper, to a servant. She turned to 
 him, meaning to remonstrate. Even Ade- 
 laide's conscience, however, could not at that 
 moment bring her to scold Felix! the gentle- 
 ness, the humility, his radiance of delight at 
 her presence deeper resentment than hers 
 might well have vanished before the smile he 
 gave her. 
 
 "Horrid old thing." He had come over to 
 Adelaide's side. "Let us forget her!" 
 
 With surprise, she found her hands were 
 trembling. "She was right about the hooks,
 
 " Poor Lady ! " 75 
 
 there are twenty-seven!" This was very 
 feeble, not in the least what such an occasion 
 demanded, and Adelaide knew it, but she was 
 young, and loved her husband ! 
 
 Between them, the matter of hooks was 
 settled, although Mr. and Mrs. Gwynne did 
 not appear at dinner till one hour after the 
 stated time, thereby causing Felix to be put 
 down in the blackest books, below stairs. His 
 delay, coupled with Effie's report, also led the 
 kitchen to infer that the interval had been 
 filled with downright cruelty towards the un- 
 fortunate and beautiful young lady !
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 DaptD, Degetable Xoves 
 
 "T T really has set in for a storm !" Adelaide 
 A was looking down the sloping lawn with 
 its undulations softened by a thick cover of 
 snow. Beyond lay the dun-coloured river, 
 swollen and fringed with jagged ice. 
 
 Felix heaped on fresh logs, till old Miss 
 Anne's formal library glowed in the flicker of 
 hot, red flames. "You know," he answered, 
 "this is a good room. Don't you like the faint 
 smell of morocco that comes from old books? 
 Miss Anne had an amazing collection, for a 
 prim spinster!" 
 
 "I never heard of her reading much." Ade- 
 laide was still watching heavy snowflakes light 
 and settle on the dark branches of a Norway 
 fir. 
 
 "Then some Gwynne before her must have 
 76
 
 " The Vapid, Vegetable Loves " 77 
 
 had a pretty taste in literature !" Standing on 
 a high mahogany chair, Felix burrowed on an 
 upper shelf, struck a wax match the better to 
 read titles, incidentally lit a cigarette. He 
 lingered over several small, brown volumes, 
 but replaced them with a shake of the head ; 
 pulled out another and began to dip into its 
 mellow pages. 
 
 "How the snow bends those boughs!" 
 Adelaide was revolving the best opening for 
 an unwelcome topic. 
 
 "Nothing really nicer than a bad day!" 
 Deep in his book, Felix answered a trifle at 
 random. 
 
 "I thought you always liked it bright." 
 Adelaide felt his inconsistency in praising 
 those leaden skies after for a whole fortnight 
 swearing ardent devotion to sunlight. 
 
 Strolling to the window he put his arm 
 about her waist, dimly conscious of a reserve, 
 an opposition in her which he had already felt 
 vaguely dawning. Always before a touch, a 
 caress had sufficed to stifle the voice of Ade-
 
 78 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 laide's conscience, but to-day rigorous weather 
 was having its effect on a moral fibre sadly 
 loosened by the relaxing influence of Felix and 
 sunshine. 
 
 "You know, Felix," this time she did not 
 yield to his encircling arm, secretly stiffening 
 against its demoralising power, "Papa never 
 touches tobacco in the morning." 
 
 "Doesn't he?" Felix met this as an abstrac- 
 tion, without possible bearing on himself. 
 
 "No, he says that any reasonable person 
 should be able to wait till after dinner!" 
 
 "Why should they?" Felix seemed much 
 unimpressed. 
 
 "Do you think we ought to do everything 
 just when we feel like it, without any kind of 
 rule in life? No, don't, dear, please. I really 
 want to talk about things." She drew away 
 from him. 
 
 "Contraband before dinner, too?" he asked 
 mischievously. "Or is it only his own wife a 
 man may not kiss of a morning? Really, 
 Adelaide, there is not another woman within
 
 " The Vapid, Vegetable Loves " 79 
 
 miles but you that I've the slightest inclina- 
 tion towards. Come to think of it, I've never 
 caught your father breaking that rule either. 
 But then, I've never seen him at any time take 
 the smallest liberty with your mother!" 
 
 "I wish you could sometimes be serious !" 
 To their daughter, the idea of Colonel and 
 Mrs. Noel exchanging public endearments 
 seemed almost ribald. 
 
 "Serious ! Why, of course I am, often, but 
 not when you are. It would never do for both 
 of us at once." Dropping his flippant tone, he 
 went on more soberly, "Out with it, dear, I 
 have an awful sense of being scolded. What 
 for? For being happy and content, you ruth- 
 less puritan? 
 
 "Is happiness everything?" Adelaide asked 
 with a touch of wistfulness. 
 
 "If you have decent luck, it is!" Again he 
 put his arm about her. Truly, she felt it hard. 
 Felix's way of life apparently held out endless 
 delights. Even in this country quiet no day 
 with him was like another. Passion he of-
 
 80 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 fered her, and an adorable comradeship, but 
 nothing in him met her appeals to a sense of 
 responsibility. So far she had humoured him, 
 but the time had come when she must cease to 
 float along the tide of his irrepressible joyous- 
 ness. Failing to establish her principle, she 
 fell back on a concrete demonstration of the 
 claims of duty. "Since we can't go out, it's 
 just the day for me to write some of those 
 notes. Seventy-three presents haven't been 
 acknowledged yet." 
 
 "To-day?" Felix expressed as much sur- 
 prise as if they had long pledged the time to 
 some pressing occupation. "You must never 
 do horrid things in horrid weather!" 
 
 She looked up at him in despair. What 
 could any reasonable person say to such a 
 creature of moods. "I thought you liked 
 storms ..." 
 
 "Do you know, Adelaide," his eyes danced 
 with loving malice, "if you were ugly, I should 
 now be hammering you with the tongs!" 
 
 What Felix actually did was so very far
 
 " The Vapid, Vegetable Loves " 8 i 
 
 from hostile that Adelaide helplessly suc- 
 cumbed, and against conviction, eventually 
 settled down in a big armchair by the fire, lis- 
 tening while he read from a small, dark volume 
 carefully chosen among old Miss Anne's mo- 
 rocco-bound classics. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked. 
 
 "The best in the world. It will make you 
 forget your notes and your duties and your 
 conscience. I hope this snow will last a week. 
 Then we'll read all day long, every day. And 
 you'll never be cross again, will you? You 
 frighten me half to death when you scold." 
 
 "You can always hammer me." She fell 
 in helplessly with his mood. 
 
 "No, I can't, because . . ." 
 
 "Go on reading, please," Adelaide inter- 
 rupted. It seemed almost wicked to let him 
 utter further extravagances. 
 
 Felix began, his eyes dark and starry with 
 coming emotion. 
 
 Adelaide's smooth forehead showed an un- 
 accustomed wrinkle.
 
 82 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 Unconscious, he read on, " Tarmi les douze 
 filles qui etaient enchainees. . . .' ' Adelaide 
 always felt distrust of works in the French 
 tongue, but the following pages seemed fully 
 reassuring, and she let herself yield to the 
 charm of her husband's silver-toned voice. 
 For nearly an hour she lay back in her chair, 
 interested and appeased. After all, French 
 was improving! A morning so spent could 
 not be reckoned altogether squandered. This 
 sop she threw her conscience. 
 
 " 'J'etais dans une espece de transport qui 
 m'ota pour quelque temps la liberte de la voix, 
 et qui ne s'exprima que par mes yeux. Made- 
 moiselle Manon Lescaut . . .' ' 
 
 "Felix!" Adelaide started from her chair. 
 "What book is that?" 
 
 "My favourite of every love story in the 
 world. How that self-conscious age ever 
 turned out such an unbroken cry of passion! 
 And this copy of Miss Anne's is a treasure, 
 first edition . . ." 
 
 Adelaide was not to be diverted. "And you
 
 " The Vapid, Vegetable Loves " 83 
 
 are deliberately reading aloud Manon Lescaut 
 to your wife?" 
 
 It vaguely flitted through Felix's brain that, 
 as a grown man's daily companion, the single- 
 minded young girl might develop limitations. 
 And then Adelaide, with all her loveliness, was 
 neither simple nor unsophisticated-looking, 
 but rather had the air and poise of a well-as- 
 sured woman, knowing the world and meeting 
 it with nobility and strength. For her to balk 
 at Manon Lescaut! Stifling an impulse of ir- 
 ritation, he only remonstrated, "But why not? 
 Did you ever read it?" 
 
 "Certainly not! I never touched a story of 
 that kind in my life !" 
 
 "Then how do you know you wouldn't like 
 it?" Felix objected. "There is nothing in the 
 least out of the way in it." 
 
 "Felix! A book which has been a byword 
 for generations ! I never heard any one speak 
 of having read it !" 
 
 Felix suppressed an inclination to point out 
 that in Adelaide's circle this also applied to
 
 84 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 quite a number of works whose respectability 
 had never been impugned. "It seems," he 
 spoke slowly, "as if you had rather made up 
 your mind to jump on me, to-day. It's well ! 
 it is not complimentary to have you accusing 
 me of playing a low trick on you." 
 
 At this minute Adelaide had no cause to 
 complain of his lacking seriousness. 
 
 "As for the book," he went on, tossing it 
 down on the table at his elbow, "perhaps you 
 w r ill take my word, in spite of all the censors 
 who never have opened it, there is not a syl- 
 lable in it to offend the ears of any one old 
 enough to have heard a rumour that men and 
 women are occasionally known to entertain, 
 mutually, a sentiment slightly differing from 
 family affection." His clear utterance cut the 
 comfortable atmosphere of Miss Anne's quiet 
 room. His mobile brows straightened over 
 blue eyes dark and sinister with anger. Ade- 
 laide felt the inability of conscious right to 
 hold its own against the slippery tongue of a 
 trained master of words.
 
 " The Vapid, Vegetable Loves " 85 
 
 "A knowledge," he went on with will to 
 hurt, "which some women have arrived at for 
 themselves, and that even your code sanctions 
 in couples who have passed through a parson's 
 hands." 
 
 "Oh, Felix!" She was blushing deeply. 
 Marriage had not been easy to Adelaide, and 
 for him to taunt her with it ! 
 
 Suddenly he grew sorry, and with one of 
 those bewildering changes of mood he came 
 close, and sitting on the arm of her chair, drew 
 her to him. He had reflected. Of course, she 
 must have limitations. They sprang from the 
 very qualities for which he loved her. She 
 met this passively. Felix in revolt so grieved 
 and astonished the girl that she felt humbly 
 glad to have him again near her. From the 
 pain he inflicted, he seemed her only refuge. 
 Her cheek rested against the prickly serge of 
 his sleeve. Gently he stroked her smooth hair. 
 
 "I suppose," he murmured, half jesting, half 
 resigned, "you must be something of a prude, 
 dear, but do be a nice one. A prurient prude
 
 86 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 is so embarrassing, the kind who is on the 
 lookout, where there is really nothing. Hon- 
 estly, heaps of the books I read wouldn't suit 
 you at all. I should never dream of wanting 
 you to look at them. They would only 
 shock . . ." 
 
 "Then why should any one read them?" 
 Adelaide persisted. "Why should you?" 
 
 "I ! because, for one thing, they won't tell 
 me anything a man doesn't know already." 
 His sudden return to brutality determined her 
 to have it out once for all. 
 
 "And Manon Lescaut, Felix ! You say it is 
 all right, but were those two married?" 
 
 "Were Adam and Eve?" Leaving the arm 
 of her chair, Felix proceeded to walk rapidly 
 to and fro, glancing curiously at her, now as 
 if measuring the abyss between them, now al- 
 most with hostility speculating upon this 
 alien presence, sitting there, domiciled at his 
 hearth. 
 
 "Are you pretending," he finally broke out, 
 "seriously to believe that two human creatures'
 
 " The Vapid, Vegetable Loves " 87 
 
 history can't be discussed or written about, un- 
 less a man in a white vestment or a black coat 
 has mumbled a few words over them ? why 
 his mind swept far afield "you are ruling 
 out such a lot of interesting characters. Even 
 the Bible is less exclusive." 
 
 Again Adelaide felt herself no match for 
 him, but remained nevertheless uncon- 
 vinced by his casuistry. Right must always be 
 right. That there was no gainsaying! 
 
 "Besides," he went on with growing excite- 
 ment, "the quiet joys of honest married 
 couples, their Vapid, vegetable loves' these 
 are not exactly fruitful themes for litera- 
 ture!" 
 
 "Is literature so all-important?" Adelaide 
 put this with the air of at last reaching solid 
 ground. 
 
 "God knows !" Felix threw up his argument. 
 "Some people have thought so." In turn he 
 felt the hopelessness of dispute. Adelaide sin- 
 cerely believed in her own point of view. He 
 recognised that. And he had tormented her,
 
 88 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 shown brutality when she was likewise suffer- 
 ing in her conscience. All at once this made 
 him very tender, very remorseful. Thrusting 
 his hands deep in his pockets he eagerly sur- 
 veyed her, hunting an issue on which they 
 might come together. His fingers touched a 
 smooth surface, a letter! Drawing it out, he 
 showed a comic look of guilt. "It's for you," 
 he gasped, all penitence. "I must have for- 
 gotten it! Are you ever going to forgive 
 me?" 
 
 Adelaide read the address. "From mam- 
 ma," she presently announced. "Oh, Felix! 
 How could you? It must have been there for 
 days." Opening, she read with increasing 
 concern. 
 
 "Come !" Felix adroitly used the lesser of- 
 fence to dim the greater. "Not so long as 
 that, only a day or two. Say you forgive 
 me!" 
 
 Adelaide felt contemptibly glad of his capit- 
 ulating, she found extreme discomfort in 
 being at odds with Felix, and the quick evap-
 
 " The Vapid, Vegetable Loves" 89 
 
 oration of his wrath left her in the position of 
 meanly nursing hers. 
 
 "The fifteenth is mamma's birthday!" Her 
 tone was friendly. 
 
 "Then we must send her things, flowers and 
 what does she like?" Felix vainly tried to 
 project his imagination into the probable 
 fancies of a mother-in-la\v. 
 
 "She wants us to come for a long visit !" 
 
 Felix looked depressed. 
 
 "You see," Adelaide went on, "mamma 
 can't come to and fro in this weather, and the 
 winter is lasting so long." 
 
 "Have her here to stay!" Felix suggested 
 with inward reluctance. 
 
 "Not the same, she would be disappointed." 
 Adelaide's manner came rather near wheed- 
 ling. She went on encouragingly, "You see, 
 their street is being torn up, so she and papa 
 are moving out of town on the eighth. The 
 fourteenth is when they want us. They will 
 be quite settled then. There is a quiet room 
 for you to- write in, and plenty of nice people
 
 90 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 live in our neighbourhood. Quite literary 
 people, too! So you won't be worn out by 
 your family-in-law." 
 
 Felix pleaded, begged off, made spasmodic 
 resistance to Adelaide's well-meant pressure. 
 In the end he yielded. After all a married 
 man has concessions to make, and any adult 
 should be able to endure for one short month 
 the company of two estimable beings to whom 
 he stands indebted for the possession of a 
 wife'
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 jfoj an> Crane 
 
 ON Felix's second day under their roof, 
 Colonel and Mrs. Noel had the shock of 
 a son-in-law with unshorn chin at breakfast. 
 Too polite for open criticism of one who after 
 all was their guest, they nevertheless felt 
 greatly perturbed at this flagrant breach of 
 deportment. Then again, how did he manage 
 to look so spent and extenuated? The air 
 about their country house was of unimpeach- 
 able purity, they often commented upon it. 
 Did he perchance possess some baleful capacity 
 for hidden dissipation, for perpetrating mys- 
 terious solitary orgies, here in their very 
 midst ? He also showed the tired eyes of a per- 
 son who has not slept. His very hair lacked 
 life, and the lengthy, substantial breakfast re- 
 91
 
 92 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 duced him to miserable silence. It was 
 slightly reassuring that Adelaide had never 
 looked better ! 
 
 "This came from our own bees," Mrs. Noel 
 urged. "Try it on your waffles, or would you 
 rather have cinnamon and sugar?" 
 
 Poor Felix submitted to an exuding lump 
 of honeycomb, to sausage, to family prayers. 
 Adelaide had secured from him a promise to 
 be "good," and good he was, though weighed 
 down by a depressing doubt if his reason could 
 weather many more after-dinner seances with 
 Colonel Noel. Smoking at large was not fa- 
 voured at Noel Place, consequently the two 
 men nightly faced each other over their de- 
 canters, for a mortal hour. The nervous strain 
 of this reduced Felix to utter sleeplessness. 
 Under kindly skies he talked readily enough, 
 but the constant sense of disapproval, of being 
 set down as strange and unaccountable, 
 blocked off every approach to his new relative. 
 There must be so many such evenings in a 
 month that even the prospect of neighbours to
 
 Fox and Crane 93 
 
 dine came as a grateful reprieve from Colonel 
 Noel's prosy after-dinner anecdotes. 
 
 "You will see really interesting people, to- 
 night," Adelaide informed him, as they 
 lingered together in a sunny morning room. 
 "Miss Juliette Wilcox, who wrote those 
 poems. The book I put on your table ; did you 
 read it?" 
 
 "I will !" Felix rashly promised. 
 
 But Adelaide had more to come . . . 
 
 "And Mrs. Thurmann, we have a copy of 
 her Queenly Quakers in the house, too." 
 
 "That's the deuce of a name!" With his 
 wife, Felix's tongue comfortably loosened. 
 He was enjoying the freshness of her beauty. 
 It came home to him with new force that she 
 was his, this gentle, spotless creature. 
 
 "Ah, Felix! listen!" She detected his inat- 
 tentive, admiring eye. "They will expect you 
 not to forget what they have done. Mr. Thur- 
 mann has travelled. He lectures free, you 
 know at institutes and places on the Mid- 
 night Sun, and the Pyramids. Felix! Some
 
 94 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 one is coming!" Laughing and blushing, she 
 strove to disengage herself. 
 
 "I remember better, so!" Felix's cheek 
 rested against hers. 
 
 "You are very" Adelaide hardly liked to 
 say prickly; stubble being one of those un- 
 mentionable male attributes! 
 
 "It's all your people's fault!" Felix under- 
 stood. "If they treat me like Bluebeard, I've 
 got to dress the part. When you were re- 
 stored to their arms, didn't they behave as if 
 they had never expected to see you alive 
 again? Didn't they evidently think I was 
 going to destroy you? At all events, this 
 beard is to be the length of a Mormon Elder's, 
 ending in curls . . ." He let her go, almost 
 roughly. 
 
 Now it was Adelaide who came to him, 
 pleading, slipping a hand through his arm. 
 She leaned against him, coaxing. "Dear, do 
 be just." A volunteered caress from her still 
 had power to make Felix's quick colour rise 
 and ebb. "They do not quite understand you,
 
 Fox and Crane 95 
 
 it's true, but then you really are a little odd. 
 Now, yesterday, you wouldn't drive in the 
 morning, had to shut yourself up and work. 
 And then we meet you walking miles away in 
 the country! Of course it seemed strange to 
 mamma. I could hardly explain it, could 
 I?" 
 
 "I meant to write, had my head full of stuff, 
 but not sleeping or something played me out. 
 The paper looked empty, my brain did not 
 work." The idea of accounting for every 
 trivial action left Felix only dazed. 
 
 Adelaide sighed a little, fearing it would be 
 no easy matter to reconcile her family to these 
 irregular visits of the Muse. "But you will 
 drive with mamma and me this afternoon?" 
 She explained the sacred duty of visits. 
 
 Felix bargained: if Adelaide would ride 
 with him, a whole long morning, not only 
 would he sit in Mrs. Noel's victoria, do her 
 bidding from three till five, but his unpresenta- 
 ble chin should be meanwhile submitted to the 
 village barber. This was not accomplished
 
 96 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 without much argument of a kind which left 
 Adelaide slightly ruffled as to hair and necktie, 
 with quickened pulse, and unworthy longings 
 forever to abandon the reclaiming of that en- 
 chanting, incorrigible being, her husband. 
 
 Felix kept his promise like any saint, per- 
 mitting himself to be led into several neigh- 
 bouring parlours, and talking tamely over tea- 
 cups, without betraying one gleam of im- 
 patience. Entirely distrusting him, Mrs. Noel 
 was quite alive to the distinction of having a 
 real lion for a son-in-law, and fully intended 
 to savour the glory of exhibiting him, well 
 leashed, to admiring friends. 
 
 At last it was over ! "Plenty of time to rest 
 and dress before dinner," she notified her vic- 
 tim as they finally drew up under the porte- 
 cochere at Noel Place. "We keep early hours 
 here, seven o'clock." 
 
 Felix was blue with cold and despair. The 
 tea tables, the victoria, the sense of his mother- 
 in-law's hostile ownership had exhausted body 
 and spirit. In answer to his pleading whisper,
 
 Fox and Crane 97 
 
 Adelaide shook her head. "There will be a 
 good fire for us, and if you ask for whiskey, 
 so, between meals, mamma will think . . ." 
 She would also have liked to stop his smoking 
 cigarettes in her dressing-room, not that she 
 minded it, indeed Adelaide was so far demor- 
 alised that their odour and faint blue smoke 
 had grown positively pleasant, an association 
 overcoming her lifelong training. 
 
 "A letter from Cousin Emily!" she ex- 
 claimed. "How nice!" But she did not re- 
 peat this comment, after reading Mrs. Lau- 
 rence's close-written epistle. 
 
 Beginning with a few stock remarks on the 
 beauty of Florida, the old lady proceeded to 
 advise . . . "Now, of course, you are noth- 
 ing but a green girl. You don't look so, but 
 that is an accident. And Felix is of the big 
 world. Naturally you must be on constant 
 guard not to bore him, or let your people drive 
 him half mad. Then you are an honest soul, 
 steadfast, with perfectly simple impulses and 
 no imagination. He is a poet! Don't forget
 
 98 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 that! A creature all flame and shadow. If 
 I'm not much mistaken, Master Felix is capa- 
 ble of startling ups and downs. Perhaps you 
 have an inkling of that already. Here is my 
 point. Don't worry if he turns restive. Your 
 dear papa's after-dinner monologues are most 
 unlike anything your husband has previously 
 experienced. Don't worry, but sent him off to 
 town alone for a couple of days. Find which 
 of your engagements is most intolerable to 
 him; make his excuses (a poet's wife must 
 learn to be good at that) and pack him off, with 
 a latchkey. Mark my words! He will dine 
 with Albert Yule, talk shop for one evening, 
 and you will have him trotting home before his 
 time, eager for a sight of you. All men are 
 more or less so, even the dull ones. Frantic to 
 marry, can't wait! Then one day, they wake 
 up to feel saddled and bridled and bitted and 
 curbed, and the dear knows what, beside. 
 It's a phase they pass through, and a wise 
 woman makes them take their heads. Now 
 with him, as you value your future, give him
 
 Fox and Crane 99 
 
 plenty of line. People who marry poets have 
 blisses other people never even guess at, for 
 which they must expect honourably to 
 pay . . ." 
 
 Felix had been watching his wife. "Now 
 what can Mrs. Bradish Laurence find to write 
 about" he reached a hand towards the letter 
 "that makes you turn pink, and look as if 
 you'd been caught with your fingers in the 
 jam?" 
 
 "No, it's not to be seen." She held it away 
 from him, with the mental reflection that Mrs, 
 Laurence, being also a little odd, quite failed 
 to count the steadying value of habit. 
 
 "Very well!" Felix took her refusal in 
 good part, "but I won't show you my letter 
 either. It's from Angela." 
 
 Adelaide looked expectant. 
 
 Felix had grown serious. "She is deliber- 
 ately moping herself to bits, for that long- 
 legged lieutenant of hers." 
 
 "Too bad he's impossible." Adelaide was 
 truly sorry: "And he is nice enough, himself,
 
 ioo The Poet and the Parish 
 
 but his people are out of the question. If they 
 only lived away, somewhere; but their being 
 here I really don't see that Angela could be 
 allowed to marry him . . ." 
 
 Felix raised mobile eyebrows. "Then her 
 fond mother had better order the flowers for 
 little Angela's funeral. Once in a while you 
 see a girl like that, not often not a stable- 
 seeming creature, but born to love one person. 
 She'll never change. It's that or shipwreck. 
 It is slow murder to keep her from him and 
 because of his people!" Felix's temper was 
 rising. "Of all the damned, idiotic . . ." 
 
 "But don't you think," Adelaide felt uneasy, 
 "that every girl should have some control over 
 her feelings?" 
 
 Felix had flown aloft into space ; all at once 
 he alighted in quite a different place, an habit- 
 ual action which never failed to disconcert 
 Adelaide, to whom it constantly appeared a 
 way of dodging important issues. "It is great 
 fun to be a married householder," he stated, to 
 her complete bewilderment. "There are lots
 
 Fox and Crane 101 
 
 of things we can do, you and I, that we could 
 never manage apart!" 
 
 This was certainly reassuring, and Ade- 
 laide's approval of her own methods received 
 new encouragement, from the chastened and 
 conventional mood in which her husband sat 
 down to dinner. 
 
 His resolve to be "good" held through oys- 
 ters, soup, and fish, but at filet there was a 
 gradual faltering, under a concerted attempt 
 of the guests to suit their conversation to his 
 taste. Mrs. Thurmann led off (as an expert 
 on royal characteristics) with the Crucifying 
 of a Queen, a work, according to her, rich in 
 historic interest. Did Mr. Gwynne think the 
 internal evidence pointed to its emanating 
 from a lady about the court, or a faithless and 
 trusted diplomatist? Felix's assertion that it 
 was the work of a New York journalist, she 
 simply waved aside, ruthlessly pursuing her 
 inquiry, till Miss Wilcox, with a superior smile, 
 rescued the conversation. 
 
 As a versifier (with a technique moulded on
 
 IO2 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 Emily Dickinson) this lady naturally felt 
 more in rapport with Felix than could be possi- 
 ble to a mere compiler. Editing tiresome old 
 diaries (so the poetess rated Queenly Quakers) 
 was scarcely ground for posing as an au- 
 thoress. In a graceless attempt to escape Miss 
 Wilcox's analysis of the present Laureate, 
 Felix became involved with Mr. Thurmann, 
 who was eagerly waiting to expound his 
 theory of lecturing. 
 
 "In speaking to factory girls" there was 
 more than a hint of platform in his delivery 
 "the main idea is to make them think of 
 things in a perfectly familiar way. Now take 
 the Pyramids! Of course, as a student who 
 has spent several weeks in Egypt, I know a 
 great deal about their meaning and construc- 
 tion not apparent to the ordinary tourist, and 
 scarcely comprehensible to young working- 
 women. So I make myself popular. It is very 
 easy. I come out on the platform and squeeze 
 the bulb. It is dark, of course. A Pyramid 
 appears on the screen; very clear photograph,
 
 Fox and Crane 103 
 
 with me climbing from one block to another. 
 I have on a hat. 'Young ladies,' I say (always 
 call them ladies!) 'you see that hat? Well, 
 here it is!' I hold the real hat against the 
 screen where they can all look at it, and this 
 enables them immediately to feel perfectly fa- 
 miliar with the Pyramids." 
 
 "And what good does that do?" The pres- 
 sure upon Felix's safety valve plainly regis- 
 tered danger! "Could anything really be 
 more unfamiliar?" 
 
 "What good!" Mr. Thurmann felt ruffled 
 by this lack of sympathy. "Why, keeping 
 them from miserable, worthless theatres and 
 dances." His tone suggested visions of Felix 
 hounding them on to vice. 
 
 "Now an elevating play" the rector here 
 tactfully opened the valve "a really elevated 
 play, in my opinion, hurts no one." A con^ 
 sciously broad-minded priest, he wished to inv 
 press this stranger with his liberal knowledge 
 of life. "If we could only restrict the theatre 
 to beautiful and improving pieces! I don't
 
 104 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 know when I have enjoyed anything more 
 than 'Ben Hur' !" 
 
 Felix was fast developing a strong resem- 
 blance to Orestes in his most fury-driven mo- 
 ments; the last remarks goaded him to open 
 rebellion. "Since Oscar is dead, there are no 
 English plays but Shaw's and Pinero's." 
 
 "Oscar, did you say?" queried the rector, to 
 whom the curtailment conveyed nothing. 
 
 "Yes," Felix was full of regret. "Poor Os- 
 car Wilde!" 
 
 Every face at once showed that profoundly 
 unconscious expression always assumed when' 
 young children or pets prove not quite ad- 
 justed to the ways of polite society. 
 
 "I hardly think we need discuss that unfor- 
 tunate person here !" fulminated the church. 
 
 A faint shadow, not too unlike disappoint- 
 ment, flickered across the ladies. For a sec- 
 ond they had felt perilously, outrageously on 
 the brink of long-denied knowledge. 
 
 "If he wrote passable plays, why on earth 
 shouldn't he have the credit of them, poor
 
 Fox and Crane 105 
 
 devil?" Felix was driven to platitudes. 
 "What a man may have done hasn't anything 
 to do with his work !" 
 
 "Wouldn't that be a rather new and danger- 
 ous doctrine?" Mrs. Noel spoke with the air 
 of proving a point beyond dispute. 
 
 "Haven't you a copy of the Fornarina in 
 your parlour?" Felix was taking the bit be- 
 tween his teeth. 
 
 In the general bewilderment which followed 
 this perfectly irrelevant remark, Miss Wilcox 
 again saw occasion for benevolent interven- 
 tion. 
 
 "I'm going to ask a favour, Mr. Gwynne. 
 Will you write your name and mine in your 
 latest volume?" 
 
 "Your name, but I did not give you the 
 book?" Felix had now reached that stage in 
 which a badgered dog, labelled mad, bites im- 
 partially, failing to distinguish rescuers from 
 the boy with the tin can. 
 
 When Adelaide later managed a minute 
 apart with him, in the drawing-room, he be-
 
 io6 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 came truly penitent at her picture of his rude- 
 ness. He wrote his name, also Miss Wilcox's 
 and a stanza, on the fly-leaf of her precious 
 volume. He even offered no organised resist- 
 ance on being pinned down to a luncheon 
 party at which the mollified poetess promised 
 him a few literary and artistic friends. Until 
 the carriages were announced, he vainly tried 
 to entrap Adelaide into a little confidential 
 chat. In this strange world, she appeared his 
 only refuge. But when the young pair finally 
 closed the door of her dressing-room behind 
 them, he prepared to let off the suppressed irri- 
 tation of many weary moments. 
 
 "Will you undo my necklace?" she asked, 
 with comfortable friendliness. "Thank you!" 
 She considered the handful of creamy pearls. 
 "How well it went off, after all," she added. 
 "Mamma really took a lot of trouble to collect 
 the people who are interested in things you 
 like, books and poetry. I think" she smiled 
 happily "I think she wanted you to see that 
 we are not all such utter philistines !"
 
 Fox and Crane 107 
 
 On the morning of Miss Wilcox's luncheon, 
 Adelaide remembered Mrs. Laurence's letter 
 with a touch of complacency. Cousin Emily 
 after all did not understand everything-. Here 
 was Felix going with her quite willingly, 
 showing real symptoms of settling down to the 
 ways of ordinary life. Leaving Colonel and 
 Mrs. Noel to follow in a close coupe, the 
 young people started off in a gay little sleigh, 
 with a sense of favouring wind and tide. The 
 sparkle of sun and snow, the purity of frosty 
 air, warm furs and jingling silver bells keyed 
 Felix's spirits to a pitch which filled Adelaide 
 with pleased anticipation. She was not above 
 a natural pride of ownership ; and as Miss Wil- 
 cox excelled in artful combinations, there 
 would be an audience, a few girls of her own 
 kind, beside the people for Felix ! 
 
 Driving home three hours later, Adelaide 
 had much ado to keep down tears of mortifi- 
 cation. Even she began to feel prickings of 
 doubt. Could Mrs. Laurence be right? But
 
 io8 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 how could wrong ever be other than inexcusa- 
 ble and surely, surely, Felix was wrong! 
 He had carefully tucked her in at Miss Wil- 
 cox's door. For a mile they glided along in 
 silence. "Do you mind?" He drew out a 
 cigarette. 
 
 "Mind !" Adelaide spoke tragically. 
 "After to-day, I expect never to mind any- 
 thing again !" 
 
 He looked at her honestly puzzled. "What 
 on earth are you talking about?" 
 
 "Oh, Felix! Every one of them noticed it. 
 I could see ! At table you wouldn't join in the 
 general conversation, though each person 
 asked you questions . . ." 
 
 "They did !" Felix agreed to that. 
 
 "And you hadn't a word for any one but 
 that ill-behaved little Mrs. Warde. You let 
 her make eyes, and take possession of you, all 
 through lunch !" 
 
 "I couldn't ask her to put her head in a bag, 
 could I ?" Felix spoke roughly. 
 
 "No, but there was Lily, on your other side !"
 
 Fox and Crane 109 
 
 "Miss Northrup made me nervous." Felix 
 really seemed to consider this an excuse. "She 
 said she was afraid I'd be shocked if I knew 
 she'd never finished Paradise Lost! I couldn't 
 put her head in a bag, either, or tell her I 
 shouldn't have supposed she even knew her 
 letters, and didn't care. Mrs. Warde prattled 
 along naturally, about plays and places to 
 dine; she is rather amusing. Why does Miss 
 Wilcox have her, if she isn't to be spoken to?" 
 
 "Because she wanted Mr. Warde, for you." 
 
 "Well," Felix conceded, "I could spare him; 
 a dull sculptor, poor at his job! It all comes 
 of that nonsense of having husbands and 
 wives together!" 
 
 "Yes, but Felix!" Adelaide was not to be 
 diverted. "For you to go off alone with her 
 after lunch, and never come back to hear one 
 of your own poems recited and for us to find 
 you and her smoking together in Miss Wil- 
 cox's boudoir !" 
 
 "My dear girl !" Felix was plainly im- 
 patient. "This is a good deal of fuss about
 
 no The Poet and the Parish 
 
 nothing. When you have seen more of the 
 world than your own particular parish, you 
 will know better than to hunt trouble. Smok- 
 ing cigarettes with a woman does not neces- 
 sarily imply anything further! And if 
 you will drag me up and down the country 
 side to be gaped at by a mob of pompous don- 
 keys, you must expect me to pair off with any 
 creature, man or woman, who uses a human 
 tongue, and makes no pretence at . . ." 
 
 "She's pretending to have golden hair!" 
 Adelaide objected in a manner which was un- 
 deniably human. 
 
 "Quite true! And if I were going to have 
 anything to do with her hair, I'd want it real. 
 As it is, little as you seem to grasp the fact, 
 our intercourse was entirely confined to . . ." 
 
 Adelaide made a horrified gesture . . . 
 
 "Well!" he went on. "You seem to be 
 hinting at something more ... If that is 
 all, what is the trouble about ?" 
 
 "Oh, Felix!" She was blushing deeply. 
 "I never supposed, I never really in>
 
 Fox and Crane 1 1 1 
 
 agined ... I only saw that it looked bad, 
 to the others !" 
 
 "And you are sitting there," never before 
 had Felix used that voice, "berating me, on 
 account of a parcel of fossils, and bread-and- 
 butter misses, people so dumb, so unutterably 
 and abominably stupid, that what they think 
 matters exactly as much as if they were cows 
 and sheep!" 
 
 "Felix !" Her voice sounded truly unhappy. 
 "Am I stupid, too?" 
 
 Felix shivered. "No," he answered, too 
 resolutely, "not the least bit in the world, my 
 dear; but if you go so much with people who 
 are, now and then you may fall into the mis- 
 take of thinking with their heads, instead of 
 your own." 
 
 There was a minute's silence; presently he 
 broke out, warmly, "Do let us get away from 
 here, back to our own house. We can have 
 ]5?bple, if you are lonely : Yule, Mrs. Le Grand, 
 Angela. They will come to us, and there is a 
 man called Gather. We shall never be happy
 
 1 1 2 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 here. I do try, but always I'll come to grief 
 and say something to make you miserable. 
 They are all looking at me, and expecting it. 
 Dear, we must understand one another a 
 little better, before you let all these outsiders 
 loose on me. Promise, now; make some ex- 
 cuse, anything to send us to Chastellux. 
 Truly, I shall never write a line here." 
 
 "I do declare, that poor child is positively 
 wonderful," Mrs. Noel that night confided to 
 her husband. "She won't own to being in the 
 least unhappy, though after the way he be- 
 haved to-day . . ." 
 
 Fresh from the joys of reconciliation, the 
 young wife had been ill disposed to tolerate a 
 word against Felix, though Mrs. Noel im- 
 proved the after-dinner hour by subjecting her 
 daughter to an expert mixture of pumping and 
 condolence. 
 
 "You don't quite understand him, mamma." 
 Adelaide luckily never wearied of a good for- 
 mula. "The air here gives him insomnia, and
 
 Fox and Crane i i 3 
 
 that prevents his working. We are thinking 
 of going back to Chastellux." 
 
 Mrs. Noel reflected. "Perhaps you had 
 better be in your own house, but I hate to 
 think of you, shut up in the country, alone 
 with him." 
 
 Adelaide's white eyelids drooped. A guilty, 
 delicious tremor passed over her. Being shut 
 up alone with Felix did not exactly present it- 
 self in the light of acute hardship. 
 
 After much cogitation, however, she eventu- 
 ally decided upon a compromise. Her mother 
 urged the propriety of a young couple regis- 
 tering, as it were, in society, before striking 
 out a line of their own, if indeed they were so 
 ill judged as to meditate such a thing. The 
 advice in Mrs. Laurence's letter had also ended 
 by making its mark to such an extent that Ade- 
 laide began to concede the wisdom of special 
 allowance for some of her husband's peculiari- 
 ties. At this juncture a town house was of- 
 fered, furnished and ready for use. The pros- 
 pect of speedy escape from Noel Place quite
 
 1 14 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 banished Felix's horror of cities. Giving up 
 his wish to enjoy the spring at Chastellux, he 
 prepared with equable temper to face the dregs 
 of the season in town.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 jfetfi f snores tbe "Rules 
 
 "T7DU can't imagine what a gratification it 
 
 A is to feel that no one had ever proposed 
 to my wife, till I came along," Felix mischie- 
 vously announced to Mrs. Bradish Laurence, 
 who was lunching with the young couple in 
 their new town house. 
 
 "Don't be too sure of that," the old lady 
 sapiently nodded. "Very foolish of you to tell 
 him so, Adelaide. Think of his conceit !" 
 
 "Dear Cousin Emily, this is the first word 
 we've ever had on the subject." Adelaide 
 would as soon have thought of publishing the 
 price of her underwear as of hinting at a very 
 creditable string of discarded admirers. 
 
 "Some things are plain enough without tell- 
 ing." Felix aimed at a definite point. "We 
 "5
 
 n6 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 have never rawly put it into words, but you, 
 my dear, could never have been so rude and 
 inconsiderate as to hurt any gentleman's feel- 
 ings by saying 'no.' I judge from your gen- 
 eral reluctance to refuse anything, even a 
 woman's lunch." 
 
 "But I don't want to. Women's lunches are 
 pleasant." Adelaide's belief that all decorous 
 entertainments must entertain savoured of a 
 past generation. "Besides there are other rea- 
 sons for going. Don't you think I'm right, 
 cousin ?" 
 
 "Are you asking me to put my finger be- 
 tween the tree and the bark? No, thank you, 
 dear," the old lady retorted, in high enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 "But see," Adelaide would not be put off, 
 "there are people who can't give us din- 
 ners . . ." 
 
 "Thank God for them," groaned Felix, "but 
 where ?" 
 
 Paying no heed to this, Adelaide developed 
 her line of reasoning. "Yet some of them
 
 Felix Ignores the Rules 1 1 j 
 
 want to show me some attention. It seems un- 
 gracious not to accept." 
 
 "And accept we do, dinners and all," Felix 
 lamented. "And there are parties afterwards 
 that keep you up all night. Towards sunrise 
 the gayest ball may drag a trifle. Then awful 
 things happen." 
 
 "For instance ?" The old lady felt relish for 
 detail. "In my days young people liked to 
 dance." 
 
 "Dance !" Felix grew eloquent. "Think of 
 your mortal body ! You've dined from nine 
 till eleven, smirking till you want to rub the 
 grin off at a lady who isn't amusing to talk to, 
 and with whom your wife doesn't allow you to 
 flirt. Only because it's bad manners, no mean 
 jealousy. Though why they let the women 
 come rigged out as they do, unless ..." 
 
 "Felix!" Adelaide remonstrated. 
 
 "Well, then, where was I? From eleven to 
 twelve you put home for repairs. Then the 
 ball begins. By two you've had all the dancing 
 necessary to your happiness. By four you
 
 1 1 8 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 drift into a corner with some poor soul who is 
 as talked out as you are. At that hour discreet 
 topics do not crowd forward. Beside, by that 
 time, she generally looks for something dif- 
 ferent to keep her awake. Poor lady, she's 
 tired, too, and it takes a pretty stiff pace. You 
 set it faster and faster, to stave off the scandal 
 of your both being found asleep in each 
 other's arms a situation Mrs. Noel would 
 surely misinterpret, though I might be able to 
 explain it to my wife." 
 
 "I never heard such nonsense in all my life," 
 the old lady averred. "Am I to believe that 
 your habit, before marriage, was to be abed 
 every night by ten? And as for Adelaide's 
 lunches, can't you make use of the time when 
 she is off to put in a good day's work?" 
 
 "Work!" Felix lamented. "After such a 
 night? Never a line. Can't even read for the 
 fatigue of the evening before, and the horror 
 of the evening to come !" 
 
 Mrs. Laurence shook her head. "That is 
 bad ! Why not trot off to a quiet, sober town,
 
 Felix Ignores the Rules 1 1 9 
 
 to Paris, where there is no temptation to stay 
 abroad after sunset?" 
 
 "Yes, we must go," Felix struck in hope- 
 fully. "But not yet. Mrs. Noel says it's 
 proper for us to stick in our roots here first, so 
 as to why is it, Adelaide? Some reason I 
 bow to, without quite fathoming . . ." 
 
 "When you do go," Mrs. Laurence solemnly 
 adjured Adelaide, "you must be careful not to 
 let Carrillac see what a little provincial you 
 are, my child." 
 
 The old lady's tone brought a slightly of- 
 fended expression to Adelaide's face, but her 
 admonitions went on, undisturbed. "You 
 know by now, if you've any sense," she was 
 ruthless, "that every woman who claps eyes on 
 your husband is always thinking how many 
 thousand times better she understands him 
 than you can ever hope to. Carrillac's wife 
 will of course be certain you're making a mess 
 of it, and that will put you at a disadvantage, 
 whatever you do." 
 
 "Oh, come!" Felix hurried to his wife's
 
 1 20 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 rescue. "They will see at a glance that Ade- 
 laide . . ." Suddenly he stopped, blush- 
 ing. 
 
 "I do believe, I actually believe you are still 
 in love with her, after a fashion." The old 
 lady marvelled. "The fact is," she went on 
 with the air of a person on whom new light 
 has broken, "we were all of us wrong about 
 your poet, Adelaide. He's a domestic charac- 
 ter. We stupidly supposed because he has a 
 great deal of what you young fry are pleased 
 to call temperament, that he would necessarily 
 be whisking off after every petticoat in sight, 
 but you, his own! Not a bit of it! They 
 whisk after him, of course, but he can work 
 himself off in his poetry. Imagination takes 
 the place of action. Do you see what I mean ? 
 He doesn't care for women in the least and 
 that's the saving truth. Where a tuppenny ver- 
 sifier has to run out and warm himself at all 
 sorts of horrid little bonfires, this creature, 
 whom you drag about to dull parties, can shut 
 himself up alone in a freezing garret and be a
 
 Felix Ignores the Rules 121 
 
 whole volcano. You are perfectly secure, be- 
 cause the women he is thrown with will always 
 fall short of the beings he can evoke, by just 
 closing his eyes. At least you are safe from 
 vulgar rivals!" 
 
 "From vulgar rivals?" Adelaide hardly 
 relished the tone of this, but natural curiosity 
 betrayed her into questioning. 
 
 "Yes." The old lady was relentless. "The 
 real danger is from your own mistakes. Don't 
 take it into your head that your own function 
 in life is anything but meekly to supplement 
 him. Read your mythology, child ! Those old 
 Greeks knew everything, and they always had 
 it that when very nice girls, very nice girls 
 indeed, my dear, married above them ..." 
 
 "Cousin Emily," Adelaide thought this had 
 gone far enough, "I'm too sorry." She 
 glanced at the clock. Felix would have gladly 
 talked longer, but Adelaide was due at an in- 
 exorable dressmaker's. A masseuse claimed 
 Mrs. Laurence. Left to his own devices, he 
 strolled aimlessly about the streets, trying to
 
 122 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 find some interest in the typeless faces of 
 thronging, overdressed shoppers. Young 
 women who were decent, but did not look it, 
 talked gaily to their admirers. Vendors of 
 boutonnieres pressed forward with insistent 
 cries. Fakirs let loose crawling mechanical 
 toys on the narrow sidewalk. At certain cor- 
 ners flashy men ogled the passing stream, or 
 scanned it for an expected face. A newspaper 
 man brushed against Felix, with "Can't stop, 
 now. Behind time!" He jumped on to a 
 moving car. 
 
 Felix felt utterly at sea. Work as a refuge 
 had failed him. Threatening rain made the 
 idea of a country walk or ride gloomy and 
 comfortless. The club bored him. At this 
 hour Albert Yule would be busy, Mrs. Le 
 Grand was receiving, which meant a tiresome 
 mob of visitors. 
 
 "Ah, there!" A brisk voice cut in on his 
 loneliness. "You certainly don't rubber when 
 you're out, Mr. Gwynne !" 
 
 "I beg your pardon." Confusedly he raised
 
 Felix Ignores the Rules 123 
 
 his hat and confronted the strikingly attired 
 figure of Angela's friend, Miss Charlie Tone. 
 
 "Been trying to catch you for two squares," 
 she explained in her easy vernacular, "but you 
 act just like you were pace-making. Never 
 looked round once !" 
 
 "I'm a brute," Felix confessed, "not to be 
 conscious of your presence." 
 
 She gave him a quick glance. "None of 
 that, my son ! Do you suppose I've been chas- 
 ing after you to hear you pump hot air?" 
 
 "Hardly that," Felix chaffed, "since the 
 chasing would naturally be the other way 
 round." 
 
 Miss Charlie brushed him aside. "This is 
 serious !" 
 
 "Not Miss Wheatland?" he asked. 
 
 She nodded. "You and I will have to pull 
 together a bit here. I know fast enough I'm 
 not just in your set, Mr. Gwynne, but no more 
 are you in mine. You're a society swell, and 
 I'm booked to marry a floor- walker," she 
 smiled frankly into his eyes, "and honestly, I
 
 124 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 fancy his kind best. I guess we understand 
 each other, now." 
 
 "Oh, come!" Felix complained. "You've 
 no right to snub me." 
 
 "Excuse me," she handsomely apologised. 
 "I was wrong. You're no stuffed shirt. Is 
 that rain !" 
 
 "Rain and sleet. Here's a hansom," Felix 
 suggested. "Let's get in." 
 
 Without a second's hesitation, Miss Charlie 
 plunged into the cab, brushing the ceiling with 
 her nodding plumes, and settled happily to a 
 long chat. 
 
 "Up and down a quiet street, slow!" Felix 
 ordered the driver. "Now, Miss Tone, what 
 is it?" 
 
 The tale she poured forth was, in fact, no 
 more than he already knew, but even he had 
 not realised to what extent trouble was prey- 
 ing upon little Angela's health and spirits. 
 Charlie felt gravely worried about her. "They 
 give her a lot of glad rags and trot her around 
 to functions, and half of what that costs would
 
 Felix Ignores the Rules 125 
 
 send her out to Manila and set her up at 
 housekeeping. He's a nice boy," she added in 
 pleased reminiscence. 
 
 "Good enough for her?" Felix doubted it. 
 
 "Nothing at all the matter with Tommy, 
 and any way, she'll die without him. That's 
 the point," Charlie went on. "Angela's queer. 
 Like a story-book girl. She don't act spoony 
 or anything, but she's got to have him, right 
 enough, no one else will do !" 
 
 This sense of immediate danger to his little 
 friend quite sufficed to set Felix on fire, and the 
 next hour passed in concocting plots and coun- 
 ter-plots, Miss Tone particularly favouring a 
 conspiracy for uniting Angela and Tommy on 
 the occasion of her own marriage to Mr. Web- 
 ber. "She could hold out six months or so 
 fast enough, if that was settled," Miss Char- 
 lie affirmed. "And couldn't you hustle a 
 bit and get him leave; on the quiet, you 
 know?" 
 
 "Yes," Felix saw it all, "he could stop with 
 us. My wife would help. Then we could give
 
 126 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 them a wedding in the country. I thought of 
 that before." 
 
 At this, Miss Charlie looked queer. "Of 
 course," she assented drily. "That would be 
 the best yet !" 
 
 It had been drizzling for some time, and a 
 creepy spring chill suggested the comfort of 
 tea. Telling their driver to wait, Felix es- 
 corted Miss Charlie to a popular restaurant, 
 where, with elbows intimately planted on a 
 small table, the pair continued to lay plans 
 with such absorption as to be quite uncon- 
 scious of various astonished glances cast upon 
 them. 
 
 "Gwynne beginning to kick over the traces," 
 was shortly reported at the club. "Might find 
 a quieter way to do it. There are plenty of 
 other places he could take her." 
 
 Two ladies hastening to tea and bridge at 
 Mrs. Wheatland's, with their own modest eyes 
 saw Felix emerge from the hostelry, accom- 
 panying a "flagrant" creature, whom he was 
 so loath to leave that several carriages were
 
 Felix Ignores the Rules 127 
 
 blocked, while "her" hansom stood at the awn- 
 ing for last words of an obviously confidential 
 nature. As she finally drove off, the ladies dis- 
 tinctly heard him say, "On Monday, then?" 
 This they duly carried to Mrs. Wheatland, 
 who at once commented in an edifying voice, 
 upon the misery certain to follow hasty and ill- 
 considered marriages. 
 
 Screened behind an ugly urn, Angela 
 brewed a fresh pot in trembling silence. 
 
 "Was it any actress you knew by sight?" 
 Desiring to prolong this object lesson, Mrs. 
 Wheatland used a polite synonym. 
 
 The ladies gave a pregnant dumbshow of 
 respect for Angela's innocence. 
 
 "Hardly an actress, I think!" the chairman 
 of the information committee volunteered with 
 lowered voice. 
 
 "What did she look like?" Angela 
 spoke. 
 
 "Just a showy pers*on, my dear." This 
 came soothingly, it being desirable that young 
 girls, though well-terrorised, should never re-
 
 128 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 ceive full enlightenment as to the exact nature 
 of nebulous horrors. 
 
 "Had she big brown eyes, and rosy cheeks, 
 with a very big pompadour?" Angela asked. 
 
 "Well now, I fancy perhaps she had." This 
 admission came with grudging reserve. 
 
 "Then, mamma, she's a particular friend of 
 mine, and I introduced her to him." At bay 
 behind her teacups, Angela recklessly sacri- 
 ficed the secret of her illicit intercourse with 
 Charlie Tone. 
 
 "Girls have such funny little whims," Mrs. 
 Wheatland explained with vast self-control. 
 "Angela is always imagining that she likes to 
 associate with people not of her own class. 
 She is constantly picking up such odd acquaint- 
 ances." 
 
 "But Mr. Gwynne?" The ladies failed to 
 grasp the underlying situation. "Why should 
 he go about with this young woman?" 
 
 Angela hated lying, but she also saw that a 
 vigorous falsehood could alone be of use to 
 Felix. The effort to steady her voice gave her
 
 Felix Ignores the Rules 129 
 
 answer an extra ring of defiance. "I asked 
 him to find Charlotte Tone, and give her a 
 message !" 
 
 "Angela, isn't it time for you to dress? 
 You know, dear Howard is coming early to 
 dinner. Mrs. Le Grand's circus party for 
 Bessy is to-night," Mrs. Wheatland ex- 
 plained to the now bewildered ladies, with out- 
 ward graciousness, but inwardly deploring 
 that any girl could pass the spanking age with- 
 out at all reaching years of discretion !
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 Crane anO ffoj 
 
 ABOUT the time that Mrs. Le Grand 
 reached a decision that "something" 
 should be done for the Gvvynnes, Albert Yule 
 also decided upon a dinner for the Herbert 
 Heatons. This, in Mrs. Le Grand's view, was 
 a heaven-sent opportunity to begin Adelaide's 
 education. 
 
 "Have Gather and his wife," she jotted 
 down names, "then Mrs. Worthing and the 
 boy, too, of course. You and me, with Heaton 
 and his wife; that makes enough." 
 
 Albert more than suspected himself of being 
 the tamest of tame cats at the hearth of this 
 pleasant friend, who always understood, who 
 was always clever enough, never fatiguingly 
 so. The idea of a sentimental tinge in his re- 
 gard for her never presented itself. Her as- 
 130
 
 Crane and Fox 131 
 
 sured intimacy was merely a means of soften- 
 ing the loneliness of bachelorhood, without 
 risking closer adjustment with some untried 
 companion. Marriage equally allured and 
 alarmed Albert. Alice afforded him an unim- 
 peachable and satisfactory compromise. Long 
 ago, scenting an "affair," people were inclined 
 to "talk." Gradually they ratified this rela- 
 tion as belonging to that curious class of in- 
 timacy which in time becomes sanctioned by 
 usage. Finally they were convinced that, 
 while being a good wife to Harry Le Grand, a 
 restless-minded woman like Alice really needed 
 some one else to talk to and why not Albert 
 Yule ? Consequently, in the lapse of years, the 
 lady fell into a habit of exercising full control 
 over her friend in such small matters as the 
 personnel of his dinners. 
 
 "The reason I am so eager," she persisted, 
 "is that Herbert Heaton and his wife belong 
 to Adelaide's world, yet they go with the stripe 
 of people Felix has been used to, over there. 
 It is good for Adelaide to learn the difference
 
 132 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 between the real thing and that deplorable 
 crew the Noels raked together for the poor 
 man's entertainment." 
 
 "Does she know Gather's wife?" Albert 
 contested every inch of a losing fight. 
 
 Mrs. Le Grand believed that they had ex- 
 changed visits, without, however, meeting. 
 "Just as well," she confessed. "Mrs. Gather is 
 an enchanting creature, with that smooth, 
 early-Florentine profile, and startling modern 
 point of view ; but when I called, she held their 
 baby in one hand and her cigarette in the other. 
 Yet I've seldom passed a pleasanter hour." 
 
 "That is it, exactly," Yule pointed out. 
 "When Mrs. Worthing smokes between 
 courses, Maude Gather will do it too. Mrs. 
 Gwynne won't fancy that." 
 
 "She may not mind them." Mrs. Le Grand 
 would not be discouraged. "It was the baby 
 that made the real complication. Still, if you 
 don't feel like chancing it . . ." 
 
 Thus adjured, Albert could only yield, and 
 still prompted by his Mentor, he made the
 
 Crane and Fox 133 
 
 guests assemble in a lately discovered Italian 
 restaurant, overlooking a square, far from the 
 haunts of civilised man. 
 
 Signer Rossi provided a private room and 
 himself saw to the cooking. The Signora left 
 her place at the desk, to conduct Mr. Yule's 
 friends up a stairway none too clean, but 
 broad, and boasting a rail of old mahogany. 
 From a lower room, patrons with hair en 
 brosse, peered out at the strange ladies. Mrs. 
 Le Grand was savouring all the safe delights 
 of tempered adventure. Adelaide controlled 
 the recoil of a person to whom no adventure is 
 pleasant. Why, she wondered, could Albert 
 Yule not have them at his own comfortable 
 table, instead of coming down into this dingy 
 house, in a dingy quarter ? 
 
 Harold Gather and Mrs. Worthing were al- 
 ready looking out over the square, exclaiming 
 at the sweetness of a loitering spring sunset. 
 The bare boughs of maples, burgeoning with 
 lumpy buds, were outlined against a tranquil 
 sky. An early star showed blue in the wan-
 
 1 34 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 ing, pink glow. Lights flickered in the arcade 
 of an old building. Voices of girls and young 
 men came from paths and benches in the square 
 beneath. Parties of Italians sauntered out to 
 enjoy the quiet. Children wavered along the 
 broad walks, a batch of tottering babies in con- 
 voy of an older sister, herself not far past 
 babyhood. One rusty tramp scattered crumbs 
 to a family of sparrows. Across the open 
 space, groups dimly seen were collecting about 
 the newspaper offices. Near a fountain, an 
 itinerant preacher bellowed of eternal punish- 
 ment to a lethargic audience. 
 
 Eager-eyed, vibrating with sympathy, Felix 
 drank it all in, this happy exhalation of a city 
 relaxed and breathing after the hard day's 
 work. An organ burst forth on the side- 
 walk . . . "Funiculi, Funicula." A girl be- 
 gan to sing, stridently, but with ineffable 
 charm. The children were dancing. Felix 
 turned with an intimate smile to his wife. She 
 was watching the scene below with uncompre- 
 hending pity. "The poor souls," she presently
 
 Crane and Fox 135 
 
 murmured. "Fancy their having spirit to 
 dance . . ." 
 
 "And Gather here denies," Herbert Hea- 
 ton's high-pitched voice broke in on them, 
 "that movement and music really are co-or- 
 dinating impulses. You and I, Gwynne, who 
 have a drop of Dago in us, know better. See 
 how that organ keyed up everything on the 
 stage, down there. See that young fellow kiss 
 his girl! See their feet grow frisky! Even 
 the crone staggering under her load of wood 
 has quickened her pace ..." 
 
 At table, Adelaide found herself between 
 Gather and the Worthing boy, a clever lad, 
 citizen of all countries, at home and interested 
 in all companies. 
 
 "Isn't it a wonderful thing," he asked in the 
 privileged manner of Cherubinos all the world 
 over, "to see Mr. Gwynne every day, to live in 
 the house with him? I feel as if it would be 
 too much excitement for me, and what it must 
 be for a woman ! Aren't you afraid sometimes 
 that it will burn you up? Weren't there
 
 136 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 mortal girls in the mythologies, who pegged 
 out from being too much with the gods?" 
 
 It was the second time that Adelaide had 
 been plainly told that she ranked as her hus- 
 band's inferior, and the sudden revelation that 
 this free-spoken youth probably voiced the 
 opinion of every one at table swept away any 
 resentment she might have felt at his imperti- 
 nence. All at once, she wanted to know more, 
 to get at this hidden point of view, but how 
 to begin ? Certainly she could ask no ques- 
 tions. 
 
 Arthur Worthing, however, needed only an 
 opening. "I know a little what it's like my- 
 self," the boy went on, with a note of regret 
 in his clear, young voice. "My father was just 
 writing a lot, successfully I mean, when he 
 died. My mother used half to kill herself to 
 keep him from being bothered. She tackled all 
 the bores and duns, and copied his manuscripts. 
 I can just remember her banging away on the 
 typewriter, late at night in the room where I 
 slept. And one day when the cross landlady
 
 Crane and Fox 137 
 
 came in, and made a row about back 
 rent . . ." 
 
 This easy allusion to things unmentionable 
 put a touch of frost into Adelaide's reply. 
 Why try to measure herself by such people? 
 They were different. Beside, Mrs. Worthing, 
 with her free ways and constant laugh, did not 
 suggest the devoted being of her son's picture. 
 "That must have been rather hard on the land- 
 lady," was her only comment. 
 
 At this, the boy frankly stared. "There's a 
 regular beast next me," he promptly reported 
 to his neighbour, the early-Florentine Mrs. 
 Gather. 
 
 Adelaide gave ear to the general talk. 
 
 Herbert Heaton, with much gesticulation, 
 was dissecting a recent play. "I tell you," he 
 grew quite excited, "psychologically, it's away 
 off, all after the second act." 
 
 "Yes," chimed in Mrs. Worthing. "No 
 man would keep on with a light-o'-love who 
 did nothing but shed tears, for how long was 
 it, months?"
 
 138 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 "And then," Heaton went on quite as ear- 
 nestly as if it could possibly matter, "she 
 started out by being a lady who relished diver- 
 sion." 
 
 "Yes," Mrs. Worthing made dramatic ges- 
 tures. "In real life it would have gone like 
 this . . . ! She would say, 'The other one 
 is my real fancy, but since you are here, and he 
 is not, and you've been so good as to buy me 
 tickets . . .'" 
 
 With absurd feminine movements of the 
 hands, Heaton cut in, "I'll just slip my 
 bonnet on, and we'll step round to the 
 show." 
 
 "And her explanation," Mrs. Worthing ob- 
 jected, "when the other man came back. A 
 practical girl, with an eye to the main chance, 
 would have said right out, 'Of course, while 
 you were off, and he was putting up for 
 me . . .' " 
 
 "Adelaide!" At this juncture, Mrs. Le 
 Grand caught sight of Adelaide's face, and 
 hastily tumbled to her rescue. "Mr. Yule
 
 Crane and Fox 139 
 
 wants you notice this spaghetti. Rossi's 
 the only man in town who does it just 
 so!" 
 
 But the guests were not to be quelled. Hea- 
 ton and Mrs. Worthing, it is true, temporarily 
 subsided, as Mrs. Heaton, a prosperous and 
 conventionally attired woman from whom 
 Mrs. Le Grand expected only help, at once 
 took up the thread. 
 
 "I don't think," she deliberately addressed 
 the table, "that we have many adequate studies 
 of vicious instincts yet, on the stage. Except 
 perhaps Hedda Gabbler. They always bring 
 in extenuating circumstances, to create sym- 
 pathy." 
 
 "What about Hedda's husband?" Mrs. 
 Gather cut it. "Wouldn't he extenuate any- 
 thing? And it's the same in fiction, too. 
 Think how poor Emma Bovary was bored, be- 
 fore she started out to faire la nocel Don't 
 you agree with me, Mrs. Gwynne?" 
 
 Albert Yule watched uneasily. Did malice 
 lurk in those oblique, pale-lashed eyes? Or
 
 140 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 did Mrs. Gather in good faith class Adelaide 
 as one of themselves? 
 
 "I've never read the book." Adelaide was 
 fairly at bay. 
 
 "Quite right, Mrs. Gwynne !" Unexpected 
 aid came from Gather. "Horrid attenuated 
 stuff. We want something warmer blooded, 
 more in sympathy. There is no end of good 
 and kindness running through the worst cor- 
 ruption, even of a big city." 
 
 "Tell them about the policeman," Mrs. 
 Gather prompted. 
 
 "I didn't see this myself." Gather turned 
 his dreamy, delicate face to Adelaide, evidently 
 thinking the enemy of Emma Bovary would 
 rejoice in hearing good of her kind. "A 
 doctor told me. Through his work he knows 
 the town, really knows it . . ." 
 
 "What we all should do, if we weren't so 
 lazy," approved Mrs. Heaton. 
 
 "Yes, I think so." Felix was enjoying him- 
 self immensely, and had quite forgotten Ade- 
 laide's sensitiveness. "Even seeing it so, su-
 
 Crane and Fox 141 
 
 perficially, out that window, makes you feel 
 what a lot you lose, never going deeper. I 
 wish I knew your doctor, Gather." 
 
 "Not hard to manage; he thinks fine things 
 of you," Gather went on. "He'd be glad to 
 take you about on his trips, at night ..." 
 
 "But our story . . ." Mrs. Heaton re- 
 minded them. 
 
 "It's very slight. O'Reilly, a big policeman, 
 told how a man stopped him to say there was a 
 white girl, in a coloured house, in a 
 court . . ." 
 
 Adelaide stole a glance around the table. 
 Not only were they interested, \vomen and all, 
 but there was a bewildering fantastic sense of 
 remissness about them, for not knowing more ! 
 
 "You see," Gather explained, "the town is 
 districted. All the people in power, like 
 O'Reilly, know it as an African knows his 
 jungle paths. They see that every tribe keeps 
 within its own limits ... It wasn't much of 
 a story," he went on lamely, instinctively re- 
 acting to a chill current in the atmosphere.
 
 142 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 "Only that O'Reilly got the girl and took her 
 back to her mother, made no arrest. The old 
 woman was a decent, hard-working body, they 
 had a comfortable home, but the girl came 
 straight back. Three times he dragged her out 
 of dens, but it was no use. She had been born 
 bad, as you say, Mrs. Heaton. My doctor man 
 saw her in the hospital. Young and pretty, 
 well-spoken too, when she wasn't drunk." 
 
 "I'd like to know O'Reilly," Felix chimed 
 in. "What a wise despot he must be. There is 
 something in that to touch your imagination." 
 
 "He could show you a lot." Gather was de- 
 lighted. "I'll arrange it." 
 
 "Isn't it too bad we can't go along, Mrs. 
 Gwynne?" Mrs. Heaton politely asked, feeling 
 that Adelaide was rather out of it. "Women 
 are so handicapped !" 
 
 "Why are they more handicapped than 
 men?" Adelaide spoke clearly, and the table 
 felt with pleased surprise that perhaps they 
 had not done Mrs. Gwynne justice. She was 
 evidently about to strike her gait.
 
 Crane and Fox 143 
 
 "If any woman," she went on deliberately, 
 "should choose to set aside all the restraints 
 and responsibilities of decency, I suppose some 
 one could be found to gratify her objectionable 
 curiosity. I fail to see why being a man makes 
 it pardonable to wander about in in . . ." 
 she broke off in disgust. 
 
 This time the situation was past saving. 
 Adelaide's "gait" left the guests open-eyed 
 with dismay. But instead of being shamed by 
 the rebuke, to her amazement, they looked as 
 shocked as if she had introduced an unseemly 
 topic for general conversation. Herbert Hea- 
 ton's volatile spirits had escaped through the 
 roof. His wife, having no definite responsi- 
 bility, simply gave up hope of a rally. The 
 boy and Mrs. Gather frankly watched the 
 show. 
 
 At this minute, Signor Rossi bustled in with 
 a note. "Signora Le Grand?" he questioned. 
 "The gentleman waits below !" 
 
 "Let me see what it is!" Albert Yule hur- 
 ried from the room, ready to welcome any mis-
 
 144 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 hap that might break up so ill-starred a fes- 
 tivity. 
 
 The company waited with a breathless sense 
 of misfortune. Presently the host came back, 
 looking elaborately reassured. "Your hus- 
 band had a tumble, jumping off a car," he ex- 
 plained to Alice. "Nothing serious, but they 
 took him to the hospital and will keep him over 
 night. One of the house doctors came himself 
 to tell you. Will you go down . . ." 
 
 Whatever Alice might feel towards Harry 
 as a companion, as a husband in trouble he 
 commanded her instant care and affection. 
 The queer grip at her throat, when she found 
 him stretched in a neat cot, could not have 
 been more genuine, had she habitually enjoyed 
 his conversation. The big hospital had settled 
 down into nightly quiet. Nurses moved softly 
 in. the dim corridors, white-clad internes 
 paused here and there for an order, for an end 
 of flirtation. In a private room, Harry him- 
 self had adjusted the electric light so as to fall 
 on his evening paper. Soothed by an opiate,
 
 Crane and Fox 145 
 
 he presented no appearance of pain or injury. 
 A broken ankle, he explained. Not serious, 
 but needing great care. To-morrow, after 
 the X-ray examination, he could be carried 
 home. 
 
 "But I don't understand yet how it hap- 
 pened," Alice asked when the nurse had con- 
 siderately left them alone. 
 
 The look of annoyance on Harry's face 
 deepened to intense disgust. 
 
 "It will surprise you to learn," he grunted, 
 "that, in a way, I have your Mr. Felix Gwynne 
 to thank for this !" 
 
 "Felix! Why, he has been with us all the 
 evening!" Alice protested. 
 
 Harry thought it over. "That wasn't quite 
 true, what I said. It's all my own fault." He 
 turned beet-red, "And it is going to make me 
 hot to think of it, to the last day I live !" Then 
 the story came out. On the platform of a 
 crowded car, he had been so foolish as to re- 
 peat to another man a bit of gossip. Felix 
 being seen having tea where everybody went,
 
 146 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 with a woman most entirely off colour. Le 
 Grand and his friend uttered manly disap- 
 proval of Gwynne's not giving his misdeeds a 
 suitably private setting. "I'd just said, 'Think 
 of all the places he could take her and nobody 
 be the wiser,' when a fellow on the platform 
 slapped my face." The said face actually 
 turned white at the memory. "A counter- 
 skipper beggar, but he was strong. I hit back, 
 hard, in the eye, too. Thought it would floor 
 him ; wasn't quick enough when he got back at 
 me; didn't expect it of him. He threw me 
 off and broke my leg." Harry fell grimly 
 silent. 
 
 Alice's entire experience of life furnished 
 her with no suitable reply. 
 
 In a minute, Harry went on, savagely. 
 "The man jumped off and stood over me. He 
 said . . . That lady is going to be my wife. 
 Here's my name and address.' I've got the 
 thing somewhere." From the wallet at his 
 side, Harry produced a neat business 
 card .
 
 Crane and Fox 147 
 
 MR. RUDOLPH WEBBER 
 
 Clothing Department, Stein's 
 
 "You can hardly . . ." Alice faltered. 
 
 "No, that is just it." Harry turned red, and 
 white again. "I can't send my seconds to look 
 him up on the third floor. My account, the 
 official one, is a tumble. I can't do an 
 earthly thing to him, but stomach my licking 
 and keep my head shut. You see, if she is his 
 girl, the fellow's all right, confound him ! I'd 
 no business to be talking of her, and I can't 
 wait till I'm out of plaster, and go and thrash 
 him in cold blood for doing what any decent 
 man would do in his place. But I tell you, 
 Alice, I have it in for Master Felix for letting 
 me in for such a mess ! Why can't he carry on 
 with a woman of his own class, or else run 
 quietly with the others?"
 
 CHAPTER X 
 Racbel JBernstefn 
 
 ALTHOUGH a street fight and a broken 
 ankle might fall to Harry Le Grand's 
 share, all odium attached to this mishap in 
 some inscrutable way fastened upon Felix. 
 Nobody, of course, "told," but the vague and 
 discreditable rumours afloat proved in the long 
 run more relentlessly damaging than if Mr. 
 Gwynne himself had been brought home 
 nightly by the patrol wagon. Kept fully mis- 
 informed by Mrs. Noel, Adelaide never hinted 
 at these rumours, but distrusting the effect of 
 town life upon Felix, she soon grew as eager 
 as ever he had been to settle for the summer 
 at Chastellux. 
 
 Not long after their installation, Felix came 
 home from some hours of absence, bounded 
 upstairs and burst into her sitting-room, with- 
 148
 
 Rachel Bernstein 149 
 
 out so much as a knock, or "by your leave." 
 She now understood her husband sufficiently 
 to read anger in his white face and irritable 
 brows. 
 
 "There is some one we must invite here for 
 next Sunday," he began breathlessly. 
 
 Adelaide met this with gracious surprise. 
 Hitherto he had shown no wish to break their 
 solitude. 
 
 "And we must have other people, too," he 
 went on, "a lot of them. Your friends, not 
 mine." 
 
 "Lily Northrup, will she do?" Adelaide 
 was ready for his bidding. 
 
 "Yes, and two nice men. It's a girl named 
 Tone," he smiled confidentially, "and her beau. 
 We must make a fuss over them." 
 
 Adelaide's willingness had frozen. "And 
 may I ask ... ?" 
 
 "Of course, it may seem queer, but there's 
 a reason." Felix came to her side. "I hardly 
 know how to speak to you of anything so hor- 
 rid, but perhaps you had better know."
 
 150 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 "Thank you," she drew away from him, 
 "but I know more than enough already." 
 
 "Do you mean why! Who could have 
 been ass enough to bother you with that? 
 Why didn't you come straight to me? I never 
 heard a syllable till to-day, at the club, and of 
 course the only thing is for you to befriend her 
 at once, publicly. Otherwise the girl's reputa- 
 tion might suffer." 
 
 "Will you ever learn to think about your 
 own reputation, Felix?" Adelaide asked in af- 
 fectionate despair. "And think of the posi- 
 tion you put me in, all the time!" 
 
 "My reputation!" Felix pulled up short. 
 "No, I do not usually worry greatly about it. 
 But if, by being heedless, I've put Miss Tone 
 in a hole, it is my business to help her out, 
 don't you see? And naturally, it can only be 
 done through you." 
 
 Adelaide felt that the moment had come. 
 "No, dear, I do not quite see. If this Miss 
 Tone, who knows perfectly well what she's 
 about, choses to compromise herself by unsuit-
 
 Rachel Bernstein 151 
 
 able behaviour, that is her own affair, but 
 hardly reason for my making friends with a 
 shopgirl." 
 
 For a full minute Felix stared at his wife. 
 Then he began patiently, as if speaking to an 
 invalid, or a very old person. "I asked Miss 
 Tone to have tea with me, because it was rain- 
 ing and we were both chilled through, from 
 driving up and down in a damp cab. We had 
 been talking about Angela, planning to give 
 her a hand, do you see?" 
 
 At this, Adelaide could not forbear from 
 raising her eyebrows, his explanation seemed 
 even less creditable than the rumours. 
 
 Felix went on, with growing indignation : 
 "Some pure-minded being saw us, concluded 
 we were on a spree. Harry Le Grand gos- 
 sipped about it in the car, and Miss Tone's fu- 
 ture husband gave him the licking that he jolly 
 well earned. Now if you have her here, it sets 
 the whole business straight. I daren't make 
 one move, myself, because of everything. 
 Then her young man wouldn't like it."
 
 152 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 Adelaide shook her head. "Really, Felix, 
 if shopgirls . . . No? Stenographers, then, 
 take tea with gentlemen at fashionable restau- 
 rants, they must bear the consequences. It's 
 far better for her to have a sharp lesson, now, 
 than to gloss the thing over, and . . ." 
 
 The mobile brows formed a straight line 
 over Felix's dark-blue eyes, again he stared 
 fixedly at his wife. Then he laughed. 
 "Bless your heart, how you relieve my con- 
 science !" 
 
 Adelaide's face marked a complete inability 
 to follow. 
 
 "Don't you see, dear child? Once in a while 
 I've felt that possibly it was hard on you keep- 
 ing step with an irregular creature like me, and 
 I've tried, honestly tried, to fall in line. But 
 now, I see you would be the last person to de- 
 mand such a thing. You've too big a sense of 
 justice. You believe in every one's coming in 
 plumb for the result of their own actions. 
 Miss Tone has been imprudent, let her pay the 
 price ! You married me of course you expect
 
 Rachel Bernstein 153 
 
 to take what comes. So I'm off, with a clear 
 conscience ?" 
 
 "Now?" Adelaide postponed argument. 
 
 "Yes, to town, to dine with Rachel Bern- 
 stein." 
 
 "What do you mean?" Adelaide thought 
 this surely a joke. Her husband dine with 
 an utterly notorious, man-eating French ac- 
 tress ! 
 
 "Yes." Felix was evidently quite in ear- 
 nest. "Did I forget to tell you? They have 
 translated a thing I wrote long ago, a fantasy. 
 She wants a prologue, to bring it out in Paris, 
 and I have some ideas for stage setting. She 
 is stopping here in town, before they sail, to go 
 over it with me. I shan't be back for a week," 
 he added light-heartedly. "Just tell them to 
 send my things to her hotel, will you. As 
 we've no company coming here, it will save 
 trouble for me to be near her all the time." 
 
 "Felix, you can't really mean this?" Ade- 
 laide in turn was angry. 
 
 For the first time, as he looked at her, Felix
 
 1 54 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 saw his wife critically. Her distinguished ap- 
 pearance failed to please him. It was associ- 
 ated with all the unpleasant things in life. 
 Why should this cool, ignorant young woman 
 set herself up as a mentor? Compared to her 
 the robust warmth of Charlie Tone, the girlish 
 passion of Angela, the elderly Frenchwoman's 
 wit and genius, even the naked shoulders of 
 Mrs. Darling seemed comfortably human. All 
 at once Adelaide had drifted a great distance 
 away. He saw her now, in ten, in twenty 
 years. Always impeccably the same. "By the 
 way," he added mischievously, "did you know 
 that Cousin Emily Laurence is collecting her 
 memories of Washington society, during the 
 civil war?" 
 
 "But listen, Felix!" Adelaide strove to pin 
 him down. 
 
 "She is busy dictating them to Miss Tone. 
 Rather compromising for Cousin Emily, isn't 
 it? Yesterday she took her to drive too, in a 
 open victoria !" 
 
 Suddenly Felix again changed. With per-
 
 Rachel Bernstein 155 
 
 feet gravity he came towards Adelaide and laid 
 a gentle hand on her shoulder. "This is too 
 bad. Why do you make me do it ? Don't you 
 realise that you are no match for me? When 
 it comes to brutality, I can always lay a lash 
 over your back, and bring away a bit of the 
 skin. Words, dear, flock at my bidding. I 
 can see in a flash where to hit and hurt, the 
 place to draw blood. I could even come to en- 
 joy punishing you. There's a cruel pleasure in 
 seeing you turn white and never wince. When 
 you make breaches, so, between us, honestly, 
 I'm terrified, because," he stroked her bowed 
 head tenderly, but with a new touch, the ten- 
 derness of pity "because I can better do with- 
 out you than you can spare me. We love each 
 other, Adelaide, but if anything came between 
 us, I have another passion to fall back on. 
 Something with which you interfere. You 
 have nothing to take the place of that, so you 
 would suffer most !" 
 
 For the first time, with her, Felix was no 
 longer humble. Adelaide painfully remem-
 
 156 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 bered her surprise when Arthur Worthing had 
 spoken of mortal women mated to the gods, 
 spoken without emphasis, as if her inferiority 
 must be patent even to herself. Was she, after 
 all, just a mere girl, inconsiderable among 
 thousands, a creature of no account, to be 
 consumed and cast aside if she hesitated at re- 
 nouncing every rule of ordered life, the 
 hoarded experience of staid generations? Was 
 there indeed another world, bigger and legiti- 
 mately different, with other modes of conduct, 
 where right and wrong merged indisinguish- 
 ably? 
 
 "Does Cousin Emily have Rachel Bern- 
 stein, too?" she suddenly asked. 
 
 "Dear girl," Felix was laughing now, not 
 kindly, "Rachel Bernstein has no spare minutes 
 for clever old ladies. Rehearsing, massage, 
 and a very few privileged gentlemen take up 
 her entire day. Even you couldn't get her, if 
 you wanted her." 
 
 "But she gives you a week!" Adelaide's 
 voice showed much discouragement. To be
 
 Rachel Bernstein 157 
 
 unable to patronise Rachel Bernstein was al- 
 most as unsuitable as to be called upon to do 
 so. 
 
 "But, as you often notice, I am quite dif- 
 ferent ! And now," Felix asked gaily, "all over 
 with our quarrel, isn't it? I've been an ass. 
 Business and pleasure belong apart. I've not 
 quite decided yet which is which, but you must 
 be one or the other, and never again will I try 
 to mix you with alien matter. Kiss me good- 
 bye, and stop crying !" 
 
 "I was not crying." Adelaide felt herself 
 ranked as a small and inefficiently naughty 
 child. 
 
 "Oh, no fibs !" Felix took her in his arms. 
 "At least, you're rather nice to kiss. What are 
 you pulling your face away for? You know 
 you like it, and this will be the last for a 
 week !" With that, he left her. 
 
 Adelaide's trained sense of order turned the 
 seven days of her husband's absence to account 
 by paying neighbourhood visits and entertain- 
 ing women at lunch. She moreover grew ex-
 
 158 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 pert in excuses for Felix's prolonged abode 
 with Rachel Bernstein, as Mrs. Noel, Lily 
 Northrup, and a host of friends found means 
 to offer covert and intolerable sympathy. She 
 had so often proclaimed the necessity of her 
 husband's absence that in the end she was com- 
 ing to believe the truth of what her lips con- 
 stantly uttered. Indeed, seven solitary even- 
 ings had taught her rather to hope that he 
 needs must leave her, than to believe that he 
 freely chose to do so. She was prepared to 
 meet him halfway, to talk it out, to consider 
 his point of view, when Felix reappeared in a 
 mood of exasperating forgetfulness. Their 
 quarrel, his bitter words, everything seemed 
 obliterated from his memory. He would speak 
 neither of the play nor of Rachel Bernstein, but 
 showed entire absorption in a new motor car. 
 After an hour's talk, Adelaide saw what his 
 animation and spirits had heretofore masked, 
 that he looked thin and worn to the point of 
 illness. 
 
 "Are you well ?" she interrupted.
 
 Rachel Bernstein 159 
 
 Felix stopped in mid-career of planning a 
 trip, a run to the sea by unfrequented roads. 
 "Well? I suppose so. Working under pres- 
 sure plays you out a little. The never getting 
 to bed, and the coffee. Do you know, I never 
 set foot out of the hotel for a week. First I 
 would write, then the translation was awful, 
 had to be done over again. Then the pro- 
 logue. She's a wonderful creature. Such in- 
 sight! She really knows. Together we did 
 three times what I could do alone. It was tre- 
 mendous, the pace, the ..." 
 
 "But, Felix!" Adelaide's maternal love of 
 him mourned this intemperate energy. "You 
 have come out of it half dead. And now, as 
 likely as not, you'll stop short and do nothing 
 for weeks !" 
 
 "Why, yes." Felix was unabashed. "I can 
 loaf now." 
 
 "And that must be such a wasteful way to 
 work." Adelaide's voice showed gentle solici- 
 tude. "Beside being bad for you. If you 
 would only learn to do a little every day."
 
 160 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 "You marvellous girl!" All at once he 
 dropped into a chair, pale and mischievous. 
 "How can I ever be sufficiently grateful to 
 you? You daily enlarge my area of possible 
 enjoyments. In Adam's time there was only 
 the one forbidden pleasure of eating a particu- 
 lar apple, but you have the talent to set out 
 whole orchards. According to you, almost 
 everything is fruit dcfendu!" Felix would as 
 soon have stalked abroad in cloak and plume 
 as plead for special license as a poet but the 
 uncomprehended fact lay like a bed of nettles 
 between him and his wife, and the relief of sar- 
 casm came ready to his hand. Presently he 
 was repentant. "See, Adelaide, Tommy Gor- 
 don has a leave." 
 
 "Really!" This did not truly interest 
 her. 
 
 "And Angela will be twenty-one next 
 week/' he went on. "Will you have them here 
 together? The truth is, they want to be mar- 
 ried. Think of a quiet little wedding at Chas- 
 tellux! Next week, perhaps, or ... You
 
 Rachel Bernstein 161 
 
 ought to see Angela ! New eyes, new voice 
 and smile, new pink cheeks, and all in honour 
 of Tommy!" 
 
 "I wish it were right." Adelaide really 
 shrank from again disobliging her husband. 
 "But papa and mamma would never consent 
 to our acting directly in opposition to an older 
 member of the family." 
 
 "I did not suppose they would." Felix 
 showed those symptoms of restiveness which 
 his wife was learning to know and dread. 
 "But they do not happen to own Chastellux, or 
 me. Never mind," he went on. "Angela 
 doesn't care a bit. As long as she has Tommy, 
 she'd just as leave jump over a broomstick in 
 their own back yard, like a gipsy. I only 
 thought a reputable wedding, chaperoned by 
 you, might look better. Cousin Emily would 
 lend a hand, but she's off to-morrow for Bar 
 Harbor." 
 
 All the next day Adelaide debated in private 
 whether without betrayal of family faith, she 
 could extend protection to Angela's runaway
 
 1 62 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 match; but the fear of a breach, the shock to 
 her parents, Cousin Margaret's justifiable 
 wrath, and above all the blame sure to fasten 
 on Felix, in the end counterbalanced her sincere 
 wish to do his bidding. For a day they lived 
 with this between them, then he again van- 
 ished. 
 
 Late one evening he came back, fled to his 
 room with hardly a word for her, but all night 
 long she heard restless movement, ceasing only 
 when the glimmer of early daylight began to 
 streak through closed window blinds. 
 
 She spent a dreary and idle morning, await- 
 ing his appearance. The newspaper failed to 
 hold her attention, till her eye fell on an item. 
 At that minute Felix came to the library door, 
 bearing a handful of closely written sheets. 
 He was quivering with excitement, forgetful 
 of everything but the throes of production, 
 which had held him till the relaxation of dawn 
 suddenly set free his pen to write. He would 
 read to her now, pour it out in its freshness, as 
 it came from his very heart and soul. He
 
 Rachel Bernstein 163 
 
 looked like a being from another sphere, still 
 wrapped in the pain and joy of creation. 
 
 "So they are married, after all ! How, I 
 wonder, did they manage?" Adelaide spread 
 the journal on her knee, one white finger mark- 
 ing the guilty paragraph. 
 
 Felix came back with effort to earth. 
 "They ? Oh, yes ! I put it through for them, 
 without at all involving you. Such a queer 
 double wedding, in the City Hall. Miss Tone 
 and Webber, Tommy and Angela. Yet," he 
 grew reverential, "it was beautiful. There 
 was feeling. You should have seen Angela!" 
 There were tears in his eyes. "She was so 
 quiet, so wordless, so blissful. She simply laid 
 her hand in his, forever, without a question, 
 without a regret." 
 
 "Felix!" Adelaide could not keep back a 
 reproach. "It is my own family! I don't 
 think you have a right ... !" 
 
 "Where are my gloves?" he suddenly broke 
 in. He was rolling up his manuscript with 
 nervous haste.
 
 164 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 "But aren't you going to read me ... ?" 
 For once Adelaide wished to waive her point. 
 His manner fairly scared her. 
 
 "No!" His words came like blocks of ice. 
 "I am not going to read to you. I'm going 
 off for . . ." 
 
 "But where, Felix? You've only just come 
 back! What for?" 
 
 "I don't exactly know, not for certain." He 
 had found his gloves, thrust the manuscript in 
 a table drawer, and was frowning consider- 
 ingly at her. "I don't know where, or what 
 for, but I think, to get drunk, my child. Yes, 
 drunk, quite comfortably drunk!"
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 n tbe IRoaD 
 
 WHATEVER Felix's ultimate design, 
 his first act was peaceably to stand on 
 the high-columned veranda, staring down 
 over the sloping lawn at the river still swollen 
 from spring rains. It was full tide of early 
 June. Maple and horse-chestnut leaves had 
 attained the size, if not the denseness, of sum- 
 mer. A few precocious young robins were al- 
 ready learning the art of catching earthworms 
 from fat and anxious parents. The horizontal 
 cloud of dogwood blossoms showed ivory- 
 white against blue-green, opaque cedars, this 
 austerity of contrast being again broken by the 
 intense, unnatural pink of Judas trees. From 
 every side came the warmth and tenderness of 
 spring melting into summer. The air fairly 
 hummed with new-born insect voices; bees 
 165
 
 1 66 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 gorged at the clusters of an ancient wistaria, 
 then fell, inert and drugged, upon the grass. 
 A tiny wren, perched aloft, sang with an utter 
 passion and abandonment. Felix watched the 
 little brown body, instinct with joy and life. 
 At a faint twitter from the nearest bough, the 
 bird was off to its mate, with a soft note 
 of answer. With a smile, he thought of 
 Angela. 
 
 Round the corner of the porch came a new 
 servant, Pitcairn, his chauffeur, a monoma- 
 niac, loving gear and bearings as a tenor loves 
 his voice. The man touched his cap. "Coin' 
 for a turn, to-day, sir?" 
 
 Felix brightened at this prospect of escape. 
 "How fast can I put it on these country 
 roads?" 
 
 "Coin' alone, sir?" Pitcairn disapproved. 
 
 Felix, however, felt the holiday would lack 
 freedom, with this highly specialised being at 
 his side. He had no definite plan of action, but 
 to be handicapped by this alien presence took 
 all zest from his spirit of adventure. After
 
 On the Road 167 
 
 uttering many admonitions, Pitcairn finally 
 saw him vanish down the avenue. 
 
 A level, sandy road ran for a few miles by 
 a disused canal, a sluggish stream gliding be- 
 tween banks of short thick grass. Here and 
 there, rickety bridges crossed the deserted 
 waterway. In broad, level fields, harrowing 
 was going forward between low rows of wide- 
 leaved corn. Grain not yet in head stood just 
 tall enough to sway in gentle breezes drenched 
 with the rank sweetness of tasselling chestnut 
 blooms. The motor whisked easily past field 
 after field; now the aspect of the country 
 changed a little, growing sandier, less culti- 
 vated. Now the road forded an enchanting 
 creek, brown and limpid, winding back into 
 depths of wood where leaves still showed im- 
 mature in size and texture. Unenclosed com- 
 mon land next became frequent, and patches 
 of woodland edged with long, soft grass. 
 Wild pink azalea and late crowfoot violets of 
 heavenly azure grew in deep cushiony beds of 
 dark-green moss. Here and there an over-
 
 1 68 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 grown cart-track, branching from the road 
 with a hint of vague habitations in the remoter 
 forest, made Felix regret the cumbrous motor. 
 These bridle paths called for a horse. As this 
 passed through his mind, a turn in the road 
 showed at some distance two loose animals, 
 cropping juicy wayside tufts. Slackening his 
 pace to avoid a stampede, he also saw two very 
 small boys emerge from a thicket beyond, and 
 with a queer cry saunter towards what he now 
 knew to be a wild-eyed mare, and a knowing, 
 elderly pony. Instead of flicking up disobedi- 
 ent heels and evading capture, the beasts 
 meekly put down their heads, and allowed 
 themselves to be led by a casual grip of the 
 forelock. Overtaking the group, Felix with 
 interest inspected the captors, olive-hued 
 urchins, ready of speech, with the manner of 
 people well used to strangers. 
 
 "Buy a nice horse, gentleman? Sell him 
 cheap. Fifteen hand, only seven year old." 
 Straining on tiptoe, the child seemed to whis- 
 per in the old pony's ear. Straightway the
 
 On the Road 169 
 
 ancient creature assumed a more spirited car- 
 riage of head and tail. 
 
 "No use for horses." Felix smiled pleas- 
 antly. "Beside, what of that splint?" 
 
 "That is no splint, a bee stung him there. 
 But for speed, this mare here ..." 
 
 Felix shook his head. 
 
 "Well, you want your fortune told." The 
 boy was amiably persistent. "There's a lady, 
 just beyond these bushes, not a hundred yard 
 away. She reads the future, gives you luck, 
 tells the name of the one you love best." 
 
 Tossing him a coin, Felix moved the lever 
 and sped past the clump of bushes, where a 
 very red-eyed crone with knee-joints of amaz- 
 ing flexibility, crouched at the brink of a low 
 bank bordering the road. A bright fire was 
 burning under a heavy iron pot. Several dark, 
 round-topped tents had been set up under the 
 trees. Two smartly painted and handsome 
 wagons with upturned, empty shafts stood be- 
 yond. Hobbled horses nibbled at young oak 
 leaves or pungent bark of spicewood bushes.
 
 170 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 An incredibly ragged negro lay at full length 
 asleep. There was a mild stir of women, 
 children, babies, and distrustful dogs. As the 
 motor approached, these came forward bark- 
 ing, with eager curiosity, to be waved back by 
 the crone. "If he stops, he's mine. Don't for- 
 get that, Britannia Williams," she muttered 
 authoritatively. But the car passed without 
 slacking, and old Mrs. Lovel made uncompli- 
 mentary observations on the spiritless ways of 
 modern gentry who took no interest in for- 
 tune-telling. "If that Nina's pretty face had 
 been out, we'd have had a different story," she 
 grumbled. "That girl must not hide away 
 when any one comes in sight." 
 
 At this minute a strange sound brought her 
 to her feet. Without visible cause, the vanish- 
 ing car came to a sudden stop. W T ith a jerk it 
 reared and turned completely over, tossing 
 Felix quite free of itself, but with such force 
 that he lay motionless in the sandy road. 
 
 Women and children made towards him. A 
 man in slouch hat and velveteen breeches
 
 On the Road 171 
 
 emerged sleepily from one of the tents, and 
 out of the wood hurried a girl whose clean 
 bodice and trim petticoats marked her as 
 slightly superior to the untidy mothers and 
 cooks about the fire. 
 
 "Is he dead, Nina?" the man asked, as she 
 bent over Felix, trying to find his pulse. 
 
 "I don't know." Under her gipsy's tan, the 
 girl turned pale at the sight of the young man's 
 lifeless face. 
 
 Old Mrs. Lovel put an unclean and wrinkled 
 hand over his mouth, felt his limbs. 
 
 Slowly the dark-blue eyes opened, he looked 
 about at the assembled party. 
 
 "Where are you hurted, my pretty gentle- 
 man?" old Mrs. Lovel asked. 
 
 "Why," he drew a long breath, "nowhere, 
 thank you. Only winded, I think." He 
 stretched and tried himself. "But I can't re- 
 member coming here." 
 
 "Give the sick gentleman your hand, Nina," 
 the mistress of ceremonies decreed, "and help 
 him to a seat. When he's rested we'll get him
 
 172 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 a nice horse and wagon, so we will, to take him 
 where he came from." 
 
 Feeling weak and shaken, Felix acquiesced 
 in this arrangement, and more gipsy men, 
 springing apparently out of the ground, pro- 
 ceeded with much labour to drag his over- 
 turned car to the shelter of some dense bushes. 
 When they reached the camp, to his disgust, 
 Felix again felt so dizzy that he thankfully 
 postponed starting on a twenty-mile drive till 
 after supper, the only vehicle capable of making 
 that journey under a day's time being a dis- 
 integrating sulky in which he could not possi- 
 bly at present maintain his balance. Although 
 still light, it was already past six o'clock. 
 Warm evening scents rose from the sun- 
 cheered earth, and pleasant whiffs of forest 
 dampness stole from out the darkening wood. 
 
 After a queer but palatable meal, Felix 
 found himself dropping with sleep. Why not 
 stay all night? Mr. Williams, the master, of- 
 fered ready hospitality. The gipsy wagons 
 with their clean linen and thick, abundant pil-
 
 On the Road 173 
 
 lows tempted his weariness. It was long since 
 he had slept, night after night of wakefulness 
 lay behind him. In a perfect luxury of fa- 
 tigue, he submitted to being almost lifted into 
 bed, and dozed, listening to voices, to the 
 chirrup of night insects, to the crackling fire. 
 Then came the stamp of a picketed horse, a 
 wrangle among the dogs . . . old Mrs. Lovel 
 crooning a minor, rhythmic monotone; the 
 occasional shriek of nesting birds disturbed 
 by owls. When he next opened his eyes, it 
 was bright morning, with the sun high over- 
 head, and a general sense of the business of 
 life being well under way. Climbing down 
 from the wagon, he found himself rested, 
 hungry, and greatly desiring a bath. 
 
 "Back by that footpath you'll find water, a 
 fine spring." Old Mrs. Lovel actually pro- 
 vided a towel, adding, "They are all gone to a 
 fair but Nina. She'll get you a bite." 
 
 "But," he remonstrated, "surely, there is 
 some one to drive me home?" 
 
 The old woman's face assumed a look of
 
 174 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 baffling vagueness. "Dear gentleman, you 
 will be better for waiting an hour or so, and 
 they will be back by then. I'll keep 
 watch . . ." She fairly hurried him off to his 
 ablutions. 
 
 Following the path, he shortly came upon a 
 clear spring bubbling from between the pro- 
 jecting roots of a great willow, into a natural, 
 moss-bound basin. At his approach a frog 
 dropped like a stone into the little pool, and a 
 small bird scurried away afoot, running under 
 leaves and grasses to deeper cover. By the 
 spring sat Nina, apparently absorbed in 
 watching the water fall into a large, clean pail. 
 At a glance he saw that she was not only pic- 
 turesque but pretty. The thick shoes and 
 clumsy stockings hardly spoilt her small feet 
 and slender ankles, the sunburnt hands were 
 unroughened by work, and her attitude showed 
 a grace quite unlike the movements of the 
 other toil-worn women of the camp. Al- 
 though a nut-brown maid, her features were 
 less aquiline than most of the gipsies'. A little
 
 On the Road 175 
 
 more, and her nose would have turned up 
 frankly, over the wide, red-lipped mouth, with 
 its straight, white teeth. Irregular! That 
 was her characteristic as to feature, but with 
 a beautiful compactness of shape in head, 
 brow, close little ear, and round, uncovered 
 throat. 
 
 "Have you any soap in your pocket, Nina?" 
 he began. The girl looked needlessly cross. 
 "Britannia Williams keeps them things!" She 
 shrugged her shoulders conclusively. 
 
 "Well, never mind!" He knelt by the 
 spring, unfastening his necktie. Nina reached 
 for her heavy pail, lifted it with effort, and 
 turned towards the camp. 
 
 In a second he sprang to help her. 
 
 "It's too full;" deliberately she poured 
 half its contents on the ground. "I need no 
 help." 
 
 "See, Nina ! Such a lot of water as you've 
 wasted. What is wrong?" Felix seldom 
 coaxed in vain. 
 
 "I want no fine gentleman keeping me to get
 
 Ij6 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 breakfast while others is off fairing," her voice 
 was sullen. 
 
 "I'll hurry out of your way," Felix prom- 
 ised, and hastened to plunge his face into the 
 icy spring water. Returning to the camp, he 
 found Nina alone, old Mrs. Lovel having mys- 
 teriously disappeared. Here a difficulty arose. 
 It was not too far for him to walk to the near- 
 est farm, but he owed the gipsies for food and 
 lodging, and how should he trust payment to 
 this morose, half-savage girl? The deserted 
 camp seemed much more his home than Chas- 
 tellux; he had no earthly wish to leave. 
 Towns, wives, French actresses, and work 
 seemed equally repugnant. He would soften 
 Nina's temper with gold, and urge her to be off 
 and leave him in full possession. 
 
 She silently brought him bread, salt, and 
 eggs, also hot coffee from a battered pewter 
 pot. Presently she began to carry fresh wood 
 for the fire. This he could not allow. 
 
 "Nina," he called, "come here and rest. 
 There is something I have to say to you." He
 
 On the Road 177 
 
 had suddenly remembered that she was a for- 
 tune-teller by birth and training. Stupid for 
 him not to ask her. That accounted for much 
 unapproachableness. Taking her hand in his, 
 he slowly crossed the palm with a crisp bank- 
 note. The girl's face lost none of its impene- 
 trable reserve, but flushing slightly, she thrust 
 the money in her bosom and bent over his 
 hand. 
 
 "You don't work, do you understand?" she 
 intoned in a queer cadenced sing-song. "You 
 live in a fine house with a lovely lady. Do you 
 hear what I say? Much has come to you; but 
 there's more to come, and more. Do you un- 
 derstand?" 
 
 "What's my trade?" Felix had no wish for 
 domestic prophecies. 
 
 "You you write!" She stole a sidelong 
 glance at his face. 
 
 "Write? How?" he put in to puzzle 
 her. 
 
 Quickly she drew in sail. "Oh, I mean you 
 don't work with your hands," sniffing at him
 
 178 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 with her pretty, upturned nose. "A doctor ! I 
 smell your stuff !" 
 
 In turn Felix gave her a quick glance. 
 "You're a witch. Please don't go on, that's 
 quite enough. I'm afraid to hear another 
 word. But," he smiled mischievously, "won't 
 you give me a chance at yours?" With no 
 great willingness, she let him take her hand, 
 and scrutinise it. "You've rather a temper, 
 I'm afraid, Nina. And lazy, yes, you're lazy. 
 You only pretend to work when people are 
 looking. See how soft that is and that!" 
 With investigating finger tips he touched her 
 defenceless palm. "Isn't that true?" 
 
 "You're telling me!" The girl's hoarse 
 voice showed no relenting. 
 
 He drew his nail slowly and lightly down 
 her life line. "Old Mrs. Lovel thinks you 
 pretty enough to stay alone, to amuse strange 
 visitors, and you can't reconcile your con- 
 science to marching off and leaving the place 
 unguarded, though you very much wish she 
 hadn't left you without a chaperon !"
 
 On the Road 179 
 
 A quiver went through the hand, as if she 
 checked a motion to withdraw it. 
 
 "Quite right to trust me, though," he went 
 on imperturbably. "I wouldn't annoy you for 
 the world, because because I suspect you're 
 so fond of Maeterlinck." 
 
 This time she really started, uncontrollably. 
 
 "I thought as much! And how do I know 
 it?" He had released her hand. "By your 
 smelling of orris. Now, young lady, please 
 tell me how you came here?" 
 
 The girl had stepped back from him, and 
 stood considering. "It would be a very great 
 favour, if you would say where I fall short, 
 how you really guessed." She spoke very 
 seriously. "It is important for me to know." 
 Her natural voice now showed delicately clear, 
 with a lovely purity of enunciation, and low, 
 vibrating undertones. The voice of finished 
 civilisation. 
 
 "Rather hard to say, exactly." He gravely 
 thought it over. "The eyes, I think. Gipsies 
 have a look of their own, the most cocknified
 
 180 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 English gipsy hanging about a county fair. 
 The black fills the white, the under lids curve 
 upwards, but it's more expression, a touch of 
 Asiatic mystery, something baffling. And 
 above all, they have an unquenchable air of 
 race." 
 
 "Anything else?" she urged. 
 
 "Yes, there's more. Whatever your trade 
 may be, you use your mind. Your eye shows 
 that. It is sophisticated, I don't mean unsuita- 
 bly, but as befits ..." 
 
 "A reader of Maeterlinck," she relieved 
 him. 
 
 "Softened by orris," he amended. 
 
 "I'm sorry you found me out," she presently 
 observed. 
 
 "I should have pretended to be taken in, I 
 see that now. It would have been politer. 
 But the news goes no farther," he reassured 
 her. "It was not quite tactful, but then you 
 had been keeping me at such a disadvantage." 
 
 "It is not that," she explained. "You think 
 it is some freak, my being here. I wish it
 
 On the Road 181 
 
 were. My name is Nina Braeme, at your ser- 
 vice, second lady of the Globe Square Com- 
 pany. I've been playing little more than walk- 
 ing parts, nothing worth while, these four 
 years. This time they are giving me a chance, 
 the gipsy in a play that comes out in the 
 autumn. I must make a hit, it's absolutely 
 necessary. I have to." She drew a long 
 anxious breath. 
 
 "I see." He nodded sympathetically. 
 
 "If any one fancies it's pleasant," she went 
 on with a sense of relief. "I'm frightened all 
 the time. Nothing happens, but anything 
 might. They are kind enough, but they keep 
 me uneasy. At all events I've only a week 
 longer to stay, but if you saw through me, so, 
 I still have a lot to learn." 
 
 "I think you are quite safe for the theatre," 
 he assured her. "To begin with, there won't 
 be the real thing to measure you by." 
 
 "Are you incognito, too, Mr. Gwynne?" 
 she suddenly asked. 
 
 This time it was Felix who showed a lively
 
 1 82 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 red. "Those beastly magazine pictures," he 
 lamented. 
 
 "It wouldn't really matter much, if I did be- 
 tray you to our hosts, would it?" she asked 
 with a pleasant gleam of mischief. "Their in- 
 terest in literature is not of the keenest." 
 
 "By the way," Felix remembered, "shouldn't 
 you be following them to the fair, now that 
 you know I'm to be trusted?" 
 
 But Nina had doubts of her company being 
 wanted. She even doubted the fact of a fair 
 at this busy season, when the whole country- 
 side spoke of labour. "They have something 
 on hand, I think." She believed them glad of 
 an excuse to leave her. 
 
 "Then rehearse your part." Felix threw 
 himself on the grass at the foot of a spreading 
 oak, prepared to take life as it came, with un- 
 questioning content. 
 
 Nina vanished in the bushes, presently to 
 appear, slowly searching, then arranging 
 sticks and stones, a gipsy patteran, and utter- 
 ing a conventional soliloquy about a faithless
 
 On the Road 183 
 
 lover, a light-haired lady. The lines, banal 
 and wholly artificial, were in a measure re- 
 deemed by her close study of gipsy inflexions, 
 till the ordinary part in her hands became suf- 
 ficiently striking to promise well for "The Ro- 
 many Rawnie's" future. As for the girl's 
 actual talent, he judged her a promising stu- 
 dent, with spurs still unwon, and with an in- 
 telligence greatly aided by inborn charm of 
 face and person. 
 
 Presently she stopped. "I've a proposition 
 to make, unless you are in a hurry ?" 
 
 "Hurry! My time is yours, if you permit 
 me to stay, but perhaps I'm a nuisance, yet it's 
 lonely here." 
 
 "Yes," she agreed, "it is lonely, and I want 
 a holiday. I want to speak to a person who 
 understands. At a pinch, I might even make 
 shift to listen a little, if you want to talk, Mr. 
 Gwynne." 
 
 "It is almost too good," said Felix seriously, 
 "for two people on pleasure bent to meet by a 
 gpring, at the edge of a wood, in June."
 
 1 84 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 Nina interrupted. "Couldn't we arrange, 
 just for the day, to picnic, here in camp? I'm 
 only myself, but you must play my brother, 
 Rupert. That simplifies so much." For a 
 minute her face clouded, but she went on with 
 an air of companionable gaiety, "You see how 
 that adjusts our relations at once? Rupert 
 would be horrified if he knew of my being 
 here. He's at a very stately age, just twenty." 
 From the neck of her bodice she pulled out a 
 locket and held towards him the picture of a 
 youth. The more Felix looked, the less he 
 liked the appearance of Mr. Rupert Braeme. 
 Handsome, yes, but nervous, weak, and filled 
 with that conceit which runs to inconvenient 
 sensibilities. Still, in the story Nina now un- 
 folded, Rupert seemed rather luckless than 
 guilty. The two were orphans, their father, 
 an illustrator of some standing, had been un- 
 able to do more than provide for them during 
 his life. His early death left them without 
 other resource than a small sum of insurance 
 money. This Nina spent outright in educating
 
 On the Road 185 
 
 herself and the boy, he following his father's 
 footsteps, she drifting to the theatre. Though 
 not laying by riches, the pair were making out 
 sufficiently well, when Rupert had been struck 
 with sudden illness. An operation, a slow con- 
 valescence had drained their last cent. A 
 necessary period of recuperation, by the sea, 
 had only been possible by borrowing a round 
 sum. Mr. Quorn, Nina's manager, supplied 
 this, and was also more than kind in allowing 
 her, if she could find means to do so, to force a 
 minor part. Success meant further advance- 
 ment, paying off of debts, and a chance of put- 
 ting Rupert back into the current of life, able 
 to work and hold his own. 
 
 Having run over this with small detail, Nina 
 was ready to meet the day in a true spirit of 
 lazy, irresponsible enjoyment. Experience of 
 what may befall a pretty girl alone in streets 
 and theatres had given her a full share of wari- 
 ness, but Felix's manner soon made her feel 
 that here indeed was a playfellow whom she 
 could trust without reserve. There seemed a
 
 1 86 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 great deal to do about the camp. At her sug- 
 gestion they made a bonfire of unsightly debris, 
 gathered bunches of wild geraniums and feath- 
 ery snakeroot to decorate a circle of moss set 
 apart for their dining table. They freed a 
 little pool from last year's twigs and leaves, 
 clearing the channel beyond, till a crystal rivu- 
 let vanished, swift and clear, in impenetrable 
 tangles of fragrant marsh azalea. An earnest 
 debate as to the feelings of two crayfish, dis- 
 turbed in the process of moving a log from the 
 stream, led to Nina's finally acknowledging 
 that it might perhaps be worth a moment's an- 
 guish, to know the joys of again finding your 
 element. On Felix's gravely assuring her that 
 he knew this to be the case, having himself 
 lately tried it, she agreed that two helpless 
 crustaceans should be carried a full yard from 
 their brook, waving their small angry claws in 
 vain efforts to nip Felix's cautious fingers. A 
 course was cleared, the starting line marked 
 with twigs, and having named the competi- 
 tors, Felix started them, face to the water.
 
 On the Road 187 
 
 For a moment they wavered, turned about, be- 
 wildered, then suddenly, with one impulse, 
 made clumsy haste for the stream, plunging 
 simultaneously to the bottom, and disappear- 
 ing in a little cloud of disturbed sand. 
 
 "Rather hateful of us," Nina regretted. 
 "I don't believe they appreciated it after 
 all." 
 
 "No, you are wrong." He was certain. 
 "They now have something to talk of till they 
 die. If they enjoy agreeing, they can just sit 
 under a stone, and say 'Did you ever !' to each 
 other, one million times. That is what my 
 father and mother-in-law call exchanging 
 ideas. If they really like disputing . . ." 
 Suddenly he lost zest. Married people's dis- 
 putes were not amusing. And this turned his 
 thoughts to the future. He would arrange 
 with the gipsies to stay here till Nina's week 
 was up. The girl needed protection. He 
 craved rest and open air. He could send to 
 some village store for coarse, clean clothes. 
 He laid this before Nina; did she object?
 
 1 88 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 Nina had frankly owned to the comfort of his 
 presence, when their attention was diverted by 
 the gipsies appearing in a body, at the turn of 
 the road.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 Gbe Zeal of pttcafrn 
 
 THREE girls with a baby sat in the one- 
 seated sulky. They wore huge flaunt- 
 ing hats, smart ready-made town clothes of the 
 cheapest kind, but bright-coloured. Lying on 
 his stomach across the back of a lean nag, the 
 ragged negro, apparently asleep, still smoked 
 his cigarette end. 
 
 "Do you realise that Sam is their servant?" 
 Nina whispered. "Slave, for all I know. At 
 our last stop, old Mrs. Lovel made a wretched 
 darky family bake and drudge for her, for 
 three whole days. Threatened to put a spell on 
 them if they refused." 
 
 "Nice old lady!" Felix was full of appre- 
 ciation. 
 
 One large wagon overflowing with women 
 and children followed the sulky. Then came a 
 189
 
 190 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 mob of horses on which the men seemed to be 
 lolling at ease, indifferently sitting astride, 
 lounging on withers or crupper. Boys scam- 
 pered alongside. 
 
 "But there's another wagon, a fine new 
 one," Nina's quick eye detected. "That's not 
 one of ours, they must be having friends to 
 dine. And there is still another, but like an 
 ordinary farm wagon." 
 
 The cavalcade slowly approached, and dur- 
 ing the excitement of unharnessing, Felix 
 managed to engage a week's board of Mr. 
 Williams, with difficulty thwarting a desire to 
 kick his host, as the furtive black eyes gave 
 a significant look towards Nina. The new 
 wagon evidently belonged to a highly impor- 
 tant lady, Mrs. Costello, a hawk-faced woman 
 of middle age, with tight ebony braids, and 
 many curiously wrought rings of heavy red 
 gold on her small dry hands. Her restless 
 glances and air of depression gave Felix an 
 idea of some impending complication. After 
 supper had been eaten in silence, the fire was
 
 The Zeal of Pitcairn 191 
 
 extinguished, and a strong hint thrown out 
 that guests and boarders would do well to turn 
 in early. Felix's wish to sleep in the open met 
 with such forceful opposition that, being guar- 
 anteed a bed to himself, he climbed into one 
 of the large wagons and was soon fast 
 asleep. 
 
 After the first hours of unbroken slumber, 
 he grew vaguely aware of dreams, of whizzing 
 through space in the motor then flying across 
 the continent on a vestibule train then toss- 
 ing in a storm at sea. One huge wave, threat- 
 ening to swamp the vessel, shook him out of 
 his dream into a wakeful consciousness of real 
 motion. Looking through the bed curtains, he 
 saw the whole procession strung out along the 
 highroad, sleeping-wagons, the sulky piled 
 with tent poles, led horses, dogs plodding be- 
 tween front wheels, one long-legged foal trot- 
 ting stiffly at the side of its dam. The first 
 grey of early dawn, strangely like winter twi- 
 light, was creeping over the sky, leaving the 
 earth still dark and hidden. The marvellous
 
 192 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 first bird sounded its note, and straightway 
 trees and roadside grew alive with tentative 
 chirps and murmurings. Now he could dis- 
 tinguish cattle asleep in the broad fields. 
 Light, without colour, dyed all objects an in- 
 discriminate brownish hue. A man strolled 
 forward, perched on the tail-board of Felix's 
 ambulant bed-chamber. 
 
 "Where are we off to?" Felix asked. 
 
 "Just moving," came the guarded answer. 
 "Too hot for travelling by day." 
 
 "But where?" Felix indiscreetly persisted. 
 
 "Oh, you know the place. Up the big hill 
 and over. Across water, by the edge of the 
 great wood, only a half-day's journey." 
 
 This Delphic mode of reply gratified so 
 much more in Felix than a mere vulgar wish to 
 know where they might be going, that he 
 questioned no further, but lay gazing out at 
 the ever new sight of light and life coming 
 back to a sleeping world. Little white clouds, 
 flecking the horizon, hid the sun, but long rays, 
 escaping here and there, touched treetops and
 
 The Zeal of Pitcairn 193 
 
 warmed twittering birds into an ecstasy of 
 song. Across the level country the sound of 
 distant factory whistles broke the sense of rural 
 seclusion. At a cross-road, the gipsies col- 
 lected and held council. Finally Mr. Williams 
 detached himself from the group and slouched 
 towards Felix, with his flexible, unhurried 
 gait. There was a proposition. Mrs. Costello 
 found herself in the throes of a toothache so 
 violent that a dentist alone could relieve her 
 misery. The Williams and Lovel horses, 
 being heavy-laden, must not be urged to a pace 
 quite possible for her strong ponies in the 
 black farm wagon. Would the gentleman go 
 ahead and drive her? She could be quite at 
 ease and direct a course from a mattress in the 
 back. They would follow at leisure. Nina 
 too should be of the party to bear him com- 
 pany, as Mrs. Costello's agony rendered her 
 unfit for speech. 
 
 After a hasty breakfast of bread and cheese 
 Felix started out in the role of Mrs. Costello's 
 coachman, all the more pleased as this turn of
 
 194 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 affairs would give him a speedy chance for 
 shopping. Whatever comfort he might be sup- 
 posed to derive from Nina was much impaired 
 by the fact that the invalid tossed and moaned 
 in such evident pain, that common humanity 
 forced the girl to leave her place at his side 
 and crouch on the mattress, with Mrs. Cos- 
 tello's aching head on her lap. The long, 
 straight road was at first rutty and deep with 
 sand. Gradually they came upon the bony 
 framework of a neglected turnpike, and later, 
 occasional farmhouses gave way to ugly clap- 
 board cottages, bright with ochre and pea- 
 green paint. Now they drove beside the grass- 
 grown track of a suburban trolley. Before 
 long, the white arms of a gate stopped them at 
 a railway crossing. A little squalid station, a 
 handful of loafers lounging among empty milk 
 cans and freight boxes. The town itself was 
 almost deserted, tall factory chimneys explain- 
 ing the absence of human life from the wide, 
 raw-looking streets. 
 
 Here Mrs. Costello roused herself suffi-
 
 The Zeal of Pitcairn 195 
 
 ciently to ask the hour. On learning that it 
 was after nine o'clock, she burrowed mysteri- 
 ously in the bosom of her dress, and to Felix's 
 complete amazement pulled out a dog-eared 
 bankbook and small, dirty leather bag. As- 
 suring him that her ponies would stand, she 
 made Felix come back into the wagon and 
 count endless gold pieces, double eagles to the 
 sum of a hundred, five hundred, fifteen hundred 
 dollars! Then, with much briskness, pointing 
 to the bank building, she produced a filled-in 
 slip, and begged him to spare a sick woman the 
 trouble of making her own deposit. The slip 
 read all in order, "To the account of Rhoda 
 Costello." Without question, Felix obeyed her 
 behest, merely suggesting that she meanwhile 
 hunt up a dentist. This she met with demur. 
 Her own dentist, he who pulled her last tooth, 
 lived farther on, down the road. By dinner 
 time they would find him. 
 
 A chatty bank cashier made the usual re- 
 marks about the fine weather, jotted down 
 the deposit, and with evident difficulty re-
 
 196 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 frained from cross-questioning the strange de- 
 positor. Cutting him short, Felix hurried back 
 to the wagon, and under Mrs. Costello's guid- 
 ance, they soon left the town behind, and were 
 trotting along a wide deserted road, apparently 
 heading riverwards. At noon they camped in 
 a wayside grove, fed and watered the ponies 
 and stayed their own hunger with some 
 slightly repellent scraps of Mrs. Costello's pro- 
 viding. Giving the horses two good hours' 
 rest, they were again starting briskly forward, 
 when the danger sign of a trolley crossing 
 made Felix pull up and look to right and left. 
 At that minute, the horn of an approaching 
 car warned him to wait. At the crossing, the 
 trolley stopped to let off a presentably dressed 
 negro. To Felix's surprise the darky not only 
 nodded greetings, but made for the wagon, 
 holding out a dirty paper scrawl. 
 
 "For me ?" Felix asked, seeing there was no 
 address. 
 
 "No, for the missus, the old missus." As 
 the negro spoke Nina, who had been peering
 
 The Zeal of Pitcairn 1 97 
 
 out, exclaimed, "Why, Sam! And dressed 
 like Beau Brummel !" 
 
 At this Mrs. Costello roused from her 
 stupor on the wagon floor ; with liveliest inter- 
 est she reached out for the note. Reading was 
 no quick matter, but after mastering its con- 
 tents, she reluctantly bestowed two nickels 
 upon Sam, who promptly trudged off. Then, 
 dropping every semblance of illness, she begged 
 Felix to use his whip and hurry the ponies to- 
 wards a river whose close proximity was now 
 suggested by a new colour in the sky line. 
 
 Obeying without question, Felix stimulated 
 the tired beasts to considerable speed. Nina, 
 however, was growing frankly uneasy, but the 
 road abruptly ended in a grassy open space, a 
 tumble-down freight house and steamboat 
 landing on the edge of a stream which, though 
 of navigable size, was not the river flowing 
 past Chastellux. A small steamboat even now 
 tied up at the wharf and poured out a miscel- 
 laneous cargo, an old black horse, cheese 
 boxes, breakfast foods, crates of soft-drink
 
 198 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 bottles. To complete Felix's sense of moving 
 in a dream, Mrs. Costello emerged from the 
 wagon clad in conventional weeds, with long 
 crape veil, and mournful black gloves. 
 
 A whistle blew, and the invalid began to 
 make quickly for the landing. "Only a word 
 with the captain; wait right here," she ex- 
 plained. The freight house hid the gangplank 
 from view, but as the boat swung into mid- 
 stream, Nina and Felix exchanged an amused 
 glance of prophecy fulfilled, at seeing Mrs. 
 Costello's emblems of woe waving from an 
 upper deck. 
 
 "Do you suppose she has left more than one 
 mangled corpse in her wake?" Felix asked at 
 last. 
 
 "Rather queer, certainly." Nina was ill at 
 ease. "What shall we do ?" 
 
 Felix could suggest nothing better than pull- 
 ing up in the shade to await developments. 
 "They are sure not to leave us with this hand- 
 some turnout." 
 
 "I'd like to dress," Nina confessed, "and go
 
 The Zeal of Pitcairn 199 
 
 home. But my civilised clothes are in old Mrs. 
 Level's wagon." 
 
 "This will help a lot, if you ever have to 
 create the role of a criminal escaping from jus- 
 tice !" Standing at the ponies' heads, Felix 
 lighted a cigarette, and lazily looked out over 
 the river. "I'm sure we may expect ..." 
 
 At this minute a black motor car dashed 
 down the road. The front seat held Pitcairn ; 
 on the back sat Seth Williams and a stout po- 
 liceman.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 Some dbag not Xoofc over a fence t 
 
 BEARING down upon their wagon, the 
 motor car stopped with so abrupt a turn 
 that its hind wheels slewed round several feet 
 sideways in the loose sand. 
 
 "There now," Seth Williams demanded in a 
 tone of deep injury, "did I tell you the gentle- 
 man was well and hearty, just taking a drive 
 with his friend?" 
 
 "Is this him right enough ?" The policeman 
 turned to Pitcairn. 
 
 After the first surprise, that functionary had 
 simply buried his head and shoulders between 
 two wheels. From underneath the car came a 
 grunted assent. 
 
 Seth went on with growing assurance: 
 "This is how it came about; maybe you'll be- 
 lieve me now. This fellow," indicating Pit- 
 
 200
 
 Some May not Look over a Fence! 201 
 
 cairn, "and the cop stopped us in the road, held 
 us up for murder and robbery. My wife tells 
 him, 'We've a gentleman boarder, but he's 
 gone ahead with our lady boarder. They'd a 
 matter of business in Mount Laurel, and we 
 go round by the short cut and join 'em at 
 where the boat comes, by nightfall, or maybe, 
 next day.' Do you see?" 
 
 "That's all quite true," Felix put in. 
 
 "Then they sent my family, wife, sisters, 
 mother-in-law, every one of them into town, 
 to the lock-up, Mount Laurel, I mean, and 
 bring me here to prove the gentleman was 
 dead!" Seth ended contemptuously; "and 
 I'll have the law on them, if I am a poor 
 man." 
 
 The laconic Pitcairn now emerged with a 
 touch to his leather cap. 
 
 "Very sorry, sir. My fault. You see," he 
 addressed the air impersonally, "the master 
 isn't just the most used at handling a lever, and 
 when he asked me how fast she could go and 
 started out alone, I was looking for trouble.
 
 2O2 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 The mistress went off for a visit to her 
 mother's, and when not Mr. Gwynne nor his 
 motor turned up next day, I began to hunt. 
 Borrowed this car, and telephoned all the re- 
 pair shops." 
 
 Felix gave a glance of dismay at Nina, who 
 sat quite pale and motionless. Their frolic was 
 assuming serious shape. 
 
 "Late last night," Pitcairn began to enjoy 
 the tale of his own proficiency, "I heard of a 
 gipsy camp and hurried there not long after 
 daybreak. They'd all gone without leaving 
 hardly a trace, but back in the bushes, covered 
 with a brown canvas . . ." 
 
 "One of their dirty tents!" put in the out- 
 raged policeman. 
 
 . . . "Lay our new motor, smashed as if 
 some one had stopped her so sudden that she 
 turned turtle. After that I saw it all plain. It 
 took some time to get Mr. Brady to come 
 along, swearing out a warrant and all, but we 
 rushed the thing through, found the gipsies, had 
 'em safe jailed. This fellow said you was driv-
 
 Some May not Look over a Fence! 203 
 
 ing along one of these river roads, but it 
 sounded such a put-up job !" 
 
 Nina and Felix exchanged a disturbed 
 glance. Their adventure certainly bore no re- 
 semblance to reputable truth. 
 
 "Yes," Seth now jeered openly. "Your 
 master's off for a little rest from your gab and 
 the stink of your dirty machine ; and you think 
 the gipsies have him dead and ate." 
 
 "You seem to have been very thoughtful and 
 efficient, Pitcairn." Felix was restraining a 
 strong impulse to reward this laudable zeal 
 with anything but praise. "A natural mis- 
 take. I'll give Mr. Brady something for his 
 trouble, and then by the way, does Mrs. 
 Gwynne know of your alarm?" 
 
 "Sure, sir ! We called her up every hour or 
 so, to hear if she had news !" 
 
 "There must be a telephone here in that 
 freight house, but every one left when that 
 steamer went up stream," Felix began, when a 
 quick look from Seth Williams warned him to 
 go no farther.
 
 204 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 After some discussion Brady sanctioned the 
 breaking of a window, the telephone was 
 found and Noel Place, the lock-up, and police 
 headquarters duly told that Felix Gwynne had 
 been discovered, alive and in good health. No 
 sooner was the receiver hung up, than a loud 
 call took Brady back to the wire. "Well," he 
 exclaimed, "this is a funny day. Jasper 
 Cooper and Henrietta his wife have sworn out 
 a warrant against a woman namer Rhoda Cos- 
 tello, for stealing a bag of money from her 
 own dead husband. Headquarters got my 
 message about Mr. Gwynne, and now they 
 send me right off on this job. Maybe this 
 gentleman," sarcastically, to Williams, "can 
 tell us where Mrs. Costello is, too !" 
 
 After one look of consultation, Nina 
 and Felix decided to leave the answer to 
 Seth. 
 
 "And much use me telling a bright cop, who 
 knows too much to believe what a poor gipsy 
 says," Seth muttered. "Still, I'll tell, there's 
 nothing to hide. Mrs. Costello came home
 
 Some May not Look over a Fence ! 205 
 
 from the funeral with us, and stopped a day. 
 Then she went off, and it's yourself knows as 
 well as me where's she gone to. But this I do 
 know. The money is hers, true enough, and 
 what those Coopers say is a lie. Rhoda was a 
 good wife to him. Tended Peter Costello well, 
 and gave him the finest burying. You mind, 
 lady," to the reluctant Nina, "we all went to it, 
 the day you and the gentleman kept camp for 
 us. We said we'd been to a fair," he con- 
 fessed, "for it's not lucky speaking much of the 
 dead, and Rhody came home with us that 
 night, a stricken woman, grieving for her man, 
 so she was." 
 
 "We'll have to trace her, that's all," Brady 
 averred. "Money's gone, and a warrant out 
 against her." 
 
 "What can I do for you, Miss Braeme?" 
 Felix assumed a composure he was far from 
 feeling. 
 
 Nina shook her head. "Nothing, Mr. 
 Gwynne, but make off as fast as you can. Mr. 
 Williams will drive me back to where my
 
 206 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 clothes are, and I'll take the first morning train 
 for New York." 
 
 With much regret, Felix could not but own 
 that no escort of his could do more than 
 heighten the complications in which Nina was 
 already involved. Sitting by Pitcairn, he si- 
 lently chafed at the run of ill-luck through 
 which he and the girl had drifted into so equiv- 
 ocal a position. 
 
 A long, swift ride through the falling night 
 brought him to Chastellux. Going at once to 
 the telephone, he gave Adelaide an account of 
 his adventure, dwelling lightly on Nina and 
 her share in his travels. Whether anxiety or 
 distance had softened Adelaide's anger, she at 
 least promised to come home in the early 
 morning, speaking as if his departure had been 
 an ordinary absence, needing no explanations. 
 
 In truth, Adelaide felt a fathomless relief at 
 knowing not only that her husband was alive 
 and well, but that his odious threat ended in 
 nothing worse than a fantastic adventure, im- 
 prudent, undesirable, but not highly reprehen-
 
 Some May not Look over a Fence ! 207 
 
 sible. She even laughed a little when he de- 
 scribed the sheepish looks of Brady and Pit- 
 cairn, on finding the gipsy's story true. 
 
 At breakfast she bore her mother's condol- 
 ing manner with a shade of impatience, gently 
 intimating that she perhaps understood Felix 
 better than older and wiser people. Gipsies, 
 she thought, with immense tolerance ; surely no 
 one would mind them ! If it had been Rachel 
 Bernstein, or one of her ilk ! 
 
 Taking an early train for home, she started 
 without seeing the morning paper. In the car, 
 her eye was arrested by a print in the sheet of 
 a gentleman in front, a yellow journal with 
 shrieking black headlines. Felix's name! But 
 she would not read. There would be a half 
 hour in town, before the train left for Chastel- 
 lux. At the news-stand she bought a copy of 
 the paper. There it all stared her in the face. 
 Felix and a woman, an actress, his picture with 
 hers, a pretty creature, even in blotched repro- 
 duction. And oh! the text! Letters of every 
 size, inch-high headings to columns of finest
 
 208 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 print. The policeman's account, the story 
 from headquarters! Imaginary sketches of 
 gipsy camps and gipsies. Above all, blazoned 
 to the world, the fact that Felix, her husband, 
 had been travelling up and down the country 
 in gipsy vans, with a young and pretty actress. 
 Every detail that he had kept back till they 
 should meet dovetailed exactly with this hate- 
 ful exposure. He said, "One of the women 
 drove with me." Adelaide pictured a dirty 
 crone, never this piquante girl. Of course he 
 had known her at Rachel Bernstein's, had been 
 constantly seeing her in town. They arranged 
 to go off together! Could any guilt be 
 plainer ? 
 
 Neatly folding her paper, Adelaide took a 
 return train to Noel Place !
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 fl&r. (Sluorn's Xucft 
 
 I'M thinking no more boats leave this 
 land's-end place to-night!" Abandoned 
 by Pitcairn, Policeman Brady became vaguely 
 propitiating, although the palpable fact that 
 Seth Williams had this time told the truth by 
 no means proved the gipsy unlikely to kill and 
 eat reputable citizens. Indeed Felix, having 
 turned up alive and well, seemed merely an un- 
 fortunate obstacle to lawful and merited pun- 
 ishment. "I guess you'll have to give me a lift 
 along with the lady," Brady ended. 
 
 For a second Seth's oblique eyes met Nina's 
 in consultation. Then he nodded morosely. 
 "As far as the trolley. You're a great load for 
 tired horses, and we've a big distance to travel 
 back to my people to-night." 
 209
 
 2io The Poet and the Parish 
 
 "But you can't get them off without me, all 
 right," the officer pointed out. "They're 
 locked up, safe enough." 
 
 This convinced Seth that his, or rather Mrs. 
 Costello's team must bear the added weight, 
 and showing the utmost bad grace, he started 
 off with Brady at his side, while Nina rested as 
 best she might on the jolting floor within. On 
 the whole, her stay with the gipsies had not 
 turned out too badly. Of course there had 
 been certain risks; it would be pleasant to lay 
 aside that small revolver now hidden in her 
 bodice. Risks were to be expected, but the 
 people treated her well, and although at one 
 juncture this last episode threatened annoy- 
 ance, after all here she was, under police pro- 
 tection, heading towards civilised garments 
 and the New York train. Looking back from 
 a plane of safety, it was rather fun to have 
 been tracked across country as a murder- 
 ess in company with her putative victim; and 
 as the adventure ended well there could be no 
 possible harm in having acutely enjoyed the
 
 Mr. Quorn's Luck 2 1 1 
 
 society of Mr. Felix Gvvynne. In this com- 
 fortable frame of mind she bade the gipsies a 
 friendly good-bye, and after a night at an inn 
 of usual country-town stuffiness, took the first 
 morning train for New York. Tired from 
 yesterday's expedition, she soon fell into a 
 doze, while the local train stopped, bumped, 
 and slowly dragged its way citywards. Pres- 
 ently she grew uneasy with a sense of being 
 stared at; her ears registered half-heard whis- 
 perings. 
 
 "I tell you it's her, right enough. Same 
 face," a woman's voice insisted. 
 
 "You're always seeing likenesses, mother. 
 What would she be doing here, round our 
 way?" a man protested. 
 
 Through closed lashes Nina saw a middle- 
 aged couple peering now at her, now at an out- 
 spread newspaper. 
 
 "Just where she would be, by now." The 
 woman drew her ringer along the text. Her 
 husband went to the cooler for water, on his 
 way favouring Nina with detailed scrutiny.
 
 212 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 He then whispered at length with two friends 
 further down the aisle. In turn, each of these 
 made a deliberate pilgrimage past her, then 
 other men. By this time, Nina felt pilloried 
 in an agony of discomfort, not daring to buy 
 a paper, fearing to look to right or left. Being 
 stared at on the stage was one thing, but this 
 direct personal investigation seemed an out- 
 rage, and one which left her without redress. 
 Once in New York, to avoid a repetition of 
 this impertinence in street cars, she took a cab 
 to her boarding-house. There letters awaited 
 her, one from Rupert telling of improvement. 
 Sea air had done wonders; before long he 
 might hope to work; little enough at first, a 
 sketch or two, perhaps; she also found a line 
 from Mr. Quorn, her manager. Owing to un- 
 expected repairs to his Broadway house, "The 
 Romany Rawnie" must be rehearsed in an- 
 other city, the city of Felix Gwynne. She 
 must report to him at once, and hold herself 
 ready to join the company without an hour's 
 delay.
 
 Mr. Quorn's Luck 213 
 
 A knock at the door, her landlady, an 
 elderly, respectable widow with daugh- 
 ters. 
 
 "I was just going to say, Miss Braeme," the 
 woman's thin lips were pinched into a smile 
 which, even through her preoccupation, struck 
 Nina as disagreeable, "that we wouldn't be 
 able to let you keep your room after to-day 
 week." 
 
 "But, Mrs. Prout," Nina was ransacking a 
 drawer for fresh gloves and veil, "your house 
 can hardly be full now, with summer coming, 
 and people leaving town. It's most inconveni- 
 ent for me to find lodgings and move in a 
 hurry. Our play is going into rehearsal, I 
 shall be rushed . . ." 
 
 "That's just it. I won't say," the woman 
 grudgingly admitted, "but what you've al- 
 ways behaved like a perfect lady, here," the 
 emphasis was unmistakable, "but I don't care 
 to have actresses. One thing, the reporters 
 running in on us till midnight, yesterday, and 
 the bell going so hard again this morning. Of
 
 214 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 course, I'm bringing up young girls of my 
 own, and ..." 
 
 "Very well !" Nina had found her gloves 
 and fled downstairs, feeling sick and impotent. 
 At the theatre quite another greeting awaited 
 her, Mr. Quorn in high good humour, with 
 every sign of relish. He fairly ran at her with 
 papers, late night editions, every morning is- 
 sue, early evening papers. Her picture with 
 Felix! Fancy sketches of Seth Williams, of 
 Pitcairn, of the broken auto, of Rhoda 
 Costello (attired like Meg Merrilies) mak- 
 ing off with a mealsack full of gold pieces. 
 And the headlines! Some, conservative 
 enough, only stated bald facts, and some 
 which literally stopped the beating of her 
 heart. 
 
 "You know," Mr. Quorn magnanimously 
 confessed, "I didn't see much in your idea, get- 
 ting up your part from the real thing. The 
 public has a certain notion of a gipsy, and of 
 course that's naturally what they come to see. 
 When you give them something different it
 
 Mr. Quorn's Luck 215 
 
 mixes them up, and I've never known that not 
 to irritate them. A realistic stage setting is all 
 right, because they like to say, 'yes, we had 
 that kind of tray on our boat, last summer.' 
 That's one thing, but realistic treatment of 
 character is mighty ticklish. You see how the 
 critics mostly jump on anything out of line. 
 They want to be able to give a snapshot 
 opinion in the very first scene, and compare the 
 characters to people in some other play. I was 
 afraid all along your studies from life might 
 get us the rough side of their tongues, but you 
 were bent on trying, and now," he waved tri- 
 umphantly at the heap of papers, "you've man- 
 aged the cleverest piece of personal advertis- 
 ing, since Rachel Bernstein horsewhipped that 
 other woman, before your time, way back in 
 the seventies." 
 
 "Mr. Quorn," Nina was in emergencies a 
 person of immense dash and instant decision, 
 "I came to ask a release from my contract. It 
 will be quite impossible for me to play The 
 Romany Rawnie'!"
 
 216 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 Mr. Quorn shoved a pot hat off his bald 
 forehead, crossed his long, thin legs, and sur- 
 veyed Nina as she stood leaning one hand on 
 his littered office table. He tilted back his 
 chair, also, and relighted an extinct cigar, 
 never turning his shrewd eyes from her. The 
 lengthy silence, the non-committal stare, pro- 
 duced their effect. Nina was vaguely fright- 
 ened. With a gallant effort at naturalness, she 
 offered, "If you will excuse my hurrying off, 
 I'm very busy to-day, and Marie Merle, that 
 little black-eyed girl, can do the part. Perhaps 
 you would like me to coach her ?" 
 
 "One moment, young lady!" Mr. Quorn's 
 ironical voice gave her a sense of being tethered 
 by the shortest rope. "You are very thought- 
 ful, considerate, but isn't there just one little 
 point you've overlooked ?" 
 
 "I know" Nina grew eager "the money! 
 Something must be clone about that, of course. 
 I'll pay you, I'll find a way, but not this. In- 
 deed, Mr. Quorn, you must see yourself! 
 Why, my landlady has turned me out. No
 
 Mr. Quorn's Luck 217 
 
 decent girl could go on with the part after," 
 she pointed to the papers, "after this !" 
 
 But what Mr. Quorn saw happened to be 
 exactly the reverse. By heaven's favour, a 
 piece which he knew to be flimsy received un- 
 expected and entirely original advertising, the 
 kind of thing to make it go long and far. And 
 here, this perverse girl, on whom he had risked 
 hard cash, assuming all chances of failure, ill- 
 ness, or other calamity, proposed to play him 
 false. The comfort of having such a hold 
 upon her almost inclined him to offer large 
 loans to every player of value in the company. 
 Although he plainly realised that without this 
 hold she would be off into space, her point of 
 view was utterly beyond him. If the papers 
 were misstating, he himself would write signed 
 denials. 
 
 Nina here made a despairing gesture. 
 
 He went on to explain that such correspond- 
 ence would serve to keep public interest alight. 
 "Just show me where this is incorrect," he 
 pointed to the most blazoned sheet.
 
 2 1 8 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 "The facts are true enough," Nina managed 
 to bring out, "but the inference!" Living 
 among people to whom all matter was free of 
 discussion, she had thought herself well used 
 to putting any situation clearly into words, but 
 this debate upon a strange man's relation to 
 herself touched a new feeling, and the clever, 
 theoretically sophisticated girl became the 
 woman of primitive modesty, quivering at the 
 violation of her privacy. She glanced through 
 another long, hateful column. "Yes, Brady 
 must have given them this, there are no mis- 
 takes." 
 
 "Well, then," Mr. Quorn liberally con- 
 ceded, "we can't direct what people are to 
 think, and if you really were driving about the 
 country with a man like Felix Gwynne, in a 
 gipsy cart of course, Miss Braeme, / know it 
 was all right, knowing you. But after all, take 
 a common-sense view of it, child," he went on, 
 not unkindly. "You would do that crazy 
 stunt, and tumbled into a bit of a scrape." 
 Whatever Mr. Quorn's private convictions, his
 
 Mr. Quorn's Luck 219 
 
 manner expressed full belief in her version. 
 "And of course, this being a dull season, the 
 papers got hold of it. Now suppose I let you 
 do what you want, let you off? What's going 
 to happen then? Suppose you owed no one a 
 dollar, how are you going to make out and 
 keep Rupert till he's fit for work?" 
 
 Nina's excitement was ebbing, and with a 
 shiver of apprehension she knew this to be per- 
 fectly rational. 
 
 He went on : "You tell me your landlady 
 has already made trouble, and you pay her! 
 How do you think it will be when it is the 
 other way about, when you want some one to 
 pay you, to give you work? And what can 
 you do, but act a little? A shopgirl, perhaps! 
 No high-toned establishment would take you, 
 just now, and the other sort well ! You'd 
 have far less notoriety to face here, with me." 
 After watching the effect of this for a moment, 
 he ended encouragingly, "Don't you spend an- 
 other night under the roof of that woman who 
 threw you out; just go pack your things, and
 
 220 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 I'll 'phone home that you are coming to stop 
 with us till the whole show moves over, for re- 
 hearsals. You know I live with three daugh- 
 ters, Miss Braeme. No doubt you'll find us 
 pretty slow, after careering round the country 
 with gipsies and poets. When we have a night 
 off to stay in and be happy, we start the pianola 
 for a while, then finish up with a hand of 
 bridge, my little rubber band, I call it! Now 
 this is too bad !" he exclaimed after a brisk talk 
 at the telephone. "Bertha says that one of our 
 girls who's been sick for several days turns 
 out to have diphtheria. Doctor's just been in 
 and says there's no doubt. Too bad, but we 
 can't risk having you catch it. You've got 
 to put up with that woman for a few days, 
 and I'll make proper arrangements for your 
 lodging, when I go over to see to the 
 rehearsals." 
 
 Felix meanwhile waited Adelaide's return to 
 Chastellux with extreme impatience. He not 
 only felt that explanation was due his wife,
 
 Mr. Quern's Luck 221 
 
 but after glancing at a paper brought in haste 
 by Pitcairn (who seriously urged prosecution 
 for a libellous picture of the motor), Felix also 
 saw that it behooved him to take immediate 
 steps towards clearing Nina. As time passed 
 and Adelaide failed to appear, growing in- 
 creasingly restless, he finally telephoned to 
 Noel Place, only to learn that his wife had 
 written. His offer to join her there met with 
 such prompt discouragement that he was mis- 
 erably reduced to waiting for the afternoon's 
 mail. Only a line "After consulting Papa 
 and Mamma, I have decided that unless you 
 can deny being with gipsies, and driving about 
 the country with an actress as the papers 
 say, it will be impossible for me to go back to 
 you." 
 
 Felix wasted some hours in merely feeling 
 angry. Then a wish to be fair, a recognition 
 that things did look decidedly queer, cooled his 
 temper. It seemed that these people must al- 
 ways believe the worst, such was the colour of 
 their minds, their misfortune, likewise his,
 
 222 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 since he had so little habit of reckoning with 
 appearances. Adelaide would, of course, re- 
 member the unfortunate words with which he 
 had left her; pity she could not have acted 
 without consulting her family. Still, he 
 shrugged his shoulders at a flash of inward 
 vision ; having fancied that kind of woman, he 
 must consequently be willing to take her faults 
 with her qualities, like a man. His answering 
 letter was a candid account of the entire esca- 
 pade. Pocketing his pride, withstanding an 
 impulse to hold himself above explanation, he 
 gave a complete narrative of every event since 
 their parting. "And indeed, Adelaide, in 
 thinking so you not only wrong yourself 
 and me, but Miss Braeme. As for her, I am 
 going to give you the most convincing proof. 
 Come home, dear, and have her here with us. 
 When I ask this, to throw her with you, my 
 wife, no one can doubt . . ." 
 
 But at Noel Place this missive created not 
 doubt, but certainty. That Felix should plan 
 to associate with his wife a play actress whom
 
 Mr. Quorn's Luck 223 
 
 he had vulgarly compromised seemed the pitch 
 of indecent unreason, the wish of an obnoxious 
 maniac, savouring of Shelley, Mahomet, and 
 Brigham Young. 
 
 Colonel Noel simply wrote that as Mr. 
 Gwynne's own letter plainly confirmed the 
 newspaper statements, Mrs. Gwynne would 
 continue to remain under her father's protec- 
 tion. To this he added a request, from 
 her, that as she was much upset, Mr. 
 Gwynne should refrain from all commu- 
 nication. 
 
 This solemn document at first aroused in 
 Felix a savage wish to earn it ! To find Nina, 
 or any one else, to celebrate his emancipation 
 gaily, with resounding echoes. Then sud- 
 denly, his taste revolted. Surely they were 
 trying to force him into downfall, against his 
 inclinations. This parcel of stupid Noels had 
 already obtained too much influence over his 
 life. They should never be given a power to 
 wreck Nina's. She at least must be saved, but 
 how? After thinking over every possible
 
 224 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 means of succor, he could only hope against 
 hope that aid might be had from Mrs. Le 
 Grand, who was lingering in town, under a 
 rare spell of wifely craving for Harry's com- 
 pany.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 TIQlbfle tbcrs /fca Steal a fjorse 
 
 HARRY LE GRAND'S accident left in 
 its wake a wholly unlooked-for develop- 
 ment. Long before his ankle was out of 
 plaster, he and Alice had actually established 
 a flourishing intimacy, all the more gratifying 
 since neither of them had been in the least 
 aware of a need of it. It began quite spon- 
 taneously with Alice, when she was delighted 
 and amazed to feel the prick of genuine dis- 
 tress at the first sight of her husband stretched 
 out on a hospital cot. On his side, if a trifle 
 embarrassed at this display of emotion, Harry 
 ended by taking it in good part, although being 
 the object of Alice's enthusiasm, while highly 
 flattering, did involve an amount of mental 
 activity which would ill have suited the exist- 
 ence of Harry in full health and freedom. 
 225
 
 226 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 During a long convalescence, however, the 
 invalid grew to make a more or less congenial 
 third in his wife's lifelong tete-a-tete with Al- 
 bert Yule. The two consulted him on many 
 fine-spun points of ethics and behaviour, valu- 
 ing his perfectly unhackneyed verdicts upon 
 such books as he could be induced to tolerate, 
 and taking immense pains to eradicate his in- 
 ward conviction that all literature and art 
 could be divided in two classes the well- 
 wrought or the attractive. While Alice seri- 
 ously put her mind to overcoming her hus- 
 band's distrust of good workmanship (point- 
 ing out the inconsistency of holding to a mas- 
 tery of craft in his cook or his tailor, while 
 denying its necessity in the case of a novelist 
 or a playwright,) Albert Yule clinched her 
 arguments with careful selections. In luring 
 Harry into the ranks of the enlightened, these 
 fast friends had the reward of discovering one 
 more common ground of the most inexhausti- 
 ble interest. Alice's feminine impetuosity 
 being held in leash by Albert's masculine cau-
 
 While Others May Steal a Horse 227 
 
 tion, the pair actually succeeded in leading 
 their neophyte, by the broad highroad of Po- 
 lish romance, into the shadows of saddest Rus- 
 sian fiction. Here Alice, too sanguine, forced 
 the pace with an evening of Dostoevski, hold- 
 ing in her sling later and gloomier works. She 
 began even to dream of offering Harry a sus- 
 taining meal of Gorky, when reaction set in! 
 At chapter three of Crime and Punishment, 
 Harry (who was nearly out of plaster, and 
 growing daily more restive) found the style 
 too slow for a detective story, not up to sev- 
 eral popular English authors. The friends' 
 missionary zeal had certainly developed his 
 atrophied critical powers, but hardly in the di- 
 rection at which they were aiming . . . "And 
 it's all a mistake," he fairly took the bit 
 between his teeth, "to tell you so much at the 
 start. In the Leavenworth Case," he sapiently 
 pointed out, "you never know till the end who 
 did it." 
 
 Albert and Alice were in far too perfect 
 sympathy to require the outward solace of ex-
 
 228 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 changing glances. Luckily, a diversion was 
 here made by the eruption of Bessy, who im- 
 partially kissed the trio and announced her in- 
 tention of staying in town with the family, 
 through June. Bessy had emerged from the 
 winter's campaign with a serious admirer, 
 whom she felt loath to leave for a series of 
 promised visits to the country. 
 
 Alice's enthusiasm for domestic life was run- 
 ning so high that, instead of viewing the girl's 
 presence as a nuisance, she at once fell to plan- 
 ning her stepdaughter's initiation into their 
 circle of intellectual light. As Bessy went off 
 to her room, however, Harry gave the conver- 
 sation a less improving twist, by bringing up 
 the absorbing topic of the Gwynnes. No one 
 had seen Felix since the newspaper scandal ; 
 rumour immured him at Chastellux. Ade- 
 laide's parents had merely notified the family of 
 her return to Noel Place. It was also known 
 that the gipsy episode would bear further fruit, 
 as one Jasper Cooper and Henrietta his wife 
 were bringing suit against Rhoda Costello, for
 
 While Others May Steal a Horse 229 
 
 illegally making off with a bag of gold, the 
 same deposited by Felix in the Mount Laurel 
 Bank. Report had it that their case would 
 come up at no distant time, and interest was 
 kept aflame by the prospect of Felix Gwynne 
 and Nina Braeme appearing together on the 
 witness stand. 
 
 If Harry's literary judgments were to be 
 swayed by the opinion of experts, on points of 
 general behaviour his voice came with no un- 
 certain sound. He had scant patience with a 
 man who handled doubtful pleasures like an 
 amateur. Such matters were susceptible of de- 
 cent regulation and reserve. Not that he ex- 
 pressed himself thus crudely to Alice, although 
 the arrival of a note from Felix himself 
 aroused this mentor to considerable freedom 
 of speech. 
 
 Alice herself felt romantically inclined to- 
 wards offering Nina hospitality. Both she and 
 Albert implicitly believed Gwynne's statements 
 concerning the girl. Alice also hailed the 
 chance of this glimpse into a new and improb-
 
 230 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 able world, and at once pictured the interest of 
 attending rehearsals, quelling- Nina's forward 
 admirers, and exerting an influence upon the 
 contemporary stage. 
 
 Albert, who genuinely cared for Felix, saw 
 the immense importance of having an estab- 
 lished person, like Mrs. Le Grand, give public 
 testimony in his favour. Even Felix had seen 
 the usefulness of such protection as only Alice 
 could afford. Undoubtedly, the new-married 
 couples, whom he had helped, would hasten to 
 Miss Braeme's aid, but a runaway bride and a 
 public stenographer were hardly the most con- 
 vincing of whitewashes. Mrs. Bradish Lau- 
 rence had long since migrated to Bar Har- 
 bor, where, moreover, she was now riveted by 
 an attack of gout, and owing to rehearsals, 
 Miss Braeme could not of course leave town. 
 All this the letter explained at length. Mrs. Le 
 Grand was his only hope. Of Adelaide he 
 breathed never a word. 
 
 "It certainly seems very hard," Alice ven- 
 tured, with a propitiating glance at Harry.
 
 While Others May Steal a Horse 231 
 
 "People should consider those things be- 
 forehand." He twisted his fair moustache ju- 
 dicially. "Gwynne thinks it is the easiest 
 thing in the world to make an ass of himself, 
 and let somebody else see him through. Now 
 it just amounts to this. No doubt," his con- 
 cession sounded highly perfunctory, "it was 
 all right, between him and the girl. You and 
 Yule know him and are ready to go bail for 
 that. But how many people are likely to be- 
 lieve you?" 
 
 "Still," Alice paused, "if we know it !" 
 "Know!" Harry's concession hardly bore 
 pressure. "How on earth can you, or Yule, or 
 any one else possibly know for sure, what hap- 
 pened when that precious pair were trapesing 
 round together in gipsy vans? I know, 
 though, one thing for very certain. All right, 
 or all wrong, I don't permit the house where 
 my young daughter lives to be used as a refuge 
 for imprudent theatre ladies, whether they are 
 innocent acquaintances of Master Felix 
 Gwynne, or the usual thing!"
 
 232 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 This allusion to Bessy effectively silenced a 
 conscientious stepmother. Consoling herself 
 with the reflection that if it had been her own 
 child, she would have braved public opinion in 
 the cause of friendship, Alice bowed to fate. 
 She merely begged Albert Yule to break her 
 refusal by word of mouth to Felix, bidding 
 him gather all possible tidings at Chastel- 
 lux of the young man's state of mind and 
 body. 
 
 In spite of the disappointment, Harry's im- 
 petuosity had filled her with a certain pride and 
 approval. Vaguely she wondered if his lit- 
 erary advancement so very much mattered, 
 since, after all, for intellectual comradeship, 
 she was entirely supplied and satisfied by daily 
 visits from so thoughtful and sympathetic a 
 spirit as Albert Yule. As June wore on, 
 Harry regained his wonted activity, and the 
 relations of Mr. and Mrs. Le Grand insensibly 
 fell back into their accustomed channel, with 
 merely the difference of an added cordiality be- 
 tween them, but emphatically with no greater
 
 While Others May Steal a Horse 233 
 
 relish for one another's society. In regard to 
 Felix Gwynne, Alice dimly knew a faint touch 
 of exasperation. It seemed almost puerile in 
 him not to be capable of adjusting matters 
 with Adelaide. Assuredly no one knew better 
 than herself what it was to be mated with a 
 person of different standards, tastes, and views 
 of life; but the wisdom of a superior being 
 must be shown in accepting and accommodat- 
 ing delicate situations. Compromise! Ad- 
 justment! that was the law! She could hardly 
 blame Felix for not finding every want of his 
 nature satisfied by Adelaide, but she plainly 
 saw how easily he could so have supplemented 
 these shortcomings as to make his wife reason- 
 ably happy, without undue sacrifice of personal 
 liberty. 
 
 This she wrote at length to Mrs. Bradish 
 Laurence, alluding in discreet terms to her 
 own case, hinting that though purely as a hus- 
 band Harry did there had been rocks in 
 plenty upon which she might have split. The 
 entire experience of matrimony had been at-
 
 234 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 tainable through him, in a short time. After 
 that, little remained but the tie of a child, daily 
 habit, common interests, the whole practical 
 side of life. Beyond that, he proved as inade- 
 quate as ever Adelaide could be. "What do I 
 do? Revolt, make demands upon my poor 
 husband the very meaning of which would al- 
 ways remain dark to him? Torment him? 
 By no means. To him I am all that he \vants 
 in a wife, and for my necessary intellectual 
 companionship, I turn to an old and trusted 
 friend !" Of course this was not put down in 
 black and white, but Alice's thoughts, in trans- 
 lation, would have read somewhat so. 
 
 Old Mrs. Laurence's answer, however, 
 needed no interpreter. She crudely put it all 
 into words . . . "Your letter, my dear Alice, 
 would strike me as revealing depths of 
 depravity, did I not know from what qualities 
 it really proceeds. You think that you under- 
 stand Felix and Adelaide, but indeed the 
 stupid Noels themselves come nearer. I posi- 
 tively must explain. The truth is that with all
 
 While Others May Steal a Horse 235 
 
 her prudery, Adelaide at bottom is a creature 
 of passion, more so far than Felix. That is 
 probably because her passion can have but one 
 outlet. She, poor child, whatever her faults, is 
 no dilettante in life. To her, tragic or happy, 
 it is all very serious, very real. Even intimacy 
 with another man would offend her taste. All, 
 or nothing! That is what she gives, and de- 
 mands ! The fact is that her passion for Felix 
 is so absorbing (only she'd never know it by 
 that name), that she's agonised with jealousy 
 of you, of Rachel Bernstein, of his friend the 
 stenographer Angela, Albert, his own writ- 
 ing heaven help her ! of me with one foot in 
 the grave ! And it is this very genuineness and 
 concentration that made her attraction for Fe- 
 lix. She rang true; and he, in his widely dif- 
 fering way, is genuine too, utterly so. Only 
 he isn't simple. And it's being their own life, 
 and their caring, that prevents either of them 
 from seeing it in perspective. They can't ad- 
 just it, poor children, because they are living it 
 so hard. They, either one of them, are capa-
 
 236 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 ble of tragedy, Adelaide more so, if only for 
 the reason that she will never understand what 
 ails her. She will live and die believing that 
 her displeasure was on high moral grounds, as 
 an outraged pillar of society, when it's really 
 the primitive woman set loose by Felix, who 
 rages in her with primitive jealousy. Of 
 course she might have been equal to sharing 
 his interests, to appreciating, to becoming part 
 of him with her mind, as well as her body. 
 You, no doubt, could have done so to a nicety, 
 as you are very truly reflecting at this 
 minute; but then, my dear Alice, only think 
 how little you are a creature of intense, con- 
 centrated feeling ! If you were, most certainly 
 Harry would have to go! Or perhaps Al- 
 bert. Don't misunderstand me. Don't sup- 
 pose me vulgar enough to mistake your very 
 decorous position. Moreover, if it came to 
 choosing, I really believe your honest prefer- 
 ence would be for Harry. All the same, you 
 are forever hunting up the kind of woman he 
 likes, to amuse him, and give you leisure for
 
 While Others May Steal a Horse 237 
 
 subtle and philosophic discourse with Albert 
 Yule . . ." 
 
 "Really," it flashed across Mrs. Le Grand, 
 "Cousin Emily is rather coarse and eighteenth- 
 century, at times!" But behind this there 
 lurked in the younger woman's mind a sub- 
 conscious knowledge which she promptly un- 
 earthed, weighed, assayed a recollection of 
 certain dinners with Harry beaming down 
 upon Mrs. Darling, the lady almost in a state 
 of nature, as to raiment, decidedly remote from 
 nature in every other respect. Alice knew that 
 this sight caused her not a second's annoy- 
 ance, satisfaction rather, that her husband 
 should be well amused. Also on seeing the 
 little woman's dilated pupils and heady spirits, 
 she had indeed felt a mild wonder that even 
 Mrs. Darling should find wherewithal in 
 Harry to arouse such interest. Decidedly the 
 spectacle evoked no such primitive passion as 
 jealousy. 
 
 "No, my dear," the old lady ended. "Go on 
 with your highly discreet menage a trois. No
 
 238 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 one could possibly object to it; it is absolutely 
 intrinsically, bloodlessly innocuous. But don't 
 blame Felix and Adelaide for not being able to 
 go and do likewise. Whatever their faults, 
 they both are as good as the angels, in being 
 true, in never tampering with so sacred a thing 
 as life. They are not amateurs! Adelaide 
 will sacrifice heaven and earth without falter- 
 ing. Felix is capable of crashing through 
 every tie that ought to hold him, but both of 
 them stake all they possess, no thrifty econ- 
 omy. Only, of course, it is most unfortunate 
 that they ever met." After this perfectly vir- 
 tuous tirade, the old lady wound up with a 
 frank expression of curiosity concerning the 
 moral, physical, and emotional characteristics 
 of Miss Nina Breame!
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 ttbe 1)t0broa> to ffame 
 
 THE only account of Nina's misadventure 
 reached her brother in a letter from the 
 girl herself. Knowing that Rupert seldom 
 read a daily paper, she hastened to write him at 
 length of her gipsy episode, touching lightly 
 on the fact that she had been annoyed by a cer- 
 tain amount of publicity, and entirely ignoring 
 her landlady's insulting treatment. Rupert's 
 convalescence had been slow; only after many 
 weeks at the quiet little watering-place, did he 
 feel hopes of regaining sufficient vigour to 
 think remotely of work. Long Beach was in 
 process of transition from natural fishing vil- 
 lage to established resort, but during June 
 summer people had not yet come in any num- 
 ber, and the small hotel boasted so few visitors 
 that by no chance could a new arrival pass un- 
 239
 
 240 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 noticed, even by Rupert, whose self-commun- 
 ion was usually so absorbing as to leave him 
 quite insensitive to outward impressions. 
 Driven by what he felt to be a disgusting ne- 
 cessity into work of a commercial order, his 
 artist's spirit only took pleasure in nebulous 
 renderings of highly symbolic aspects of na- 
 ture. In fact, although undeniable talent had 
 already given him a creditable footing in his 
 profession, Rupert openly bewailed the wither- 
 ing limitations of his field. A shadow, a cloud 
 effect, the detail of a gnarled oak-root, these to 
 him seemed far more fitting illustration for 
 any miserable story than the "human interest" 
 which all art editors insist upon having ex- 
 pressed through the literal medium of human 
 figures. Humanity was one of the many 
 things which Rupert found equally and tire- 
 somely irrelevant in art or nature. 
 
 Notwithstanding this lack of impulse to- 
 wards his kind, Rupert felt his interest forcibly 
 held by a lady who made her appearance at the 
 hotel towards the middle of June. She kept
 
 The Highroad to Fame 241 
 
 entirely to herself, walking or driving with an 
 old woman unmistakably bearing the stamp of 
 privileged family servant. This young lady 
 was beautiful, distinguished, and immensely 
 sad. Although Rupert seldom cared to use 
 them, he had come into the world with a pair 
 of sharply seeing eyes. Perversity might lead 
 him to wear blinkers, but once his attention 
 roused, real capacity enabled him to see, also 
 to apprehend, situations far beyond the range 
 of his personal experience. He put the 
 stranger down as a young, heart-broken 
 widow, but suspended judgment on noticing 
 that she bore no sign of widow's weeds, not 
 even the lightest black. Then slowly he di- 
 vined in her attitude a hint of inward struggle ; 
 he speculated idly on the stranger's problem, 
 vaguely working out many theories to account 
 for the isolation of so evident a mondaine, and 
 trying to trace an unhappiness which no re- 
 serve of bearing could hide from every passer- 
 by. 
 
 Strolling through a desert of white sand-
 
 242 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 dunes topped with pale, rustling grasses, he 
 came unexpectedly upon the lady. Her whole 
 pose expressed such melancholy that the lad 
 at once hastened along his way, with a sense 
 of having unfairly surprised her, peeped when 
 her guard was down. One gloved hand lay 
 loosely on her lap, the other still held a book 
 which she had ceased to read; with blue eyes 
 that saw nothing, she followed the white sail 
 of a schooner vanishing below the far horizon. 
 A gentle breeze, salt from the open sea, played 
 in the folds of her silken veil. Queer little am- 
 bulant birds with long thin legs, grey and 
 white as the sand, ran to and fro on the dunes, 
 almost stepping upon the hem of her dress, 
 then suddenly aware of a human presence, rose 
 with a hoarse chirp and made off on crooked, 
 pointed wings. How quiet she was, and grief- 
 stricken ! What did she suggest : some un- 
 happy princess of romance? Ariadne, was that 
 it? Confusedly the lad's mind went back to 
 half-forgotten studies. No, hardly Ariadne. 
 Under no circumstances would this controlled
 
 The Highroad to Fame 243 
 
 lady have waded into the waves and cast out- 
 spoken woes upon the unsympathetic air. This 
 one would bear her pain in silence, and never, 
 never on earth would she allow Bacchus to 
 console her; Apollo himself might sue in vain. 
 At this point in his reverie, Rupert felt prick- 
 ings of an artist's desire to seize and carry 
 away a further impression of her proud and 
 graceful outlines. Stiff! Yes, a trifle, but 
 adorably so ! Our young man was no admirer 
 of the sinuous girl-student, with her odd 
 clothes and untidy coiffure. In people, he was 
 a purist, a raffine, a creature of civilised taste. 
 After debating the question, he finally decided 
 that on a public thoroughfare there could be no 
 breach of etiquette in again strolling past the 
 solitary figure. 
 
 This time, however, she was no longer alone 
 but in evidently unwelcome company. A 
 thick-set, motherly person stood over her, and 
 uttered words of indignant remonstrance. 
 
 "Indeed, Mrs. Gwynne, I do not think you 
 should say that. How can it be impertinence
 
 244 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 of the Earth to send me to ask you? A cul- 
 tured social equal, not just any heartless man 
 reporter!" 
 
 Mrs. Gwynne's delicate profile, her cold blue 
 eyes, and slightly compressed lips plainly 
 warned off the intruder. "My opinions and 
 intentions are quite unaltered," she breathed, 
 with icy clearness, and turned to her book with 
 an air of immutable resolve. The cultured 
 equal here tried a different method. "And it's 
 very cruel, too, of a wealthy person like you, to 
 deny opportunity to a sister woman who is try- 
 ing her best to earn a refined living." 
 
 Without looking up, Adelaide quietly asked, 
 "If you want charity, why not say so?" 
 
 The woman flushed. "Because I am in re- 
 stricted circumstances is no reason you should 
 insult me." 
 
 Without a word, Adelaide read to the bot- 
 tom of a page, began a fresh chapter . . . 
 
 "Well," the journalist felt at an obvious dis- 
 advantage before such trained composure, "at 
 least you might tell me where to find Mr.
 
 The Highroad to Fame 245 
 
 Rupert Braeme. They said at the hotel that he 
 often walked down this way ..." 
 
 This Rupert deemed his legitimate chance 
 to rescue Mrs. Gwynne. Coming from behind 
 a sand dune, he asked, "You are looking for 
 me?" Involuntarilly Mrs. Gwynne glanced 
 up. He raised his hat, but her head made no 
 inclination. She utterly disliked his looks, he 
 savoured of the world in which she had known 
 only misery; also, his name was Braeme. 
 That he had come to her aid, without regard 
 to a distaste surprisingly akin to her own, 
 never suggested itself as a possibility. There- 
 fore it was with a sense of intolerable per- 
 secution that she read a note which Effie 
 brought to her room late that afternoon. In 
 a writing disordered by excitement, Rubert 
 fairly demanded a word with her after 
 supper. 
 
 "He just insisted on my bringing it to you," 
 Effie explained. "And I never saw a person 
 worse upset, white and shaking so he could 
 hardly stand. Shaking all over."
 
 246 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 "Go at once and tell him that I see no one !" 
 Adelaide's tone blotted out Rupert's entire ex- 
 istence. But to her extreme anger, after the 
 evening meal, she was waylaid on the stairs by 
 the young man himself in a state of agitation 
 which actually compelled attention. 
 
 He seemed on the verge of tears, speaking 
 in turn with youthful bombast and hysterical 
 complaint. Till enlightened by the Earth's 
 cultured agent, he had no conception of any 
 scandal concerning his sister and Mr. Gwynne. 
 Of course, Nina must be harshly blamed for 
 such a madcap performance. He himself 
 would take her to task. ... At this there 
 was an assumption of masculine authority, 
 pitiful enough, if Adelaide had but understood 
 the physical weakness of a person not wholly 
 recovered from desperate illness. As it was, 
 she only resented the coupling of herself with 
 any of that odious crew. Could he actually 
 be urging that Mrs. Gwynne must surely 
 be able to devise some way of righting 
 matters ?
 
 The Highroad to Fame 247 
 
 To save her life, Adelaide could not repress 
 a thrill of comfort at the boy's evident belief in 
 his sister, but the comfort vanished in outraged 
 distaste. After all, as far as Felix was con- 
 cerned, it was only a question of degree. His 
 lack of dignity and propriety, masquerading 
 about the world in equivocal positions, brought 
 her pure and sheltered existence in contact 
 with prying reporters, subjected her to scenes 
 in public places. Things as remote as petty 
 larceny or vulgar brawls were grown part and 
 parcel of her daily life ! To keep her husband, 
 she, Adelaide Noel, must needs share him with 
 vagabonds and worse, bear his so contriving 
 that their affairs should become public talk, till 
 she could nowhere find decent privacy. In this 
 one day she had been asked by strangers ques- 
 tions which even her parents hesitated to utter. 
 "Kindly let me pass!" She did not even look 
 at the lad. "Really, I see no part for me in the 
 troubles of Miss Braeme." 
 
 Rupert stood aside, giving her the rail, but 
 as she reached the landing above, the sound of
 
 248 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 a bump, another, several, then a thud, brought 
 her quickly back. 
 
 Rupert had fainted and fallen downstairs. 
 
 If Adelaide felt herself driven by Fate into 
 company she had every wish to avoid, at least 
 there was no moment of hesitation in going to 
 aid the prostrate figure lying motionless in the 
 hall below ; and as under joint ministrations 
 of herself, Effie, and their landlord the boy 
 slowly opened his eyes, she saw with self-re- 
 proach that her anger had turned upon a per- 
 son whose state of health might well call for 
 gentler dealing. 
 
 Rupert, however, would have none of her 
 good offices. 
 
 "But you will see a doctor?" she asked . . . 
 "Or at least let my maid help you to your 
 room?" 
 
 He was standing now, though painfully, and 
 met this suggestion with an unconscious exag- 
 geration of Adelaide's own repellent manner. 
 
 "Thanks, but really, I see no part for you
 
 The Highroad to Fame 249 
 
 in my affairs, Mrs. Gwynne." He took a few 
 steps slowly, his hand pressed to his side. 
 
 Following him, Adelaide even laid a detain- 
 ing finger on his sleeve. "Please, you know I 
 am partially responsible for your accident." 
 
 He turned a white face towards her, and 
 spoke for her alone. "Mrs. Gwynne, that wom- 
 an said you had left your husband on account 
 of my sister. Is that also your view of it?" 
 
 "I can't see that you have a right to ask me," 
 Adelaide answered, thoughtfully, temperately. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I have, the best." The long 
 breath he drew to inflate his dignity only 
 brought a pitiful contraction of physical pain. 
 "As Nina's sole protector, I'm bound to know 
 just how matters stand. And your taking this 
 view of it" here the frown came from anger 
 as well as suffering "what you have not said, 
 as plain as anything you could say, shows that 
 the person for me to see is Mr. Gwynne. This 
 is no matter for women. I beg your pardon." 
 The boy over-dramatised his role, he was self- 
 conscious, more than a little ridiculous, but
 
 250 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 under it Adelaide now saw and respected 
 genuine distress ; also he was ill ! 
 
 The physical side gave her a basis on which 
 to meet him. "But you must not try to see any 
 one until you are better. Stay here and let my 
 maid see to you. She's a good crea- 
 ture . . ." 
 
 Here Rupert threw up his handsome head in 
 dissent. "Women do not quite understand these 
 things, Mrs. Gwynne. How can you and I 
 stop under the same roof, after you have made 
 it plain that my sister is your husband's mis- 
 tress?" 
 
 Early the next day, Effie brought word that 
 Mr. Braeme had already left by the first train. 
 
 Forgetting that Nina was no longer in New 
 York, Rupert decided to go there at once, and 
 demand from his sister a full confession of her 
 relations with Felix Gwynne. Then it would 
 be time for action. He lay back comfortlessly 
 in the car seat, trying in vain to ease a steadily 
 growing pain in his injured side. By the time
 
 The Highroad to Fame 251 
 
 the train reached Jersey City, to his chagrin he 
 was quite unable to straighten his legs, or 
 stand up. Then there followed a nightmare, 
 in which anguish of body slowly befogged 
 every other sense. To get back to the hospital, 
 this became his only fixed point! A porter 
 wheeled him to the ferry-boat. He lay doubled 
 up on a bench in the waiting room, they had 
 carried him to a cab. Oh ! the rough pave- 
 ments, and his hospital was miles and miles 
 away. Long before the drive was over, he had 
 lapsed from consciousness. 
 
 "What have you been doing, young man?" 
 At last he lay relaxed and at ease, stretched 
 out on the very cot where he had already spent 
 so many weary weeks. Pain was there, but in 
 the background, subdued, not conquered. The 
 tall surgeon questioned lightly with an inci- 
 dental air. A white-clad nurse stood at the 
 foot of his bed ; in the doorway a pretty girl in 
 probationer's blue waited her chief's com- 
 mands. House doctors, students, hung on the 
 great man's words. It was the morning
 
 252 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 round, he must have been there many hours. 
 Rupert felt that if all power of action had for- 
 ever left him, he must at least keep guard over 
 a sick man's garrulity. 
 
 "Been playing football with yourself?" Dr. 
 Browne knew the use of stereotyped humour. 
 
 "No," Rupert answered, fumbling through 
 weakness, then simply told the truth. "I 
 fainted on the stairs and fell." 
 
 Then followed endless unwinding of band- 
 ages, and delicate manipulation of his damaged 
 side. The chief, the house surgeon, and a 
 young assistant all bent over his bed, keeping 
 up a running fire of cheerful talk, punctuated 
 by a rare grunt of serious comment. 
 
 "Looks like it !" 
 
 "May be the best thing that could have hap- 
 pened." 
 
 In the end, Rupert gathered that his fall had 
 torn out some stitches where the wound from 
 his operation was still weak. They assured 
 him that, strange to say, the accident was sus- 
 pected of having broken down some trouble-
 
 The Highroad to Fame 253 
 
 some adhesions, but an exploratory incision 
 would "be necessary. He might expect a more 
 perfect cure, eventually; meanwhile it threat- 
 ened to be just a trifle slow. 
 
 "I must see my sister, on business, at once," 
 Rupert interrupted. 
 
 But this was precisely what Dr. Browne 
 would not permit. On learning that Miss 
 Braeme had left town, he privately sent a 
 letter urging her to leave Rupert undisturbed. 
 There had been something not quite clear in 
 the boy's story of his accident. Why, for 
 instance, had he fainted? And taking this in 
 connection with the widespread newspaper 
 scandal and his evident impatience to see Nina, 
 the wise doctor concluded to spare his waning 
 strength an interview which could only be 
 taxing. Moreover, there was imperative need 
 for prompt operation, and experience had long 
 established the fact that after ether, and hours 
 of thirst, surgical patients easily lose interest 
 in all affairs beyond their own beds and bed- 
 sides.
 
 254 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 On reading the letter which Dr. Browne 
 himself found time to write her, Nina inclined 
 to drop rehearsals, to let everything go, for the 
 sake of being near her brother, but the com- 
 mand was very definite. Without giving any 
 reason, the surgeon's note made plain not only 
 that her brother was in no need of her, but that 
 it would be well to avoid all disturbing visits. 
 
 Nina was established in a small apartment 
 of Mr. Quorn's choosing. She had rather de- 
 murred at the expense, a cheap boarding house 
 was all she could afford. But the manager 
 pointed out that as she must stay the summer 
 through in a hot town, a certain degree of 
 comfort meant strength and good looks for the 
 winter's work. A few dollars a week more or 
 less could make little difference in a debt al- 
 ready large, and the strain of squalid discom- 
 fort would certainly impair her chance of suc- 
 cess. 
 
 During this time, Felix occasionally wrote 
 letters which she read and re-read. Their sub- 
 stance was always the same. He would stay
 
 The Highroad to Fame 255 
 
 at Chastellux, within an hour's call, at her ser- 
 vice. She must feel that he was there to de- 
 pend on in every possible way. He believed 
 that now, though nothing could be less to his 
 taste, it would be wiser for them not to meet; it 
 would only hurt her further. This was 
 touched with lightness. He passed on quickly 
 to the play she must write him how it went. 
 
 In the growing summer heat and long days 
 of effort and fatigue, these infrequent letters 
 filled a great space. Since the gipsy episode 
 Nina lived much to herself, her whole position 
 seemed to have undergone a change. She 
 could lay a ringer on no positive token of dis- 
 respect, rather it was that she now inspired a 
 keener interest; but from the call boy up, she 
 met with indefinably altered treatment. Here- 
 tofore, at the theatre, she had always been 
 something of an outsider. Now, not only did 
 she entirely belong, but she had become a char- 
 acter of public notoriety. And this was all the 
 more trying, since owing to a migratory child- 
 hood, followed by a period of hard study, the
 
 256 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 girl stood singularly without friends. The 
 long June evenings were increasingly depress- 
 ing. Even in town the sweetness of summer 
 could not be fully obliterated, there was just 
 enough to hint at pleasures ready to be en- 
 joyed. 
 
 Why, only to-night, she reflected, tossing 
 aside a book which entirely failed to divert her, 
 the others were off dining, in the country, 
 under trees, with music. The trim, clean- 
 shaven leading man, Percy Planter, had be- 
 sought her, in his mellowest tones, not to mew 
 herself up forever. If she objected to dining 
 with the Company, he would be only too glad 
 to leave them, for her sake. Or might he 
 come for her after dinner, at eight? There 
 were places where one could spend a pleasant 
 hour. 
 
 Nina had refused this, in spite of a half-jok- 
 ing remonstrance from Mr. Quorn, who joined 
 them at the stage door and walked part way 
 home with her, to Percy's obvious disgust. 
 The manager felt grieved that Miss Braeme
 
 The Highroad to Fame 257 
 
 should take a mere trifle of newspaper celebrity 
 so much to heart. A little amusement would 
 do her good, she was growing morbid. 
 
 At the time she had declined with unflag- 
 ging obstinacy, but now, the evening seemed 
 long. Morbid? Perhaps she might be, but 
 then the leading gentleman, polite as he was, 
 had a distasteful way, in the exercise of a pro- 
 fessional habit of fascination, of pinning his 
 eyes upon her. She hoped it might be purely 
 professional ! 
 
 With a sense of yielding to secret dissipa- 
 tion, she took Felix's last letter from her sec- 
 retary. It was full of a device Rachel Bern- 
 stein had shown him, a method of emphasis- 
 ing, without caricaturing simple gestures, of 
 making them stand out. Then he branched off 
 and described the great actress, with humour, 
 appreciation, and perfectly uncritical accept- 
 ance of her manner of life. Of her heaven- 
 sent gift and the intelligence controlling it, he 
 spoke with serious admiration. There was 
 also a word of regret at missing his own fan-
 
 258 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 tasy, which even now, she was bringing out in 
 her own Paris house. Not a line throughout 
 that might not have been passed approvingly 
 by Mrs. Noel in solemn family conclave! 
 
 Poor Nina yawned and stretched her pretty, 
 weary person, finally subsiding, discouraged, 
 in an over-upholstered armchair. After all 
 there might be solid satisfaction, but certainly 
 she found scant enjoyment in a youth of 
 drudgery and discretion. She had no illusions 
 as to her talent, in comparison with Rachel 
 Bernstein's. Unrelieved effort and respectable 
 mediocrity, she knew her legitimate limita- 
 tions; although for many years, the easier 
 paths of her profession the potency of good 
 looks cleverly exploited had been constantly 
 held before her as an ever-present temptation. 
 
 A ring at the bell! She glanced at her 
 watch. It might be Percy, after all. Was she 
 not silly to refuse? Considering that business 
 compelled her to undergo a warm embrace at 
 least twice in every performance, wasn't it far- 
 fetched to deny him an ordinary degree of in-
 
 The Highroad to Fame 259 
 
 timacy between whiles? If the play had the 
 run they were all praying for well, it really 
 seemed fantastic to refuse an hour's jaunt to a 
 person whom you hoped would have occasion 
 to embrace you at least one hundred-and-eighty 
 times before New Year's ! 
 
 Thrusting away Felix's letter, she opened 
 the door. Not Mr. Planter, but a rough ish- 
 looking man with a suggestion of uniform 
 lurking indefinably about his clothes, in his 
 cap perhaps, or was there a brass button? 
 She hardly knew, but his appearance struck 
 her excited nerves as sinister. A dun? But 
 she owed money to no one but Mr. Quorn. 
 Yet the stranger held an ugly, official envelope. 
 
 "Miss Nina Braeme?" he asked. 
 
 "What has happened?" Her mind flew to 
 Rupert. Could he be in any fresh trouble? 
 
 "Don't be uneasy, miss." The stranger's 
 manner grew positively chivalrous. "Ladies 
 are always shy on their first summons, but it's 
 nothing a child need mind. Only as wit- 
 ness . ."
 
 260 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 Nina unfolded the paper, and with a "Good- 
 evening" he turned to go. "But wait, please," 
 she begged. "Suppose I don't understand 
 what to do?" 
 
 "All right, miss!" He good-humouredly 
 stopped. "Such a hunt as I had for you. At 
 the theatre, that bright boy in the box office 
 said he didn't know where you lodged, but a 
 young fellow from the News put me wise." 
 
 Having found her wits, Nina skimmed over 
 the summons. She was to appear at the Mount 
 Laurel court, on Tuesday following, in the 
 case of Costello versus Cooper. "Oh, but I 
 can't, you know. I'm too busy, be- 
 side ..." She appealed to the messenger. 
 
 "They always say that, but you needn't 
 mind, miss. It only takes an hour to get there, 
 less by a quick train, and in the long run, it'll 
 give you more trouble to dodge than to come. 
 They can make you, you know." 
 
 This seemed to Nina the very last stone in 
 the sling of Fate. More newspaper, more 
 blazoning abroad of her adventures, and at
 
 The Highroad to Fame 261 
 
 this she became conscious of a new factor. Her 
 pulse was beating quicker, she no longer felt 
 tired and disheartened. The summer air was 
 balmy, a jingle of distant hand-organs floated 
 agreeably in at the open window. To-day was 
 Thursday, and if, as the messenger said, there 
 should be no way of dodging this vexing sum- 
 mons why, then, she had only to wait in pa- 
 tience a few days . . . 
 
 Morning had almost come before she fell 
 asleep, only to wake early with a start, a vague 
 sense that something had happened to make 
 life bearable. Not that she expected him to 
 speak to her, but there was no denying im- 
 measurable solace in the prospect of catching, 
 even across a crowded court-room, the merest 
 distant glimpse of her fellow culprit. Try as 
 she might, the whole day long Nina went 
 about her work with her mind filled with the 
 thought of again meeting Felix Gwynne!
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 21 Cribe of Ouar&fan Bngels 
 
 BEFORE the trial came on, Nina again 
 heard from Felix. He had used every 
 influence to delay the case, to avoid her being 
 summoned ; but the country court was obsti- 
 nate. Cooper pressed his suit, Mrs. Costello's 
 lawyer likewise urged speedy settlement. Per- 
 haps Mr. Quorn could manage to get her off. 
 
 Conscious of a weak play, and finding Nina 
 much too squeamish for a young lady who 
 voluntarily went gipsying, Mr. Quorn, on the 
 contrary, viewed the trial as one more piece of 
 rare luck, something beyond the most inspired 
 imagination of advertising agents. 
 
 "Now don't worry about missing a re- 
 hearsal, Miss Braeme." Actually the manager 
 let slip a compliment. "You're better already 
 
 than any of them, and a day off will keep you 
 262
 
 A Tribe of Guardian Angels 263 
 
 from getting stale. Have your eyes open, too. 
 Watch how it all works out. Some of these 
 days you may need to know how a court 
 scene goes." 
 
 Being after all of only human discretion, 
 though dressing with fitting quiet, Nina could 
 not resist her best hat and most becoming 
 frock. He had never seen her in proper 
 clothes. Was it her fault if the hat were 
 pretty ? 
 
 Mr. Ouorn sent Percy Planter (so at least 
 the latter affirmed) to bear her company across 
 the ferry. "Wish I could see you through." 
 Percy bestowed upon her candy, flowers, 
 books, and a Japanese fan. "But the old man 
 won't let me off a whole day." 
 
 "You are very kind." Secretly, Nina felt 
 thankful to Mr. Quorn. So far in her career, 
 she had clung desperately to the idea of mod- 
 est success, honest endeavour, and endless dis- 
 cretion. But now, who could tell? By next 
 year she might be like the others, good girls, 
 no doubt, but well-emancipated from hamper-
 
 264 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 ing refinements and scruples. To-day at least, 
 she certainly had small desire for the showy 
 escort of Mr. Percy Planter. 
 
 "You are looking remarkably fit, I must 
 say." The young man detained her on the car 
 platform. "Fetching things you have on. Do 
 you know, Miss Braeme, every different dress 
 you come out in, I always feel that is the only 
 kind of thing you should ever wear !" 
 
 Nina looked straight into the eyes which 
 were fixing hers with an intensity not wholly 
 professional. Not wholly ! Why, the boy was 
 really making love to her ! This she saw with 
 an irritation which found no outlet in words, 
 till he unwisely said, with lover-like inflec- 
 tions : 
 
 "And I'd like to be there too, to look after 
 you, Miss Braeme; to be sure that Mr. Felix 
 Gwynne doesn't get you into any more 
 scrapes . . ." The actor's over-expressive face 
 darkened. 
 
 The conductor was calling "all aboard." 
 "Listen, Mr. Planter," Nina spoke abruptly.
 
 A Tribe of Guardian Angels 265 
 
 "If you are doing all this from politeness, pray 
 spare yourself the trouble, I don't like it. If 
 it's anything more than politeness, I like it 
 even less." Burthened with his gifts, Nina 
 settled herself in the train, reflecting with a 
 very rueful humour that with Rupert, Mr. 
 Quorn, Felix, and Percy Planter all bent on 
 protecting her, any young woman stood an ex- 
 cellent chance of being carried far beyond the 
 need of sheltering wings. But in this tribe of 
 guardian angels she soon discovered another, 
 more aggressive and, if possible, more damag- 
 ing. 
 
 Seth Williams, her gipsy host, had reached 
 conclusions of his own as to the relation of 
 Felix and Nina. Their reticence about Rhoda 
 Costello had earned his undying gratitude, 
 therefore he came to court resolved to miss no 
 chance of doing the pair a good turn. This 
 general benevolence, however, was destined by 
 the morning's events to be diverted from Felix 
 to Nina alone. 
 
 Marshal and Deputy Marshal rounded up
 
 266 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 the gipsies in an indiscriminate mob, regard- 
 less of fiery glances exchanged by hostile fac- 
 tions. Old Mrs. Lovel had honoured the day 
 with a wide-rimmed Leghorn hat adorned 
 with brilliant paper roses, from under which 
 her red eyes peered out watchfully. Nina 
 thought she looked singularly unlike an effi- 
 cient chaperon for errant actresses. Henri- 
 etta Cooper wore a bright satin waist trimmed 
 with black lace, many rings, and a quasi-Span- 
 ish arrangement of plastered black hair, her 
 best attire of calculated disreputableness, ha- 
 bitually assumed for county fairs and all pub- 
 lic occasions. Some of the men carried their 
 small whips, and proceedings were constantly 
 broken in upon by eruptions from without of 
 dogs and children. 
 
 Reporters from town rejoiced in a pictur- 
 esque "story," while the country contingent 
 felt only mortification at being forced to take 
 seriously anything so preposterous as a gipsy 
 lawsuit. The Marshals facetiously "guessed" 
 that by next circuit the cows and pigs would
 
 A Tribe of Guardian Angels 267 
 
 be suing each other, and setting up bank ac- 
 counts. 
 
 "Let me sit by old Mrs. Lovel, please," Nina 
 whispered to a man at the door. On the 
 whole, that seemed her fittest niche. 
 
 "Well, miss, but your place has been as- 
 signed just here." The pompous countryman 
 deposited her on a bench close by Felix, and a 
 lightning-artist at once began to sketch in 
 their joint portrait. Seeing Nina's colour rise, 
 Felix greeted her with extreme formality, and 
 devoted all his attention to studying judge and 
 jury. This evident coldness did not escape 
 Seth Williams. His impenetrable, slanting 
 eyes took in the whole scene, and he read the 
 situation plainly. Having got Miss Braeme 
 into a scrape, Mr. Gwynne showed signs of not 
 standing by her. "He wants to shake her," 
 was Seth's interpretation of this considerate 
 restraint. "Never mind!" When his chance 
 came, he would certainly proclaim Nina's 
 rights over Felix, in open court. 
 
 Special Officer Brady was on hand, also the
 
 268 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 weather-wise bank-cashier, the steamboat cap- 
 tain. All of these gave clear and unbiassed tes- 
 timony. The gipsies proved far more difficult. 
 They grudgingly admitted Mr. Costello's 
 death. 
 
 "Mister?" snapped the Coopers' counsel. 
 "What was the man's name ?" 
 
 "Jasper." 
 
 "Did they think he died a natural death?" 
 
 "Well, who can say? He had been in a city 
 hospital !" 
 
 Here the country people laughed, reporters 
 made hasty jottings, and Rhoda Costello took 
 the stand. Her pace could not be hurried by 
 judge or lawyers. They, she and her man, 
 had been off, "down Shenandoah way," but 
 feeling stricken with illness, Jasper came by 
 forced journeys to town, first to see after a few 
 matters of business, then to try doctor's stuff. 
 Learning in the hospital that his illness was 
 mortal, and naturally not wishing to die under 
 a roof, among strangers, he managed to 
 struggle out of bed and drove some distance
 
 A Tribe of Guardian Angels 269 
 
 when, the pains growing worse, he urged her 
 to telegraph his sister and her husband Peter 
 Cooper, to join them in camp. 
 
 "Telegraph !" The judge showed scepticism. 
 "Had they a Western Union wire to their 
 van?" 
 
 "No, your Honour." Rhoda was full of 
 scornful dignity. "They live in a house in 
 Newark, and only take the road autumns, for 
 county fairs. In a house they live, like 
 pigs!" 
 
 Mrs. Costello's testimony was not to be 
 shaken. They had come at once, and received 
 from her dying husband a half of all his 
 wealth. The rest, with tents, wagons, and 
 horses went to her, his lawful wife. A just 
 division was made, the gold counted out in two 
 bags, half to her, half to them. 
 
 Here Seth Williams was called. . . . He 
 and his people were asked to the funeral; yes, 
 they had long known Jasper was a sick man. 
 "Everybody knew that." But he became much 
 sicker after the hospital. Jasper's body had
 
 270 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 been put in the ground; an old horse, not a 
 very good one, "About five dollars, it might be 
 worth," killed on the grave, and a wagon 
 burned, "Not a very good one, either." Then 
 Peter and Henrietta drove off in a sulky given 
 them by Mrs. Costello, along with certain tent- 
 poles and the dead man's clothes ; she herself 
 preferring to join the Williams tribe, rather 
 than travel alone, or live with house-dwelling 
 Coopers. 
 
 "I was not going to let them rob me," Rhoda 
 interrupted. "They would cut my throat, if 
 they could. I am alone. I have got nobody." 
 She would not be silenced. "It was different 
 with the lady and gentleman," she glanced to- 
 wards Nina. "I could trust him, a stranger, 
 not to put his hands against my money, to 
 carry it straight to bank for me" (she had 
 described their drive at length). "And she, 
 the pretty lady, she came back and took my 
 sick head on her knee, that she did! instead 
 of sitting up in front with her . . ." 
 
 Here the judge hastily imposed silence,
 
 A Tribe of Guardian Angels 271 
 
 calling upon Seth to continue. Seth had 
 watched Nina's air of constraint. He had 
 seen the unbroken reserve between her 
 and Felix. She never gave a look at him or 
 he at her. Indeed, this open coupling was al- 
 most more than the girl could bear; she had 
 dreaded fresh publicity, the prolonging of 
 scandal, but what she felt was intolerably 
 wounded modesty. There they sat, pilloried, 
 side by side; and though no actual word was 
 spoken, the whole inference could not have 
 been plainer. The judge, the reporters, gip- 
 sies, and country people, by to-morrow the 
 entire newspaper-reading world, could only 
 think ... It came over her in waves of 
 heat and shame. Why, in that whole court, 
 only herself and Felix knew the truth ! And 
 this was complicated by another feeling, the 
 flatness of it ! How he must hate her, he who 
 of all men had shown her only respect. For 
 the others, she might as well be the lowest of 
 the low, one who, meeting any chance stranger 
 for a day, was ready And why was the
 
 272 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 judge asking if Felix had known her before 
 they met in camp? And what what in 
 mercy's name, was Seth's slow answer ? Noth- 
 ing but the truth, the misleading, damaging 
 truth ! 
 
 "I think she did know him before, though I 
 can't say for sure." 
 
 The gipsy gave Nina a look meant to be re- 
 assuring. It was drawn from him piecemeal 
 that, when Felix lay senseless in the road, Miss 
 Braeme had seemed to recognise his face, and 
 that was why he, Seth, naturally chose them 
 to drive Mrs. Costello. Not one positive state- 
 ment did he make, but his insinuations were 
 complete, logical, damning. "He'll have 
 trouble to shake free of her after that," Seth 
 slipped in the intelligent ear of old Mrs. Lovel, 
 as he took his place among the Williams fac- 
 tion. 
 
 Nina felt that her testimony could only 
 hopelessly confirm his. She had thought the 
 worst would be when they discussed her mas- 
 querading with Felix as a chance acquaint-
 
 A Tribe of Guardian Angels 273 
 
 ance, but this proved nothing in comparison to 
 the air of premeditation given by Seth's care- 
 fully tinctured evidence. 
 
 At noon the court held recess. Seth cropped 
 up suddenly at her elbow. "Is he doing right 
 by you?" the gipsy whispered with a glance 
 at Felix. "I can say more, if that was not 
 enough. You did well by us, lady, and he's a 
 rich man and should see to you, that you don't 
 need to work." 
 
 "He's nothing to me, now or ever. You 
 were wrong." Nina felt all the queerness of 
 discussing this, here with Felix at her side. 
 "I've not seen him, not once since that day by 
 the river, till now, and didn't want to." She 
 would have gone on, but for the utter unbelief 
 expressed in Seth's polite acceptance of her 
 denial. If that were her present lay, why, no 
 doubt she had her reasons ; perhaps a new man, 
 but if so, the gipsy saw no cause for her un- 
 happy blushes. Just then a lawyer came 
 across the room to explain that she and Mr. 
 Gwynne would not be called for further evi-
 
 274 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 dence. The lawyer was disposed to linger in 
 their company, but they immediately left the 
 court. 
 
 "I can't hurt you any further, by walking to 
 the station with you, can I?" Felix was re- 
 duced to a brutal directness. 
 
 "I think we have about done for each 
 other!" Nina was past fencing; besides, of all 
 people, he alone seemed to face the truth, and 
 in this maze of insinuation, truth seemed the 
 one thing she must hold to. She was slipping, 
 slipping down, dragged by forces far beyond 
 her control. Everything was going, and he, 
 the person who had ruined her, he alone could 
 furnish courage, just because he, at least, 
 knew. But the debt and Mr. Quorn! Mr. 
 Quorn only waiting, she guessed too well for 
 what. Since all this, he too had changed to- 
 wards her! And Percy! Percy might even 
 wish to marry her, but she also knew what that 
 meant. A passing fancy on his part, none at 
 all on hers. 
 
 "This way, I think," Felix broke in on her,
 
 A Tribe of Guardian Angels 275 
 
 turning down a shabby street, towards a 
 shabby station. 
 
 They sat side by side, like culprits, on a 
 much-hacked bench. Felix at last looked his 
 companion carefully over, but Nina never met 
 his eye. He asked politely for her health, her 
 brother's, for the play. How she bore the 
 summer in town. 
 
 She answered drily, monosyllabically. It 
 was hideous that they could no longer allow 
 themselves to understand each other, or was it 
 that understanding had now gone so deep that 
 speech only came as a check upon the inter- 
 course of a too intimate silence? Suddenly 
 she spoke with a frankness born of his utter 
 comprehension. "I must put this into words, 
 Mr. Gwynne, else it will always lie between us. 
 You've cost me the last shred of reputation. 
 And I've cost you your wife, and, God help 
 me, I'm going on as if nothing had happened, 
 to work and live it down." For a moment her 
 voice gave out, but in a second she had flung 
 up her spirited head and spoke with fire, with
 
 276 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 flashing courage. "They can't make me what 
 I'm not, nor you ! Remember that, and go on 
 being as good as good as you've been to me ! 
 If we do this, both of us, nothing on earth can 
 hound us on to baseness !" 
 
 A train had drawn up at the platform. 
 Felix nodded gravely. "You are right. We 
 must play the hand in spite of them." For 
 once their eyes met, and with this she left him. 
 But neither of them fully reckoned how many 
 points in that game had been badly lost when, 
 to them, the world had grown to be an unde- 
 fined "they," only to be met and frustrated by 
 a man and woman who to one another could 
 only now be "we !" 
 
 Nina sat upright in her seat, tingling. Why 
 had she done this? From what impulse had 
 she put into words a resolve which, till it came 
 from her lips, she was wholly unaware of hav- 
 ing made ? Her mind raced to and fro, hunt- 
 ing a reason which at first proved elusive. 
 That this reason, and a sound one, lurked in 
 some tight-closed brain cell, she never
 
 A Tribe of Guardian Angels 277 
 
 for a second doubted. Then she knew 
 it, with a shame that came to physical 
 pain! The passionate desire, since he did not 
 love her, there it lay to keep that which the 
 world would be so sure she had lost. And 
 more! To give out strength and endurance, 
 since he did not love her, to steady his course. 
 During the long scene in court, neither anger 
 nor emotion of any kind had found expression in 
 his cold eyes and controlled features, yet for all 
 that, it needed one look only for Nina to know 
 that his inward unhappiness equalled her own. 
 
 During the slow weeks that followed, she 
 had much time to think of this; in fact, "The 
 Romany Rawnie" received only the lees of her 
 attention. At each successive rehearsal her 
 acting grew more academic, with constantly 
 smaller result from the realistic study which 
 had cost so dear. Everything connected with 
 the gipsy episode had grown either so hateful, 
 or so sacred yes, she understood it now that 
 using it in public would be like making capital
 
 278 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 out of intimate moments. Realising this, Nina 
 also knew her lack as an actress, the point of 
 view which makes of all emotions, all events, 
 opportunity of study. Percy Planter for in- 
 stance, though no genius, possessed this in- 
 stinct. Just as he dramatised a lover-like atti- 
 tude towards her, he now dramatised a gentle- 
 manly acceptance of her rebuff. The very ges- 
 ture of regret he had made on leaving her at the 
 train was now used with great effect in Scene 
 Two, Act One, of "The Romany Rawnie." 
 Where this true vocation existed, no one, not 
 the players themselves, would ever clearly dis- 
 tinguish between practising stage effects in pri- 
 vate, and profiting upon the stage by every per- 
 sonal experience. There was the difference! 
 With her, every detail of the camp seemed in- 
 timate history, something to be jealously 
 guarded. In the most personal of all arts, the 
 girl longed only to veil herself from personal 
 display. Daily she expected reproof, remon- 
 strance from Mr. Quorn, but no acting ap- 
 peared too tame to give him satisfaction.
 
 A Tribe of Guardian Angels 279 
 
 Apart from insisting upon photographs in 
 every conceivable costume, the manager made 
 few demands upon her. She was conscious of 
 being carried beyond her true place. The 
 sense that notoriety would supplant solid 
 achievement seemed to wither ambition. How 
 enjoy an authority she was far from having 
 earned, when a public slur upon her name in- 
 sured more certain advancement than years of 
 honest work? 
 
 It had plainly come to this. Confident that 
 audiences would flock to see the woman whose 
 name was linked with Felix Gwynne's, Mr. 
 Quorn forbore criticism; and this he did with 
 kindly intention of sparing nerves which he 
 saw to be overwrought and raw. 
 
 Rupert in his hospital had learned of the 
 trial, and the boy's letters were far from 
 pleasant reading. Without his ever saying it, 
 evidently he did not heartily acquit her. He 
 sarcastically congratulated her when Mrs. Cos- 
 tello obtained a favourable verdict, then curtly 
 mentioned that he was meeting with great
 
 280 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 kindness from Dr. Browne. Seeing how the 
 boy's worried state impeded recovery, the sur- 
 geon actually carried him off to his own Adi- 
 rondack camp. This came about quite sud- 
 denly, and a letter from Nina saying that she 
 must absolutely see her brother, only reached 
 New York after Dr. Browne himself had taken 
 Rupert from the hospital to the train. From a 
 mountain lake, Rupert wrote again. He was 
 gaining strength, would have been well, but 
 for a slight complication which forbade walk- 
 ing. He would sketch a little . . . 
 
 Nina felt that his letter should have lessened 
 her anxieties, but the tone seemed distant, or 
 was she truly growing morbid ? At the end she 
 found something about not joining her till he 
 should be able to take a proper place as his sis- 
 ter's protector. 
 
 Meantime, when not busy at the theatre, she 
 lived to herself through shortening August 
 days. She read, tried to study, and strove 
 with increasing discouragement to suppress an 
 encroaching distaste for her chosen profession.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 BDelatfce begs 
 
 AFTER the trial Felix again wrote to his 
 wife. Although she had authorised her 
 parents to return, unopened, all letters from 
 him, the chance of a new servant's bringing 
 the mail put into her hands an envelope ad- 
 dressed in his writing. Having marked out a 
 line of conduct, Adelaide's only idea was im- 
 plicitly to follow it. Slowly leaving a big arm- 
 chair she walked towards the fireplace, with no 
 intention but to put a match to the unread mis- 
 sive. It felt thick and heavy, he had written at 
 length. She struck a light, blew it out, waited 
 a moment. At first she was only conscious of 
 a wish to delay, but this quickly merged into 
 the stress of full-blown temptation. Suddenly 
 unable to resist, she found herself eagerly 
 reading "Why believe printed absurdities, 
 281
 
 282 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 rather than my word, dear? The papers are 
 caught lying every day, and whatever you may 
 have to complain of in me, you never found me 
 doing that. Surely it should be as easy to 
 credit the truth, and pleasanter. And what is 
 it all about? We seem to have known each 
 other very little, you and I. You think me 
 unbelievable! And I did think you, as you 
 look ! Utterly pure-minded. Yet because of a 
 series of accidents, you are ready to fit the 
 lowest meaning upon a situation that can be 
 explained naturally. Indeed, Adelaide, it can- 
 not be you ! You've been seeing through other 
 eyes than your own. If once you would come 
 here to me, we could talk together in Miss 
 Anne's peaceful old room. Here, by the river, 
 it is cool and green, but behind us, in the great 
 sun-baked country, the wonder of the harvest 
 is working its slow, passionate fruition. To- 
 gether we can unravel mysteries, and there is 
 something for us, a clue, a key, in these fields 
 of yellow corn, in the ceaseless labour for an 
 end, in the heavy wains crawling to town,
 
 Adelaide Obeys 283 
 
 laden with fruits of the earth. What is it? 
 Stability, the tyranny and the comfort of being 
 part of life. Indeed, Adelaide, you should be 
 here, with me. If there be storms, we need 
 each other's aid to weather them. Brooding 
 alone, you'll never learn to know that, though 
 doubtless a trying creature, I am no monster. 
 Now here is a truth, a hard one. You, my 
 dear, had driven me to the point of believing 
 that I never again could bear the sight of your 
 face; that it would be joy to be rid of you! 
 That once free of you, I'd find a beautiful 
 world waiting for me, full of gaiety, excite- 
 ment, freedom. That is the queer thing. It 
 seems as if somewhere under irritation, anger, 
 under the fact that we don't get on, I really 
 must care for you. And God help you, dear, I 
 believe you care for me. It is a misfortune for 
 us both. We are mismated, but we are mated ! 
 That is real, and if we cannot be very happy 
 together, apart we are still less so. Even 
 though we disagree, there have been moments 
 when we did truly come together. It is
 
 284 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 those we must remember . . ." Adelaide was 
 trembling. Surely there had been moments! 
 "Now listen, and believe," she read on. 
 "When you cast me off, I had every intention 
 of vanishing, to Paris, to the East, for exactly 
 the kind of diversion that your people were 
 good enough to credit me with. Why deny 
 myself ? The odium was already mine, do you 
 see? Besides, I fancy you can hardly realise 
 what it means that Rachel Bernstein is giving 
 my play, every night, in her own theatre, that 
 they have written and cabled me to come. You 
 won't be able to understand, but perhaps you 
 will believe that the thing, whatever it is, 
 which enables me to write, also goads me with 
 a craving to see my own creation. Not the 
 mere vulgar applause, though I'm not above 
 wanting that too, but the pure joy of seeing 
 fulfilled ideas ! And yet, week after week, I've 
 stayed here, in this quiet old house, alone and 
 waiting. Am I to wait forever? And there's 
 another thing! How can you be so cruel to 
 that unlucky girl ? Why, at the trial, even your
 
 Adelaide Obeys 285 
 
 mother must have pitied her! Think of the 
 sheer indecency! Why, the poor child hardly 
 knows me, yet I'm supposed ... There we 
 sat, side" by side, pelted by every filthy in- 
 sinuation, ticketed, yoked. Wasn't it enough 
 to drive her and she's pretty, Adelaide, very 
 pretty, and far cleverer than you into my 
 arms? And what difference could there be, 
 with all the world thinking the worst already ? 
 Ashamed and outraged as she was, and angry, 
 can you guess what she did? Only exhorted 
 me to be good, and not let myself be hounded 
 on to baseness! Her words! And that's the 
 girl you've ruined, Adelaide. You've not left 
 her reputation enough to cover her. She is 
 held up, stripped and shivering, for the public 
 to leer at. She would hide, but because, 
 through no fault of her, there's money owing, 
 she must needs go on and work. We could 
 free her in a second. The sum she lacks would 
 be less than nothing to you and me, but alone 
 I can give her nothing, not one far- 
 thing . . ." Adelaide spread the close-written
 
 286 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 sheet on her knee, her shaking hands would 
 no longer hold it. 
 
 "I'll be franker still, Adelaide. At first I 
 stayed here in hopes of a chance to remedy the 
 evil I had done her. But there can be no help 
 from me, only harm. Now I am waiting be- 
 cause there is an obstinate girl, twenty miles 
 away, who is my wife, and to whom I'm bound 
 by a tie that doesn't readily break. It seems to 
 me, at this minute, that you have almost every 
 fault in the world, dear. All but one! You 
 are real ! But in the name of the love we have 
 felt for each other, don't let the fragments of 
 our happiness be shattered beyond repair, for 
 unreality, for other people's ugly dreams !" 
 
 When Mrs. Noel came home from her drive, 
 she found something never before known in 
 the annals of Noel Place, Adelaide sobbing 
 helplessly in her room, uncontrolled and 
 abandoned to imprudent and agitating tears. 
 
 "Dear child," Mrs. Noel even felt disturb- 
 ance gaining upon her, "don't talk. Remem-
 
 Adelaide Obeys 287 
 
 her, remember . . ." A question hovered in 
 the air, but Adelaide volunteered . . . 
 
 "Felix has written. He wants me !" 
 
 The older lady drew in hard, unfriendly lips. 
 ''You promised, you would hold no communi- 
 cation with him, till afterwards. If a mere 
 letter throws you into such excitement, what 
 would it be to see him, now," Mrs. Noel hated 
 to touch on the physical aspects of existence, 
 "at this time when quiet is so essential? If 
 you do not care for your life, you have at least 
 a duty. Why, you are white now, you are 
 faint . . ." 
 
 A quickly summoned doctor eventually 
 strengthened Mrs. Noel's hand. Whatever 
 Adelaide might choose to do later, for the next 
 few weeks she must needs obey. Mrs. Noel 
 disliked baring family matters, even to family 
 doctors, but yielded to the necessity of mak- 
 ing clear how the intolerable ways of Mr. 
 Gwynne had driven his wife from him, while 
 she was yet well and vigorous. 
 
 The doctor was not immediately convinced.
 
 288 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 "Young women take great comfort in their 
 husbands, at these times, Mrs. Noel," he re- 
 monstrated. "The best mother is a long way 
 behind." 
 
 But Effie's testimony was unearthed. Mr. 
 Gwynne's ungovernable temper had brought 
 about a scene, even on their wedding day. 
 Once started, with all the abandon of a re- 
 served woman finally goaded into speech, Mrs. 
 Noel had her will of Felix. Brutal, incon- 
 stant, the saga of his misdeeds led only too 
 logically to such a climax as the police court 
 and Nina Braeme! 
 
 Entirely convinced, the doctor gave his ver- 
 dict. Though even an indifferent husband 
 might afford comfort, the presence of a turbu- 
 lent and vicious one could only mean danger 
 
 Adelaide herself was too weak and ill for re- 
 monstrance. The terror and strangeness of 
 this new experience, a desire to save her child, 
 brought her to obedience. Moreover, with a 
 sad reasonableness, she saw the impossibility 
 of travelling to Chastellux, the equal impossi-
 
 Adelaide Obeys 289 
 
 bility of bringing Felix in contact with her 
 parents. She lay in a quiet room to which 
 there presently came a noiseless girl in white, 
 a girl before whom even Mrs. Noel's authority 
 wavered and submitted. Frightening, unbear- 
 able pain tormented her body. Doctors were 
 there, they stayed by her bed all night, talking 
 low, watching, reassuring her too elaborately. 
 At the worst moment, she was not afraid of 
 dying, only anxious to know ! Towards morn- 
 ing she felt ease, or was it that capacity for 
 pain had waned with waning strength? Or 
 was it drugs? "Am I to live?" she asked. 
 
 The great man patted her thin hand. "Why 
 not, dear lady? You came near being rather 
 ill, that's all. Now it is quite right, only you 
 must stay here, flat in bed. No effort, no ex- 
 citement ..." 
 
 "Thank you." For all her weakness, Ade- 
 laide could still think and feel feel bitterly 
 that here she was like a mateless waif, in this 
 state where every mortal woman needs the care 
 and sympathy the tenderness of that person
 
 290 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 for whom these pangs are suffered. She had 
 seen other young wives, the pride, the anxiety 
 of their husbands . . . And here she had fled 
 back to her parents' house, to be reassured 
 by strangers, unsustained, uncherished. Her 
 sick imagination played cruel tricks. Often 
 she dozed and dreamt of his coming, there, 
 through the doorway. Then she believed in 
 him, and again disbelieved. Gradually she 
 grew quieter, resting her mind on a secret re- 
 solve. Now she could do nothing, only wait. 
 Duty to the coming child imposed this, but 
 once her illness over, no power on earth should 
 keep her from at least making one more trial to 
 live at Chastellux with Felix. He liked chil- 
 dren; perhaps after this their understanding 
 would be different. Was it weakness, or the 
 softness of approaching motherhood ? She no 
 longer judged him. That could likewise wait. 
 He was right, though, in one thing. The bond 
 was strong between them, strong enough to 
 cause all this havoc, to reduce her from 
 strength to helplessness, from courage to
 
 Adelaide Obeys 291 
 
 timidity. Strong enough to hurt grievously 
 from the wrench of his absence. 
 
 Without strength for reasoning, Adelaide 
 floated on the wave of a new feeling, and saw 
 with the new insight of suffering and growth. 
 Perhaps she had given the wrong father to this 
 child of theirs. With half its nature derived 
 from him, it would not be like any child of the 
 Noels. There would be turbulence and pas- 
 sions. But as their blended lives had made it, 
 so must their natures blend and yield to make 
 themselves a life. If one of them had been 
 lame or sickly, why, the child could not have 
 been destroyed for being blemished by that in- 
 heritance; and so, even granted that her hus- 
 band's moral nature halted, why, still their two 
 inextricably blended lives remained, halting 
 perhaps, but indestructible. 
 
 All this time Adelaide lay passive on her 
 bed, ate, drank, as she was bid, made no com- 
 plaint of suffering, humbly accepting the assur- 
 ance that if a letter from Felix brought her to 
 this plight, his actual presence, now, would be
 
 292 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 little short of self-destruction. She acquiesced 
 the more readily, since, after all, in certain 
 points his letter had not brought perfect con- 
 viction. True, the fantasy was being played 
 in Paris, nightly, and he lingered at Chastellux 
 alone. But what proof did he bring that this 
 was for the sake of a wife languishing twenty 
 miles away? Adelaide could not wholly for- 
 get that nearer still, there was, in town, a girl 
 "far cleverer than" she, the pretty actress Nina 
 Braeme.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 IRawnte " 
 
 AS "The Romany Rawnie's" first night ap- 
 proached, Mr. Quorn grew hourly more 
 cheery and more resourceful. Odious little 
 paragraphs began to multiply, hinting at a de- 
 tachment of gipsies in the audience, that a box 
 had been reserved for a real gipsy queen. Con- 
 fronted with these, by Nina, the manager 
 utterly disclaimed having inspired such 
 rumours. 
 
 "Why, Miss Braeme ! Where would be the 
 sense of that? You are a dead sure thing for 
 the first few weeks, anyhow. Then if the box- 
 office end slackens, we could do something of 
 that kind; but now it would be downright 
 waste, with the public all cocked and primed 
 to see you. Not a seat to be had !" 
 
 Every detail had received the final polishing, 
 293
 
 294 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 a secretive copyright performance out of town 
 passed off without mishap; both players and 
 management were now in the state of nerves 
 and anguish always provoked by impending 
 first nights. In course of rehearsal, no less 
 than six leading ladies had in turn thrown up 
 the role of heroine, in spasms of jealousy over 
 the prominence given to Nina. A seventh had 
 been reconciled to this dislocation of prece- 
 dence, only by permission to wear garments 
 of unexampled splendour. A pearl-coloured 
 chiffon boating costume with satin shoes 
 to match, restored her self-respect, and prop- 
 erly distanced "The Romany Rawnie's" vulgar 
 calico. Also the transferred affections of Mr. 
 Percy Planter allayed her last misgivings as to 
 whether professional yalues were not com- 
 promised by playing with such a manager's 
 darling as Nina Braeme. 
 
 Percy had worked out his effects with un- 
 flagging zeal. There came moments of radi- 
 antly holding the stage and proclaiming him- 
 self a "silly ass" (the entire company con-
 
 "The Romany Rawnie " 295 
 
 sidered this a masterpiece of dramatic art) 
 when no modesty could prevent his knowing 
 that the matinee public, to a girl, would love 
 him madly. Nina had heard him experiment 
 with intonations, till he achieved the exact 
 shade from which he would not vary, whether 
 "The Romany Rawnie" ran one winter, or 
 two. Together they had practised their em- 
 brace till it could be done without further 
 thought. If the play succeeded, for the next 
 many months their duties would consist in 
 mere bodily presence, well-drilled mechanism 
 having put them beyond need of any mental 
 effort. 
 
 At the theatre, Nina's prestige had waned. 
 Gradually a damaging suspicion gained ground 
 that there had not been "much" between her 
 and Felix Gwynne. In some obscure way, 
 without regaining reputation, she distinctly lost 
 caste from this, even to the point of receiving 
 the occasional snubs due persons who pirate 
 unearned celebrity. 
 
 But for the industry of paragraphers, fam-
 
 296 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 ine-stricken by summer dulness, Mr. Quorn 
 would have feared that the outside public 
 might grasp the situation, and lose interest be- 
 fore he had reaped the profits of Miss Braeme's 
 imprudence. 
 
 Two nights before the opening, Rupert came 
 back from his holiday, still pale and delicate, 
 but declaring himself quite well and fit for 
 work. He at once assumed the role of mascu- 
 line protector, accompanying his sister to the 
 last rehearsals, guarding her dressing-room 
 door, and displaying a highly offensive man- 
 ner toward every living creature connected 
 with the theatre. He freely criticised play, 
 players, and staging. Nina's share came in for 
 heavy censure. A more spiritless conception 
 he had never seen. At the same time, his un- 
 natural reticence about more important matters 
 kept the girl constantly uneasy. That he 
 should scold and fume she fully expected, but 
 for him barely to refer to the summer's esca- 
 pade left her ill-assured. 
 
 On the first night he sat alone, well to the
 
 " The Romany Rawnie " 297 
 
 rear. Nina had never done worse. Fatigue 
 and discouragement showed even through a 
 flaring make-up. Whether from nervousness 
 or sheer disgust, her lines fairly dragged, her 
 business failed to carry. The curtain went 
 down, leaving Rupert convinced that the play 
 could not run a week. To his surprise, the 
 house rang with applause, genuine, hearty 
 clapping of hands. He studied the audience 
 uneasily. A great preponderance of men. 
 Then men with women, such women ! All 
 through the act they had been stealing in, un- 
 obtrusive, intimate pairs. Many only found 
 their seats in time for the closing lines. The 
 curtain fell on a quiet stage, there was no point 
 for enthusiasm, no a propos. Again and again 
 the curtain went up and down on Nina vainly 
 trying to share her triumph with the leading 
 lady and Percy Planter. 
 
 On his way to her dressing-room, Rupert 
 met Mr. Quorn, who almost kissed him. 
 Hedged in by a knot of allies, the leading lady, 
 however, turned him an elaborate back. Percy
 
 298 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 Planter's greeting was laboured, although he 
 managed a gentlemanly sentence on Miss 
 Braeme's triumph. 
 
 Nina herself was busy with a change and 
 would talk of nothing but certain sticks of 
 black and red grease. The make-up man did 
 not please her. She believed Rupert could do 
 better with her eyebrows, a slant was needed. 
 Between brother and sister no serious word 
 passed. Tongue-tied and thoroughly wretch- 
 ed, they put each other off, deferring the reck- 
 oning. 
 
 The next act was worse. Nina could barely 
 move without provoking a ripple of applause. 
 Percy's "silly ass" climax passed unheeded. 
 Even dressmakers, haunting first nights for 
 early fashion hints, gave scant attention to the 
 leading lady's simple little travelling-suit of 
 antique lace and sequins. 
 
 Comments were rife. 
 
 "She knows!" 
 
 "Bet Nina Braeme could show us more 
 than's in the play . . ."
 
 " The Romany Rawnie " 299 
 
 Between acts two and three Rupert stalked 
 up and down the lobby, smoking and glaring, 
 but as he was quite unknown to fame, no 
 notice fell upon a handsome, foolish-looking 
 lad, who tossed his head and glowered with a 
 vigour entirely belied by transparent pallor and 
 delicate white hands. 
 
 In the last act, he found a hitherto vacant 
 seat next his occupied by a man, whom at a 
 glance he saw to be Felix Gwynne. At the 
 same moment Felix recognised the boy of 
 Nina's locket. 
 
 Presently the stranger spoke: "How is 
 Miss Braeme standing it?" 
 
 Rupert's answer came short and ill-tem- 
 pered. He had not seen her during the last 
 entre-acte. 
 
 Felix persisted with a question or two; was 
 he with his sister, was he well . . ? 
 
 The disproportioned enthusiasm simmered 
 and boiled. Nina could hardly endure till the 
 end, but the audience cared only to see her, and 
 in surroundings so pleasantly like the actual
 
 300 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 scene of her famous adventure. At the last, 
 Mr. Quorn himself led her again and again be- 
 fore the curtain, beaming upon the house, and 
 chivalrously laying at her feet whole stacks of 
 flowers. Flowers which had not been paid for 
 by the management! 
 
 Stout, well-fed men in boxes glued their 
 glasses on her, and gay ladies, amateur, pro- 
 fessional, and debatable, smiled upon her as a 
 promising recruit to their own tarnished sis- 
 terhood. In Mr. Ouorn's esteem, no opening 
 could have been more propitious. 
 
 Suddenly Felix turned to Rupert. "See, 
 Mr. Braeme, this must never happen again. 
 We must do something. Now that you are 
 here, I can talk to your sister. Before, while 
 she had no one, my hands were tied." 
 
 Paler than ever, Rupert nodded, almost 
 rigid with the effort to conceal trembling 
 weakness. 
 
 "Listen," Felix went on. "Get her now, 
 don't let them make her stay to supper. Take 
 her straight to your lodgings, and I'll join you
 
 " The Romany Rawnie " 301 
 
 there in a half-hour. This must be arranged 
 to-night." 
 
 People were going home, warm with the 
 glow of having been on the spot. A first night 
 to remember! Conjecture buzzed. Knowing 
 men imparted common newspaper gossip, with 
 all the air of privileged insiders retailing 
 special information. Lingering in shadow till 
 the lights began to vanish, Felix slipped from 
 the theatre unobserved. 
 
 His plan was complete. The position had 
 grown too intolerable. He could not leave 
 Nina to bear this disgusting, undeserved suc- 
 cess. He had come to the play, stolen in late, 
 merely with a wish not to desert her, with no 
 design, no thought of interference; but what 
 he had seen that night justified any measure, 
 the most desperate. 
 
 On the sidewalk, in a tangle of people wait- 
 ing for carriages, he almost ran into Tommy 
 and Angela. He had not even known of their 
 being in town. They were eager, would he 
 gup with them? They were having a mild
 
 302 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 celebration. Tommy's leave was nearly up, 
 and they had invited Angela's guardian angel 
 to join them. The little bride's good-will em- 
 braced even Mr. Rudolph Webber of Stein's. 
 Charlie emerged from the crowd on the arm 
 of a young man whose style suffered no loss of 
 lustre by the side of her own trousseau mag- 
 nificence. 
 
 The two young women pressed Felix, show- 
 ing happiness in their several ways; Charlie, 
 exuberant, helpful, not too discreet: Angela 
 with half-closed eyes and a smile of heavenly 
 content. Would he sup with them? 
 
 Almost impatiently he refused. The even- 
 ing had disinclined him for gaiety. Gradually 
 Angela forgot her bliss and came, full of sym- 
 pathy and feeling, into his world of exasper- 
 ated pain. They walked together, Tommy 
 falling back, rallying and joking the other 
 pair, teasing the stately Mr. Webber with dark 
 allusions to remote passages between himself 
 and the lively typewriter. Charlie, laughing, 
 denying . . .
 
 " The Romany Rawnie " 303 
 
 Meantime Angela explained. Now the situ- 
 ation could be managed. A runaway bride, of 
 course, was the poorest chaperon, but Cousin 
 Emily was now in town, had come in fact, 
 though far from well, with a view to Felix. 
 So at least Angela suspected. 
 
 "I've not been near Miss Braeme," Felix as- 
 sured her, "but now she has a brother about; 
 so I can see her, once at least. I'm on my way 
 there now to meet him. By to-morrow we 
 will find some way. This has been martyr- 
 dom." 
 
 Leaving them, Felix went straight to Nina's 
 apartment. The smooth elevator shot up, he 
 pressed her bell, but instead of Rupert, Nina 
 herself opened the door.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 lUben Aortal Girls! 
 
 WITHOUT a word she led him across a 
 narrow passage into her small sitting- 
 room. Some charcoal sketches of Rupert's 
 were littered about ; on the open piano stood a 
 framed one, a study on heavy white paper of 
 pale grey clouds. Nina's silken dustcoat lay 
 over the back of a chair, but she had left all 
 flowers and tokens at the theatre. 
 
 There was a moment's silence. She neither 
 wondered why he had come nor what he would 
 say. Curiosity, indignation, discomfort, every 
 sensation had been deadened by the hideous 
 hours behind her, by a sub-conscious knowl- 
 edge of hideous days to come. 
 
 All at once her tired mind awoke to a point 
 of dread. "Rupert?" she asked, "has anything 
 304
 
 When Mortal Girls! 305 
 
 happened to him? Did you come to tell 
 me ... ?" 
 
 Felix shook his head, mentioning his mes- 
 sage. Had not Rupert told her to expect his 
 visit? 
 
 Nina grew uneasy. The boy had given no 
 message, merely put her in a carriage at the 
 stage door, saying he would walk home for 
 the sake of breathing fresh air. 
 
 Felix was reassured; her brother wished to 
 give them a word together first. Privately he 
 had not credited Rupert with so much sense. 
 
 Nina drew a long breath of relief. 
 
 Looking at her, Felix found her thin, more 
 worn, more fragile than he remembered her, 
 also more brilliant and with a new expressive- 
 ness. The straight black hair lay tight and 
 smooth across her low forehead ; the oval of 
 her face showed sharply pointed. The eyes 
 were larger, deeper. 
 
 She sank back in her chair weary and inert, 
 only waiting for his next word, but her eyes 
 followed him without ceasing as he moved
 
 306 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 restlessly to and fro three paces to the win- 
 dow, three to her ugly little escritoire. 
 
 He began abruptly: "I came to say good- 
 bye." 
 
 Nina leaned forward, elbows on knees, her 
 chin resting on clasped hands. 
 
 "There is absolutely nothing to keep 
 me here," he continued. "My being 
 away . . ." He pulled up, checked by the 
 impossibility of even hinting a syllable con- 
 cerning his wife, his unheeded appeals. 
 
 Nina helped him. "To Paris?" Her voice 
 answered poorly to the helm. 
 
 He nodded. "To-morrow I shall leave this 
 hateful town, for years. Why come back at 
 all?" He had stopped at the window and was 
 looking out over chimney-pots and dreary flats 
 of roof. "We may never see each other again, 
 Miss Braeme." 
 
 Nina's lips met tightly. Ah! At this mo- 
 ment she could so well have done with less re- 
 spect, less considerate distance. 
 
 His manner grew formal, even business-like.
 
 When Mortal Girls! 307 
 
 "You must never take that part again, I'm 
 going to arrange " he opened the desk and 
 without sitting quickly wrote "with your 
 brother. This cheque is made out to him. He 
 must take it to pay your forfeit, to free you. 
 There is no obligation to me. You shouldn't 
 feel that. And my no longer being here will 
 save you in every way, no one can talk. Flesh 
 and blood couldn't bear more of that, at the 
 theatre. After a time it will be forgotten; 
 what is here will tide you over . . ." 
 
 Nina had flushed crimson. "Not your 
 money, Mr. Gwynne!" 
 
 Felix came towards her, drew up a little 
 spindle chair, leaned over her, eager, per- 
 suasive. "But you must!" He dropped the 
 cheque into her lap. "There is nothing else to 
 do. Don't you suppose I hate to have it this 
 way, deliberately to put you out of my life, to 
 turn my back on comradeship, on the pleasure 
 of . . ." 
 
 Nina had watched him with eyes in which 
 her whole existence seemed to centre and radi-
 
 308 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 ate. "Not your money, Mr. Gwynne!" Her 
 silver tones had come back, low and fraught 
 with pain. 
 
 "But you must. Another such night as 
 this . . . ! It's not to be thought of." He 
 clasped her wrist. "Why, even now, the beat- 
 ing of your heart . . ." 
 
 "I thought so !" It was Rupert's voice from 
 the doorway, very deliberate, very full of 
 youthful sarcasm. He had come in softly and 
 now stood eyeing them tragically, fatefully, 
 with knitted brows, hands in pockets, exagger- 
 ated, over-dramatic, yet vaguely alarming. 
 
 "Thought what?" Felix also was frowning 
 with ill-mastered exasperation. "Thought 
 that you were late for an appointment?" 
 
 Rupert burst out furiously. "Take your 
 hand off my sister. Don't touch her ! Hasn't 
 she been through disgrace enough already? 
 Just remember this, Mr. Gwynne! She isn't 
 alone and unprotected any longer. Now you 
 will have a man to deal with." 
 
 "Why, you young donkey!" Felix had re-
 
 When Mortal Girls! 309 
 
 covered his temper. "You are the one for the 
 theatre, with that gift of eloquence." He 
 spoke with good-natured raillery, adding more 
 gravely, "But whatever you think of me, 
 mightn't you credit Miss Braeme with just an 
 ounce or so of discretion?" 
 
 "Ah !" Rupert's stagy exclamation came 
 with a ring so angry as to banish all attempt 
 at lightness. "You think this is not serious, 
 you laugh at me . . ." 
 
 In a second he had flashed out a revolver. 
 A wild shot vanished harmlessly through the 
 open window, but with shaking hand he again 
 pointed the weapon at Felix, who with instant 
 quickness knocked up his arm. A second shot 
 crashed through Rupert's pale-grey cloud 
 study, leaving a blackened hole and some 
 splintered glass. The pistol fell to the 
 floor. 
 
 Pocketing it, Felix looked at Rupert as if he 
 would kill him. Then slowly his face assumed 
 the strange impassiveness with which he could 
 at times mask its inconvenient transparency.
 
 310 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 In helpless reaction from hysterical out- 
 break, the lad leaned on a little table, trembling 
 and past speech or action. 
 
 Nina crouched in her chair. There was 
 nothing to say or do. Her fingers mechanic- 
 ally held the strip of green paper, Felix 
 Gwynne's cheque. 
 
 Felix spoke first. "That was an excellent 
 idea, Mr. Braeme! Did you think of it your- 
 self? Naturally, it would have been the great- 
 est protection to your sister to have me found 
 dead in her room." 
 
 Nina here broke in. "See this, Rupert!" 
 She held up the cheque. "Mr. Gwynne came 
 here to say that he was going away, abroad, 
 not to come back. And for that reason he 
 could offer me this, to save another such 
 night . . ." 
 
 "Miss Braeme refused," Felix put in 
 gravely, "to accept anything, and I waited to 
 persuade you. Understand, young man," he 
 was stern now. "I'm not offering explana- 
 tions. None are needed. I'm merely trying to
 
 When Mortal Girls ! 311 
 
 let you see what insults you heap upon your 
 sister." 
 
 Noises steps, a buzz of voices came from 
 the landing without. The electric bell rang 
 continuously, there were poundings, rattlings 
 at the door. Felix gave Nina a look; with an 
 effort she rose, opened a crack, letting in bursts 
 of talk. 
 
 . . . "I tell you, it was here !" 
 
 . . . "Two shots, first one, then an- 
 other. . . ." 
 
 Nina blocked the door. "Thank you so 
 much. It's nothing." 
 
 The night watchman knew his duty. "Sorry 
 to disturb you, Miss. I must come in and see 
 for myself." 
 
 Standing aside she let him pass, bringing in 
 his wake the elevator boy, some dressing- 
 gowned old ladies, lodgers in pyjamas, others 
 dimly crowded the passage beyond. 
 
 Felix displayed the pistol frankly. "I was 
 showing Mr. Braeme how to clean this. We 
 did not know it was loaded. It went off.
 
 312 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 There is the damage." He pointed towards 
 the scorched picture. 
 
 "Two shots !" buzzed from the group. 
 
 "Yes, two." Felix was unruffled. "I be- 
 lieve you are right." 
 
 Watchman and lodgers looked ill-convinced. 
 Rupert made no attempt at unconcerned be- 
 haviour. Braced for murder and suicide, he 
 could have stood over Felix Gwynne's dead 
 body and shot himself before an audience ; but 
 having once failed, he could rally neither 
 courage nor self-command to save appear- 
 ances. 
 
 "All the same, I don't like it," came from the 
 group, which apparently craved at least one 
 pallid corpse. 
 
 "But what do you want, ladies, bloodshed ?" 
 Felix could stoop to propitiate. "We're none 
 of us in the least hurt. Hadn't you better be 
 getting to bed? And, watchman, take this 
 pistol." He seemed full of easy good humour. 
 "Mr. Braeme and I make you a present of it." 
 
 The watchman pocketed his gift with a
 
 When Mortal Girls ! 313 
 
 surly comment on people who "monkeyed" 
 with firearms. 
 
 Slowly the rescue party withdrew, but mur- 
 murs floated in its trail. 
 
 . . . "Actresses shouldn't be taken !" 
 
 . . . "Compromising to the character of any 
 house." 
 
 . . . "And what was he doing there any- 
 how, past midnight?" 
 
 When the door closed behind the last res- 
 cuer, Felix again spoke to Rupert. 
 
 "They'll make your sister leave, after 
 this." 
 
 "Yes," Nina chimed in with a voice devoid 
 of expression. "And very right, too!" 
 
 There was a long pause, finally the girl went 
 on: "Go to your room, Rupert. There 
 are things for Mr. Gwynne and me to talk 
 of." 
 
 Cowed and incapable of resistance, Rupert 
 obeyed. 
 
 At last the girl went on. "I'll take your 
 money, Mr. Gwynne. After this I can't play
 
 314 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 again, and it's easier to owe you than Mr. 
 Quorn." 
 
 Something in her tone made Felix give her a 
 quick look. She hung her pretty head. "You 
 poor child." He was very gentle. "You have 
 that trouble too ?" 
 
 She met his eye, trying to be flippant, attain- 
 ing only a miserable irony. 
 
 "Naturally, Mr. Gwynne! Quorn supposes 
 that when you're through with me can't 
 you see?" she poured out with sudden change 
 of mood. "It's reasonable enough. Why 
 should people believe in the unlikely, that we 
 are as we are ? What link is missing ? What 
 evidence have we failed to furnish? I'm 
 beaten ! The game is up ! I've nothing left to 
 fight for. Not even sparing you, you're in too 
 deep now !" 
 
 Felix was watching her. He had never 
 dreamed her so capable of passion. The aban- 
 doned movements of her young arms, tossing 
 the world behind her, the despairing pride of 
 carriage, the beautiful eyes no longer avoiding
 
 When Mortal Girls ! 315 
 
 his, but offering long draughts what was she 
 doing? After all, how could he harm her 
 further ? 
 
 "I'm going now, Nina," he said slowly. 
 "Will you come, too?" 
 
 "Without one regret!" Her upturned face 
 followed him with adoring eyes and parted 
 lips. Recklessness, revolt had swamped reso- 
 lution. Resistance w r as over. She cared only 
 for escape, for happiness brief, imperfect, 
 founded on sorrow. To see Felix every day, 
 if it were but a month, a week . . . 
 
 The electric bell rang with shrill persistence. 
 Felix threw open the door, there was no 
 further need for secrecy, for discretion. On 
 the threshold Angela and Tommy stood, sup- 
 porting between them the wavering figure of 
 Mrs. Bradish Laurence. The blonde slip of a 
 girl, white and scared, her sunbrowned soldier, 
 their wrinkled, aged kinswoman, all three 
 strangely wore the same expression. They 
 were anxious, eager! Very quietly the two 
 young people helped the old lady to a chair.
 
 3 1 6 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 "Cousin Emily zvould come," said Angela. 
 
 Mechanically, without a word, Nina put a 
 cushion to her back. 
 
 Tommy then spoke. "They'd been tele- 
 phoning for you all over, Gwynne. But 
 there's no wire to this house." His voice 
 sounded inadequate, flat, yet full of reference 
 to some unknown factor, unknown but acutely 
 present. 
 
 Mrs. Laurence seemed greatly broken since 
 the spring. Her wonted fire burnt low. With 
 the slowness of age she followed painfully, 
 glancing from one to the other of the 
 young people. Angela, perched on the 
 arm of her chair, was stroking the bent old 
 shoulders. 
 
 "You wanted me?" Felix went with inten- 
 tion to Nina's side. 
 
 The three consulted each other with unhappy 
 eyes. 
 
 Nina was quiet, waiting for what? 
 
 "We wanted to tell you." After all it was 
 Angela who spoke, casting about her for a
 
 When Mortal Girls ! 317 
 
 second, choosing her words, then with a tender 
 rush "You have a little baby, Mr. Gwynne !" 
 
 "And Adelaide?" For the first time in 
 months her name was on Felix's lips. 
 
 Angela met the deeper unspoken question. 
 "Not that, dear Felix! But she's ill." 
 
 Involuntarily he took a step towards the 
 door. 
 
 "Colonel Noel begs," Angela went on, 
 "that you will come to her. She wants 
 you." 
 
 Nina's travelling clock ticked on the mantel- 
 piece. Somewhere far away the whistle of a 
 train floated in at the open window. Follow- 
 ing unconscious, housewifely instincts, Angela 
 picked up a splinter of glass from the floor. 
 Tommy started forward to help her, they 
 drifted close together by Mrs. Laurence's 
 chair. 
 
 Slowly looking from them to Felix, Nina 
 seemed detached, abandoned. 
 
 "Tell me," Felix moved quickly to the door- 
 way, then stopped short as if reaching the end
 
 3 1 8 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 of a hidden tether. His eye rested on Nina. 
 He leaned against the lintel. 
 
 "Did you expect" Angela could not frame 
 her question "did you know . . . ?" 
 
 "Nothing. I knew nothing!" Felix was 
 now looking at the floor. 
 
 Nina's clock struck one. 
 
 "You're worn out, Cousin Emily; shall we 
 go?" Angela felt all at sea. Was he glad or 
 sorry? He had shown no emotion. 
 
 "Wait!" Felix broke out eagerly. "I must 
 think ... I must think ..." Again he 
 stopped, as if meeting an invisible barrier. 
 
 Old Mrs. Laurence roused herself to speak. 
 "They sent us word to-night. They are 
 alarmed, and she has been asking for you. We 
 tried to find you. Then Angela came to my 
 house from the play and said you were coming 
 here hours ago that was to see this lady's 
 brother." 
 
 Slowly doubt entered the room, the air grew 
 heavy with it. They had believed in Felix, 
 these friends of his. Yet now he stood uncer-
 
 When Mortal Girls ! 319 
 
 tain, not heeding an appeal which no man 
 might disregard. Adelaide had sent for him, 
 now, and he waited. 
 
 Suddenly he faced them. "Things have 
 happened here, to-night." His tone told noth- 
 ing. 
 
 The old lady broke in. "What of this girl, 
 Felix? The truth! You owe us that !" 
 
 Before he could frame his answer Nina 
 came forward. Quietly, reverently, she knelt 
 at the old lady's feet. "Believe me," she began, 
 "there never has been what you fear be- 
 tween Mr. Gwynne and me. There never will 
 be !" She paused, collecting herself, resolving. 
 They should have the truth, all of it! Not a 
 hesitation, not a reserve merciful to herself 
 to shadow his position with doubt. "Never 
 anything," she went on. "Believe me, this is 
 true, though at the very instant that you 
 rang he had asked me to go away with 
 him!" 
 
 "And you?" The old lady looked down at 
 her, not unkindly.
 
 320 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 "And I!" The frank pain of her blush 
 made Tommy turn his eyes anywhere but on 
 Nina's face. She was unfaltering. "Without 
 this news to-night if you had not come here 
 it would have been just one more hideous 
 mistake." 
 
 She sprang to her feet, now speaking with 
 the tragic freedom of conquered fear, lost hap- 
 piness. "Don't misunderstand me, you who 
 are content!" Her envious eyes fastened on 
 Angela sobbing against Tommy's shoulder. 
 "Don't for a moment think the mistake would 
 have been for me. For him and him only! 
 Because though he offered me all he had to 
 give" her moment of exaltation had passed, 
 she was contained now, formal "because Mr. 
 Gwynne's suggestion was solely prompted by 
 his sense of duty." She stopped, daunted by 
 the hardness of her task. How should she, 
 ready a minute since to follow him to the 
 world's end, how should she talk to these peo- 
 ple of that other woman to whom he now 
 belonged ?
 
 When Mortal Girls! 321 
 
 Angela had raised her head from Tommy's 
 shoulder. All at once she glided to Nina's side 
 and kissed her. She studied Felix as he still 
 stood motionless by the door. "You mean, 
 dear," her tender voice caressed and protected 
 the strange girl whose life, between them 
 there, they were mending or breaking, 
 "you mean that Felix has always loved his 
 wife!" 
 
 As she breathed this in a low tone, shaking 
 with emotion, Felix flashed her a look. An- 
 gela was satisfied. 
 
 "But, Felix," Mrs. Laurence, slow with age, 
 only half grasped the cause of his delay, "Ade- 
 laide wants you. She is ill, she has sent for 
 you. Colonel Noel think what that means 
 from him begs you will come. We've a 
 motor waiting for you, at the door . . ." 
 She looked at Nina with rising suspicion. 
 "Don't you want to go, Felix? What keeps 
 you?" 
 
 Again Nina spoke, in a curiously unmoved 
 tone. "An imaginary obligation, dear lady.
 
 322 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 He has a conscience. He's staying here just 
 because he wants to go. Don't you see?" 
 Suddenly she blazed out in her intolerable dis- 
 tress. "Go, Mr. Gwynne ! Do you think I can 
 stand much more of this ? It had to be told, I 
 told it ! It's a queer position for you, but God 
 in heaven ! what is it for me ? It's no time for 
 hesitation. No duty, no chivalry to a strange 
 woman can keep you from your wife. You can 
 do nothing to help me, it's out of your power, 
 but go! Am I a thief to try and steal her 
 good? Honour for myself, that's gone; no 
 one's fault not yours, not mine. But to cheat 
 her I won't do that. You are hers, you want 
 her and she wants you ! At least go quickly, 
 before I die of shame !" 
 
 "And before Adelaide dies of wanting you, 
 Felix." It was Angela who spoke, with the 
 face and voice of one who trembles from a 
 glimpse of mysteries. "Trust us! We'll see 
 to Nina Braeme." 
 
 Without a word Felix picked up his hat and 
 left them. His quickening steps rang fainter
 
 When Mortal Girls ! 323 
 
 and fainter on the stairs. Old Mrs. Lau- 
 rence tried to rise and sank back, tottering. 
 Tommy and Angela were at her side in an 
 instant. 
 
 "Dear cousin," they seemed to speak 
 as one person, "this is too much; you're 
 ill." 
 
 "Not ill, children, only I've lived more than 
 eighty years." Again she seemed confused, 
 unable to collect her thoughts. 
 
 Tommy took the lead. "You mustn't play 
 to-morrow, Miss Braeme." 
 
 Nina was twisting a bit of greenish paper 
 into a lamp-lighter. Presently she found a 
 match and burned her handiwork. Then she 
 spoke. "Thank you, Lieutenant Gordon, but 
 business is business, and broken contracts 
 bring every kind of trouble." All at once she 
 turned savagely on him "Do you know, but 
 of course, how should you ? To-night, here in 
 this room, my brother tried to kill Mr. 
 Gwynne. Look at that broken glass! There 
 were two shots. The lodgers heard, they
 
 324 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 flocked in ! It will be in to-morrow's paper. 
 Think of that! Is it likely they'll let me off, 
 now? Why, I'll draw . . ." 
 
 "No !" Old Mrs. Laurence was very feeble, 
 but perfectly in command. "You've had an 
 escape, a close one!" She shook a wisely un- 
 derstanding head; thinking of Felix, remem- 
 bering his face as he had stood in the doorway ; 
 perhaps she dimly guessed that for this ardent 
 girl there might be more obvious benefits than 
 escape from him! Nevertheless she went 
 on : "We did well to come to-night." She 
 reached Nina a trembling hand. "And what- 
 ever happens, life is still to be lived, and you 
 at least are young. It won't hurt always as it 
 does at this minute. You need never act 
 again, child, not till you want to. You shall 
 go away and study. I've a little time left to 
 see to that. Get your wraps now and come 
 home with me. I'm very tired." 
 
 "But why does it happen so, Cousin Emily? 
 what does it mean?" Angela, pitiful and 
 white, clung to Tommy, and as Nina left them,
 
 When Mortal Girls ! 325 
 
 questioned this wasteful cruelty of fate. "Why 
 should this girl suffer so ? She's been good ! 
 And will Felix and Adelaide be happy, after 
 all?" 
 
 "Ah, who can tell that?" Mrs. Laurence 
 found no answer. "They're an odd pair. 
 They may never be entirely rapturous to- 
 gether, but at least they've learnt that there is 
 no happiness for them apart. As for that 
 tragic girl " the old lady fell into a moment's 
 revery, looking up briskly as Nina entered with 
 hat and coat "ready so soon, my dear? I'm 
 glad you're quick. Slow people tire me." She 
 turned to Angela. "As for your question, 
 there is no answer. Better not hunt for first 
 causes, you young creatures. Take this queer 
 world as you find it, and thank heaven every 
 time you chance upon some minutes that are 
 not wholly bad." Here, with wonderful 
 sweetness, she smiled into Nina's set face. 
 "Your arm, my dear. I grow feeble. I'll lean 
 on you; and will you trust me for to-morrow, 
 Nina Braeme?"
 
 326 The Poet and the Parish 
 
 "Trust you !" Nina spoke with sad gravity. 
 "Whatever happens, whatever has been, come 
 what may, I count the minute wholly good 
 when you, dear lady, reach a hand to me." 
 
 THE END
 
 By MAY SINCLAIR 
 
 Author of "The Divine Fire " 
 
 SUPERSEDED 
 
 A story of two strongly contrasted teachers in a fashionable 
 girls' school in London : an old maid arithmetic teacher whose 
 rule-ridden soul finally awakens to the real world of men, 
 women and love, and the " classical mistress," a beautiful and 
 vital woman who tries to help her less fortunate colleague. $1.25 
 
 "Notable in quality ... by the charm of felicitous expression 
 and superior craftsmanship ... at once subtle and significant, 
 novel in sentiment and original in conception. The ' old maid ' 
 of fiction, 'despised and rejected of men,' scorned and ridiculed, 
 is a familiar figure. To dignify this character with the pathos of 
 its own tragedy, to make it the leading personage of a story that 
 compels interest and converts ridicule into respect and sym- 
 pathy, is a feat that makes one wonder if in future years the 
 quiet little English woman . . . may not be recognized as a *~ew 
 Jane Austen." New York Sun. 
 
 "Of peculiar interest to feminine readers . . . handled with a 
 vivacity, feeling, and breadth of vision. ... In spite of it'* 
 essential pathos this is a bright and pleasing story, enlivened b^> 
 many touches of quiet humor. . . . This sweet and thoughtful 
 tale." Chicago Record-Herald. 
 
 " A well told and touching story . . . relieved by humor and 
 opinions." Springfield Republican. 
 
 AUDREY CRAVEN 
 
 (Just published} $1.50 
 
 Audrey Craven is a pretty little woman with copper-colored 
 hair and the soul of a spoiled child. Though " a good 
 woman " she has a fatal fascination for most men. There aie 
 telling glimpses of the life of London writers and illustrators, 
 and not a little humor. 
 
 Henry Holt and Company 
 
 Publishers (via '06) New York
 
 By BURTON E. STEVENSON 
 
 AFFAIRS OF STATE 
 
 (Just published) 
 
 Illustrated by F. VAUX WILSON. 335 pp. $1.50 
 Two American girls, sojourning with their father at a little 
 Dutch watering place, unintentionally become involved in a 
 diplomatic intrigue which threatens the peace of Europe. A 
 situation, humorous at first, rapidly becomes dramatic, and 
 moves on to a breathless climax. There is also an absorbing, 
 moving love story, in which Cupid, with the aid of American 
 good looks, rules the destinies of England and Germany, and 
 decides the question of the succession to the small but pivotal 
 duchy of Schloshold-Markheim. 
 
 THE MARATHON MYSTERY 
 
 With five scenes in color by ELIOT KEEN. $1.50 
 The story of a strange happening in a New York apartment 
 house, and at a Long Island house party. The plot is unusual, 
 full of surprises ; the handling is masterful. It has been repub- 
 lished in England and Germany, and printed six times here. 
 
 " The author has stepped at once to the front ranks among 
 American writers of detective tales ... a yarn with genuine 
 thrills," (and comparing it with some of the most popular detect- 
 ive stories) "the English is better and cleaner cut, the passages 
 are never maudlin, there is throughout more dignity and sense, 
 and the book shows a far wider knowledge of the logical tech- 
 nique of detective fiction." Bookman, 
 
 ' Distinctly an interesting story one of the sort that the 
 reader will not lay down before he goes to bed." New York Sun. 
 
 With Frontispiece by ELIOT KEEN. $1.25 
 This remarkable story begins with the finding of a New 
 York banker stabbed to death in his office. Suspicion falls on 
 his daughter. A kidnapping and pursuit over seas follow. The 
 story contains a minimum of horror and a maximum of ingenu- 
 ity, and the mystery is kept up to the next to last chapter. 
 7th printing. 
 
 " Professor Dicey recently said, 'If you like a detective story 
 take care you read a good detective story." This is a good de- 
 tective story, and it is the better because the part of the hero is 
 not filled by a member of the profession. . . . The reader will not 
 want to put the book down until he has reached the last page. 
 Most ingeniously constructed and well written into the bar- 
 gain.''.^. Y. Tribune. 
 
 Henry Holt and Company 
 
 Publishers (viii '06) New York
 
 THE MISSES 
 
 MAKE-BELIEVE 
 
 By MARY STUART BOYD. $1.50 
 
 A tale ot two Devonshire gentlewomen who attempted the 
 conquest of London on slim means. It has the humor and the 
 pathos of being " hard up," a good love interest, telling bits of 
 social foibles, effective bits of garden talk, and hints without 
 obtruding the fact that more may be gained by sincere living 
 than by struggling for the meretricious. 
 
 " When the balance at your bank is becoming steadily less 
 and the bills in your private sanctum growing perceptibly 
 larger, take this book into a quiet corner and have it out with 
 your conscience. . . . The two girls are charming and ingeni- 
 ous." Brooklyn Daily Eagle. 
 
 "The various characters ... all well drawn and enter- 
 taining. . . . Noteworthy for its quiet humor and for the 
 agreeable dexterity with which are contrasted the fashionable 
 lire in London with its melancholy shams and the more inde- 
 pendent and healthful existence in the country." Baltimore 
 News. 
 
 THE PROFESSOR'S 
 
 By MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK. $1.50 
 
 A love story ol German university and English country life, 
 notable for humor and fine character drawing. Not sensational, 
 but not commonplace, it has received high praise from the 
 authorities, and its sale shows it is appreciated by the discrimi- 
 nating. 
 
 " Strongly reminds one of Miss Fothergill's ' First Violin ' . . . 
 the tale is a good one, told with much humor and much excellent 
 character study . . . very readable." A 'ew York Times Review. 
 
 "One of the most interesting and well-told novels of the 
 season, and it should be one of the most popular." The Academy, 
 London. 
 
 " Thoroughly pleasing and femininely sympathetic . . . 
 abundant dialogue naturally told ... a co'mmendable, clever, 
 pretty book." San Francisco Argonaut. 
 
 Henry Holt and Company 
 
 Publishers (viii '06) New York
 
 A 000 131 621 5